#Paper Roll Wrapping Machine

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[thebestsetter]

Sae's nutritionist has been having a hard time ever since the athlete started a family with you.

Sae has always followed his diets strictly. Never ate chocolate, avoided sugar the best he could and mainly ate only fruits and vegetables. His behavior was always praised by all his nutritionists because of how easy it was working with him.

Sae started to "disobey" his diet when he moved in with you.

It all started when you began to cook him lunch for after morning practice. You knew he had to follow a strict diet, so you never made something too unhealthy. Sometimes, you even sneaked some sweet treats for him, but it was too little to do any harm, so his doctor just pretended not to notice it.

But this?? This was too much.

"Sae-kun" he said, pointing at the pink princess pot on Sae's hands "W-what is this?"

"My daughter packed my lunch today" Sae smiled softly, just like he always did when talking about you or your daughter. The doctor would've thought the whole ordeal was cute, if not for what was inside the pot: a box orange juice you buy on those vending machines (it's orange color was almost radioactive. God knows how much sugar there is in it), a (very) poorly made pink cupcake, with rainbow sprinkles all over it; and scrambled eggs (thank God at least one healthy thing).

"You can't possibly be thinking about eating this" his doctor deadpanned, but quickly added "T-the cupcake and the juice, I mean. The eggs are fine"

Sae's smile instantly fell, and he stared at the nutritionist with a frown

"What's wrong with my daughter's food?" It wasn't a question. Sae was daring the doctor to say something bad about the cupcake his sweet, lovely daughter made, staring at him with a cold and almost dangerous gaze.

The poor doctor should've stopped there. He really should have. But if he let Sae eat this Chernobyl looking cupcake, he might as well just throw his nutrition degree on the nearest trash can.

"It's not good for your health" the nutritionist said, staring at the Cinderella that was painted on the top of the pot "As an athlete, you know it's important to lose old eating habits. You can't eat this."

Sae stared at the doctor for what felt like centuries, but finally looked at the cupcake and carefully picked it up, holding it in his hands like it was the most valuable thing he ever held.

The way his gaze softened just by looking at that sorry excuse of a pantry almost scared the doctor. One second, he was looking at him with what could only be described as pure hatred. The other, he was looking at an ugly cupcake like it was a masterpiece.

Anyways, Sae's doctor was just glad this was over with. Itoshi obviously was going to throw the cupcake away, eat the eggs, and just order something else to compliment his lunch. It would all be okay.

Or so he thought .

"You know" Sae started, peeling the paper that was carefully wrapped around the sweet treat "It's interesting that you talk about losing"

"Why?" The doctor asked, not really liking Sae's voice

Sae stared at the man for a while, then slowly looked at the cupcake and brought it up to his mouth. Just as he was about to take a bite out of it, he stopped and stared at the man again

"Cause you just lost your job"

"What?"

"You're not deaf" Sae said "You're fired. Grab your stuff and get out of my sight"

"You can't do that!" The doctor screamed at him, which only made Sae roll his eyes

"I can and I did. Out. Now."

The nutritionist knew it was useless arguing with the stoic Sae Itoshi. With a sigh, he turned away from the player to go and collect his belongings

"Just one more thing before you go"

He heard Sae say, which urged him to turn around. The moment he laid his eyes on Itoshi, the footballer took a bite out of the pink cupcake

"This is fucking delicious."

The doctor would NEVER eat a cupcake in his life again.

Masterlist

[flwrstqr]

PAPER RINGS ★ WHEN YOU SHUT THEM UP WITH A KISS

𓋜 手紙 ❜ 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 '𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍

【 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐒 】 𝑙’ boyfriend!enha & fem!rea 8OO established relationship fluff reaction ˊᯅˋ skinship petnames kissing ｡ ｡ CLICK

다니 ⠀⦂ hope flueries enjoy :0 i promise i'll be back to my old posting schedule after i get less busy with exams TT

LEE HEESEUNG

you roll your eyes, but heeseung’s endless teasing finally tips you over the edge — you grab his face and kiss him, shutting him up mid-sentence. he freezes for half a second, then melts into you with a soft little chuckle against your lips, his hands sliding to your waist, thumbs drawing lazy circles against your skin. when you finally pull back, breathless, he’s grinning like an idiot, eyes crinkled, forehead resting against yours. “couldn’t resist me, huh, baby?” he teases, and you swear your heart physically flips. he pulls you closer, arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go, peppering soft kisses along your cheeks, jaw, anywhere he can reach. “it’s okay, angel. i’m all yours,” he murmurs, so smug yet so impossibly sweet that you can’t even be mad. heeseung’s love for you is written all over him, stupidly, helplessly.

PARK JAY

you’re half-listening to jay’s lecture about how you really need to start dressing warmer, but the way he’s fussing over you, adjusting your scarf and smoothing your jacket, makes your heart ache a little — so you lean in and kiss him, cutting him off mid-sentence. he immediately forgets whatever he was saying, hands pausing on your shoulders before sliding down to hold your waist gently, like muscle memory. when you pull away, he blinks at you, dazed. “you’re unbelievable, princess,” he murmurs, forehead brushing yours. he tucks you even closer to his chest, wrapping you up with his warmth. “guess i’ll just have to keep you warm myself, huh, sweetheart?” he mumbles.

SIM JAKE

you don’t even think — you just surge forward and kiss him, pressing your mouth to his mid-ramble about the dumbest thing, something about his game strategy or whatever nonsense he was so excited about. jake immediately shuts up, the words dying on his tongue as he melts into you, but holding you close like he’s scared you’ll pull away too soon. when you do, he blinks at you, lips pink and pouty. “do it again,” he mumbles, barely above a whisper, eyes flickering to your mouth with such softness it makes your knees weak. “please, baby…” he adds, voice a little whiny, already leaning in like he can’t stand another second apart. you laugh under your breath, but jake’s hands are already tugging you closer, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. god, he’s so easy to love.

PARK SUNGHOON

he’s still rambling —teasing you about how you can’t go five minutes without touching him — when you finally yank him down by the collar and kiss him hard enough to wipe that smug grin off his face. his hands immediately find your waist, warm and firm, pulling you closer like he’s been waiting for you to snap. sunghoon tastes like mint and trouble, and god, you melt when you feel him grin right into the kiss, so full of himself even now. “someone missed me, huh, baby?” he mutters against your lips, laughter humming in his throat. “not my fault you’re so kissable, baby,” you breathe, and he chuckles, all stupidly handsome and stupidly yours.

KIM SUNOO

you can’t help it — he’s been talking for five minutes straight, waving his hands, cheeks glowing pink as he lists reasons why you should let him pick the movie. you grab his face mid-sentence and kiss him, soft and quick, and for a second he freezes under your touch. then, like a machine rebooting, sunoo just keeps going, voice a little lighter, ears burning. “—and it’s not just because i think you’ll like it, baby, it’s genuinely a cinematic masterpiece,” he insists, as you laugh. “plus, i mean, you kissed me, that’s practically a contract. you trust me. you love me.” he grins like you hadn’t just stolen his breath away two seconds ago.

YANG JUNGWON

jungwon’s mid-lecture about how you’re “so irresponsible, baby, you can’t just eat ice cream for dinner,” when you lean up and kiss him, catching him completely off guard. he goes stiff for half a second, lips warm against yours, before letting out a breathy little laugh, palms instinctively settling on your hips. “yah,” he huffs when you pull away, trying to sound stern, but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners completely betrays him. “you can’t just shut me up like that, pretty girl,” he says, voice all fond and playful, squeezing your sides and pulling you closer at the same time. you nuzzle into his chest, and he rests his chin on your head with a quiet sigh. “you’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbles, smiling so wide now it physically hurts him to pretend he’s still mad.

NISHIMURA RIKI

riki’s teasing you, poking your side, making dumb jokes just to hear you whine, when you finally grab his collar and kiss him. for a second he freezes and then he grins against your mouth, like you just handed him the best challenge of his life. “oh, so we’re doing this now, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and smug, before kissing you back even harder. “what’s wrong? can’t handle me?” he teases, peppering quick, annoying kisses all over your cheeks until you’re shoving at his chest, laughing breathlessly. “should’ve thought twice before starting something you can’t finish, pretty girl,” he says, arms trapping you easily against him like he’s never letting you go.

[the-shedevil-writes]

B-A-B-Y (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: On a Monday morning, Rooster and Hangman bring Bob and Phoenix to a local diner, and Bob’s instantly smitten with the waitress singing along to the jukebox. Next thing he knows, “Diner Mondays” become a squad tradition… and so does watching Bob fall harder every week while the rest of the Daggers try to get him to finally ask her out. WORD COUNT: 2.7k WARNINGS: Fluff. Tooth rotting fluff. Reader wears glasses. NOTES: Yes. Like Baby Driver. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

It was an early Monday morning, and Bob was awake and ready earlier than he would’ve anticipated. He always woke up early for work, and on the weekend, out of habit. But that day, he had to wake up even earlier. Rooster and Hangman insisted on going to this diner with Phoenix and him. Bob wasn’t gonna turn down the idea of a real proper breakfast before their shifts, though he knew Phoenix was gonna be grumbling the whole time. 

He pulled up in his baby blue truck to Dot’s and Joe’s, a stout metal and red building not too far from base. The sun was just rising, and it painted the sky that sleepy light blue. Spotting Rooster’s Ford Bronco and Hangman’s Jeep, he pulled up next to them right as they were getting out. 

“Mornin’ Bob,” Rooster said. They were all dressed in their khaki uniforms, knowing they would change into flight suits once they arrived at training anyway.

Bob nodded with a small smile. “Mornin’ guys.”

Hangman stretched, “Where’s your pilot?”

He shrugged. “Phoenix isn’t a morning person.”

As if on cue, her black version of Rooster’s Ford Bronco pulled up and parked next to Bob’s truck. They watched as she got out of the car, grumbling and rubbing her eyes.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.” Hangman teased.

“Shut the fuck up, Hangman. It’s too early for your bullshit.” She groaned, making the rest of them laugh. Only she would cuss like a sailor at five in the morning. “Why on earth would you guys want to do this?”

Rooster started walking towards the doors of the place, and the rest followed. “They’ve got quite literally the best pancakes I’ve ever had. It’ll be worth it.”

They all walked in, and Bob looked around the interior. It was like they had hopped into a time machine. The classic 60s look was clean and colorful, even if the outside of the building seemed a little worn down. Red leather seats and silver table tops. Warm fluorescents wrapped around a countertop bar. Old movie posters and pin-up art hung up on every wall while a jukebox played oldies by the kitchen door.

Rooster and Hangman led them to a nearby booth, and they scooched in. 

“It’s nice,” Bob said, nodding with a small smile.

Hangman chuckled, “Figured you of all people would like it. You look like you would’ve gotten your lunch money taken in Back to the Future.”

That made Rooster let out a laugh heartily enough to capture the attention of the staff, and Bob rolled his eyes. But he couldn’t help the smile. Okay, fine. That one was good. More original than his usual quips.

At the sound of Rooster’s laugh, the kitchen door swung open by the jukebox. A soft voice rang out. It was quiet enough for almost nobody in the diner to notice… But Bob sure did. A beautiful voice sang along to a song he didn’t recognize playing on the juke.

“B-A-B-Y. Baby. B-A-B-Y. Baby.” 

His head turned over to see a waitress in a pink uniform and a little paper hat. In most cases, he’d just see the waitress and be excited to dig into some food. But for some reason, at the sight of her, his heart flipped in his chest. She was beautiful. In knee-high socks and glasses that were similar to his, though they weren’t nearly as big and awful-looking as his own. She swayed her head to the song without a care in the world as she held a notepad and pencil. 

He didn’t even notice the rest of the squadron trying not to laugh at Bob’s obvious gawking. 

“See something you like, Floyd?” Phoenix asked with a smirk.

Bob’s head whipped back around. “What? What do you mean?” He asked quickly, making the rest of them laugh harder.

When the waitress spotted the table, she smiled and walked over. 

“You two again.” She said, stopping by and looking at Hangman and Rooster, “And you’ve brought friends.” She smiled at him, and Phoenix and Bob could’ve sworn his heart stopped. 

“Yeah, well, we had to share how good this place was,” Hangman said casually.

Bob looked at the nametag pinned on her top. Y/n. God, he was practically melting, and he was trying to resist the wiggly Charlie Brown smile that wanted to appear.

She tapped her pencil. “What were your call signs again? I remember thinking they were cool, but I can’t for the life of me remember what they were.”

Rooster nodded and pointed to himself first. “Rooster. Hangman. Then those guys over there are Phoenix and Bob.”

She tilted her head with a smile as her eyes landed on Bob properly. “It’s Bob? What’s your real name then?”

With his heart beating out of his chest, he stammered, “B-bob. It’s just Bob.” He wished he could give another answer. He wished that his call sign wasn’t as simple as it was or that he had some sort of cool name like ‘Dagger’ or ‘Striker’... But he couldn’t even pretend like Bob didn’t fit him perfectly.

She laughed. “I like it. I like it a lot.” 

She liked his name.

Hangman cut in, “We’ve made it stand for Baby on Board. He’s a backseater.”

“Oh, so like a WSO?” 

She knew what that was? This conversation was just getting better and better, even with Hangman’s attempts to embarrass him.

Bob nodded, barely able to speak.

“That’s pretty awesome. My dad was Navy, so I like seeing ya’ll pop up here since we’re so close to North Island.” She explained, “Well, Rooster, Hangman, Phoenix, and Baby, what can I get started for ya?”

That wasn’t his call sign, and if it was, it would’ve been more embarrassing than just Bob. But having the beautiful waitress call him Baby? He could leap out of his skin. The massive blush that spread over his face was uncontrollable. 

“Just four hot coffees to get us started, will ya, Y/n?” Hangman said

She didn’t even write it down. “Simple enough. I’ll be back.”

Bob watched her walk away, completely mesmerized. Especially as she jumped back into the song.

“Just one look- in your eye. And my temperature goes sky hi-” And the kitchen door swung closed. 

There was a silence as the three pilots watched Bob, surprised as he sat there with a dreamy look on his face. 

“Jesus, Floyd. I’ve never seen you so whipped. And you usually are by most people.” Hangman smirked, leaning back.

Once again, he was sadly snapped back to reality by Hangman. A common occurrence. “N-no. No, I’m not. She was nice.” He cleared his throat, pretending to look over the menu, “Really nice.” 

Rooster made a little ‘Aw’-ing noise. “Buddy, it’s okay! I get it. She’s super cute.” He said, trying to be supportive, but Bob quickly shushed him, horrified at the prospect she might overhear.

“And she matches your dorkiness,” Hangman added

Bob shook his head, but he had that feeling, too. Their interaction had been so limited, yet he had a feeling they’d get along perfectly. He was already completely and totally captivated by her. 

They left the diner an hour later to make it to work on time, but Bob couldn’t shake the thoughts of her that graciously occupied his brain. The whole day, even as he was driving or flying or doing push-ups, he’d hear her calling him ‘baby’. Or he’d think about how, when he put in his order for strawberry french toast, she winked at him and said that was her favorite. It was both horrifying and the best distraction he could ever ask for.

Wanting to make it a tradition, Rooster dragged the three of them back to the diner the following Monday. It was a nice thought. Start the week out with a great breakfast and end it with a Friday night at The Hard Deck. 

Bob got out of his truck and looked over at Hangman, Rooster, and Phoenix, who were already there. 

“You’re here before me, Phoenix?” He asked, confused.

Phoenix chuckled even through tired eyes, “Couldn’t miss the Bob yearning show this morning.”

He practically choked on his own spit. “What?”

“Yeah, we’re surprised you weren’t the first one here to say hi to your little girlfriend.” Rooster teased.

He let out a little exasperated breath. “Can we go in now?”

Hangman walked towards the door, “Whatever you want, Baby.” He teased back, emphasizing the name the waitress had called him last time.

For the next few weeks, they had the same routine. They would sit down in their booth, and like clockwork, Y/n would strut out quietly singing along to whatever song was on the jukebox. It was like she had a Rolodex of 50s/'60s hits. The Supremes. Marvin Gaye. Aretha Franklin. Tom Jones. Even the songs he didn’t recognize sounded like his new favorite song coming from her.

Hangman, Rooster, and Phoenix would all watch him stumble and smile up at her. His face lit up like a Christmas tree. And they would all tease him or even subtly try to hype Bob up to her. The three noticed how she seemed to pay special interest to Bob, even though he remained oblivious. They noticed how she always complimented him or would point out his glasses. There were little things- like her making his paper plate of ketchup a winky face or a heart, while the rest got stars or smiley faces. The fact that she always addressed him as Baby was more than enough to convince them. It wasn’t Bob or Baby on Board. It was just Baby. 

But Bob was oblivious. He was completely convinced that she was just being friendly because she was being paid to be. He figured that a girl like that would already have a partner, and he didn’t want to be a creep. It wasn’t like him to hit on a girl while she was working. His mama taught him that it wasn’t appropriate. 

So even as the rest of them egged him on to ask her out, he didn’t. He stayed comfortable with the small talk and stammering banter he’d make with her on those Monday mornings. It got to a point where even the rest of the squadron knew about this. Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote wanted to come with and see for themselves, but for the first time- Bob vehemently rejected them from coming. It would be obvious if suddenly there was a crowd watching him try not to turn red in the face while talking. And she deserved better than that. 

One Monday, Y/n came back out singing that Carla Thomas song again. And when she reached the table, Bob couldn’t help himself.

“What’s that song playing? You’re always singing it.” He asked

Her eyes widened, “Oh goodness, I hope it’s not too cringy that I sing while working.” She said with a nervous smile.

All of them shook their heads, looking up at her. Rooster and Hangman went back to their menus with smirks while Phoenix looked down at her phone, as if they were all letting him have his moment. His favorite part of the week. 

“No. No. I- I like your voice. I’m just wondering what the song is.” He said with his typical bashful look.

Her nervous smile upturned to a genuine one. “Oh, well, it’s Baby by Carla Thomas, but the title is spelled out like B-A-B-Y… Hey, that’s like your call sign, isn’t it?” She asked excitedly.

Bob nodded. “Kinda. Kinda yeah.”

“Guess, I’ll be listening to this song even more then, Baby.” She said, which made Hangman and Rooster look at each other with raised brows that said ‘it’s so obvious’, “I’ll be right out with your guys’ coffee.”

As she walked away, he heard “Whenever the sun don’t shine.”

The kitchen door swung shut.

“Jesus Christ, Bob, this is torture.” Rooster groaned, leaning his head back.

He looked at him, confused with furrowed brows.

“Look, Bob, I was a whole proponent of the whole don’t ask her out at work thing, but this is getting ridiculous,” Phoenix said, grabbing her menu.

“I don’t know what you guys mean. She’s just being nice.” Bob said, looking around at his friend’s exasperated faces. 

Hangman dragged his hands down his face, “And calling you ‘baby’.” 

Bob shook his head. “She thinks that’s my call sign.”

“So… she’s going to ‘listen to the song with your call sign more now’ because…?” Rooster added. 

He couldn’t deny that. It was probably the most forward thing she had done besides smile and point out they were matching every Monday because of their glasses. 

Bob shook his head. “I shouldn’t.” 

Phoenix exchanged a look with Hangman… That couldn’t be good. Those two could barely stand each other, so if they were joining forces, something was up. Bob saw their stares. 

“What-what are you guys doing?” Bob asked.

Phoenix turned to him, “If you don’t ask her out, I’m gonna have Hangman kill us in every dogfight this week. 200 push-ups each.” 

He immediately groaned and put his head in his hands. The idea of that was pure torture. Not only did that mean he’d barely get to fly because he’d be tagged out every time they did, but 200 push-ups daily for a week. Look, Bob was strong… but his shoulders and biceps shivered at the thought. 

“You’re evil. You’re literally evil.” He said, looking over at Phoenix.

Rooster tapped the table. “You’ll thank us later.”

After they all paid, Rooster, Hangman, and Phoenix all walked out, leaving Bob still lingering behind inside. He felt awkward. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there anymore because it was outside of this routine. When Y/n came back out, his heart beat so hard he thought it might stop. It had gone from zero to sixty at just the sight of her. 

When she spotted him, her eyes brightened and she walked straight towards him. He swallowed anxiously.

“Hey, Baby! What are you still doing here? Need something?” She asked smiling

Oh god. Oh dear god.

“No, no, I was just uh, I was just-” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his friends not so subtly watching him from outside the window. He scratched the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say thanks.” He nodded.

OH GOD WHAT WAS HE DOING? THANKS? A little confused, but still smiling, she nodded. “You’re welcome. Any time.”

He took a deep breath before spitting out, “I was just wondering if you’d like to… go out sometime. I- I know this isn’t appropriate when you’re working and all, but-”

“I’d love to.” Her face was the brightest he had seen it. It didn’t seem like forced hospitality. She seemed genuinely enthusiastic. “God, Bob, I was waiting for you to ask.”

He blinked and shook his head in disbelief, “You were?”

“I was worried you never would.” She said, “I’m free this weekend if you are.”

It felt like he was melting into the floor. “Yeah, yeah, I am. I’ll uh- here.”

He reached over to a table and grabbed a napkin, quickly scribbling his number on it. Handing it to her, he added, “And if you change your mind, I won’t be mad.”

She took it and folded it neatly before putting it in her pocket. “I would never.”

They stood there for a moment just looking at each other. She smiled, and Bob let out a nervous laugh. This felt like a dream, and he was still waiting to wake up. She didn’t have a boyfriend. She didn’t seem creeped out. And she had been waiting for him to ask her, despite being at work. 

“I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll see you.” He said, nodding.

“See ya soon, Baby.” She waved before going back into the kitchen.

Walking out, Bob’s legs felt like jelly. It was like he was on the aircraft carrier for the first time, and he couldn’t get his bearings. He fully wore the bashful smile now, unable to resist it. 

“So?” Phoenix asked, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk.

“She said yes.” He said breathlessly. 

[smutmind]

Dream Cum True

The fan meet buzzed like a soft machine—ring lights, laughter, and camera shutters folding over each other.

Mina signed her fiftieth poster, still smiling, though her cheeks ached. She glanced up at the next in line.

He didn’t look like the rest.

No merch. No headband. Just a dark hoodie, sunken eyes, and something in the way he stood—like he didn’t believe he belonged here.

She softened. “Hi,” she said, tilting her head. “Name?”

He hesitated. Then, “Jaemin.”

Her pen paused. “Is this your first time meeting me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. First time I’ve left my apartment in weeks.”

She blinked, gaze flicking to his. There was no pitch in his tone, no fan energy—just honesty.

“I’ve been… not good,” he admitted. “Didn’t come here to ask for anything. Just wanted to see you in real life.”

Mina’s voice dropped. “You don’t have to ask. I remember you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“From Twitter. The thread. You said your dream was to… you know.”

Jaemin turned red instantly. “Fuck. That was—I wasn’t trying to be a creep.”

“You weren’t.” She tore a scrap of paper from her pad and slid it into his photo. “Come see me later. Address is in there.”

His place smelled like dust, instant noodles, and something faintly metallic. The floor creaked. The air was still.

She stepped in without flinching.

Jaemin fumbled with his words. “I didn’t think you’d actually come. This place is…”

“Yours,” she said. “That’s all I care about.”

She dropped her coat. Beneath it: tiny crop top, tight jeans, high ponytail.

“You want fanservice?” she asked, stepping into the yellow-tinted light. “I can do fanservice.”

He froze. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

She kicked off her shoes. “Tell me something, Jaemin. What’s my second name—the one they make all those sexy memes about?”

He blinked. “Sharon.”

“Good.” Her voice dropped lower. She walked to the futon like it was a stage. “Then you’ll understand what happens next.”

She reached behind her back, unzipped the top, and peeled it off slow—shoulders first, then chest, her breasts spilling free without a bra. Her eyes locked on him the whole time.

“Sharon doesn’t ask permission,” she whispered. “She gives permission.”

He swallowed hard. “Are you really doing this?”

“You said your dream was to cum inside me.” She slid her jeans down her thighs, standing in just her lace panties. “Tonight, that dream comes true.”

He was on the futon before he realized he’d moved. Mina straddled him slowly, palms on his chest, grinding down as her lips hovered over his.

“I want you to say it,” she breathed. “What do you want?”

“I want to cum in you,” he choked.

She smiled like sin. “That’s a good boy.”

She peeled her panties off and tossed them aside. Reached down, wrapped her fingers around his cock—already hard, twitching.

“You feel that?” she whispered, pressing the head against her folds. “That’s real.”

He groaned, gripping her hips. “You’re wet.”

“For you.” She lowered herself, taking him inch by inch until he bottomed out.

“Oh—fuck—Mina—”

“Not Mina,” she hissed into his ear. “Sharon.”

She rolled her hips with control, grinding her clit down against his pelvis. Her hands slid up his chest, nails dragging lightly.

“Don’t just lie there,” she said. “Worship me.”

He kissed her throat, her collarbone, then dipped lower—lips brushing over one nipple, then the other, sucking them slowly until they stiffened against his tongue. He mouthed her breasts, her ribs, her stomach—worshipping every inch like he was starving for her taste.

“You feel so fucking good,” he moaned.

“Show me,” she demanded. “Fill me up. Come inside.”

He slammed into her harder, deeper, cock slick with her arousal as her pussy clenched tight around him. She was soaked, the wet slap of their bodies echoing off the walls. Each thrust hit deeper, rougher—his balls smacking her ass, her nails digging into his back as she gasped his name, voice breaking with every ragged moan.

“Right there—don’t stop—fucking give it to me—”

He gasped, hips bucking wildly as he buried himself to the hilt, cock throbbing hard. Thick, hot streams of cum shot deep inside her, filling her up in messy, pulsing waves. She clenched tight around him, her cunt fluttering, milking every drop as her orgasm tore through her—back arched, mouth open in a broken cry, thighs shaking as slick heat spilled out around him.

They stayed locked like that, trembling, panting, flushed.

He looked up at her like she might disappear.

She leaned down and kissed him, slow and warm.

“Dreams don’t have to stay dreams,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his. “Tonight, Sharon belonged to you.”

She lingered a moment longer—then slid down his body with slow, deliberate grace.

His cock, still glistening with their combined mess, twitched as she wrapped her fingers around the base.

“You gave me everything,” she murmured. “Now I’m going to taste it.”

She licked a slow stripe from the base up to the swollen tip, savoring the bitter-sweet mix. He groaned, hips flinching, already half-hard again.

“Still warm,” she whispered, before parting her lips and taking him into her mouth.

Her tongue swirled around the swollen head, slow and teasing, before tracing the underside where he was most sensitive. She let a long line of spit trail down the shaft, then wrapped her lips around him and took him deep—warm, wet, and tight.

Each bob of her head was deliberate, the glide of her mouth slick and noisy. Her cheeks hollowed with every suck, the obscene sound of it echoing in the cramped room. She moaned low in her throat, sending vibrations through his cock as she pushed deeper, swallowing inch after inch until the head bumped the back of her throat.

One hand massaged his balls, rolling them gently, while the other gripped the base, twisting slightly as she sucked harder, sloppier.

He grunted, thighs tense, his hands tangling in her hair. Not to guide her—just to keep himself grounded while her mouth wrecked him.

She pulled back slowly, letting him slip from her lips with a wet pop, spit and precum clinging to her chin as she licked up every drop.

“That’s what Sharon does,” she said, voice low and filthy, stroking his spit-slick cock. “She swallows gratitude.”

[verricherri]

spencer taking care of reader during/ after a miscarriage

Something to Remember Me By

A/N: this one… this one hurts. about grief that no one else sees. about what it means to love someone who never got the chance to stay — and what it does to you when you try to carry that alone. if you’ve ever lost quietly, this is for you. Warnings: miscarriage, mentions alzheimer’s and silent mourning. Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

It wasn’t pain that woke you. It was wetness.

The kind that made you freeze in the middle of rolling over, because somewhere deep in your body — under your ribs, under your pulse — you already knew.

You threw back the blanket. It was everywhere.

Your thighs were slick. The sheets were soaked through. Red. Deep. Alive. Still warm.

And for a second, you just… stared.

Because maybe if you didn’t scream, it wouldn’t be real yet.

Your hand shook so hard it took three tries to reach for Spencer.

He was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, humming under his breath — just a man starting his day.

“Spence,” you called.

You didn’t say it like you were scared.

You said it like you were already broken.

He was there in seconds, toothbrush still foaming in his hand, mouth full of paste. He didn’t see it at first.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice light with sleep.

Then he followed your eyes.

He dropped the toothbrush.

“Okay,” he said, hands already out, already searching. “Okay. Okay. It’s going to be okay. We’re okay.”

But he was pale.

And his hands were shaking harder than yours.

—

They sat you beside a woman with a full belly and a knit blanket draped over her lap. She rubbed it absently while talking about her baby’s kicks. Her mother sat beside her, smiling.

You stared at the floor and dug your nails into your thigh until the pain replaced the nausea.

Spencer sat beside you with his hands folded like a prayer. His lips were moving — not audibly — but you knew he was listing symptoms. Risk percentages. Possible causes. Ways to spin it.

They called your name.

He stood too fast.

—

The exam room was cold.

You were still bleeding. You could feel it sticking to the back of your thighs as you lay on the paper-covered table.

The tech tried to smile. You didn’t try back.

The ultrasound machine flickered to life, screen filled with grey static and ghosts.

Spencer reached for your hand and whispered, “Remember, the fetal heartbeat isn’t always visible early on—” “Spencer,” you said. “Please don’t talk right now.”

The tech pressed the wand harder. Shifted.

You looked away before the screen could tell you anything.

Spencer didn’t.

He watched every frame like he was waiting for it to change.

It didn’t.

“I’ll be right back,” the tech said quietly, and left the room.

You knew what that meant.

You said, “She’s gone, isn’t she?” Spencer closed his eyes. “Don’t—” “Don’t what?” “She could just be—” “She’s not.”

The doctor came in five minutes later. You didn’t catch her name.

She sat beside you like a friend and said the words anyway.

No cardiac activity.

Non-viable pregnancy.

I’m so sorry.

You were still bleeding.

The screen was still on.

No one turned it off.

—

You don’t remember the drive home.

You remember Spencer’s hand on the gearshift, clenched too tight. You remember the way the seatbelt pressed across your stomach, too snug, too late.

You remember the way he kept whispering things under his breath — facts about uterine lining, statistics, blood volume, anything to stop the silence from becoming unbearable.

And then you were home.

He opened the door like the car might shatter if he touched it wrong. Helped you out like you were something holy and broken.

Blood was dried between your legs.

He said nothing about it. Just wrapped his arm around your waist and led you inside like it was the end of the world and he was afraid of stepping on the pieces.

—

In the bathroom, you tried to undress on your own.

You couldn’t.

Your fingers wouldn’t work. Your legs wouldn’t move.

You peeled your shirt over your head and sat on the toilet lid, half-naked and shaking, and whispered, “I can’t.”

That’s when he knelt in front of you.

Still dressed in his work clothes, hands trembling, face pale. He didn’t speak.

He just reached for your leggings, slow and careful, peeled them down your thighs like he was touching something sacred. Your underwear followed. Blood soaked. Heavy.

He folded them once and set them in the trash. Not out of sight — just away.

Then he lifted you — actually lifted you — and guided you into the shower.

You leaned on the tile as the water came down. Warm, then hot.

He stood behind you, fully clothed, shoes and all, arms curled around your waist.

You collapsed against him before you realized you were falling.

And then you cried.

Not pretty. Not quiet.

You howled.

You clutched his shirt and sobbed into his chest like you wanted to tear him open and crawl inside — and he let you. He held you tighter. Buried his face in your neck.

And cried with you.

Loud. Ragged. Ruined.

“Why?” you choked. “I don’t know,” he whispered, voice soaked. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

His tears ran down your collarbone. Yours soaked through his tie.

“I wanted her so much,” you said. “I know,” he breathed. “So did I. So did I. So did I.”

He repeated it like prayer. Like apology.

You both stayed there — soaked in grief and steam — until the water turned cold and your legs stopped holding you.

—

He helped you out.

Toweled you off like he’d never touched anything more fragile. Helped you into clean clothes — loose shorts, an old shirt. Carried you to bed when your knees buckled again.

Then he changed the sheets.

Threw away the towel you bled through.

Sat on the edge of the tub and scrubbed the grout with bleach and shaking hands.

And that night, when he climbed into bed beside you, you didn’t face the wall.

You faced him.

And you cried again.

But this time, you cried together.

—

You hadn’t told anyone.

Not your family. Not the team. Not even your best friend.

You were waiting—just a little longer. Past the risky weeks. Past the doubt.

Just until it felt safe.

But safe never came.

Only blood. Only silence.

You and Spencer made a choice, without ever saying it aloud: To keep it between you. To carry the grief alone.

Because if you spoke it, if you said “We were going to be parents,” someone would ask what she looked like.

And you’d have to say you never got to find out.

So when Penelope texted to say she missed you, you replied with a smiley. And when JJ said gently, “You’d be such a good mom,” you just nodded, smiled, and fought the scream in your throat.

No one knew.

So no one asked why you lost weight.

Why your laughter got quieter.

Why Spencer flinched when someone said the word miracle like it meant anything.

—

He went back to work four days later.

You told him he didn’t have to, but he kissed your temple and said he’d fall apart if he stayed home one more day with the empty crib space and the folder of prenatal emails.

He came home that night and told you about the case in Nebraska. Then cooked your favourite pasta. Folded your clothes.

He didn’t cry.

But every time he passed the hallway closet — the one with the bag of baby things you’d started to collect quietly, shyly, stupidly — he looked like he wanted to open it, then thought better of it.

He touched the handle once. Just once.

You saw it from the kitchen.

And you didn’t say anything.

—

You bled for nine days.

Longer than they said you would.

And when the bleeding stopped, you thought you’d feel… clean. But all it did was leave a terrible emptiness.

You sat on the toilet that tenth morning, looked down at nothing, and cried until your ribs hurt.

Because she was gone.

Not just dying.

Not just maybe.

Gone.

And now your body had caught up to what your heart already knew.

—

You coped by pretending.

By making lists.

By brushing your teeth exactly two minutes.

By hiding the sonogram in a box you couldn’t touch but couldn’t throw away.

Spencer coped by watching you closely. Too closely.

He hovered without hovering. Refilled your water glass. Made your side of the bed.

Put vitamins on your nightstand like the ones you’d stopped taking never mattered.

And you both hid.

From your families. From your friends. From each other, sometimes.

Because naming her would make her real. And real meant gone.

—

It was over something stupid.

Tea, again. Always tea.

He brought you a mug. Your favourite.

You looked at it and said, “I said I wasn’t hungry.” “It’s not food.” “I don’t want anything.”

He set it down too hard. Not enough to shatter the ceramic. Just enough to make your bones flinch.

“You don’t get to do this alone,” he said, voice low. “You don’t get to be the only one grieving.” You stared at him, stunned. “Excuse me?” “I’m sad too,” he snapped. “I’m angry. I’m exhausted. And I’m walking on eggshells like you’re the only one who lost her.” “I was the one carrying her.” “We both were!” he shouted. “Just in different ways.”

You froze.

He looked stunned at his own voice. Like he didn’t mean to say it that loud.

You whispered, “She died inside me.” His chest rose and fell, wild and miserable. “I know,” he said. “I know that. But please… don’t lock me out like I don’t miss her too.” You stepped back. “I didn’t know I was doing that.” He deflated instantly. “I didn’t know I’d yell.”

You were both quiet.

Then you crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around him like you were drowning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “So am I,” he breathed into your shoulder. “I just… I don’t want to pretend I’m okay.” “You don’t have to.” “Then let’s not pretend anymore.”

And for the first time since it happened, you sat on the floor together, legs tangled, heads pressed together — not talking, not fixing — just breaking.

—

It happened on a Tuesday.

You were putting away the box.

The one with the socks. The stuffed elephant. The tiny little dress you couldn’t resist when it went on sale.

You folded each item slowly, like they were fragile, like they could still bruise. You whispered to each one as you set it into the storage bin.

“I’m sorry.” “I love you.” “Thank you.”

When you placed the pregnancy test — double-lined, smudged with tape — on top, you sealed the box shut and pushed it under the bed.

You didn’t cry.

Not that day.

Not until you opened the drawer in the hallway desk, looking for packing tape.

And found the notebook.

Black. Softcover. Moleskine.

You recognized his handwriting immediately.

You knew what it was before you even touched it.

You carried it to the kitchen. Sat on the floor. Crossed your legs.

Opened to the first page.

Star — You don’t exist yet. But I think you might. Your mom looks different this week. She moves different. Her hands hover near her belly like she knows something. I think she does.

Star — She told me today. It felt like being handed the whole universe. I kissed her stomach even though you’re smaller than a raspberry. I don’t care. I’m already in love with you.

Star — We haven’t told anyone. I think I like it that way. You’re our secret. Ours and ours only. You get to belong to us first.

Star — Today she bled. I didn’t know what to do. I held her up in the shower while she sobbed and I whispered science into her skin. Not because it would fix it. Just because I didn’t know what else I had.

The entries kept going. Each one worse than the last.

Then one page — near the end — was just torn at the corner. Half a sentence.

I should’ve known.

The final page was dated one week ago.

It read:

If I forget her, forgive me.If I forget myself, remind me who I was.If I forget you—Please, don’t let me.

You didn’t realize you were sobbing until the ink began to blur where your thumb had pressed too hard.

You held the notebook to your chest like a lifeline.

That’s how Spencer found you.

On the floor. Shaking.

He dropped his bag and dropped to his knees beside you.

“I—” you tried to speak, but no sound came out.

He gathered you into his arms without asking.

“I wanted to remember,” he whispered, voice shredded. “In case it happens to me.” You pulled back, eyes burning. “What?” “My mom,” he said. “You know how it started. You know what it could mean for me. I was scared I’d… lose her all over again, in my head. Lose you. Lose this.” You cupped his face in your hands. “You won’t.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, fingers curling around your wrists.

“I already am,” he whispered. “That’s why I wrote it. To make her real. To make us stay real.”

You kissed him like it was the only language left.

And that night, for the first time, you both whispered her name aloud and didn’t flinch.

—

It happened back when you were still glowing. Before the blood. Before the silence.

You were lying on the couch, curled under his cardigan, a half-empty bowl of grapes on your chest. You had a hand on your stomach already, and he was watching it like it was the most fragile thing he’d ever been trusted with.

You said, “She’s going to need a name.”

He looked up from the book resting on your knees.

You added, “I mean, obviously not yet. But I want to give her something that belongs to us. Just us.”

He hesitated. Tucked a bookmark in and closed the cover slowly.

Then said, “Can I tell you something stupid?” You smiled. “Always.” “When I was a kid,” he started, “I used to sneak these oversized astronomy books under the covers. I'd read them until my eyes burned.” You tilted your head. “Of course you did.” “I didn’t read them for science,” he said. “Not really. I read them because… I thought the stars remembered things.” You blinked. “Like what?” “Everything,” he said. “I thought they recorded the days no one else did. I figured if I could see them, maybe they were watching me too. Keeping track. So if I ever forgot something… or if something ever happened to me…”

He trailed off.

You reached over and touched his hand.

“I thought,” he said quietly, “that maybe the stars would remember the things I couldn’t.”

You didn’t speak. Just felt your throat pull tight.

He looked down at your belly. “That’s why. That’s why I keep calling her Star.”

You felt it then — that slow, quiet naming.

Not in ink. Not on paper.

But real.

Because if she couldn’t live, she could still be remembered.

Because maybe she would be the one to remember you.

[cameronsbabydoll]

BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS — chronic illness, psychological distress, emotional neglect, power imbalance, themes of isolation, and blood

you wake to the taste of rust. it’s faint, like a penny left too long in your mouth, but it’s there when you swallow. your tongue probes the back of your teeth, searching for a cut, a reason. nothing. you roll over, and the pillowcase crinkles under your cheek. there’s a stain, it’s small and red, almost like a crushed petal. your breath catches. you tug the case off before rafe stirs, his arm heavy across the sheets, his face still slack with sleep. you ball the fabric in your fist and slip from the bed, bare feet cold on the hardwood.

the washing machine hums in the laundry room, a low drone that fills the glass mansion rafe built for you both. you toss the pillowcase in with the towels, pour too much detergent, and watch the water churn. it’s fine. it’s nothing. a nosebleed, maybe. you’ve been stressed, haven’t you? the city’s too loud, the air too dry. you press your knuckles to your lips and tell yourself it’s fine.

in the bathroom, you stand at the sink, the one with the gold faucet rafe insisted on because it looked “timeless.” you brush your teeth, the mint sharp enough to burn. when you spit, the foam is pink. your stomach lurches, but you lean closer to the mirror, inspecting your reflection. your hair’s still perfect, smoothed from last night’s blowout. your skin is dull, but it always is this early. you’re still pretty. you have to be. you rinse the sink until the porcelain gleams, until there’s no trace of red.

you google it on your phone, fingers trembling as you type “blood in spit causes.” the results load slowly, the wi-fi flickering in this high-rise cage. stress. allergies. dehydration. you skim the benign ones, the ones that let you breathe. you don’t click on the others, the ones with words like “chronic” or “terminal.” you close the tabs, delete the search history, and set the phone face-down on the counter. it’s nothing. you’re fine. right?

rafe’s gone by the time you return to the bedroom, his side of the bed already cooling. a note on the nightstand, scrawled in his sharp handwriting: late meeting. don’t wait up. you trace the letters with your fingertip, the paper crisp under your touch. you fold it neatly, tuck it into the drawer with the others. he’s always late now, always chasing something bigger—deals, status, a version of himself he hasn’t caught yet. you don’t mind. at least you tell yourself you don’t mind.

you spend the morning in the garden, the one you planted when you first moved in. it’s tucked against the glass walls of the mansion, a small rebellion against the sterile lines of rafe’s world. the forget-me-nots are wilting, their blue petals curling at the edges. you kneel in the dirt, your silk robe—the one he bought, still tagged—slipping off one shoulder. you water the flowers, your hands steady even as your chest aches. it’s just a cough, you think, when it comes again, sharp and wet. you cover your mouth with your sleeve, and when you pull it away, there’s a speck of red. you fold the fabric over, hide it in the folds of the robe. no one’s here to see. not anymore at least.

you shower after, the water is scalding, as if you your trying to burn the rust from your lungs. you scrub until your skin’s raw, until the mirror fogs and you can’t see yourself anymore. you wrap your hair in a towel, paint your nails coral—the shade rafe mentioned once, three years ago, when you were still new to each other. you sit on the edge of the tub, blowing on your fingertips, watching the polish dry. it’s chipped already, a tiny flaw at the edge of your thumb. you’ll fix it later. you always fix it.

the day stretches, empty and gleaming. you wander the mansion, your footsteps echoing on the marble. the rooms are too big, the furniture too sharp, everything chosen by a designer rafe hired because he wanted it “perfect.” you touch the back of a chair, the leather cool under your palm. you wonder if he’d notice if you moved it, just an inch. but you don’t try.

you cook dinner, something simple—herb-roasted chicken, rafe’s favorite. you set the table for two, the plates, the wine glasses catching the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. you light an old candle, the flame flickering through the light. you sit down and wait. the clock ticks past eight, then nine, and suddenly your stomach twists, but you don’t eat. you just sip on water, your throat tight, and tell yourself it’s fine. he’s busy. he’s always busy.

at ten, you cough again, harder this time. you stumble to the sink, gripping the counter as your body shakes. the blood’s thicker now, a clot that stains your palm. you stare at it, your breath shallow, your pulse loud in your ears. you turn on the faucet, watch the red swirl down the drain. you scrub your hands until they’re pink, until the water runs clear. you dry them on a towel, fold it carefully, and tuck it into the laundry basket. no one will know.

you sit by the window, the city sprawling below, a glittering maze of lights and noise. you’re high above it all, untouchable, the wife everyone envies. your hair’s still perfect, your nails are done, your smile quiet when you practice it in the reflection. you’re still pretty, even when you bleed. you have to be.

rafe comes home at 11:47 pm. you hear the door, the jangle of his keys, the heavy tread of his shoes. you stand, smoothing your dress, the one you wore for him last month when he said you looked “nice.” he’s in the kitchen, loosening his tie, his jaw tight from whatever meeting kept him. you step into the light, your heart stuttering as he glances up.

“you’re still up,” he says, not a question. his eyes skim over you, quick, like he’s checking a box. “you look tired.”

you smile, the one you’ve practiced, the one that doesn’t waver. “just a long day,” you say, your voice soft, the way he likes it.

he kisses your cheek, quick, mechanical, like he’s clocking in. his lips are cold, and you smell the city on him—smoke, cologne, something sharper you can’t name. he moves past you, already pulling out his phone, scrolling through messages you’ll never see. “food’s cold,” he says, glancing at the table. he doesn’t sit.

“i can heat it,” you offer, but he’s already shaking his head, heading for the stairs.

“not hungry. long day.” he pauses, half-turns, his profile sharp against the city glow. “you should sleep. you don’t look good.”

you nod, your throat tight, your hands clasped to hide the tremor. “okay.”

he’s gone before you can say more, his footsteps fading up the stairs. you stand there, the candle still burning, the chicken untouched, the wine glasses empty. you blow out the flame, the smoke curling like a ghost. you clear the table, wrap the food, wipe the counter until it shines. you cough once, softly, and check your palm. it’s clean. for now.

you climb the stairs, the mansion too quiet, the air too heavy. you pass the bedroom door, rafe’s already asleep, his phone glowing on the nightstand. you slip into the bathroom, open your makeup drawer, and pull out the bottle of pills you hid last week. you don’t take one. you just hold it, the plastic cool against your skin. you’ll call the doctor tomorrow. or the day after. there’s time. there has to be.

you slide into bed, the sheets crisp and cold. you curl onto your side, away from rafe, your knees tucked to your chest. you think of the garden, the forget-me-nots, the way they droop under the weight of their own petals. you think of the silk robe, folded in the closet, waiting for a day he’ll notice. you think of the blood, hidden in sinks and sleeves and pillowcases.

you close your eyes, your breath shallow, your heart a quiet drum. you’re still pretty, you tell yourself. you’re still the wife worth coming home to.

you dream of red petals, falling.

[pieandflannel]

I'm in a Jensen Ackles community, and someone posted that they wanted a fic about the reader liking Jensen's hands. I love your writing and think you could do it justice. If this isn't something you'd want to do, you can ignore this. 😊

They also said they wanna be tagged, @/deanwinchestersgirl8734

౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ veins and vows

pairing: jensen ackles x fem!reader

summary: jensen catches you staring at his hands which gives him a cheeky little idea

cw: 18+ smut/fluff.ᐟ soft dom!jensen.ᐟ reader has a hand kink.ᐟ teasing.ᐟ praising.ᐟ breast & pussy play.ᐟ pre-established relationship [married].ᐟ jensen is a teasing menace.ᐟ

word count: 987

julia yaps: thank you so much @multiversefanfics for thinking about me it’s so sweet and considerate of you. i didn’t get much details about what you wanted so I hope this is okay

────────── 🤞 ──────────

“you’re staring sweetheart” said jensen with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his gaze focused on the script he was currently reading through.

you snapped out of your thoughts and went back to cutting the vegetables for dinner, your cheeks catching on a slight shade of pink, feeling flustered that he caught you staring at his hands. “sorry” you murmured.

but at least he couldn’t read your mind right? he couldn’t tell you were imagining his hands roaming all over your body in a meaningful and sensual manner, his big hand wrapped around your throat as with his other hand his fingers work you open, slowly, one finger then two, maybe three. his thumb circling your swollen clit.

he couldn’t tell you were thinking all that right?

but come on can you blame yourself? his hands are so pretty but at the same time so masculine, decorated with age, kissable freckles and veins, a watch on his wrist, tattoo on his thumb and a silver wedding band on his finger that represented his undying love and loyalty for you. you shamefully worshipped your husbands hands as if they were sculpted my michelangelo himself, and he secretly knew it despite you trying to hide it.

he glanced up from his notes and couldn’t help but smile softly as he noticed just how embarrassed you were at him catching you gawking.

an idea popped in his head, he cleared his throat, putting down all the papers onto the table and he stood up, taking his empty coffee mug and walking over to the kitchen counter. his walk was slow, almost like a predator creeping up on it’s prey.

you looked up and flashed him a smile before going back to focusing on not cutting your fingers off with the kitchen knife.

jensen put the coffee mug down by the drip machine, pressed the button to make more coffee and walked behind you, his broad physique towering over your smaller one. his front pressed up against your back.

he gently placed his hands on your hips and pressed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another one on your neck and lastly onto your shoulder.

“babe~” you let out a giggle as his beard tickled your delicate skin, your cute little giggle making him smile. he gently squeezed your waist before snaking one of his hands up your shirt, moving higher up, just below your bra.

your breath hitched slightly as you tried to focus on slicing the vegetables and not his hand placement, but jensen made it real hard when he sneaked his hand under your lace bra to cup your breast. his hand big and warm.

his other hand gradually shifting lower and lower, his fingers playing with the waistband of your shorts. “babe wha-what are you doing?” you managed to stutter out with a smile.

he hummed in your ear, a big smug smile on his face. “nothing” he replied with an innocent tone which you didn’t fall for. “mhm sure” you chuckled and playfully rolled your eyes.

his hand softly massaged your breast, his thumb brushing against your hardening nipple which made you let out a shaky breath. you had to put the knife down in order not to hurt yourself or him by accident. your lips parted as your breathing became heavier.

“you know what i’m thinking of right now?” jensen whispered into your ear, his breath tickling your neck which sent shivers down your spine.

“n-no?” you accidentally whimpered out. he couldn’t help but smirk at how worked up you seemed to already be.

his veiny hand suddenly leaving your breast and gripping you teasingly by the throat, his fingers wrapping round you deliciously.

“having my hand wrapped round your throat as my other hand plays with your pretty little pussy” his other hand sliding into your shorts and panties, his middle and ring fingers finding their way between your folds with practiced ease. “oh would you look at that, sooo wet, already?” he teased in a slightly mocking tone as he spread your arousal with his middle finger, using it as lube.

you gasped out as he suddenly brushed against your bundle of nerves, your hands weakly grabbing a hold onto his wrists which only made him chuckle. you tilted your head back, resting it on his muscular shoulder. his facial hair brushing against your temple.

his hand teasingly tightening around your throat as his thick digits circled your clit painfully slow, a soft moan slipping your lips. your eyes closing as your back arched leading to your ass brushing against his crotch. “j-jensen..” you breathed out his name like it was some secret.

“shhh shhh it’s okay sweetheart” jensen cooed into your ear, his fingers sliding up and down your slit. “just focus on my hands, in your panties and around your neck…you’re doing so good for me sweetheart” he praised, his words making you melt right there on the spot. he gave your cheek a soft kiss and continued to play with you.

as tension was building up in the pit of your stomach, your grip on his wrists became gradually weaker. jensen could tell that you were getting close by how your body tensed up underneath his touch.

then suddenly his phone started ringing, jensen couldn’t stop the small smirk forming on his face, he was waiting for this important call for a while now, knowing damn well he will leave you waiting, on edge and unsatisfied until later.

“i gotta get that, it’s important” he whispered with a smirk before giving you another soft kiss on the cheek and slowly pulling away, reaching into his pocket for his phone with one hand and licking off your arousal from his other.

“i’m not finished with you yet” he said, giving you a cheeky little wink before picking up the call and walking away into the living room.

thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3

tags: @jensino @emeraldcrs @soldiersgirl @jensenacklesballsack @missus-ackles @littlesoulshine @deanswifeyy @slut4jackles @h8aaz @bittersweetfig @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @rositaslabyrinth @deanspookiebear @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @miss-marmalade @pinksatinpanties @multiversefanfics @cupidzbunny @sunnyteume @lunaleah

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[heliosunny]

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Phainon x reader

The rumors were true.

You stood in front of the large, polished machine, its sleek metallic surface reflecting the soft neon glow of the surrounding marketplace. The “Lucky Egg Dispenser” as it was called, had become something of a sensation overnight. A single pull of the trigger, and you’d receive an egg—an unhatched mystery promising the perfect partner. Most people spoke of rare creatures, companion animals with unique abilities, and even a few who whispered about something… stranger.

“Lucky egg?” you mused aloud, shifting the weight of the gun-like trigger in your grip. You’d always been one to try new things. It didn’t hurt to take a chance.

With a decisive motion, you squeezed the trigger.

A soft whirring sound filled the air before a pristine white egg gently rolled out, stopping perfectly at your feet. You crouched down, picking it up. Warm. Alive.

A small smile tugged at your lips. Taking care of it would be simple, you were no stranger to nurturing things. Three days. That was all it would take for it to hatch.

You weren’t worried in the slightest.

What you didn’t expect, however, was for your “partner” to be a human.

The egg hatched in the dead of night. A soft crackling sound stirred you from your sleep, but by the time you were fully awake, the shell had already split apart.

And there, sitting on your bed, was a boy.

No, not a boy, a young man, probably around your age.

Pale skin, silver-white hair that shimmered in the moonlight, and brilliant, otherworldly eyes. His clothes were odd, somewhere between regal and alien, but the most alarming thing was the wide, almost manic grin stretching across his face.

Before you could react, he lunged at you, arms wrapping around your torso in a crushing embrace.

“My name is Phainon!” he chirped, his voice filled with unfiltered joy. “I’m your partner now!”

Oh no...Your stomach dropped as realization set in.

Baby duck syndrome.

You knew the term well. When a newborn creature imprints on the first living being they see and attaches to them completely. You were that first living being.

And judging by the way Phainon’s grip tightened, as if he’d never let go, you had a feeling this wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought.

Phainon clung to you like a vice, his grip almost bruising as he buried his face into your neck. His breath was warm, uneven with excitement, and his entire body trembled, not with fear, but something far more intense.

“You’re mine” he whispered, his voice filled with unshakable certainty. “I belong to you… and you belong to me.”

This was bad. You tried to gently pry him off, but the moment you moved, his arms locked around you tighter, his fingers digging into your back as if he were afraid you’d disappear. His blue eyes, impossibly bright and alight with something unsettling, gazed up at you with an overwhelming adoration.

“Don’t push me away” Phainon begged “I just hatched… I need you.”

You swallowed, carefully adjusting your expression. “I-I’m not pushing you away. You just surprised me, that’s all.”

His gaze flickered with doubt before softening, though his grip didn’t loosen.

“I won’t let you leave me” he promised, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I was born for you.”

You had really gotten yourself into trouble this time.

With Phainon practically glued to your side, you dragged him along to the dungeon. You needed supplies, and in this world, the only way to survive was by hunting monsters and trading points for food and goods. At the very least, you thought you could shake off some of his energy by keeping him occupied. What you didn’t expect was just how powerful he was.

The first monster barely had a chance to move before Phainon lunged, his bare hands tearing through it like paper. Blue eyes shimmered with an eerie thrill as he made quick work of the beasts around you. No hesitation. No struggle. Just raw, overwhelming strength. You stared, a mix of awe and unease settling in your gut.

“Phainon…” You hesitated as he turned to you, still grinning. “How do you know how to fight?”

He tilted his head, as if the question itself was strange. “I was born to protect you” he answered simply. “If anything dares to harm you, I’ll rip it apart.”

His words were spoken with such sincerity that it made your skin crawl. Still, you couldn’t deny the convenience. With him by your side, earning points was absurdly easy.

So you took him to the marketplace, trading in your earnings and buying him new clothes, something normal, something that would help him blend in.

But as you held up a shirt for him to try, he only stared at you with an unsettling softness.

“You take such good care of me…” He exhaled, stepping closer. “You really do love me.”

Your grip on the fabric tightened.

This was going to be a problem.

Even as you weaved through the marketplace, his fingers curled around your wrist, grip firm and unwavering. His blue eyes scanned the crowd with silent intensity, watching every passerby with something between wariness and irritation, as if anyone who so much as looked at you was a potential threat.

You sighed, trying to ignore it.

That was until someone called your name.

“Y/N!”

You turned, spotting an old friend making their way toward you, smiling. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Before you could respond, their gaze flickered to Phainon, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“…Oh? Who’s this?” they asked, raising an eyebrow. “Your boyfriend?”

You couldn’t exactly say he came from an egg. That would sound insane. So, against your better judgment, you went along with it. “Uh, yeah. Something like that.”

Your friend chuckled. “I figured. He looks like he’d kill someone if they so much as breathed in your direction.”

You let out an awkward laugh, hoping they were joking.

Phainon, however, only smiled, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I would” he murmured, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your friend’s laughter faltered.

Before the situation could get any worse, you quickly made your exit, dragging Phainon away.

When you finally got home, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “You can’t just say things like that, you know.”

Phainon tilted his head. “But it’s true.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, you busied yourself in the kitchen, preparing a meal. The sound of chopping and sizzling filled the space, and for a moment, things felt… normal.

But you could still feel Phainon’s admiring gaze on you.

When you finally placed a plate in front of him, his eyes softened.

“You take such good care of me” he murmured.

You forced a small smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just eat.”

But as you turned away, his voice reached you again, quiet, almost innocent.

“You really do love me, don’t you?”

This was getting worse by the second.

The next morning, Phainon was already awake before you, sitting at the edge of your bed, watching you with silent fascination. You ignored the unsettling feeling that came with knowing he had likely been staring at you for a while.

“We’re going out!” you said, stretching. “I need to figure out what you’re actually capable of.”

His expression brightened. “You’re thinking about me first thing in the morning?” His voice was honeyed, pleased. “That makes me happy.”

You sighed. “Just get ready.”

Despite his odd behavior, you needed to assess his skills properly. Yesterday’s display of strength was impressive, but you weren’t sure if he had magic abilities as well. If he was going to fight alongside you, he needed the right weapon.

So, you took him to a well-known weapon shop in the city.

The place was stocked with everything—swords, spears, enchanted items, and magic-infused equipment. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow at Phainon as he trailed closely behind you, practically glued to your side.

“A new recruit?” they asked.

You hesitated before nodding. “Something like that. I need to test his capabilities and get him a sword.”

Phainon didn’t seem too interested in the conversation. Instead, his attention remained locked onto you, his fingers subtly brushing against your arm as if to remind himself that you were still there.

The shopkeeper guided you both to the testing grounds in the back.

Phainon barely glanced at the weapons lined up for testing. Instead, he turned to you, expectant.

“Choose one for me” he said.

You blinked. “Why? You should pick what feels right.”

He smiled “I want your choice. Something that reminds you of me.”

You hesitated, but eventually, you picked a sword. When you handed it to him, he held it as if it were sacred, his fingers running over the hilt with reverence. Then, he turned toward the practice dummy and swung. The air itself seemed to hum as the blade sliced cleanly through, the force of his strike strong enough to split the dummy in two. You barely had time to react before the lingering energy from his swing crackled, a faint shimmer of magic lacing through the air.

So he did have magic.

The shopkeeper let out a low whistle. “That’s some terrifying raw talent.”

Phainon ignored them, stepping closer to you, lifting the sword slightly.

“Do you like it?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “It suits you.”

His eyes softened, a quiet sort of delight settling in his expression. “Then I’ll treasure it forever.”

It wasn’t about the sword. It was about the fact that you were the one who gave it to him.

Going into the dungeon with Phainon was like having a high-level DPS at your side. You barely had to lift a finger.

With every swing of his sword, monsters fell instantly, torn apart before they could even react. His raw strength was unmatched, his movements precise and brutal, and his magic crackled through the air with every strike. All you had to do was keep him healed.

Whenever he took a hit, rare as it was, you were there, casting healing spells or applying potions before he could even flinch. It was almost effortless, and the way he looked at you every time you healed him sent a strange chill down your spine.

“You always take care of me” he murmured, after you placed a hand on his arm to patch up a small wound. His blue eyes burned with something unreadable. “It makes me love you even more.”

You pretended not to hear him.

By the end of the run, you had racked up an absurd amount of points. It was more than you’d ever earned in a single trip. But as you left the dungeon, your path was blocked. A group of men stood in front of you, their expressions dark with anger.

“You!” one of them spat, eyes locked on you. “That was our dungeon route. You took our points.”

You stiffened. You had heard of people like this before, territorial dungeon crawlers who claimed certain areas as their own, even though the dungeons were free for all. Phainon, however, only tilted his head, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

“Move” he said simply.

The men sneered. “Or what?”

Phainon smiled. And then, in the blink of an eye, he moved.

You barely saw it happen. One second, the men were standing tall, and the next, they were on the ground, groaning, writhing, clutching broken limbs. Phainon hadn’t even drawn his sword. He had simply crushed them with his bare hands. You felt the blood drain from your face as he turned back to you, expression calm, as if nothing had happened.

“You don’t need to worry about them” he stepped close to you, his voice almost soothing. “I’ll always protect you.”

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin.

“You’ll never need anyone else.”

You weren’t the only one who noticed Phainon’s strength.

Word spread fast in the city. A newcomer, practically fresh out of nowhere, tearing through dungeons with monstrous efficiency? It was bound to catch attention.

When you returned to the marketplace, a group of uniformed individuals was waiting for you. Their armor bore the insignia of the Adventurer’s Guild, the organization that oversaw dungeon crawlers and regulated combat prowess.

One of them, a woman with sharp eyes, stepped forward. “We’ve received reports about you” she said, looking Phainon up and down. “Your combat abilities are… unusual.”

Phainon didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink.

The woman continued, unfazed. “We’d like to evaluate your rank. If you’re as strong as people claim, you should be registered with the guild.”

You hesitated, then glanced at Phainon. “It’s up to you” you said casually. “You can decide for yourself.”

His reaction was immediate. His blue eyes snapped to yours, wide with something unreadable. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if suppressing an impulse.

For the first time since you met him, Phainon looked… lost.

“You’re letting me decide?” he murmured, almost as if the concept itself was foreign to him. His voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent of something dangerous beneath it.

The guild members watched the exchange, waiting for an answer.

Then, without warning, Phainon grabbed your wrist. His grip was firm but not painful—more like an anchor, something grounding him.

“I don’t need them!” he said, his eyes darkening. “I don’t need a rank. I don’t need recognition. I only need you.”

You swallowed, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Phainon...”

But he wasn’t listening. His fingers tightened ever so slightly, as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still his.

“I’ll prove it” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’ll see… I don’t need anything else.”

The woman from the guild frowned. “Refusing to register might cause problems later. If you change your mind, come to the guild hall.” She gave you a lingering look before turning away, leading her team elsewhere.

Once they were gone, you exhaled, glancing down at your guild-issued device. You hadn’t checked Phainon’s stats since he hatched. Opening the interface, your breath caught in your throat. His level had skyrocketed. It wasn’t just growth, it was unnatural. No one leveled up this fast. Slowly, you looked up at him, finding him already staring at you.

His lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. “You’re looking at me differently” he murmured. “Are you finally realizing it?”

Realizing what?

Phainon wasn’t just strong. He was something else.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Phainon’s level growth wasn’t just unnatural, it was impossible. Even the most elite adventurers took years to reach his current strength, yet he had done it in mere days. And his reaction when you let him decide for himself… the way he clung to you, as if the very idea of autonomy was foreign to him… Something wasn’t right.

That night, while Phainon sat contentedly by the fireplace, watching you with that ever-present devotion, you busied yourself with research.

You poured through old adventurer logs, ancient texts, and anything that might explain the anomaly that was him. But no record of a “lucky egg” spawning a human existed. Every instance of the machine had resulted in creatures—beasts, familiars, magical companions. Never a person. Then, deep within an old archive, you found something.

A passage detailing an experiment.

“In pursuit of the perfect companion, scholars once sought to craft an entity bound by absolute devotion. A being that would imprint upon the first soul it encountered, instinctively prioritizing their happiness and survival above all else. However, these creations proved unstable—obsessive, possessive, and far too powerful. The project was ultimately abandoned, all records sealed away.”

Your gaze flickered toward Phainon.

His blue eyes gleamed in the firelight, calm and unreadable as he met your stare.

“You’re looking at me like that again”

“Phainon…” You swallowed. “What are you?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat, walking toward you with measured steps. When he reached you, he knelt—his head resting against your lap, his arms wrapping around you in a loose embrace.

“I don’t know” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But does it matter?”

He tilted his head, pressing closer, his warmth seeping into you.

“All I know is that I belong to you” he murmured, smiling softly. “And that’s the only truth I need.”

Your fingers trembled against the pages of the book.

This was worse than you thought.

Phainon wasn’t just obsessed.

He was made to be.

[o9sessions]

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY — H.H

↻ 5 times you experience jealousy— and 1 time he does.

↻ fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, suggestive themes

↻ wc; 7.1k

1 —

The familiar ding of the elevator echoed through the Man Cave, reverberating off the metallic walls. You barely glanced up, still savoring the last few fries from the greasy basket in front of you. The smell of salt and oil hung in the air, mixing with the subtle hum of the computers. When you finally did look up, it wasn’t Ray as expected—it was Henry and Charlotte, their laughter spilling in like sunlight breaking through the cold steel of the lair.

They strolled toward the booth, Henry’s hand brushing against Charlotte’s arm as she made some joke you couldn’t hear but felt in the way his eyes crinkled. They collapsed into the soft, foamy cushions across from you, still giggling like schoolkids.

“Did Ray beep you guys too?” you asked, feigning nonchalance as you shifted in your seat, the cushion creaking beneath you.

“Yup,” Henry replied, his voice light, the ‘p’ popping playfully. “He sounded kinda urgent.”

Before you could say more, the sound of Ray’s heavy footsteps thudded in the distance. He emerged from behind the snack bar, dressed in his usual plaid shirt and jeans, pushing a cart laden with neatly stacked manila folders. The air around him smelled faintly of nacho cheese.

“Speak of the devil,” Charlotte quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm, her eyes rolling in that effortless way she had. Henry chuckled beside her, their laughter vibrating through the booth.

You glanced at the cart as curiosity tugged at you, fingers lightly grazing the folder marked DRILL FINGER as you picked it up. Before you could speak, Henry’s hand reached over, brushing yours as he took the folder from you. The brief touch sent a spark up your arm, but before you could meet his eyes for more than a second, Ray slammed a fresh stack of files onto the table, snapping you both out of the moment.

“They’re mission reports,” Ray grunted. “Sort through them, figure out which villains are in jail and who’s still out there causing trouble.”

The collective groan that followed was immediate, filling the cave with a heavy sense of dread.

“And you’ll be doing… what, exactly?” Charlotte asked, raising an eyebrow at Ray’s retreating form.

“Eating nachos and watching you kids work,” he replied over his shoulder, already heading toward the snack machine.

With a sigh, you reached for a stack of files, the paper crinkling in your hands. It should’ve been a quiet task, but Charlotte soon broke the silence, nudging Henry. “Remember that time you got stuck in that weird dream and I had to save your ass?”

Henry’s laugh was soft but genuine, the sound low in his throat as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, that was one time.”

You tried to stay focused on the mission reports, the feel of the rough paper slipping through your fingers grounding you, but their laughter kept creeping into the corners of your mind. Every shared glance, every inside joke felt like a secret you weren’t part of. Their chemistry was effortless, natural, and it left you feeling like a bystander in a scene that wasn’t meant for you. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, the leather squeaking beneath you as you cleared your throat, hoping to draw them back to the task at hand.

But they barely noticed, their world orbiting around each other. Another joke, another laugh. You clenched your jaw, the sound of their shared amusement feeling heavier than the silence that followed.

2 —

The soft murmur of the coffee shop wrapped around you like a blanket, blending with the gentle clinks of ceramic mugs and the rustle of pages turning. The smell of fresh-ground coffee drifted through the air, mixing with the warm scent of cinnamon pastries from behind the counter. You sat tucked away in the back corner, the dim light above casting a soft glow on your open textbooks. Midterms were looming, and you’d come here to focus, hoping the quiet hum of life around you would ease the anxiety brewing in your chest.

But just as your pen glided across your notes, the bell above the door jingled, and out of habit, you glanced up. Your breath caught.

Henry walked in. And with him—Bianca.

You froze, fingers tightening around your pen as you watched them make their way to a small table near the window. Bianca looked effortlessly perfect, her hair catching the afternoon light as she smiled up at Henry, her laughter a melodic hum that echoed faintly across the shop.

You sank lower into your seat, hidden behind a stack of books, heart pounding in your chest. They hadn’t noticed you. The chatter of the coffee shop continued, but all you could focus on was them—the way Bianca’s hand brushed against Henry’s arm as they sat down, the way she leaned in just a little too close when she spoke. Her laughter came easy, bubbling up every time Henry said something, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes lit up, even if just for a moment.

Your stomach twisted as Bianca casually reached across the table, her fingers grazing Henry’s. It was subtle, innocent maybe, but the gesture stung all the same. She was always like this—flirty, magnetic. You watched as she played with her hair, tilting her head slightly as she spoke, her eyes never leaving his. Henry seemed comfortable, leaning back in his chair, smiling that boyish smile that made your heart race.

You tried to focus on your textbook, but the words blurred. Your mind was too busy replaying every small interaction between them. You told yourself to leave—to get up and walk out—but your legs wouldn’t move. Instead, you stayed rooted in your chair, watching from the shadows as an hour ticked by, each small gesture between them feeling like a tiny dagger.

Bianca laughed again, her voice soft and sweet, and for a brief moment, Henry glanced out the window, his smile fading just slightly. You wondered if he was thinking of you—wondered if he remembered the promises he’d made before Bianca had left. But then his attention snapped back to her, and the thought dissolved.

The coffee in your cup had long gone cold, but you didn’t move. You just watched, heart heavy, until finally, they stood to leave. Bianca looped her arm through Henry’s, and they walked out together, the door’s bell jingling behind them.

For a moment, you just sat there in the dim light, the weight of what you’d witnessed pressing down on you. None of them knew you had been there. They didn’t see the way your fingers trembled, or how your heart had fractured, piece by piece, with every lingering glance and laugh shared between them.

In the quiet that followed, the world continued as if nothing had changed. But inside, something had shifted—jealousy, sadness, the ache of uncertainty. You let out a shaky breath, finally closing your book. For now, you’d leave the words unstudied and the questions unanswered.

3 —

The steady beep of the heart monitor echoed softly in the quiet of the Man Cave’s med bay. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow on the room, making the sterile whites and grays feel even more lifeless. Henry sat beside the bed, his chair pulled close to where Phoebe lay, still and bruised, her breathing shallow but steady.

You stood a little farther back, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, your heart a jumble of emotions. The fight was over, but the weight of what had happened lingered thick in the air. You glanced at Henry, the way his eyes stayed locked on Phoebe, his expression tight with concern. There was something about the way he hovered, his presence protective and unyielding, that twisted in your chest.

You understood the direness of the situation—she had been hurt saving him. Still, a dull ache of jealousy had settled deep inside you, one that you tried to push away.

As Henry sat there, his mind seemed far away, lost in the chaos of what had happened earlier. The fight was still fresh in his memory, replaying in flashes.

It had started fast. They had stormed the warehouse, side by side, working in perfect sync. Phoebe had been fierce, taking down guards with her energy blasts while Henry worked on the bomb, his hands moving quickly over the wires. You had been there too, backing them up as best you could, but it was impossible not to notice how well they worked together. Every movement was fluid, every glance between them understanding without words.

And then, out of nowhere, the blast. Henry had barely registered it until Phoebe hit the ground, a sickening thud echoing through the warehouse as her body crumpled against the pillar.

He had rushed to her, the panic in his voice unmistakable. “Phoebe!” he’d shouted, his fingers trembling as they hovered over her, unsure of where to touch, how to help.

You had watched from a few feet away, heart in your throat. Jealousy flared then, sharp and stinging, watching how frantic he was. But then Phoebe had groaned, trying to sit up, wincing through the pain, and all of that jealousy faded, replaced by something else—fear. Fear for her. Fear for Henry.

Now, back in the med bay, that same fear hung in the room, even though the immediate danger had passed.

Henry hadn’t moved from her side since you had returned. His hand rested lightly on the edge of the bed, close but not quite touching, as if he was afraid he might hurt her if he did. His face was drawn, worry creasing his brow, and he kept glancing at the monitors as if checking for any sign of change.

The jealousy you had felt earlier was still there, but it was quieter now, dulled by the reality of the situation. You understood why Henry was acting the way he was. Phoebe had saved him—she’d taken a hit for him. Anyone would have done the same in his place. But that didn’t make it easier to watch.

She stirred slightly, a soft groan escaping her lips as her eyes fluttered open, still groggy from the sedatives. Henry straightened instantly, his face lighting up with relief.

“Phoebe?” His voice was soft, gentle, and he leaned forward slightly. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Her eyes moved to him, a tired smile pulling at the corner of her lips. “Henry… you… okay?” she managed to whisper, her voice hoarse and weak.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, brushing off her concern. “Thanks to you.”

You shifted awkwardly, feeling like an outsider as you watched the exchange. The way they looked at each other, even in this moment, was undeniable. There was a bond there now, something forged in the heat of battle, and it stung in a way you hadn’t expected. You bit your lip, trying to shake it off, reminding yourself that this wasn’t about you.

But it didn’t stop the feeling from settling deep inside.

Phoebe closed her eyes again, clearly exhausted, and Henry exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders as he leaned back slightly, though he still stayed close. You could see the weight of what had happened written all over his face—the relief that she was okay, the fear that something worse could have happened, and maybe something else you couldn’t quite place.

After a long silence, Henry finally spoke without looking away from Phoebe. “I thought we were going to lose her,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself. The words hung in the air, heavy with emotion.

You didn’t know what to say, so you stayed quiet, watching him, watching her. In that moment, you realized that even though the jealousy still lingered, you couldn’t blame him for caring. Phoebe was a hero, just like him, and she had fought beside him, saved his life. It wasn’t about you or her—it was about the bond they’d formed in that moment of danger.

But still, it hurt.

Henry stayed with Phoebe through the night, his hand never far from hers, and you stayed too, even though a part of you wanted to leave, wanted to escape the painful feeling gnawing at your heart. You stayed because, despite it all, you knew they were both important to you.

And maybe that was enough.

4 —

The bright lights of the studio gleamed overhead, casting a spotlight on the sleek set where Henry and Captain Man sat for their interview. The whole space felt larger than life—cameras lined up in perfect formation, audience murmuring softly, and the shimmer of fame hanging thick in the air. You stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying to remain unnoticed. It was supposed to be an exciting event—a chance for Kid Danger and Captain Man to speak to the world, to show the public a little more of their heroic selves.

But the moment the actress, the stunning and ever-charming Ava Monroe, glided onto the stage in her shimmering gown, something in your chest tightened.

She was breathtaking, even more so in person, and the second she sat down across from Henry, you felt the shift in the air. Her smile was dazzling, her laugh infectious, and from the very first question, her attention was completely fixed on him.

“So, Kid Danger,” she purred, leaning in slightly as if she was sharing a secret just between them. “What’s it like being the most eligible superhero in Swellview?”

Henry smiled awkwardly, shifting in his seat, his cheeks flushing a little under the lights. “Uh, I don’t know about that,” he laughed, glancing briefly toward Captain Man for help, but Ray only grinned, clearly enjoying watching Henry squirm under her attention.

You felt the jealousy prickle at your skin, creeping in slowly at first. It wasn’t just that Ava was beautiful or charming—it was the way she made it so obvious that she was interested. Every glance, every brush of her hand when she leaned a little too close, every laugh that lasted just a beat too long. And Henry—Henry was trying to keep it professional, but you could see how flustered he was, how her attention had him off-balance.

“I’m sure the girls in Swellview are just dying to know—do you have someone special in your life?” Ava asked, her tone light but with just enough curiosity to make it clear she was fishing for an answer.

Henry’s smile faltered for a split second, and your heart clenched. His gaze flickered toward you for the briefest moment, but before he could answer, Ava was already speaking again, her fingers gently brushing his arm as she laughed.

“I mean, with looks and charm like yours, it’s hard to believe you’re still single,” she teased, her voice sugary sweet.

Your jaw tightened, fingers digging into your arms as you tried to keep your composure. The casual touches, the way she batted her eyelashes—it was all so painfully obvious. And the worst part? The way Henry didn’t pull away, didn’t shut it down. He was polite, yes, but the fact that he didn’t seem to mind was enough to make your stomach twist with something ugly.

You told yourself you shouldn’t care. This was just an interview, just part of the job. Ava Monroe was an actress—flirting was probably part of her charm, part of the persona she put on for the cameras. But that logic didn’t make it any easier to watch.

The interview continued, but you couldn’t focus on the questions or the banter. All you could see was the way Ava’s attention never left Henry, the way her smile brightened whenever he spoke, the way her eyes sparkled like he was the only person in the room. Every second of it felt like a punch to the gut.

When the cameras finally cut and the audience clapped, Ava stood, flashing one last smile in Henry’s direction as she thanked him for the interview. Henry stood too, still looking a little dazed by it all, but before you could even approach him, Ava was already there again, her hand on his arm as she whispered something in his ear. He smiled—nothing more than a polite, awkward smile—but it was enough to push you over the edge.

You couldn’t stay any longer. The weight of watching it all, of feeling so invisible in the shadow of her charm, was too much.

Without a word, you turned and slipped out of the studio, your footsteps quick and silent as you made your way through the exit. The cool night air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, but it didn’t ease the tightness in your chest. Your breath came out in shaky bursts, a mix of frustration and heartache swirling inside of you. You had no right to feel this possessive, you told yourself. Henry wasn’t yours to claim, not in that way.

But that didn’t stop the hurt from creeping in. Seeing Ava bat her eyes at him, the way she touched his arm, the way Henry had smiled—however innocent it might have been—felt like a crack in something delicate.

Your heart felt like it had been shattered by something so small, yet so impossibly large all at once.

And so, you walked, letting the distance grow between you and the place where Henry still stood, unaware of the turmoil swirling inside of you.

5 —

The quiet hum of the library filled the air, punctuated by the soft shuffling of pages and the occasional murmur of whispered conversations. It was the kind of peaceful environment you usually thrived in, the kind of place that helped you focus and push through hours of studying. But today, no matter how hard you tried, the words in your textbook blurred together, unread.

Across the room, Henry sat at a long wooden table, his head bent over a pile of notes, talking animatedly with his partner for the project—Natalie Reynolds. She was smart, everyone knew that. Always the first to answer questions in class, always at the top of the grade charts, and, to make things worse, she was easygoing and fun. The kind of person that people naturally gravitated toward.

Normally, it wouldn’t bother you. Henry had friends, just like you did. But watching the two of them together for the past week—spending long hours holed up in the library, their heads close as they poured over their research—had become increasingly hard to ignore. You told yourself it was nothing. Just a project. They were working. That’s all.

Still, every time you glanced over at them, the jealousy tightened around your chest.

You tried to focus on your own work, flipping through pages of your notes, but you couldn’t stop your ears from tuning into their conversation. Henry was laughing at something Natalie said. You couldn’t help but remember the conversation you had yesterday:

“She’s honestly so cool,” Henry said, his voice carrying across the room as he talked about her later at Junk N’ Stuff.“Like, she just knows so much about this stuff. I’d be lost without her.”

Your grip tightened on your the figures you were restocking, trying to pretend the words didn’t sting, but they did. You tried brushing it off, convincing yourself it didn’t matter, but it was hard to ignore how often Henry had been talking about Natalie lately. How much he’d been praising her, how their study sessions seemed to stretch longer every day.

It wasn’t like you didn’t understand—Natalie was smart. She was capable, and probably the perfect partner for the project. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier. You couldn’t help but feel left out, like some invisible line had been drawn between them that you weren’t a part of.

You caught glimpses of their smiles, the way they leaned in close, heads bent together, deep in conversation about whatever new discovery they’d just made in their research. They were so focused, so wrapped up in their own little world, and you… you were just on the outside, looking in.

The worst part wasn’t even how close they seemed to be getting—it was the way Henry kept bringing her up in conversation when you did see him. Talking about how smart she was, how much she knew, how helpful she’d been. And every time, you’d nod along, forcing a smile, trying to be supportive, when all you really wanted was for him to stop.

You hated feeling this way—jealous, insecure. It wasn’t like you. Henry wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was just working on a project, just being nice, just appreciating someone else’s skills. But each compliment he gave her felt like a little piece of your connection to him was being chipped away.

Eventually, you closed your notebook and shoved it into your bag, unable to focus anymore. Maybe it was better to just leave, to stop torturing yourself by watching them from afar. But as you stood and slung your bag over your shoulder, you caught Henry’s eye. He smiled, waving you over.

“Hey!” he called, oblivious to the internal storm brewing inside you. “Come check out what we found.”

You hesitated, your heart tugging between wanting to be close to him and wanting to avoid the sharp sting of jealousy. With a deep breath, you crossed the room and stood at the edge of their table, forcing a smile as Henry excitedly explained whatever new piece of information they had discovered.

But you barely heard a word. All you could focus on was how natural they seemed together, how easy it was for him to talk to her, laugh with her, and how little space seemed left for you in that moment.

+1 —

The bright lights of the lavish dining room glimmered overhead, casting an elegant glow on the grand table set for a private dinner with one of Swellview’s most notorious villains, Victor Voss. The atmosphere felt charged, filled with the soft clinking of silverware and the low hum of conversation, as you stood off to the side, adjusting your suit to fit the part. This was a high-stakes mission—a chance for you to flirt with Victor while Kid Danger and Captain Man snuck in to retrieve vital information.

You were wired with an earpiece, allowing you to hear Henry and Ray’s every word as they made their way through the shadows. Your heart raced, not just from the thrill of the mission but from the daunting task ahead. Victor entered the room, his presence commanding, dressed in a tailored suit that accentuated his imposing figure. You felt a flicker of nerves but quickly pushed it aside; you were here to do a job.

As you approached Victor, a confident smile on your face, his gaze shifted to you, instantly intrigued. “Well, well, who do we have here?” he purred, leaning back in his chair, eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Are you here to charm me, darling?”

“Maybe,” you replied, leaning slightly closer, letting your voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or perhaps I’m here to learn a few things from the most powerful man in the room.” The flirtation was effortless, and the words felt natural as they slipped from your lips.

In your earpiece, you could hear Henry’s voice, a hint of tension threading through his words. “Stay focused. Remember, we need that intel,” he urged, though you could detect a slight edge to his tone.

Watching from the shadows, Henry clenched his jaw, his heart racing in a way he hadn’t expected. Every word you exchanged with Victor felt like a dagger to his gut. It wasn’t just the situation—it was the way you held yourself, how effortlessly charming you were, drawing Victor’s full attention. He’d always known you were good at this, but watching it unfold in front of him made it feel too real.

Victor chuckled, a sound deep and rich, leaning in to engage you further. “You’re bold. I like that. Tell me, what do you find so fascinating about my work?” His eyes sparkled with interest, and Henry felt a surge of frustration. This is just a game for him, he thought, struggling to keep his own feelings in check. Just a villain playing with his prey. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch.

“Power can be intoxicating,” you responded, flashing him a coy smile. “But it can also be lonely. Don’t you crave something more?” You could feel the energy shifting as he leaned even closer, his interest piqued.

Henry swallowed hard, an unfamiliar tension coiling in his chest. What am I doing here? I should be the one sitting next to you, he thought, his mind racing. He couldn’t shake the image of you and Victor, their chemistry crackling in the air like static. “Just stay focused,” he reminded himself. “We’re here for a reason.” But the words felt hollow against the weight of his jealousy.

In your ear, you heard Henry let out a barely audible sigh, followed by Ray’s chuckle. “Looks like she’s really got her claws into him,” Ray teased, but Henry’s irritation was mounting, the feeling of helplessness gnawing at him. “Just keep him busy; we’re almost in,” Ray continued, but Henry felt anything but calm.

As the banter continued, the tension in Henry’s voice tightened. “Just don’t get too close,” he cautioned, his protectiveness surfacing despite his best efforts to remain professional. What if she actually wins him over? The thought was almost unbearable.

“Power is lonely, but I have my ways of making it more… enjoyable,” Victor replied, his tone suggestive as he gestured for you to sit beside him. Henry’s heart sank as he watched you move closer, the warmth of your presence drawing Victor in. He could practically feel the heat radiating from the two of you, and it twisted like a knife in his gut.

“Enjoyment can come in many forms,” you countered, and Henry’s resolve faltered. You’re playing a dangerous game, he thought, anxiety spiking in his chest. The way you leaned in, the way you laughed—it was everything he feared and wanted all at once.

“Just keep flirting,” Ray whispered in your ear, but Henry could sense his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “We need that information.” The urgency in Ray’s voice only heightened Henry’s frustration, making it difficult to concentrate on the mission.

You carried on, pouring on the charm, but every compliment exchanged with Victor felt like a knife twisting deeper into Henry’s resolve. “You know,” Victor said, his gaze flickering over to where Henry was concealed, “I’ve always admired someone who can keep up with me. How do you feel about a little… adventure?”

“Adventure can be thrilling,” you replied, casting a quick glance at Henry, who was clearly on edge. He was trying to mask his emotions, but his heart was racing. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, he thought. I should be the one enjoying this dance, not him.

A faint rustle in your earpiece reminded you of the urgency. “We’re in position. Just hold his attention a little longer,” Henry urged, his voice strained. He hated feeling this way, the jealousy clawing at him. He wanted to focus on the mission but felt trapped by his own feelings.

Finally, as Victor leaned in closer, his voice sultry and enticing, Henry’s heart sank further. He caught a glimpse of you, your expression a mix of confidence and determination, and it sent a rush of warmth through him. You’re incredible, he thought, a mix of pride and frustration swelling within him. But why does it have to be like this?

With the stakes rising, Henry knew he had to keep his emotions in check, but the weight of his unspoken feelings felt like an anchor pulling him down. The evening wore on, laughter and flirtation blending with the tension that wrapped around you both, each moment laden with unvoiced feelings as he navigated the delicate balance of duty and desire.

And so, he stayed, weaving through the intricacies of deception, letting the distance between you and the truth shift, all while his heart ached for a connection that felt just out of reach. The longer he watched, the more he realized that what he truly craved was not just the mission’s success but the chance to be the one at your side, sharing in the dance of danger and attraction that seemed to come so naturally to you.

The tension hung heavy in the air as Henry and Ray settled into the car, the hum of the engine a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions swirling inside Henry. They had successfully retrieved the intel from Victor’s office, but the victory felt hollow as he replayed the earlier scene in his mind—your laughter, the way Victor leaned closer, how easily you had captivated him.

Ray glanced sideways at Henry, who was staring out the window, lost in thought. “You okay?” he asked, breaking the silence, though he already knew the answer.

Henry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, just… a lot to process.” He felt like a ball of frayed nerves, each thought pulling him in a different direction. You did what you had to do, he reminded himself, but the sting of jealousy was still fresh. “I just didn’t expect it to feel like that,” he admitted quietly, his eyes still fixed on the passing streetlights.

Ray raised an eyebrow, sensing the weight of Henry’s frustration. “You mean seeing her flirt with Victor? That wasn’t part of the plan, was it?”

“Not like that,” Henry replied, his voice tense. “I know it was just a distraction, but watching her… it’s like she was in her element. Like she was enjoying it.” The words came out more bitter than he intended, and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him. , he chided himself. But the feeling of helplessness clawed at him.

Ray nodded, trying to understand. “It’s just a job, man. We all know how good she is at this.” He paused, gauging Henry’s reaction. “You can’t let it get to you. She’s got a role to play.”

“Yeah, but it’s hard to watch someone else take the spotlight,” Henry muttered, his fingers tapping restlessly against the seat. “I’ve seen her take on villains before, but this was different. He was leaning in, like he wanted something more.”

“I get it,” Ray said, his tone more serious now. “But you’re Kid Danger. She’s not going to forget that.” He watched Henry’s jaw tighten, the flicker of insecurity written all over his face. “You’ve got to trust her, man. She can handle herself.”

Trust her, Henry repeated silently to himself, wishing he could. The fact that you had been so effortlessly charming, so confident in the face of danger, made it even harder to swallow. “I know she can,” he said finally, forcing a nod, but the doubt lingered. What if she enjoyed it too much?

Ray shifted in his seat, sensing the thick atmosphere. “Look, once we pick her up, this whole thing will be behind us. You’ll have your chance to talk to her.”

“Yeah, if I can even find the words,” Henry replied, his voice low. The thought of confronting you about his feelings—about everything he had experienced during the mission—felt daunting. Would you understand? Would you see how hard it had been for him to watch?

As they approached the designated pickup location, Henry’s heart raced at the thought of seeing you again. What if she thought it was all just part of the act? He didn’t want to be just another distraction in your world, yet that was exactly how he felt.

“Just keep it cool,” Ray advised as he pulled up to the curb, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of you. “You can’t let your feelings cloud the mission. You know that.”

Henry nodded but found it hard to focus. His thoughts were tangled, emotions roiling beneath the surface. What if this changes everything? He couldn’t shake the feeling that the mission had shifted something between you two—something more than just friendship.

The wait felt interminable, each second dragging on as Henry replayed every moment from the dinner in his head. Finally, he spotted you stepping out of the building, your confident stride and easy smile radiating energy that made his heart flutter and ache at the same time.

When you slid into the backseat, the atmosphere instantly changed. You were all smiles, but Henry noticed the glimmer in your eyes that hinted at the tension you must have felt earlier. “You guys won’t believe what just happened!” you exclaimed, clearly still riding the high of the mission’s success.

Ray smiled at you, engaging in light banter, but Henry remained silent, his thoughts a storm of conflicting emotions. He felt like an outsider in the moment, watching you bask in the aftermath of your performance with Victor.

As Ray continued to drive, the tension in the car grew thicker, punctuated by the unspoken words that hung in the air. Every glance you exchanged felt electric, charged with feelings that neither of you had dared to voice.

Henry stole another glance at you, his mind racing. Each second stretching into an eternity as you chatted with Ray, laughter mingling with the tension that seemed to weave its way between you and Henry.

Finally, as the familiar streets of Swellview passed by. The unease in his chest pushed him forward, urging him to break the silence, but he didn’t . He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his feelings pressing down on him like a heavy fog.

The workout room in the Man Cave hummed with a rhythmic energy, the sound of punching bags swaying gently and sneakers squeaking against the polished floor blending into a symphony of exertion. You moved with focused determination, sweat glistening on your skin as you threw punches at the heavy bag, each strike a release of the pent-up stress that had built over midterm week. The air was thick with the scent of rubber mats and the faint echo of heavy weights clanging in the distance, a welcome distraction from the swirl of thoughts clouding your mind.

You were aware of the tension that had developed between you and Henry over the past few weeks. It felt like a weight pressing on your chest, growing heavier with each passing day. The memory of his close encounters with various girls—each one more charming than the last—gnawed at you. You tried to brush it off, convincing yourself that you were overreacting, but the truth was undeniable: the jealousy was like a constant, throbbing ache, and it didn’t help that you felt more distant from Henry than ever.

As you focused on your training, each punch against the bag was a desperate attempt to release the frustration that threatened to boil over. The rhythm of your movements was meditative, yet your mind was anything but calm. Memories of Henry laughing with those girls played on a loop, a haunting reminder of the connection you wished you had with him. You could still hear the laughter echoing in your ears—the easy banter, the way his eyes lit up when he was around them. It stung more than you cared to admit.

The door creaked open, breaking your concentration, and you glanced over to see Henry emerging from the locker room, his body still glistening from his earlier workout. The sight of him took your breath away; the muscles in his arms flexed with every movement, and the way his hair fell across his forehead made your heart race. Yet, as soon as he stepped into the room, the atmosphere shifted, tension crackling like electricity in the air. You could feel it—the unspoken words, the unresolved feelings.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice low but confident, breaking through the silence that had enveloped you both. “Wanna spar?”

Your heart raced, caught between desire and reluctance. You shook your head, trying to play it cool. “No thanks, I’m good,” you replied, your voice steady, but the frustration you felt seeped through the cracks. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much his presence affected you, especially after everything that had happened recently.

“Oh, come on,” he urged, stepping closer, a playful grin flickering across his lips, a grin that made your stomach flutter and clench at the same time. “I promise I won’t go easy on you.”

The mention of that last part made your heart drop, a fresh wave of jealousy crashing over you like a cold wave. “You mean you won’t go easy on me like you didn’t go easy on those other girls?” you shot back, your voice sharper than you intended. The bitterness of jealousy was a familiar taste, one you hated but couldn’t escape.

Henry’s expression faltered for just a moment, but he quickly masked it with determination, his jaw tightening. “That’s not fair. This isn’t about them.”

“Isn’t it?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, your pulse quickening as you felt the heat rise to your cheeks. “You’ve been with so many girls lately, it’s weird.”

He clenched his jaw, a flash of frustration igniting within him. “Weird?” he echoed, his voice rising a notch. “You think i’m the only one that’s ‘weird’?”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “What do you mean?”

“Oh don’t be dense, it’s not like you were just flirting with some random guy,” he snapped, his emotions boiling over. “You were flirting with a villain! Victor Voss! You were practically hanging on his every word!”

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden intensity in his voice. “Henry, it was part of the mission! I had to distract him to get the intel. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that!” he shot back, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “But it doesn’t mean I have to like it! Watching you smile at him, the way he leaned in closer… you know you liked it.” he said, his tone more challenging, almost daring you to confront the truth. The intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through you, a mixture of annoyance and longing that twisted your insides.

“Come on. Let’s get this out of our systems.”

After a moment’s hesitation, you exhaled a sharp breath, finally giving in to the urge that had been bubbling beneath the surface. “Fine. But don’t cry when I wipe the floor with you.”

As you squared off, the air thickened with anticipation. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his presence pulling you in like a magnet. With the adrenaline coursing through your veins, you began with playful jabs, each strike punctuated by a shared history of friendship that made this moment feel electric.

Yet, the tension simmering beneath the surface was impossible to ignore. Every punch he threw felt like a reminder of the distance that had grown between you, a barrier that had been built on misunderstandings and unresolved feelings. With each hit, you found yourself more frustrated—not just at him, but at the entire situation. You wanted to fight, to push against that barrier, but part of you was terrified of what would happen if you did.

“You think you’re so great, huh?” you teased, sidestepping a punch he aimed at you. “But you’re still avoiding the truth.”

“I’m not avoiding anything!” he replied, landing a solid hit to your shoulder, a small grin tugging at his lips as he feigned innocence.

“Really? Because it seems like you’re avoiding me since those girls came along,” you shot back, landing a kick against his side. The words felt charged, a mix of frustration and longing spilling over as you fought.

Henry’s expression darkened, and the playful tone slipped away. “You think this is about them?” he asked, his voice low and intense. “This is about you pushing me away!”

The air crackled with unfiltered emotions, and as you continued to spar, the fight morphed into a release of all the pent-up tension. You both knew it was more than just a physical match; it was a battleground for your feelings, an attempt to confront the truths that had been lingering in the space between you.

“I don’t want to feel jealous, Henry!” you yelled, frustration boiling over. “But how am I supposed to ignore it when you’re always with them?”

“Then why are you acting like you don’t care?” he countered, his breath coming in quick bursts. “I’m tired of pretending we’re not something more than friends!”

With each exchange, the intensity escalated. You could feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, pushing you to the brink as you both vented your frustrations. As he caught your punch, his grip was firm yet gentle, and your heart raced as you locked eyes, the world around you fading into the background.

“Maybe we should stop fighting,” you murmured, your breath mingling with his, the space between you charged with electricity.

“Maybe we should,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, the intensity in his gaze igniting something deep within you.

Before you could think, he pulled you closer, the intensity of your earlier sparring morphing into something more profound. Your lips crashed together, the kiss igniting a fire that had been simmering between you all along. It was rough and passionate, each moment a release of the frustration, jealousy, and longing that had been pent up for far too long.

You felt every ounce of pent-up emotion flood through you as you melted into him, bodies moving together with an urgency that spoke louder than any words exchanged in the heat of battle. The kiss deepened, hands roaming freely, exploring the familiar territory you both had skirted around for so long.

His grip on the back of your head tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you in closer. His lips crash down onto yours, hard and rough.

“Mine.” He growls against your mouth, his tongue pushing its way past your lips to explore the inside of your wet cavern, tongue battling against your own.

Henry pulled you closer, his hands gripping your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you of the heat radiating from his body. Every kiss was a confession, every breath an admission of the desire that had been simmering beneath the surface. You lost yourself in the moment, forgetting everything else—the jealousy, the misunderstandings, the insecurities.

As the kiss broke, you both pulled away, gasping for breath, the reality of the situation crashing back in. The silence between you was thick with the weight of what had just transpired, a new understanding settling into the space that had once been filled with tension and uncertainty.

“What just happened?” you whispered, a mix of exhilaration and disbelief coursing through you.

Henry searched your eyes, vulnerability flickering across his features. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice husky. “But I know I want to figure it out—with you.”

Fin.

NAVI

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus [ fin ]

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo verse, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining, misunderstanding trope, mild language, silliness, angst — notes: the finale for this. edit: i lied. this is the finale for this series. thank you for reading! — now playing: swan serenade - piano house

You spend the remainder of the party avoiding your boss like the plague. But running into him is inevitable. You work directly for the man, after all.

As the staff trickles out, taking with them their drunken merriment, you’re left to pick up the pieces of your wounded heart and the party’s aftermath. 

You shove Solo cups and decorative paper plates into a trash bin. Snatch off tablecloths and roll the karaoke machine into the broom closet. Wipe off tables, tear down garland. You do everything you can to stay busy, your self-loathing an ever-present rain cloud hanging overhead.

What were you expecting? For Mr. Sylus to fall to his knees for you? For him to sever whatever bond he has with Ms. Hunter for you? You snort at yourself as a wet film of heat slides over your eyes, impairing your vision. You feel ridiculous. Sick to your stomach. 

The trash bin slips from your fingers, thudding dully on the carpeted floor. In an attempt to collect yourself, you prop your hands on the edge of a table, releasing a shaky sigh. You blink away the new commination of tears. You’d been doing good so far, having given yourself a lengthy pep-talk in the bathroom earlier. Something to get you through what remained of the night without wearing your anguish on your sleeves.

So what if he doesn’t view you in the same light as you view him? This isn’t the first time you’ve faced rejection, and it most certainly won’t be the last. It doesn’t make this iteration hurt any less. You’re his secretary, for God’s sake. Not a friend nor a potential love interest. The quips and laughter you exchange daily are nothing more than him being polite. The model gentleman, maintaining the peace between himself and the person responsible for organizing his life. 

You are so swept up in the turmoil of your mind that you hardly register your name being called. Someone beckons to you again, this time more assertive, though not scolding. You whip your head around to the source of the sound, homing in on a familiar shock of white. 

Tamping down the emotions swelling in your chest, you straighten, fixing your sweater, and a superficial smile takes up residence on your face.

“Yes, sir?”

He studies you for a beat from the slab of space permitted by his half-opened door, long fingers wrapped around the oakwood like spindly spider limbs. He gives you a once over, his brows slightly wrinkled. His lips quiver, gaze pensive like he wants to say something. Something other than what next comes out. 

“Would you mind assisting me with something?” he asks, his tone deceptively impassive. 

Your stomach lurches, the feeling akin to cresting over the slope of a roller coaster. You swallow, pushing your disappointment to the back burner. What did you expect him to say? Sorry? Like he even knows you’re upset. Like he knows why you’re upset. 

Like he cares. 

You nod curtly, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. “Of course, sir.”

You move to your desk, your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin while Sylus slinks back into his office. He promptly reappears, thrusting a thick stack of envelopes of varying sizes and colors towards you. Your vision blurs and adjusts as you glance between him and the envelopes.

“Christmas cards,” he answers flatly with a shrug. “I could use some help opening and drafting up responses to them all.” 

“Oh.” Try to sound more disappointed, why don’t you? 

Your fingers graze the clutch of his hand when you reach for the cards. And the worn, warm glide of his skin beneath your fingertips makes you stiffen. You wonder what it would feel like to purposely hold his hand. To commit the feel of his palm to memory. But you banish such thoughts, bowing your head and ducking away.

“Sorry,” you pinch out, moving to the chaise sofa against the wall by his office door. 

He’s wordless as he plops down beside you, releasing a weighted sigh. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat. You try vainly to ignore his slender fingers near your shoulder, drumming against the polished leather. 

You lapse into a rigid silence, your shoulders and jaw set. You find your resolve trickling away, the warmth he exudes beside you making you feel dizzy and shameless. He even has the audacity to smell good, that unmistakable mixture of birch wood, pressed clothing, and his natural musk, conspiring together to overhaul your senses. 

You wonder if he would be offended if you just… leaned a little this way and—forget it. The bubbly’s getting to you. You’re not testing your luck tonight. You worked your ass off to secure this job, enduring tireless screenings and background checks. Worked even harder to gain his trust. No sense in allowing your feelings to compromise your position. 

Besides, you know where you stand with him. Or don’t stand. The spectacle before with the darling Ms. Hunter was all the confirmation you needed. The words you never stood a chance resound in your head like a struck gong. You scoff, tearing into a crimson envelope, dispelling the cacophony in your head. 

“This one is from Mrs. Carter over in HR,” you say, waving the card around. You don your usual playful mask, praying your hurt doesn’t show through the fissures. He acknowledges you with a gruff sound, immersed in a card of his own. You take that as your cue to continue.

Feigning nonchalance, you flip the card open. You clear your throat, repositioning yourself on the sticky, squeaky sofa, crossing your legs, and leaning towards the opposite chair arm. You rattle off the card’s contents aloud. A generic greeting, hollow praise, a bidding for a successful new year. 

“Send her a gift card,” he answers dismissively. You scoff, tucking the card between your thigh and the chair’s arm. Is it just you, or is he being unbearably cold? You’re the one with the wounded pride here.

You occupy yourself with another letter, trying to quell the new swell of emotions burbling in your chest. You’ve reread the same line repeatedly, the cursive scrawl embedded into the cardstock blurring and bending. It’s exceedingly difficult to focus with him so close. And you find yourself stealing little glimpses of him in your peripheral.

He looks even better beneath the incandescent lights like this, like a Roman sculpture bred from patient hands. His cheeks are mottled red, probably from throwing back one too many glasses of champagne. Delicate, alabaster strands fall from their usual coiffure, sweeping over set brows and hollow cheeks. Dark lashes dust over warm ivory skin, scarlet irises dancing beneath as he reads over another Christmas card. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. Find yourself, too, swallowing against the dry, scratchy feeling in your throat.

You tug in the neckline of your sweater. It’s itchy and thick, and the heater’s turned up in the building to combat the cold outside. You’re uncomfortable because of the temperature and not because your boss is so unbearably close.

With a sigh, you peel yourself from the lounge. You venture to your desk in search of a letter opener. If you’re going to spend the rest of your night working, you might as well make the task a little less daunting. Rifling through your drawers, you happen upon the biggest one. And your breath catches, grip white-knuckled on the brass knob when you catch sight of it. Inside lies your present—his present—the intricate foil wrapping gleaming condescendingly.

Something pulls in your chest. Your hand shakes. Your lips pull into a taut line, embarrassment spuming like a hot geyser into your face. You’re about to slam the drawer shut, but a streak of warm skin stains your peripheral vision. And as horror descends onto your features, he snatches up the contents of your drawer faster than you can process things. 

“What’s this now?” your boss asks, intrigue mixed with amusement hanging in the boughs of his voice. 

Wide-eyed and mortified, you look at him. Your flight or fight instincts kick in, pushing you towards the latter. He dons a wolfish grin as you swipe at the box in his hand, and he holds it just out of reach. Damn him for being so absurdly tall!

“Sir!” you clip, swiping at the gift like an enraged feline. He doesn’t relent, instead spurred by your reaction, and the contents of the box shift about as he continues his childish game of keep away. Your chest slides against him each time you strain on tippy-toe. And you try to ignore how pleasant he feels, warm and hard-bodied against you.

Spinning out of reach, your boss chuckles at your expense. He seems to enjoy this, watching you hop after him like a field mouse, trying vainly to swipe the object from his hand. 

“You think I didn’t notice you fretting over this all night?” he teases once you’ve stopped—at least for now—your cheeks puffing out, nostrils flaring. 

“Mr. Sylus, I—”

“And you weren’t even going to give it to me.” He clicks his tongue, feigning hurt. “What have I done to warrant such cruelty?”

Reality slowly seeps in. He’s one step closer to opening your gift and discovering how much of a useless spazz you are. Switching tactics, you hold out a placating hand, stepping towards him like he’s holding a charged explosive.

“Sir, I need that back!”

His mouth forms a pensive line as his gaze shifts between you and the box clutched in his fingers. “Why? It’s mine, isn’t it? It has my name on it.” He squints at the meticulous scrawl of your penmanship, and when you make a surprise lunge toward the box when you think he’s distracted, he swings his arm out of reach, baiting you like a bull.

He laughs low, a mirthful crease to his eyes. You’d take time to appreciate it if you weren’t fighting for your life. 

“What’s got you so worked up? What could possibly be in here that you’re willing to bite my head off to get it back?”

You swallow thickly, chest heaving as you watch Sylus drop onto your leather rolling chair, cross-legged and smiling like the cat who caught the canary. He shakes the box near his ear, its contents rattling about. 

“Sir, don’t.” But it’s too late. The sound of paper ripping is jarring in the stillness of your office space. 

You’re stiff as stone, mouth hinged open, terror screwing up your features. Eventually, you concede to your fate, hands falling listlessly at your sides whilst your boss uncovers what lurks beneath the pretty foil paper you’d spent so much time wrapping his present in. You pour yourself onto the chaise lounge, your shoulders touching your ears, feeling like a child waiting with their parents at the principal’s office. You sneak little glances at his hands, each tear making you wince like a scrape against your heart.

Sylus quirks a quizzical brow at you, looking between the matte grey box he uncovered in his hand and you. You don’t contest him, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. He takes your cue, slowly peeling the lid off the box. He reaches inside to procure yet another box, slightly smaller than the one it’s nested in, neatly wrapped in paper similar to what he just tore off. 

Giving you a perturbed look, Sylus repeats the previous process. And again, he’s faced with matte gray. He carries on like this, peeling back a lid, finding another box nested inside, and tearing through wrapping paper for another three iterations.

“How long does this go on?” he prods, faced with another box. “And how many trees did you kill to pull this off?”

You press the tips of your index fingers together, pursing your lips as you look elsewhere. “You’re almost there.” You’re half-grateful he decided to be shit about it. You don’t feel as bad for nesting his gift away like matryoshka dolls. He deserves to feel the same distress he subjected you to mere minutes ago.

Vexation rolls off him in waves when he reaches yet another box, and he fixes you with a look that bodes danger. There aren’t too many times you’ve witnessed him this annoyed. He’s normally like this when his afternoon nap is interrupted by anyone but you or he’s dealing with a particularly ornery client. 

You stand from the couch with a nervous titter in your throat, snatching up the discarded red bow and ribbons you adorned his gift with and tacking it onto the crown of your head. You do a little jig, something to dispel the tension, wordlessly cheering him on. 

Sylus rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. A ghostly smile rounds his lips thereafter, and you could swear you see something like fondness shining in his eyes at your antics. It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a determined pinch between his brows. 

You continue swaying your hips from side to side and pumping your fists in the air, the bow's ribbons falling comically over your eyes and water-falling off your shoulders. 

Finally, finally, Sylus exposes a matte, black box that’s the size of his palm. Wrapping paper lies like carnage at his feet, bent-up cardboard boxes piled atop your desk. You sigh in relief, though it’s short-lived, as he opens the final barrier between him and his gift.

He studies the contents of this new box, eerily quiet. You swallow as he reaches inside, producing something garish and pink from within. “What the hell is this?” he queries, waving the plastic novelty revolver around.  

You snort, the flatness of his tone catching you off guard. “A gun,” you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Sylus scoffs. “Clearly. But what is it for?”

Flourishing your arms, you plaster on a grin. “For you to put me down in case you no longer find any use for me!”

Looking between the pink revolver and you, he crooks his finger around the trigger, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to ‘Old Yeller’ you?”   

“If that’s what it comes down to.” And what comedic timing he has, pulling the trigger, a banner with Bang printed in bright Comic Sans popping out, complimented by a flurry of rainbow paper confetti.

Silence lapses between you as the confetti flutters to the floor. You caution a look at your boss, and he shakes his head, his lips crooked into a smirk, though the knit of his brows reveals his disappointment. 

“You can also use it during your meetings when someone pisses you off,” you warily add, shifting your weight between your feet. He doesn’t honor you with a response, instead setting the revolver on your desk with a definitive clack. He studies something in the distance, seemingly ignoring you.

If you weren’t already feeling silly before, you most certainly do now. You figured something unconventional would suit your boss. Something to define your work relationship, the pair of you often trading morbid and esoteric jokes to make the day's hustle a little less daunting. It seemed like a good idea when it caught your eye in the mall. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good buy after all. Especially when compared to Ms. Hunter's gift, and the recollection makes something cold wash over your innards.

You press the tips of your index fingers together, gaze cast on the floor. You’ve screwed up, and you’ll probably lose your job over this. Either that or your working relationship will turn to shit. You’d honestly rather be relieved of your position when considering the latter option. Turning to leave, to pick up the jagged shards of your pride and finish tidying up, you gasp when you feel a warm presence behind you, the fine hairs littering your body standing at attention. 

You turn to acknowledge him, wincing away, expecting to be struck. Mr. Sylus has never raised a hand at you before, only lightly flicking your forehead or tapping your nose when he felt playful that day. You realize how ridiculous you must look and sound, but you steel yourself against the worst possible outcome regardless.

A hit never comes. You’re instead greeted with the hard press of a body against yours. With arms loosely winding about your middle and a chin finding the crook of your shoulder. His scent is overwhelming. The heat he exudes is dizzying, wit-pilfering. 

Wide-eyed, with your hands opening and closing awkwardly at your sides, you stiffen as you grapple with the notion that your boss is hugging you. Mr. Sylus. Hugging you. No matter how many times you turn the words over in your mind, you can’t process them. You didn’t even know he was capable of such an act.

“Thank you,” he intones, his voice a pleasant vibration in your body. He rubs over the notches of your spine, nuzzling into you further like you’re his security blanket. Once your common sense returns, an affectionate smile touches your lips. 

You clumsily return his hug, unsure of the proper conduct in this situation. But you throw caution to the wind, full-on embracing him, your eyes twinkling with tears. “Of course, sir,” you murmur, swallowing against the swell of emotions in your throat.

The hug ends much too soon for your liking. Sylus peels away, his hands clasping your arms. You tilt your head quizzically as he studies you, the bow's ribbons brushing off your shoulder. You must be quite the doe-eyed sight. His eyes darken as his gaze falls to your lips, his own mouth slightly parting. He looks as if he’s wrestling with something in his mind. Turning it over, at war with himself. He seems to win whatever battle is taking place behind his eyes, for he slowly pans in, his lashes bowing.

And maybe you’re swept up in the moment, too, his hug having buried your defenses in the sand. You don’t fight him, only awkwardly shifting when your lips meet before relaxing beneath the slight chap of his lips. 

Beneath the ethereal twinkle of the fairy lights you hadn’t yet snatched down, through the stillness of the investment firm’s tenth floor, and with your pulse thundering in your throat, Mr. Sylus kisses you. A full press of lips, his grip on your arms tightening the barest as if to keep you rooted to the spot. Not that you would run, feeling weightless, like navigating a dream. 

As quickly as reality floats onto your shoulders like a wispy shawl, he pulls back, wild-eyed and panting. And it’s as if you’re the greatest sin he was never meant to indulge in. He releases you before tearing a shaky hand through his tresses, pushing out a weighted exhale. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping away from you before you can think, each hurried thump of his loafers across the floor like a strike to your racing heart.

You strain your ears for every bit of sound until the elevator around the corner pings, and you hear him step inside, the doors swishing shut. And you’re left to the swell of static and impenetrable silence, staring after the faint afterimage left by his tall visage. 

You turn towards the ceiling high-window, dazed. Touch your lips with shaky fingers, the sensitive skin still tingling with the remnants of your kiss. Flecks of white streak the violet canvas beyond the window, the first snowfall fluttering in gossamer patterns towards the ground. 

You got what you wanted. What you’d maybe consider the greatest Christmas gift you've ever received. But as a bitter smile tugs at your lips, your eyesight glossing over with a warm film, and you clutch your chest, your thoughts seep in.

Why does it feel like it’s not what he wanted? 

[seospicybin]

DOUBLE FEATURE

CHAPTER THREE

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently. (15,9k words)

Author's note: It's here! Hope you enjoy this one too and pls let me know what you think of it ♡

The set hums under harsh lights and the buzz of equipment being dragged across concrete. It's past midnight, but the night shoot shows no sign of slowing down. Crew members move like ghosts through pools of white and amber light, adjusting rigs, calling out cues, and checking monitors. The sky above is a blank, starless black, and everything feels suspended in that strange, electric hush that only happens after dark on set—where time stretches and blurs and the whole world feels like it only exists inside camera frames.

You tighten the Velcro on your wrist wraps and glance down again at the folded paper in your hands—the list of stunt sequences scheduled for the film. It’s slightly wrinkled now from how many times you’ve looked at it, studied it, memorized it. But your eyes keep getting stuck on the same line, the one halfway down the page, where Minho had circled something in red ink like it was a warning sign:

Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold

It makes sense now. After yesterday’s therapy session with Dr. Severine—after hearing what really happened a year ago—you can't unread the memory. The truck. The river. The silence that followed. You’d only known the surface of the story, a passing headline that didn’t belong to you. But now it’s under your skin, and it's not just a story anymore. It's his trauma. It’s the waterlogged weight he’s been carrying ever since.

You should be focusing on today’s scene. Today, it’s just a choreographed fight with Felix, nothing remotely close to drowning. But that circled stunt won’t leave your mind. It haunts the edge of your concentration, and the more you try to ignore it, the louder it echoes.

You fold the paper again, slip it into the back pocket of your pants, and exhale slowly. You stretch your arms, roll your shoulders back. Get your head in the game. No room for hesitation—not in front of the camera, not with Felix, and especially not while you’re still in Minho’s body.

Across the set, someone calls out that you’re needed for wardrobe fitting. You nod and move toward the tent, already feeling the faint heat of the lights and the flutter of nerves in your stomach. It’s just a fight scene. But somehow, you can’t shake the feeling that something bigger is looming.

Everything smells faintly of sweat and dust and coffee that’s long since gone cold as you wait in the tent. You’ve already changed into your costume—combat boots, scuffed jeans, a loose hoodie damp with mist from the outdoor fog machine—and you're rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the nerves crawling under your skin.

Minho comes in not long after, wearing your face, your body, your skin—and somehow still carries himself like he’s the original. Confident. Steady. All sharp edges and focus.

“Nervous?” he cuts through your thoughts.

You look up to find him watching you, his expression unreadable but calm. You shake your head and force a playful smile. “Honestly? I’m starting to like this stunt gig. Way more fun than spreadsheets.”

He lifts a brow, skeptical. “So that’s why you won’t switch back—you’re stealing my job?”

You grin and nudge his ankle with your foot. “Exactly. I’m keeping the abs and the hazard pay.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and you don’t press him either. But you know he doesn’t believe that’s the real reason. Neither do you.

“Alright,” he says, tossing a soft crash mat onto the floor. “Up. Let’s run it. I’ll be Felix.”

You step behind him and slide your arm around his neck, locking into the first move. Your arm fits too naturally against his throat.

“Not too tight,” he says dryly, glancing over his shoulder.

You tighten your hold just slightly. “This is for trying to seduce yourself, you creep.”

Minho laughs—low and real. “Touché.”

Then he moves—quick and practiced—grabbing your wrist, spinning, sweeping your leg. You let him. It’s like a dance, fast and fluid, and then suddenly the mat’s at your back, and Minho’s body is on top of yours.

Your breath hitches. It should be just practice. But it’s not. He has you pinned, one hand planted beside your head, the other pressing your shoulder down. His face is close. Closer than it needs to be. His breath is warm, and his eyes—your own eyes—search yours like they’re looking for something. You don’t say anything. You don’t move either. The space between you charges, heavy with something unspoken.

“You okay?” he murmurs, not teasing, just quiet.

You nod, your chest rising slowly beneath him.

He loosens his grip, as if giving you permission to break the moment. But neither of you do—until the walkie-talkie crackles.

“Please, check on Felix. He’s in holding.”

He blinks and slowly eases off you. The air feels different when he’s gone from above you. “Stay loose,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out. “And maybe… stay dangerous.”

You lie there for a moment, catching your breath. That felt… like something. You don’t know what, but something.

-

The floodlights are harsh on your skin, turning everything around you into sharp shadows and glints of sweat. The night air feels heavy, weighed down with exhaustion and adrenaline. You’re already warm from rehearsing with Minho earlier, but now you’re sweating for real—because this is the take. This is where the camera rolls and everyone watches.

Felix steps up beside you in his fight costume, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s already in character. He nudges your shoulder.

“We got this,” he grins. “Let’s go out there and make it look sick.”

You smile, though your jaw is tense. “But let’s try not to actually kill each other, yeah?”

“Deal,” he laughs, and then someone yells from behind the monitor—

“Rolling—aaaand action!”

You spring into motion, but a half-beat too late. Felix’s fist swings, aiming for the air beside your jaw—except you didn’t duck fast enough. Crack. Pain explodes in your face, sudden and sharp. Your head snaps slightly to the side.

There’s a collective gasp from somewhere off-set. Felix immediately breaks character, hands reaching out. “Shit—oh my god, are you okay?”

You blink a few times, teeth gritted, jaw throbbing. You want to say something clever. You want to shrug it off. You don’t want anyone remembering this moment as the time Minho flinched.

“I’m fine,” you say, waving him off with a quick shake of your head. “It’s on me. I was slow.”

Felix frowns but accepts your answer, brushing a bit of dust off your shoulder before giving it a reassuring pat.

“Let’s go again,” he says, voice gentler now but still full of energy. “This time we’ll nail it.”

You nod, and when the AD calls for another take, you plant your feet more firmly. You’re ready this time. No hesitation.

Action.

The fight plays out like choreography this time—fluid, practiced, fast. You slip into the movement like second nature, ducking the fake punches, countering, grappling. You let your body move like it’s meant for this. Because in this moment, it is. You hit the mat exactly where you should. Felix plays his part flawlessly.

“Cut! That was good! Let’s go again—different angle!” Flickerman calls.

Around you, crew members scatter, shifting lights, adjusting sandbags, resetting props. You step off to the side and someone hands you a cold water bottle. You twist it open, take a long sip, and wipe the sweat from your upper lip with the back of your hand.

From behind the camera setup, you spot Minho, standing still amid the movement, watching you. His eyes meet yours. He lifts his hand and gives you a thumbs-up, expression unreadable but steady. You smile, just a small one and then you cap your water bottle.

You’re just about to return to the set when Mr. Kim intercepts your path, stepping in with that quiet presence he always carries—calm, observant, and just a little too perceptive for your comfort.

He’s holding a clipboard, though you’re not convinced he’s looked at it even once. His eyes are on you. Studying. “That last stunt,” he says, nodding back toward the space you just cleared. “It was clean. Technically. But…”

You hold your breath, waiting for him to finish his sentence with so much anticipation. Afraid that he can see right through you that you're just an impostor in Minho’s body.

“There’s a hesitation in your movements,” he continues, his tone not scolding, just... careful. “A pause. Small, but it’s there. Like you’re bracing instead of committing.”

You nod once, slowly, trying not to let it show how tightly his words hook into you. He thinks you’re Minho, of course. Which only makes this harder. Because the concern in his voice isn’t just professional. It’s personal.

“I’m fine,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll warm up better.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. He just steps forward and gently squeezes your shoulder—steady and firm, grounding. There’s something fatherly about it. Not in the way Flickerman condescends, but in the way people who actually care speak with their hands.

“Take it slowly,” he says.

You nod again but he doesn’t walk away right away. Instead, he lingers for a second longer, eyes softer now, his voice quieter when he adds, “Be gentle with yourself.”

It hits like a ripple in your chest. The words. The tone. The timing. They echo—not from this moment, but from another. From that small, clinical office, with a quiet ticking clock and Dr. Severine’s eyes peering into you the same way Mr. Kim is now.

“Be gentle with yourself.”

It’s not a warning. It’s an invitation. And somehow, that makes it heavier to carry.

You swallow, offer a small thank-you under your breath, and Mr. Kim gives you one last reassuring look before he turns and walks off. You take a moment. Just a beat. One breath in, one breath out. Then you roll your shoulders, shake the nerves out of your limbs, and step back onto set.

You and Felix go over the choreography one last time before cameras roll. The two of you going through the moves and timing and you're thankful you’ve practiced this before with Minho, over and over until your limbs could perform it in your sleep.

You bounce on your toes to loosen your legs. Your knuckles press into your palms to ground yourself. You nod at Felix, who grins and gently knocks his fist against your shoulder. “We got this,” he says, the way he always does before every take. It helps. It really does.

“Rolling,” someone calls out. “Action!”

And then everything kicks in. Your body moves automatically—strike, duck, pivot, grab. It’s all muscle memory now. You follow the flow without thinking. You trust your reflexes, your rehearsal, the weight of the sweat that’s soaked into the collar of your borrowed shirt. But somewhere in the middle of it—right after Felix swings wide and you slip under his arm—your mind flickers.

“Be gentle with yourself.”

The words slip in. Not loud, not jarring. Just enough to pull you inward. Just enough to tilt your awareness away from where it needs to be. You hesitate, not even a full second, but it’s enough to cause you to lose focus.

Felix pushes you—on cue—and you’re supposed to fall to the left, onto a padded mat just out of frame. But your balance is off. Your back foot stutters on the concrete. You twist in the wrong direction. And suddenly—

Your body lurches the other way and your foot misses the edge. There’s no mat waiting on this side. Just cold, unforgiving steps. You don’t even get to scream. Your ribs hit something hard. Your shoulder scrapes the edge. The back of your head smacks concrete.

And then it’s gone. The lights. The noise. Everything. It all collapses into black.

-

The world filters back in slowly—bright lights, shuffling feet, someone calling your name. No—Minho’s name.

“Minho,” Mr. Kim’s voice breaks through the static, calm but edged with concern. “Can you hear me?”

You force your eyes open. It takes effort, like dragging yourself up from underwater. The night sky blurs into the harsh glow of set lights. Mr. Kim is crouched beside you, eyes scanning your face. Behind him, more figures hover—Felix, pale and wide-eyed, a couple of crew members, and the on-set medic scrambling with a kit.

Then it hits you—what just happened. You were filming. A fight scene. You were supposed to fall left, but you didn’t. You failed to land. You fell the wrong way. Your stomach sinks. The pain hasn't even fully registered yet, but the embarrassment arrives first.

Minho’s body lies here, bruised and scraped and covered in someone else’s mistake. You shoot upright on instinct, teeth clenched against the sharp stab that radiates down your side and up your neck.

“Whoa—slow,” Mr. Kim says quickly, placing a steadying hand on your back as you sway. “Take it easy.”

The touch is gentle. So is the look in his eyes.

Felix crouches closer, guilt all over his face. “I pushed you too hard. I’m so—”

“No,” you interrupt, waving him off with a wince. “It’s not you. I messed up. I… lost my footing.”

“Don’t talk yet,” Mr. Kim says quietly. “Let the medic do his job.”

The medic checks your pupils, starts asking the usual questions. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

You shake your head, even though every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. “I’m fine. Just sore.”

“You’ve got a cut on your forehead,” the medic mutters. “Nothing deep, but you’ll need to clean it properly. Let’s get you checked.”

You nod and let them help you stand. Your legs ache with every step as they guide you toward the waiting ambulance. The set buzzes behind you—muted voices, equipment being reset, the production trying to keep moving despite the incident.

Mr. Kim trails closely behind. You glance up at him as the medic wipes blood from your temple. “I can keep filming. I’m okay.”

Mr. Kim’s lips twitch into something between a frown and a sigh. “You’re not. Your job’s done for the night and I’ll take you home.”

You hesitate. “I don’t want to hold up the shoot.”

He gives you a look. “The shoot can wait. You can’t.”

You open your mouth to argue, but—

“I can take him,” a voice says from behind him.

You turn your head and spot Minho stepping into the light. He looks calm, collected—even a little tired—but his eyes flick to the scrape on your forehead, and they darken.

Mr. Kim turns, surprised. “But you’re working.”

Minho nods. “It's fine. I wrapped early.”

Mr. Kim looks between the two of you—between Minho and you in Minho’s body—before something in his expression softens. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s something else. He turns back to you and rests a hand on your shoulder again. “Go home. Rest. That’s an order.”

You nod and don’t even try to argue this time because beneath the throbbing pain and the scrape across your cheekbone, you feel something worse. Guilt.

Now you have to go home with the very person whose body you just threw down a flight of stairs. Minho’s hands stay steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw tense and unmoving. You glance at him from the passenger seat more than once, hoping for some kind of clue—an expression, a twitch, anything—but he gives you nothing. And somehow, that’s worse.

You know he’s saving it, holding it all in until the moment you step through the front door. That silence feels louder than anything he could say.

When you both walk into the apartment and the door shuts behind you with a soft click—the tension settles in with a weight of its own. You don’t wait but decide to be the first to break the suffocating silence.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, spinning to face him. “Minho, I—I really didn’t mean for that to happen. I just got distracted and—God, I know it’s your job to be perfect and professional and I just—”

You keep going, your voice tumbling out too fast, your words a mess of apology and shame.

“I made you look unprepared, and now people are going to think you can’t handle one scene—Mr. Kim looked so disappointed and I swear I’ll make up for it, I’ll do better, I’ll rehearse more—”

Minho doesn’t say a word. Just watches you with that unreadable expression.

Your voice falters. “Can you just… say something? Please?”

But he doesn’t—not in the way you expect. Instead, he takes one step closer. Then he reaches for you, grabs the front of the t-shirt you’re wearing—his shirt, technically—and starts to lift it.

You freeze. “Wait—Minho, I…”

But you don’t stop him. You know you’ve already upset him enough. You know whatever this is, it’s part of the fallout you’ve earned. So you let your arms lift as he let him peel the fabric off and over your head.

It’s only when he pauses, staring down at your torso, that you look too—and you finally see what he sees. Bruises. Large, deep, blossoming purple across your ribcage. Tiny cuts across your shoulder and along your collarbone. You hadn’t even noticed them before but now they sting under the apartment lights, angry and raw. You lower your eyes, ashamed to even be in his skin right now.

Minho lets out a slow breath through his nose. You can’t tell what it means—anger, frustration, restraint—but you follow when he gently nudges you toward one of the chairs by the dining table.

Without complaints, you sit and watch as he leaves to the kitchen without a word, and you hear the clink of cabinet doors opening and closing, the shuffle of supplies. He returns with the first aid kit and sets it on the table with a thud that makes you flinch. He pulls out another chair and sits across from you, knees bumping lightly into yours. You glance up just as he does—and for a split second, your eyes lock.

You look away first but his hand comes up to your chin, firm but not rough. He tilts your face to the side and begins tending to the small cut on your jaw with a Q-tip and ointment. The antiseptic stings. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from wincing. You take it, because maybe you should, because you deserve it.

Minho doesn’t speak. He just works in silence, every movement precise, his touch clinical but not cold. You want to say something. Apologize again. Ask if he’s mad. But you’re too afraid of the answer. So instead, you just sit there, wearing his pain and your guilt like they belong to you now.

-

Minho dabs at the cut on your jaw with careful hands, but his chest feels like it’s caving in. He sees every bruise, every scrape blooming across his skin—but it’s not his pain he feels. It’s yours. He watches the way you try not to flinch, how you look anywhere but at him. Like you expect him to explode. Like you're waiting for punishment.

It hurts more than he expected it to. Not the injuries. Not the misstep on set. You. You, sitting in his body, trying to hold it together when it’s obvious you’re in pain. Blaming yourself for what happened like you did something unforgivable.

And still—you whisper it again, “I’m sorry,” voice barely audible.

That’s when he breaks and snaps. “Shut up.”

The words come out sharper than he means them to. He sees it hit you immediately—your eyes snap wide open in alarm, and your lips clamp shut like a switch has been flipped.

He swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not—God, I’m not mad because you got injured.”

You blink at him, confused as Minho sighs, chest heavy, voice rising with frustration. “I’ve gotten injured before. I’ve had worse. That’s not the point.”

Your brows furrow, searching his face like there’s something you’re not understanding.

He leans back slightly, exhales hard through his nose, then points to you—himself. “I’m mad because you’re not me. You’re not supposed to take the fall. You’re not trained for this. And you got hurt. Badly. And it could’ve been worse.”

His throat feels tight all of a sudden. Words catching. He shakes his head and bites back the rest, overwhelmed.

You look at him then—really look at him—and your voice comes out small. “So… you’re not mad I messed up the stunt? You’re… worried?”

He hates how earnest that sounds. How surprised you are by it. But he nods anyway. “Of course, I’m worried.”

Something in your expression softens—like the ground under your feet finally settles—and Minho doesn’t give himself another second to think. As if he needs to prove he meant his words, he leans in. His hand finds your jaw, the one he just tended to, gentle even in its urgency and as innocent as it sounds, he presses his lips against yours. Not out of impulse. Not for show. But because he wants to. Needs to. Because his heart’s been banging at the walls of his chest since he saw you hit the ground, and now that you’re here, hurt and safe and sitting in front of him—he can’t hold it back.

You’re stiff for a moment, caught off guard, but then you melt into him. Your mouth moves against his with something deeper than want. Something raw. Real.

And then you yelp.

Minho jerks back almost immediately. “What—?”

Your hand flies to your jaw and you wince.

“I—I... uhm,” you mumble, pressing gently into the skin. “I accidentally took a punch from Felix in the first take.”

Minho just stares at you and then he lets out a scoff that turns into a short laugh as he leans back in his chair.

“Yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I knew.”

Minho pulls open the fridge and grabs the coldest can of soda he can find. When he returns, you’re still sitting obediently at the table, hunched slightly like you’re bracing for another lecture.

“Here,” he says, nudging the can into your hand.

You look up at him in surprise, but you take it, pressing the cold aluminum carefully against your jaw with a tiny wince.

Minho sits down again and grabs a fresh Q-tip, continues to tend to the scrape under your chin. The skin’s red, slightly raw, but he’s gentle with it. Too gentle, maybe. Like touching it any harder will make the whole thing worse.

“What happened?” he asks softly. “You’ve practiced the scene enough. It’s basically muscle memory now.”

You go quiet but he can tell you’re debating how much to tell him. “I… lost focus,” you admit after a beat. “Just for a second.”

He doesn’t push. Just dabs the ointment in slow circles, waiting. Then finally, you say it. “Mr. Kim took me to your appointment.”

Minho’s hand stills. Just for a second. A beat skips in his chest like someone punched through his ribcage. But then he moves again, keeping his fingers steady as if nothing happened. “Oh.”

“He insisted,” you rush out. “I—I didn’t even know where we were going until we got there. I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear.”

He nods once, still avoiding your eyes.

“I know about the accident,” you say gently, like the words themselves might spook him. And they kind of do.

Minho places the Q-tip down on the table, then closes the ointment lid. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you. He feels...bare. Unzipped. Like someone’s peeled back his skin and left him there for you to see everything underneath. He thought he could pretend. Thought he could stay in control. But you know now. You know. And somehow, the silence becomes heavier than anything else in the room.

But then your voice cuts through it—soft, steady. “I won’t tell anyone. And you don’t have to tell me anything about it either. I just… I needed to be honest with you. That’s all.”

Minho finally looks up. There’s no judgment in your eyes. No pity either. Just that same strange warmth that’s been growing between you since this all started—something he doesn’t know what to name, but feels frighteningly close to trust.

Suddenly, he gets it. Why you asked him, not long ago, if he was ready to come back. You weren’t just asking for logistics. You were asking if he was ready to return to this version of himself—the one who’s still scared. Still healing. Still learning how to face the water, and everything beneath it. His throat tightens, but he doesn’t say anything yet. He just nods. Quiet. Grateful. Exposed. And for once, not ashamed.

Minho thinks that’s it. That the worst of the conversation has passed—until you speak again, your voice hesitant but sure.

“And I know about the upcoming underwater stunt.”

Minho’s head lifts slowly, his eyes narrowing—not from anger, but from the slow, heavy realization that you’ve seen deeper into him than he expected.

And then you go and say the most absurd thing. “I can do it for you,” you offer, like it’s obvious. Like it’s a solution instead of another disaster waiting to happen.

Minho shakes his head immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

You lean forward, earnest. “I can do it, Minho. I’m not just saying that—I was on the swim team in high school. I’m a good swimmer, I swear. I’ve done some underwater shots before, I know how to hold my breath, and I—”

He holds up a hand, and you stop mid-sentence, lips still parted like you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you. But he doesn’t. His voice is soft—firmer now, but not harsh.

“That’s not your job,” he says. “It’s mine. I’m the one who signed up for it. I’m the one who’s supposed to do it.”

You open your mouth again, stubborn as ever, but Minho doesn’t give you the chance. He lifts your hand with the can of soda and presses it back to your jaw—gently, but pointedly. The cold metal makes you flinch slightly. His gaze locks with yours, unflinching.

“This isn’t up for debate,” he says, low and clear. “We need to switch back. Immediately.”

There’s a weight to his voice now that hadn’t been there before—something final, something quietly desperate. Because it’s not just about the stunt anymore. It’s about you. It’s about how close he came to losing you tonight—how easily it could happen again. He can’t let that happen. Not in his body. Not in any body. And especially not because you were trying to protect him.

-

You look at Minho—really look at him—and for the first time, you understand. Why he’s been so insistent about switching back. Why he’s been pushing for it harder since the accident. It’s not because he’s mad you got hurt or because you fumbled a scene and made him look unprofessional.

It’s because he’s scared.

Because this—doing his job, living his life—it’s not yours to carry. And if anything worse happened to you while carrying it, it’d break him in ways you’re not sure even he understands yet.

Your arms wrap around your body almost reflexively at the realization, like you’re trying to shield yourself from the direction this is going. Your voice trips out before you can stop it.

“I—I can’t have sex right now.”

Minho pauses mid-turn, blinking. “What?”

You cringe, face heating. “I mean, you’re probably thinking about doing the magic… switchy sex thing again, right? And I just—my body hurts. That’s all.”

His brow lifts and then—That smirk. That wicked yet attractive smirk. “Did you think I was gonna jump you just now?” he teases, stepping toward the kitchen.

You try to hold it together, to act unbothered, but your mouth flounders for something—anything—to say. “No! I just meant—it’s not a good time! I’m sore, and… I fell down the stairs, Minho.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm as he puts the first aid kit back into the cabinet. “Okay, okay,” he says easily. “Not tonight.”

You exhale, shoulders relaxing a little but then, just as you think it’s over—

“Maybe I’ll try again in the morning,” he says over his shoulder, casual as ever. “You know. Since you’re always the one waking up with morning wood.”

You groan, flustered and defeated, smacking your palm to your forehead. “Oh my god, shut up—”

Except your jaw shifts with the movement and pain flares, sharp and instant. You yelp, hand flying to your face as your eyes water.

Minho’s teasing expression drops in an instant. “Hey, hey—careful,” he says, already stepping closer. “Don’t make me tape your mouth shut.”

The moment Minho turns around, you throw your shirt back on like your life depends on it. Your muscles protest with every movement, your ribs ache, your jaw throbs—but modesty (or panic) wins out over pain.

Minho approaches you, and you instinctively hold both hands up like he’s a threat. “Wait—hold on, wait—”

He stops in his tracks, raising an eyebrow. “Relax,” he says, clearly amused. He lifts his hand, revealing a small bottle. “It’s just liniment. For your shoulders.”

You blink. “Oh.”

But you still take a step back. Just in case.

Minho tilts his head, a little smile creeping onto his face as he eyes your fumbling. “What, you think I’m gonna tackle you?”

“No,” you blurt. “But I think—before we do anything else—we need to make an agreement.”

That gets his attention. His smile fades into a curious expression. “What kind of agreement?”

You straighten up, ignoring the burning in your ribs. “I’ll only do the sex magic thingy under one condition.”

Minho’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Which is?”

“You have to let me help train you for the underwater stunt.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Minho actually scoffs. Almost sarcastically. “You want to train me? I’m the one with a decade of experience.”

“Yeah, but I’m better in the water than you,” you say confidently, arms crossing despite the protest from your bruised body. “I was on the swim team in high school.”

Minho stares at you, completely silent now. His gaze lingers, calculating. You can’t tell if he’s offended or impressed—or both. Then, finally, he exhales and gives a small, almost reluctant nod. “Fine.”

You blink. “Really?”

“But—” he holds up a finger, “you’re not allowed to do anything reckless.”

“Deal. But also—no sex,” you say firmly, pointing at him. “None. Of any kind. Until I say we’re ready.”

Minho grins at that, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should. “Wow. You drive a hard bargain.”

You extend your hand, and after a short pause, he takes it. His palm is warm against yours. His fingers curl tight. And just like that, the deal is sealed.

After a while, you start to pull your hand away, but Minho grips it tighter—and before you can react, he yanks you forward. You stumble right into him, your chest bumping lightly into his. His face is just inches from yours now, eyes glinting with mischief.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just smirks. Then, low and teasing, he murmurs, “I can’t wait.”

You open your mouth to scoff but it catches in your throat—probably because your brain short-circuits the second he looks at you like that. Instead, you sputter something unintelligible, awkwardly shove at his chest, and bolt.

“I'm going to bed!” you call over your shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

You hear his quiet laugh behind you and you don’t want to give him the satisfaction by looking back. God, you hate him. Wait— Are you really?

-

The morning light slips through the crack between the curtains, casting a soft glow across your sleeping face.

Minho leans quietly against the doorframe, arms folded, just watching you. Your mouth is slightly parted. One arm is tucked under the pillow, the other sprawled across the bed. Even in sleep, you look sore—your brows faintly drawn, your breathing just a bit uneven.

He exhales through his nose. You look wrecked. Because of him.

Mr. Kim had insisted you take the day off. "Make sure he rests," he'd said on the phone call—not even knowing it wasn’t him in his own body.

So now, Minho stands there, caught between guilt and gratitude. Grateful you’re safe. Guilty you ever had to be in danger at all.

He checks the time and you should be up. But he can’t do it—not when you’re sleeping so soundly for the first time since the accident. “…Just rest,” he murmurs under his breath, barely audible.

Minho steps back and gently closes the bedroom door until it clicks shut. Then he grabs your bag, slings your coat over his arm, and walks out the door— Off to do your job for the day.

At the movie set, Minho wipes sweat off his brow with the hem of your hoodie, squinting toward the lighting rig someone’s adjusting above the set. Your clipboard is tucked under his arm, headset looped around his neck, and he’s half-listening to two crew members arguing over prop continuity when your name lights up his phone. He sighs, already bracing himself, and picks up.

“You didn’t wake me up!”

Minho pulls the phone slightly away from his ear at your sharp voice. “Good morning to you too,” he mutters, earning a few amused glances from nearby.

“You were supposed to wake me up for work! We had a deal, Minho!”

He rolls his eyes. “Relax,” he says, cutting you off before you wind yourself up further. “Mr. Kim told me to. He said you’re resting today.”

You go silent.

“And,” he adds smugly, “I’m doing your job just fine. Everyone’s still alive. No sets have burned down. You can stop worrying.”

He can hear you hesitate, like you’re trying to come up with something to nitpick. Minho smirks to himself. Before you find anything to say, he chuckles and cuts in, “I’m busy working, by the way.” And hangs up.

Sliding the phone back into his jeans pocket, he’s still smiling when a voice pipes up beside him. “Was that your boyfriend or something?”

Minho looks up—Felix is watching him with a sly little grin, head tilted, arms crossed. He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

Felix shrugs. “You looked stupidly happy.”

Minho lets out a scoff. “You’re imagining things.”

But he glances at Felix again, more pointedly this time. It’s been on his mind since the body swap. Felix has always been friendly to you—overly so sometimes. And now Minho’s seeing it from the inside, he’s starting to wonder…

With a tone that teeters between playful and serious, Minho asks, “Do you perhaps... like me, Felix?”

Felix blinks, caught off guard, then laughs. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”

Minho stares, unflinching. A faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Felix’s grin grows. He steps closer, leans in a little. “And what if I do?”

Minho’s jaw ticks, just slightly.

Felix leans back with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “What are you gonna do about it, huh?”

With that, he turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, that damn sunshine smile still lingering behind him.

Minho stays rooted to the spot, lips pursed, brows drawn. So Felix really does like you. And the strange twist in his chest isn’t confusion. It’s something else entirely. Something harder to ignore.

-

The midday sun is harsh, the gravel crunching under his boots, and there’s a hint of sweat gathering at his collar. Compared to the usual hustle and bustle of the movie set, today is a slow day because filming is going to move to a new location.

Minho walks with steady steps toward Flickerman’s trailer, the clipboard tucked securely under his arm with the new schedules and updates. He’s halfway rehearsing what to say—something efficient, professional—when the AD steps out from behind the grip truck and intercepts him.

“Hey,” the AD says, a little out of breath. “Flickerman’s still on a call with the execs. Just give me the updates, I’ll hand them off.”

“Sure. Here.” He passes the clipboard over without question, grateful to avoid another round of Flickerman’s long-winded tangents.

The AD flips through the papers, gives Minho a nod. “You’ve done enough today. You can head out early.”

Minho doesn’t argue. “Cool,” he says, already turning to leave.

As he walks toward the parking lot, his eyes wander toward the craft service table—what’s left of it. Most of it has been raided by the crew, but there, almost absurdly untouched, is a neatly boxed set of donuts. Bright pink box. Still sealed. He slows, something like amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course, he thinks. You’d lose your mind over these.

Without even pretending to hesitate, Minho picks up the box and tucks it under his arm, carrying it like a small, ridiculous trophy. He doesn’t know what you’ve eaten today. He doesn’t even know if you can chew properly with your sore jaw. But still. He’s bringing you donuts.

-

You press the wet corner of a towel gently against your forehead, dabbing away the faint trace of dried blood. The bathroom light is harsh and cold, but it makes the cut easier to see. You lift your head slowly, eyes meeting the mirror—and for a moment, the breath catches in your throat.

It’s not your face staring back. It’s Minho’s.

Bruises bloom across his collarbone and shoulder, the edge of a cut still healing on his jaw. Faint scrapes. Purple smudges on his ribs you hadn’t noticed until now. You trace your gaze across the damage, taking in the details like you’re seeing it for the first time. And maybe… maybe you are.

You realize something that knots your stomach: all this time, you’ve been careful—yes—but not because you truly respected this body. You’ve been careful because you didn’t want to get scolded. Because you didn’t want to screw up. Because you didn’t want to face the shame of breaking something that wasn’t yours.

But this? This is more than just a borrowed vessel. It’s Minho’s. It’s the body that danced across years of hard-earned muscle memory, that survived an accident and still showed up to work, that’s quietly been holding his fears and his strength and his pain.

You look again, more intentionally this time. His body is toned, sculpted with discipline—earned. It’s all so distinctively him, and the thought makes your chest tighten with something like guilt. You reach for the ointment and apply it more gently this time to your forehead, then carefully press a fresh bandage over the cut.

You take another breath, then one more look in the mirror. “I’ll be better,” you murmur, not to yourself, but to him—even if he can’t hear it right now.

Then, the sound of the front door opening jolts you from your thoughts. You scramble to grab a t-shirt, tugging it over your head quickly and stepping out into the hallway.

Minho steps in like he’s just returned from a café run, not a film set. His jeans are dusty, and the collar of your shirt—his now—sits loosely around his neck. But it’s the smile on his face that throws you off. Relaxed. Amused. He looks strangely in a good mood.

When his eyes find you standing in the hall, he grins wider. “I bring you two things that will make you very happy.”

You blink, confused. “Two?”

Minho lifts one arm. “First—” He holds up the pink box in triumph. “—donuts.”

Your stomach growls at the sight, almost on cue. “And the second?” you ask slowly, squinting at him.

He shrugs, already kicking off his shoes. “Me, obviously.”

You roll your eyes at his smug face, his lopsided grin practically asking for a sarcastic comment. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter as you step forward to take the box from his hand.

Minho holds it out proudly like it’s a peace offering. “Come on, you know you want it. Pink box. Slightly warm. Lots of icing sugar.”

You glance down at it. Your mouth waters immediately, but your body tenses too. Not because you don’t want it. You do. But you remember what you told yourself just minutes ago in the bathroom—that this isn’t your body, and you haven’t been treating it with the care it deserves. Also— What if it’s a test? What if he’s trying to see if you’ll just dive back into thoughtless habits?

So instead of grabbing a donut like your instincts scream at you to do, you step around him and place the box neatly on the kitchen counter. You don’t even peek inside.

Minho blinks. “Hey. Aren’t you going to have one?”

You shake your head. “Later.”

He frowns, just slightly. “What, are you full from the air you’ve been eating all day?”

You suppress the smile creeping on your lips. “I said later, Minho.”

There’s a flash of disappointment on his face. He was expecting some kind of donut-induced praise or reaction. Or maybe he really just wanted to feed you something sweet for once. But you stay firm, because this is bigger than donuts.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to push again—but you cut in, clapping your hands once.

“You're home early. That's good. Now, go get changed.”

Minho squints at you. “Changed?”

You cross your arms, letting a sly smirk pull at your lips. “Your training for the underwater stunt starts tonight.”

His whole expression shifts. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

Minho’s eyes narrow like he’s gauging how far you’ll actually take this, but you can see the gears turning in his head.

“…Now?” he asks, cautiously.

You grin wider. “Yes. Now.”

-

Minho follows close behind as you lead the way down a dim hallway, passing the familiar silence of late-night apartment stillness. You stop at a door marked FACILITY ACCESS ONLY, punch in a code, and pull out a key like it’s nothing.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “You have keys to the pool? Should I be concerned?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder but say nothing as you turn the lock.

“Wait—” he grins, “did you date one of the security guys or something?”

You scowl as the door clicks open. “Unlike you,” you say dryly, “people like me because I’m kind. I don’t have to flirt my way into everything.”

Minho scoffs. “Kindness, huh? That’s what we’re calling your passive-aggressive death glares now?”

You ignore him, pushing the heavy door open. The scent hits him immediately—chlorine and faint humidity—and Minho steps inside, the soles of his sneakers squeaking softly against the tile.

The room glows with the faint blue light cast from underwater lamps. The surface of the pool is still and glassy, undisturbed, mirroring the tiled ceiling above. It’s quiet, almost serene. Peaceful. And surprisingly… he doesn’t tense.

No cold sweat creeps up his neck. No pounding heart. The usual pressure in his chest that arrives uninvited every time he sees open water isn’t there—at least not yet. The water is calm. Contained. Almost inviting.

Minho’s shoulders ease a bit. That should be a good sign. Right?

He glances at you as you toss a towel down on a bench and kick off your shoes with purpose. There’s a quiet determination in your movements, like you’ve already decided this is going to work. Like you already believe he can do it.

Minho stands stiffly near the bench, arms loosely at his sides, completely unsure what to do with them. He watches as you methodically stretch—neck rolls, shoulder rotations, a quick shake of your arms like a seasoned athlete—and it hits him that you’ve probably done this a thousand times before.

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you casually pull off your T-shirt, revealing the lean strength of his body underneath. The bruises are still faintly visible along your ribs and shoulders, reminders of yesterday’s fall.

Minho clears his throat, masking his sudden nervousness with a smirk. “Wow,” he says, lifting his brows. “You’re getting pretty comfortable flashing my hot body around, huh?”

You glance over your shoulder, clearly unimpressed. “Shut up,” you deadpan, before pointing at him. “You start warming up. I’m taking a lap.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, rolling his shoulders in a half-hearted circle. He starts mimicking your earlier stretches—stretching your arms, bending side to side—still distracted by the echo of his own voice coming out of your mouth.

From the corner of his eye, he sees you walk to the edge of the pool, crouch, and with a clean, fluid motion, dive in. The splash is minimal. You cut through the surface with practiced ease, gliding underwater in long, controlled strokes. No panic. No hesitation. Just motion.

Minho slows his stretch as he watches your form ripple beneath the water. There’s something almost eerie about it—how natural you look in his body, in a place where he’s always felt so unnatural. And for a moment… it soothes him.

The water doesn’t look so scary from here. Contained. Predictable. You’re swimming effortlessly—he’s swimming effortlessly.

It’s just water, Minho tells himself, pressing his palm down his thigh in another stretch. I can handle this.

Minho continues to watch as you cut through the water effortlessly, gliding back toward him. The water clings to every line of his body—your body—as you reach the edge and emerge. Droplets cascade down your face, catching the soft blue light of the room, and for a split second, Minho forgets how to breathe—not out of panic, but awe.

You push your wet hair back and look up at him. “Ready to get in?”

He swallows hard and steps forward until his toes are hanging over the edge. The water laps quietly against the tiles below. So still. So calm. It almost doesn’t feel like the thing that’s haunted him.

You float easily beside the edge, looking up at him with patience. “Take your time.”

But Minho thinks he’s ready. He has to be ready.

Without answering, he tugs the hoodie over his head and tosses it aside. His denim shorts come off next, leaving him in your swimsuit that he found in the back of your underwear drawer. He walks slowly to the deep end, where the water looks darker. Deeper. A different kind of still.

You’re waiting for him. Your—his—face open, calm, trusting.

“I’ll be here,” you tell him gently. “I’ll catch you if anything happens.”

Minho gives a tight nod. It’s just water. It’s just water. He sucks in a breath, plants his feet firmly on the edge, and jumps. The water swallows him whole and all of a sudden, it’s not the pool anymore.

It’s the car. It’s the river. It’s the sound of glass cracking under pressure and cold rushing in through broken seams. It’s the seatbelt that wouldn’t unclick. It’s his friend pounding the window, panicking, stuck—stuck—and Minho running out of air as he tried to reach for him.

The cold presses in like it wants to crush his chest. His limbs thrash. He's kicking the water but he can’t find the surface. Instead, he’s sinking deeper and deeper. The fear wraps around him like a fist.

Then—arms. Around his chest. Pulling. Breaking the memory’s grip. Pulling him up. And suddenly, he’s gasping, coughing, as air hits his face and your arms tighten around his chest, holding him steady above the water. Minho clings to you with a strength born of terror, his entire body shaking.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, your mouth near his ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Minho breathes raggedly against your shoulder, still clutching you like you’re the only solid thing in the world. And he realizes—his fear isn’t gone. Not even close. It’s worse than he thought.

-

The apartment is quiet—too quiet—and it’s driving you out of your mind. You stand outside the bedroom door, arms folded tightly over your chest, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You’ve been standing there for ten minutes now. Behind that door, Minho hasn’t made a sound since he disappeared into the room, towel wrapped around his shoulders and silence wrapped even tighter around him.

You’ve been thinking about knocking. You lift your hand—then drop it. Again. You feel awful. You didn’t mean for this to happen. The water was supposed to help. You were trying to help. But now… now you can’t unsee the way he looked at you when you pulled him out of the pool. His body shaking so hard it rattled through your bones. His grip on you like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his eyes—wide, distant, full of something far beyond fear. Something deeper. Raw.

You’ve seen Minho angry, smug, even vulnerable—but not like that. Not this version of him. Not broken. And the worst part is that you’re the one who asked him to get in.

You sigh and lean your forehead against the wall beside the door, guilt gnawing at your insides. You just wanted to help him. You didn’t realize what it would stir up. Maybe you should have realized. Maybe you pushed too hard.

You raise your hand again. This time, you don’t drop it. You hesitate but then, you knock on the door. Soft. Careful. Like you’re afraid the sound alone might break him further.

“…Minho?” you call quietly. “Can I come in?”

You hear him faintly responding. “Yeah.”

You open the door slowly, the faint creak of its hinges sounding louder than you expect in the quiet apartment. You linger by the doorway, eyes scanning the room until you find him—Minho, sitting at the edge of the bed, towel draped around his shoulders as he slowly dries his—your—hair. His back is to you. His posture is hunched slightly, as though the weight of everything still hasn’t left his body.

You swallow, keeping your voice low. “Hey…”

No response.

You try again, softer this time. “Are you… okay?”

A beat passes. Two. Then, finally— “Yeah,” he says, his voice low and distant. “I’m okay.”

It’s not convincing but you don’t push. You can’t. Not after earlier. So instead, you nod, even though he can’t see it.

“Okay,” you say gently. “Well… you can take the bedroom tonight.”

You take a step back, your hand finding the doorknob, ready to pull it shut behind you—

But then Minho speaks again. “You don’t have to. We can… share the bed.”

For a second, your brain short-circuits—not because you think he means that. That he'd be using this opportunity for the magic sex cure thing. You know he doesn’t. At least, not tonight. Not after what happened.

You look at him—his back still to you, towel still in hand, movements slower now. You understand that maybe he’s not asking to be close, but he’s asking not to be alone.

You step fully inside the room and nod. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”

-

Minho lies on his side, facing the edge of the bed, a good stretch of mattress and blanket between the two of you. The room is quiet, the air thick with unspoken words and the soft whir of the ceiling fan. It's dark—comfortingly so. In the dark, no one can see how tightly he’s wound beneath the covers. In the dark, he can pretend he's okay.

But he knows you’re still awake. He can feel it in the way your breathing is a little too measured, too careful, like you’re trying not to disturb the silence but also trying not to fall asleep.

Then, your voice breaks through. Soft, hesitant.

“…I’m sorry.”

Minho blinks slowly, eyes fixed on the shadows across the wall.

“I thought I could help,” you continue. “Thought I could train you, push you past it, but… I was wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t think—”

You pause and then he hears you shift slightly, turning your head. “I’m really sorry, Minho.”

In the darkness, something inside him softens. And strangely, it's the silence that gives him the space to speak.

“It’s okay,” he says. Then, after a moment, “I should’ve known better too.”

He draws a breath, steadying himself, feeling how his chest still tightens a little like he's underwater. “I thought I was ready. But the second I hit the water…”

He swallows, blinking hard even though there's nothing to see. “It took me back. To that day. In the car. The sound of the windows cracking. The water flooding in so fast I didn’t have time to think. I remember—I remember the seatbelt wouldn’t budge. I was kicking at it, panicking… thinking this is it.”

His voice dips lower as he continues. “And then he got me out. My friend. He freed me. But he was still stuck. His foot… it wouldn’t come loose. I tried, I really tried, but…”

Minho trails off. His hands curl into fists beneath the blanket. “I was already out of breath. I could barely see. I swam up without him.”

He closes his eyes. And it’s like the memory plays again in full color, full sound, inside the dark behind his lids. “He didn’t make it.”

The room is quiet again, only the sound of the fan ticking and the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears. His eyelids flutter. His throat tightens. He doesn't cry—but the fear, the guilt, the weight of it… it's all still there, wrapped around him like water he hasn’t escaped yet.

And still, somehow, saying it aloud in the dark—feels like the start of learning how to breathe again. “I could’ve gone back,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve gone back.”

His knuckles ache from how tightly his fists are clenched under the blanket.

“I was out, I could breathe again. But I didn’t dive back down.” His voice trembles now. “I was scared. I knew I couldn’t hold my breath long enough again, but—what kind of coward doesn’t even try?”

He blinks rapidly, eyes burning even though no tears fall. “He was the better one. Kinder. Smarter. He should’ve been the one to live, not me.”

He shuts his eyes tight, like he can keep the pain from spilling out by sheer force. But it doesn’t work. The words have left a crack in him, and everything is pouring through.

Then—your hand finds his. Warm. Gentle. Real. You wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, grounding him back into the present.

“Minho…” Your voice is soft but firm. “It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But he doesn’t pull away either.

“You didn’t choose what happened,” you continue. “No one could’ve predicted it. You tried. You did. And it was terrifying and impossible and unfair. But it’s not your fault.”

Minho swallows hard, his throat aching.

“I should’ve been braver,” he says, and this time his voice breaks. “I should’ve been the one to die.”

You grip his hand tighter, refusing to let that sit in the silence. “Hey! No. Don’t say that.”

Your voice is fiercer now, shaky but certain. “Don’t you ever say that.”

You shift closer, just enough that your presence reaches him even through the dark. “The fact that you’re still here, breathing, trying—hurting like this—it proves you deserve to live. You didn’t run away from what happened. You carry it. Every day. That doesn’t make you less. That makes you… human.”

Minho doesn’t respond, not right away. He just lies there, listening to the sound of your breath. Feeling the way your fingers are still holding his.

Then, quieter than before, you ask, “If it were the other way around… if you died, and your friend lived, but he carried all this guilt with him… would you want that for him?”

Minho’s breath hitches. Would he? Would he want his friend to live like this, buried in pain, drowning in guilt?

He doesn’t answer. He just holds your hand. Holds onto it like it’s keeping him above water.

-

The train ride is long but quiet, the rhythmic rattle of the tracks lulling you into a stillness that feels almost meditative. When you step off at the small-town station, the air smells different—cleaner, lighter, and edged with something earthy, like pine and damp soil. You stretch your limbs as Mr. Kim begins ushering the group of stuntmen toward the waiting cars outside.

The drive is short, no more than twenty minutes, but you spend it gazing out the window. The town is sleepy, with narrow streets and small shops lining the sidewalks, all tucked into the surrounding hills. The change of scenery feels good. Needed, even. Like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally let go.

The car stops in front of a weathered little motel—low-roofed, sun-faded, but clean. You already knew this was the only accommodation close to the new filming location, and most of the movie staff is staying here too. Still, the quiet around it is comforting. A break from the usual chaos of the city sets.

You’re handed a room key without much fanfare. You thank the clerk, mumble a tired goodbye to the others, and head straight to your assigned room. It’s on the second floor, tucked into a corner with a window that overlooks a modest stretch of trees and the curve of the distant hills.

Inside, the room is small but neat. A queen bed, a dresser, a chair near the window, and a little desk in the corner. You drop your bag on the chair and sigh as you roll your shoulders. For a brief moment, the thought of throwing yourself onto the bed is tempting.

But then—knock knock.

You freeze, hand hovering above your hoodie zipper. Walking to the door, you open it slowly. Mr. Kim stands there, still in his jacket, still with that composed, unreadable look on his face.

“Hey,” you say.

He gives you a small nod. “Just checking in.”

You step aside instinctively, gesturing for him to come in, but he shakes his head. “No need. Just wanted to make sure you’re settled in all right.”

“I am.” You nod. “Thanks for asking.”

There’s a flicker in his expression. Like he’s searching your face for something—confirmation, maybe. A sign. A crack. You can tell he has more on his mind than just accommodations. Something heavier lingers between the words, but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push.

“I’m just going to rest for a bit,” you say gently. “It’s been… a long week.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. Then he nods again. “Good. Do that.”

With that, he turns and walks back down the walkway, his steps even and measured. You watch him go, your hand still resting on the doorknob. A thought itches at the back of your mind and refuses to go away.

How much does he know? About Minho. About the trauma he carries. About what he’s been hiding behind that sarcasm and practiced perfection. You step back into the room and close the door slowly behind you. You finally let yourself collapse onto the edge of the bed, sighing as the mattress dips beneath you. Your body feels like it's vibrating with residual tension from the three hours long of train ride, from holding in thoughts, from Mr. Kim’s quiet concern still echoing in your chest.

However, as you’re about to lie back and close your eyes— Knock knock.

You groan into your hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dragging yourself off the bed, you shuffle toward the door, already muttering under your breath. You yank it open, fully prepared to snap—but stop short when you’re met with your face grinning back at you from the hallway.

Minho—you—leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his head tilted as his eyes sweep lazily around your room. “Cozy,” he muses, clearly amused.

You squint at him. “Let me guess. You’re staying at a hotel with a view and room service?”

Minho snorts. “I wish. It’s a bed and breakfast. I’m sharing a bathroom with Rhonda from wardrobe.”

You blink, then grin. “Well. That sounds exactly like what the AD would assign. I bet she’s already made a shrine of you in there.”

He rolls his eyes. “She offered me organic shampoo. Lavender-something. I’m traumatized.”

You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, mirroring him. “Why are you here?”

Minho shrugs. “Just checking in.”

The way he says it so casually almost makes you scoff. Checking in? He was the one who had a freak out in the pool the other night. The one who held onto you like his whole body was unraveling.

You almost ask—Are you okay now? But before you can say anything, Minho’s—your—phone rings shrilly, slicing through the moment.

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. He picks up the phone, and presses it to his ear. His expression immediately drops into exaggerated boredom as whoever’s on the other end starts talking. His eyes roll so hard you’re convinced he can see his own brain. “Yes… mmhmm… yeah, I got it. On my way.”

He hangs up dramatically and turns to you, pointing a finger. “Duty calls. Your very boring job awaits.”

You smirk. “Have fun.”

“I won’t,” he says with all the theatrical despair in the world.

“I’m going to lie down and do absolutely nothing,” you tease, stretching your arms high overhead in a show of relaxed bliss.

He groans loudly and stomps his feet in protest like a child, grumbling under his breath as he heads back toward the hallway. “Unbelievable. I should be the one resting.”

You just laugh. “You’ll live.”

Minho turns halfway, walking backward now with that stupid grin still tugging at your—his—mouth. “Unfortunately.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing in the doorway smiling to yourself before finally closing the door behind him. This time, when you lie down, you actually let yourself rest.

-

The air smells like fresh paint and sawdust, the set still half-built, buzzing with energy as crew members move like ants around him. Minho has barely had a minute to breathe since he got to the new filming location. He’s already gone over the location safety, walked the perimeter with the AD, triple-checked the new lighting rig schedule, and now he’s trying to finish filling out the stunt schedule checklist on the clipboard in his hand. He’s mid-sentence explaining something to one of the camera rig guys when someone from the props team waves him over.

“Hey! We need you for a second!”

Minho nods, mutters a quick “Be right back,” and jogs toward the prop storage room—one of the only enclosed places in this otherwise chaotic outdoor lot.

The second he pushes open the heavy door, the air shifts—dusty, dim, and colder than outside. The room is massive, metal shelves lined with rubber weapons, breakaway furniture, mock explosives. At the far end, two cars sit under sheets. One of the prop crew pulls the cover off the first one with a dramatic flourish.

“These are the two options for the underwater scene. We need to confirm which one’s getting rigged for submersion.”

The words hit Minho like a brick. Underwater scene. It’s as if the walls narrow around him. His breath shortens.

The cars sit there innocently, old sedans stripped and prepared for modifications. But the shape, the interior, the weight of them—it all slams into his chest like a memory. His hand tightens slightly on the clipboard as he steps forward.

Don’t think. Don’t feel.

“Both models are almost identical,” the prop guy continues, walking around them. “We just need a decision so the effects team can get started on sealing and rigging. Flickerman wants realism—cracked windows, pressure build, the works.”

Minho doesn’t trust his voice for a second, so he nods instead, jotting down a note on his clipboard. His fingers clench the pen a little too tightly. Car for underwater scene – confirm w/ Flickerman. Breathe. Breathe.

He forces himself to write it down with steady strokes even though his palm feels slick. His eyes lift one more time to the cars. They don’t look dangerous. Not yet. But just the sight of them makes him want to be anywhere else.

He draws in a slow, shallow breath through his nose and turns briskly toward the door, holding the clipboard to his chest like a shield. There’s still too much to do today.

Minho’s on his way to find Flickerman to report, clipboard in hand, rehearsing the list of notes he needs to report about the car props. But just as he rounds the corner past the catering tent, the Assistant Director comes barreling toward him like a man on a mission.

“Hey!” the AD barks.

Minho stops in his tracks, startled. “Yeah?”

“Stop whatever you're doing. I need you to get Felix. Now.”

Minho blinks. “From the airstrip?”

“Yes,” the AD snaps. “Flickerman needs him on set in fifteen minutes.”

Minho glances down at his watch. “I can call a driver—”

“No, you go. Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be faster with someone who’s, I don’t know, trained to drive like hell through a dirt town?”

The AD grabs his arm and yanks him to the side, lowering his voice but raising the stakes. “Listen. Flickerman’s waiting on Felix to rehearse the next sequence, and if he doesn’t show up on time, he’s going to blow. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen him lose it, but if he does, it won’t just be Felix who’s in trouble. It’ll be all of us. You included.”

Minho stares at him, the seriousness in the AD’s face draining any protest left in his chest. He swallows hard as all he can think about is your rule about not getting fired from each other’s jobs.

“Fifteen minutes?” he asks.

“Fourteen now,” the AD says grimly, already turning away.

Minho huffs and spins around, muttering, “Great. No pressure,” under his breath. He starts pacing toward the edge of the lot, his brain moving as fast as his legs. How the hell is he going to cut a 30-minute drive down to half the time?

He rounds the corner near the prop storage again, and something catches his eye through the half-open rolling door. A sleek black motorcycle, parked near the wall with a helmet hanging off the handlebar.

He stops. Looks at it. And then he grins. “Of course.”

With no hesitation, he strides toward it, tossing his clipboard to a nearby intern as he snatches the helmet in one hand. He mutters to himself, “You’re welcome, Felix,” as he swings one leg over the bike and kickstarts the engine.

The roar of it echoes through the lot. Minho revs it once for good measure before speeding off the lot.

The tires screech just slightly as Minho pulls up to the airstrip, kicking up dust as he slows the motorcycle to a hard stop near the small tarmac where Felix is just stepping off the private charter plane, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

Felix squints at the sight of the motorcycle rolling to a halt—at the sight of you on the motorcycle—and his brow furrows in confusion.

Minho pulls off the helmet, hair a wind-tossed mess as he swings his leg down and plants his feet. “Felix!” he shouts, waving him over. “Let’s go!”

Felix walks over, looking around as if expecting someone else. “Uh… hi? Where’s the driver?”

“You’re looking at her,” Minho replies flatly, tossing a spare helmet toward him. “Get on.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“No time,” Minho says as he hops back on the bike. “Just get on, Felix.”

Felix looks at the helmet, looks at the motorcycle, then back at Minho. “You’re serious.”

“I said get on.”

Felix hesitates only for another second before sighing, handing his duffel bag to his manager and hopping onto the back seat of the motorcycle.

“This better not be some elaborate prank,” Felix mutters as he fits the helmet on.

“You wish,” Minho shoots back, gripping the handles.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“You’ll find out in about ten minutes—assuming we make it in ten.”

Felix doesn't get a chance to respond before Minho revs the engine, loud and sharp, and the bike lurches forward onto the road. Felix instinctively tightens his arms around Minho’s waist, startled by the jolt of speed.

“Hold on!” Minho shouts over the roaring wind.

They weave through the narrow back roads with practiced ease—Minho leans low into the turns, the engine growling beneath them like it knows they’re racing the clock. Felix presses in behind him, ducking when Minho ducks, trusting him without question, even though he doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

All Minho knows is the timer in his head is ticking fast and he’s not about to be the reason Flickerman burns the set to the ground.

-

The scent of garlic and roasted meat wafts through the sma hall of the motel, mixing with the quiet clatter of forks and soft chatter between crew members. You’ve barely touched the food on your plate, mostly pushing steamed vegetables around with the side of your fork as Mr. Kim laughs at something one of the newer stunt guys says.

You glance up once in a while to watch as everyone chat with each other before you look back down at your phone, deciding to scroll for a moment while you chew and that’s when your thumb freezes mid-scroll.

A video plays on your screen—shaky, filmed from a phone, but clear enough to catch the unmistakable image of you—or rather, Minho—riding a motorcycle like a scene ripped straight out of an action drama. But it’s not just that. No.

Seated behind you is Felix, helmet and all, one arm clearly wrapped around your waist as the motorcycle speeds away from the small airstrip.

You nearly choke on your food. You cough into your napkin as your heart skips a confused beat, your eyes glued to the phone as the video loops. You blink, just to make sure you’re not hallucinating. Nope—still there. Felix’s arm. Around your waist.

It’s Minho’s body, yes, but still—you. Your finger slides down to the comments.

“WHO IS SHE OMG I’M SO JEALOUS 😭😭😭”

“wait that’s not a manager is it???”

“i heard it’s just a staff member lol chill”

“lucky girl... taking felix on a motorbike ride… i’d die.”

“felix’s arm around her waist?? HELLO?????”

You lock your phone screen, slowly placing it face-down on the table. Your appetite has officially disappeared.

You sit there, unsure whether to laugh, scream, or both. You don’t even know what you’re upset about—if it’s the misleading image of it all, or the way fans are shipping you with Felix, or maybe... maybe it's that you weren’t told. That Minho didn’t even think to warn you. That you're only finding out through a fan video.

You pace the motel room floor with your phone clutched tightly in your hand, the screen dimming every few minutes as your unanswered texts pile higher and higher in the chat with Minho.

come to my room. now.

we need to talk.

don’t make me come find you.

MINHO!!!!!

You glance at the clock—11:54 PM—and just as you’re about to fire off another message, a knock finally comes at your door. You fling it open before he can even knock twice. And of course, there he is, grinning like a child who’s convinced himself he's done nothing wrong.

"Hi," Minho says, way too cheerfully for someone being summoned like a fugitive. Before you can say a word, he breezes past you into the room like it’s his. He drops himself onto the edge of your bed, leans back, arms propped behind him, looking way too comfortable.

You shut the door with a sigh and walk up to him, shoving your phone in his face with the screen lit up. “What is this?” you ask, voice sharp.

Minho squints at the video still playing. “That’s me giving Felix a ride on a motorcycle.”

“No,” you say through clenched teeth. “That’s me giving Felix a ride. In that body. Which means that you made me the center of some wild fan theory.”

He shrugs. “Well, technically, I made you look cool. You’re welcome.”

You glare at him in disbelief. “Seriously, what were you thinking?” you ask. “You’re in my body, Minho. You don’t get to just show up with a movie star clinging to your waist and pretend it’s no big deal!”

Minho waves you off like you’re being dramatic. “You should be happy. Isn’t it your dream to date a movie star like Felix?”

You scoff. “Oh my God, no.”

He grins wider, like that’s exactly the answer he expected. “Okay, then why are you so flustered?” he asks, eyes narrowing with mock curiosity. “Unless—”

“No,” you cut him off quickly.

Minho lifts an eyebrow, head tilting slightly as he adds, far too casually, “Felix likes you, you know.”

Your entire body stiffens. “…What?”

“Yeah,” Minho says with a careless shrug. “He told me. Like, the other day. Said he likes you. Pretty straightforward.”

You stare at him, blinking. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, the smirk never fading. “Unfortunately, nope.”

You take a step back, overwhelmed, uncertain if your face is heating up from embarrassment or confusion—or both. Minho notices instantly, his grin widening with satisfaction.

“You’re flustered,” he teases. “Oh, this is rich. Who knew the tough girl act would crumble this fast?”

You shoot him a glare and turn your back to him, trying to compose yourself. “We’re not talking about that.”

“Oh, we’re definitely talking about it later,” he says smugly.

You spin back around. “Right now, we’re talking about you recklessly putting me in the center of internet gossip!”

At that, Minho sighs and finally sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Look. I didn’t mean to turn you into fan bait. Flickerman needed Felix on set in fifteen minutes, the AD practically threatened my life, and there was no time for a driver. The motorcycle was the fastest way.”

You cross your arms. “And it didn’t occur to you to, I don’t know, warn me?”

“I was going to,” he says. “But it's either that or... I got fired so... I didn’t think it would blow up this fast, okay? Sorry.”

You sigh, finally letting the tension out of your shoulders. His reasoning is… actually valid. And given the crisis-level urgency the AD was projecting earlier, you get it.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll let it slide. This time.”

You’re just about to sit down, maybe finally unwind from the entire emotional rollercoaster of the day, when Minho—still lounging on your bed like he owns the room—sits up and says, “Go get changed.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He jerks his chin toward your duffel bag. “I saw a pool out back. Looks decent. Let’s train. Tonight.”

You stare at him, confused. “You… want to get in the water? Tonight?”

He nods, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But it isn’t. Not after what happened the last time. Not after the way he shook so violently in your arms, as if the fear had swallowed him whole.

Your brows knit with concern. “Minho… are you sure? Because we can take it slow—”

“I am taking it slow,” he cuts in, his voice calm but firm. “We only have three days left until the underwater stunt. I need to be ready. No matter what happens, I want to be prepared.”

There’s something in his voice—not the cocky tone he usually wears like armor, not the biting sarcasm either. It’s steadier, grounded, but underneath it, you can still hear the tremor of fear he’s trying to bury. He meets your gaze head-on. Determined. Maybe a little scared, too—but this time, he’s not running from it. He’s walking straight into the storm.

You nod slowly. “Okay,” you say. “If that’s what you want.”

He nods back once, appreciative. And you can’t help but respect it—his resolve, his decision. Because when Lee Minho sets his mind on something, there’s really no changing it.

You sigh and head to your bag to grab your swimming trunks. If he's really going to do this, you’ll be right there with him. Every terrifying, breathless second of it.

-

Minho exhales slowly as he stands at the edge of the pool, the air cool against his skin and the silence of the night pressing in around him. Most of the motel lights are off, the building behind them dark and quiet. He figures a splash too loud could wake a light sleeper on the second floor—but that’s a risk he’s willing to take.

He rolls his shoulders once, then pulls off the hoodie, folding it neatly over a nearby chair. His jeans follow, and now he’s just standing there in your black swimsuit, hugging his frame in a way he’s still not quite used to. But he doesn’t let it distract him because tonight, he has a goal.

Minho takes a step forward onto the tiled steps and slowly begins to descend into the water. Each inch higher on his skin feels colder than the last. It seeps into his bones. He tries not to think of the weight of it. He tries not to think of the last time.

Another breath. Another step. The water reaches his knees. Another breath. Then his thighs. Another. Then his waist. He stops, closing his eyes for a moment. The water laps gently around him. It’s quiet. Peaceful, even. He doesn’t feel the same panic in his chest. Not yet. And that’s a small win.

When he opens his eyes, he turns around—and there you are. Standing at the edge of the pool with your arms crossed, your expression a mix of concern and calculation.

Minho exhales sharply through his nose. “Why aren’t you getting in?”

You hesitate. “I just think… maybe you shouldn’t push it.”

Minho nearly rolls his eyes. “Do I look like I can’t handle a kid’s swimming pool?”

He gestures down at the waist-high water surrounding him and lifts both brows at you, the sarcasm sitting comfortably in his voice. “Aren’t you going to train me?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head like he’s being ridiculous—which, of course, he is—but it makes you move. You peel off your T-shirt, revealing the swimming trunks beneath, and step into the water.

Minho watches you quietly and somehow, just having you in there with him makes everything feel a little easier like maybe, this time, he won’t drown. You step into the pool and make your way toward him, water rippling around your legs. You stop just in front of him, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your presence in the cool water.

The motel lights are dim behind you, and above, the sky stretches wide and dark, sprinkled with faint stars. It's quiet. The kind of quiet that makes him feel both grounded and exposed. He glances around, then back at you. “So…” he says, voice low, “what are we doing tonight?”

You shrug and think for a second. “Maybe we try holding our breath underwater?”

Minho lets his gaze drop to the surface of the water. It shimmers faintly under the moonlight. His reflection blurs, shifts, disappears. He swallows air as he wonders if he can handle that.

As if you heard his thoughts, you reach out and gently take both of his hands, lacing your fingers with his. “Let’s do it together.”

Minho looks up. The quiet certainty in your voice steadies something in him.

“We go down on the count of three,” you explain, watching him closely. “If you feel like you can’t do it—don’t. Just come back up. No pressure. Got it?”

He nods. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

“One…”

His grip tightens in yours.

“Two…”

He inhales deep, steadying himself.

“Three.”

Together, you begin to lower yourselves into the water. Inch by inch. The coolness brushes up against his neck, his jaw, his cheeks. He shuts his eyes before the surface swallows him whole.

For a second—just a second—it’s okay. He’s in the water, and it’s still. His hands are still in yours. He can feel the slight squeeze of your fingers, anchoring him.

Then it comes. A flash of memory—metal pressing against him, water rushing in, the suffocating fear of being trapped, lungs aching for air. The illusion of control snaps. He kicks upward and bursts back through the surface, gasping. His breath comes in ragged, uneven pulls. His chest heaves. Cold air hits his wet skin, and he blinks the water from his eyes.

When he opens his eyes, you're there. Still holding his hands. Still in front of him. No pity in your eyes. No judgment. Just quiet reassurance.

“That was good, Minho,” you say softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Minho stares at you. The panic doesn’t leave immediately, but the sharp edge of it dulls under your voice. He doesn’t reply. He just nods slightly, still trying to catch his breath, still holding on.

-

You watch him—yourself—in the shimmering reflection of the pool under the night sky, and for a moment, it feels surreal. But the way Minho's chest rises and falls, the tremble in his breath, the fear flickering in his eyes—you see all of it and all you want is to reach in and take it from him, to carry it yourself, just to give him a second of peace, but you can’t.

What you can do is be here. Hold his hands. Tell him that he’s safe. That he’s doing okay. That he’s not alone.

After a moment, his breath slows. You see the fear fade a little, not gone—but quieter, smaller. “Maybe this is enough for tonight,” you offer gently.

But Minho shakes his head. “I want to try again.”

You pause, but you nod, meeting his eyes with calm and quiet respect. “Okay. Take your time.”

He nods. His grip on your hands is tighter this time. Tighter than before.

You wait. You patiently wait. And when he finally says, “I’m ready,” you move closer.

You carefully place his arms around your shoulders, letting your hands settle against his waist. “You can hold on to me,” you tell him. “It’s okay.”

He nods again. And you can feel his breath ghost over your neck as he tries to steady himself.

“One,” you whisper.

“Two…”

“Three.”

Together, you sink beneath the surface and the world above disappears in a ripple.

Minho clings to you while you stay still, hands firm on his waist, grounding him. His body is tense—tight like a wire—but his arms stay around you, and his grip doesn't falter. His eyes are shut, his brow drawn. You watch the fight happening inside him. The way he braces against something invisible, dark, heavy. He’s trying. You can feel it. So you don’t move. You don’t pull him up. Not until he decides.

The seconds stretch. One, then two, maybe more. You lose count in the hush of the water. Then suddenly, he kicks up, dragging you with him, and both of you burst back into the air.

Minho is panting, arms still around you. You wrap yours around him without hesitation.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, close to his ear. “You did so well.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, forehead resting against your shoulder, chest heaving, water streaming from his hair and face. You hold him tighter, letting the silence say everything that needs to be said and the two of you stay like that, in the middle of the pool, until the ripples settle and the night calms once more.

-

By the time the two of you return to your motel room, the air is cool against your damp skin, and silence settles between you—not heavy, not awkward. Just quiet. The comfortable kind.

You grab a towel and toss another toward Minho. “You can use the bathroom first,” you say, voice soft.

He nods, wordless, and disappears behind the door. The lock clicks afterwards.

As you wait, you dry your hair with the towel and glance toward the window. The night is still, the stars blurred by mist, the world calm in a way it hasn’t been for days.

Then the bathroom door flies open and you turn on your feet, expecting a small comment or maybe a mumble about how cold the water was—but Minho steps out with only a towel wrapped around him. Water glistens on his shoulders. His eyes find yours.

You blink. “Minho—?”

He doesn’t say anything but walks toward you, steady, almost cautious. And he doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth rising from his skin, smell the faint trace of your body wash on him.

You open your mouth to ask—but you don’t get the chance as Minho leans in and presses his lips to yours. Soft at first. Gentle. Like he’s still asking a question with every touch. But then you feel his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer—and the kiss deepens. He kisses you like he’s been holding back for too long. Like everything he’s been feeling—all the fear, the guilt, the gratitude, the relief—is pouring out through this single point of contact.

And you don’t hold back either. Your arms wrap around him, and your fingers curl against his bare skin. You kiss him harder, your heart thudding against your ribs. The room falls away, the air thick with heat and something unspoken that you both finally stop running from.

Minho’s touch is confident but careful, and the next thing you know, his fingers curling around the waistband of your swim trunks and easing them down. You inhale sharply but don’t stop him—can’t, really—not when your heart is pounding so hard in your chest, not when everything between you feels like it’s been building to this very moment.

Your trunks fall to the floor, and a beat later, his towel follows. Then it’s just the two of you. Nothing between you. Bare, vulnerable, exposed—not just physically, but in the quiet way that only happens when someone truly sees you.

He takes your hand, warm and steady, and leads you gently toward the bed. You follow wordlessly, your steps slow, breath caught somewhere between nerves and anticipation. When he lays down, you move with him, hovering just above as you brace yourself over his chest.

Minho cups your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek as his eyes search yours, then he pulls you down into a kiss—deep, slow, unraveling. You feel his other arm slide around your waist, anchoring you closer, until you’re lying right against him. Every inch of your skin touches his. The heat between you blooms.

The kiss grows heavier, more consuming, yet never loses its tenderness. You lose track of where his body ends and yours begins. Fingers trail along ribs, lips part, breath mingles.

And all the while, the world outside fades away. The fear. The pressure. Even the memory of cold water.

It’s just you and him. Together—closer than ever.

-

Minho doesn’t flinch when you pull away from the kiss. He keeps his eyes on you, steady and calm, reading every flicker of hesitation in your gaze. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist are trembling slightly, and he knows—it’s not just nerves. It’s the weight of everything that’s strange and new, the unfamiliarity of being in his body, of feeling all the sensation in ways you’ve never felt before.

You look at him, searching. “Minho, I don’t… I don’t know how to do this in this body.”

Minho expected this. Maybe he’d been waiting for it—maybe even hoping you’d say it out loud, rather than pretending like you weren’t overwhelmed. So he offers you a small, reassuring smile, one that you’ve worn on your own lips more than once. He reaches for your hand and gently guides it to his abdomen, just above the place where every part of him aches for more of you. His breath hitches, but he keeps his voice even as he murmurs, “Then just touch me the way you like to be touched.”

And then, softer: “And I’ll do the same.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just stay quiet, eyes wide and searching his. But then you give the faintest nod, like you’re trusting him—trusting yourself.

He pulls you back into a kiss, slower this time, deeper. Your hands begin to move—cautious at first, unsure, but growing bolder with every breath. You touch him like the way you like to be touched, running your fingers between the folds and easily locate your bundle of nerves. You begin circling on it as it pulsating, throbbing with every gentle pressure you apply on it and keep the stimulation going.

Minho mirrors you, touching with a kind of reverence, exploring the body that was once his with new wonder, new intent. His fingers trail the length of his cock, aching and hardening around his palm even though he hasn't moving yet. He gives it slow strokes, thumb pressing on the slit on the tip and once he gets his cock hot and hard in his hand, he begins pumping it at a steady pace.

Minho senses your nervousness giving way to something else—curiosity, anticipation, heat. And through it all, he holds you close, grounding you with every kiss, every breath.

Two bodies, one connection—tangled in a space where roles and boundaries blur, and all that remains is how you make each other feel.

Minho exhales, the sound shaky, as your fingers continously circling on the clit—slow, delicate, like you’re still unsure of how far you can take this, but every touch still lands just right. There’s something reverent in the way you explore him, like you’re memorizing a map of yourself through him, and the care in your movements makes his breath catch in his throat.

His body arches into your hand, craving more before he even realizes it, and his own hand wrapped around your length falters for a moment—sloppier now, less rhythm, more instinct. But when he hears your breath, hot and shallow against his neck, and feels how your body reacts to him, it spurs him on again.

Minho lets his lips part, soft moans escaping freely—he doesn’t try to hide how good it feels. “Oh yeah, just like that,” he murmurs, voice low, raw. “Whatever you're doing, keep going.”

You press closer at that, bringing your mouth to wrap around your breast, and Minho shudders at the contact of your hot tongue on the sensitive bud, his fingers curling around your cock tighter and with more purpose, matching your rhythm again. It’s clumsy in places—new, uncharted—but it’s real. It’s honest. And with every breath, every whispered sound, every stammered gasp, Minho gives in a little more to the pleasure, to you.

It's clear that you're both ready for more so Minho holds your face between his hands, thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks, and when your eyes meet his, there’s nothing but sincerity between you. “We’re ready for this,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, even as his heart pounds. You nod, almost instinctively, like you’ve both known this was inevitable from the start. The weight of waiting disappears in that shared look—there’s no more fear, no more hesitation. Only trust.

He kisses you again—slow, deep, full of something he can’t name—and then leans back, letting himself open to you. His legs part, completely baring himself to you and he breathes deeply, eyes fluttering shut as he whispers, “You know what to do.”

You nod again, more certain this time, and the moment your body aligns with his, he holds onto the sheets. Carefully, deliberately, you guide yourself into him, and Minho gasps at the sensation—foreign, yet achingly right. The stretch, the fullness, the press of your body—it all crashes into him at once.

His moan slips out before he can catch it, back arching into your chest, and then he sees you—your brows drawn tight in focus, your mouth parted, trying to hold it together but falling apart just the same. As you push in all of your length into him, your bodies settle together, chest to chest, skin to skin, breath tangled in breath.

Minho wraps his arms around your back, eyes stinging with the emotion of it all, and holds you there, completely overwhelmed. The feeling, the closeness, the quiet burn beneath his skin—it’s almost too much. It’s everything.

Your breaths are warm against his neck, the rhythm of your body grounding him more than the chill of the motel air or the weight of reality ever could. This—this moment—is more than just bodies colliding. It's a plea. A quiet, desperate prayer sealed in sweat and skin and unspoken promises.

He shuts his eyes and in the hush between heartbeats, Minho dares to wish. Let this work. Let this be it.

Because if it isn’t—if this isn’t the way back—he doesn't know how much more he can take. He doesn't know if he can survive waking up again in a body that doesn't feel like his, trapped in a mirror that reflects someone else’s face. The drowning, the panic, the constant pretending—he can barely hold himself together under the weight of it all.

But more than that—more than the fear of being lost inside someone else’s skin—he’s terrified of losing you. He doesn't say it aloud. He doesn't have to. Because in the fragile, fleeting quiet of that motel room, as your breath evens out and your heart beats against his, Minho only thinks it, clutching the thought like a lifeline:

Please… I can't lose you too.

-

✨ DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[foxybrownsugababe]

𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Ai Michael B. Jordon x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - in which a woman receives a mysterious crate that changes everything she thought she knew about solitude, control, and connection.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mild language, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, light sci-fi themes, let me know if I missed anything! Sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes!! Go easy one me <3

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I had the idea, and I thought “Why the hell not?” And here we are….

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 5,637+

There was no room for weakness in Nadine Nelson’s life.

Not in her closet, where the hems of her Italian suits and Asian silks hung like armor. Not in her penthouse apartment in the heart of Manhattan, with its clean marble surfaces and city skyline views. And definitely not in the courtroom, where a well-timed objection could make or break a multimillion-dollar case.

Nadine was steel, wrapped in silk.

Her alarm rang at 5:45 AM, a single chime before she cut it off and sat up. Not a single grin or anything, just a long cat stretch before rolling over and letting her feet hit the floor. And already, her mind was racing.

Deposition at 10. Client call at 1. Lunch with the DA’s assistant—, no I’m skipping that. Trial prep at 4. Court by Thursday.

She moved like a machine all while thinking. First her perfectly manicured feet slipped into her slippers before she was up and tossing her arms into her deep blue silk robe. Then she was turning on the bathroom light, standing in front of the mirror before the sound of her electric toothbrush humming filled the space. Once she put into the sink, cold water hit her face, a nice cleaned scrub applied to her skin with some expensive soap before multiple serums and creams soothed her epidermis. Then she was down the hall and into the kitchen, her domain of silence.

She barely blinked as she moved around, effortlessly pulling together an authentic espresso. Double shot, four sugars, two creamers. She sipped out of the small cup that she placed on a saucer as she made her way to the living room, clinking on the large television with a simple tap to the panel near the light switch, as well as opening the curtains to the floor to ceiling windows of the space.

It was the news on low volume, something she played in the background as she sat on the couch and began the first part of her work day, which was checking notifications. Stock tickers scrolling. Loads of emails, and real mail. Even a text from her assistant.

Jane: Morning. Confirmed meeting with Sloane. Added an extra hour for court prep. I had to push your massage again. Sorry.

Nadine didn’t even flinch. Self-care was for people with the luxury of losing. She had no such privilege. As she continued to check and sort through her things, she came across a letter, which was rare nowadays in their advanced society. But she didn’t sit to read it for long once she saw it was some sort of survey with a government seal.

C.R.I.S.

(Cognitive Robotics & Intelligence Systems)

Confidential Prototype Program | Not for Public Disclosure

To Ms. Nadine Nelson,

Congratulations.

You are one of only twenty individuals selected to participate in the private beta phase of AURA—the world’s most advanced artificial intelli-

With a sigh, she tossed the paper into the rest of the junk mails she’d gathered, not even giving it a second thought.

By 6:30AM, she was showered and dressed in navy Balmain with matching slacks, gold cufflinks fastened, and her Louboutin heels clicked against the floors like a metronome. Every detail was precise. Her eyeliner was sharp, her decently pixie bob cut was curled and bouncy, not a strand out of place.

That was the version of herself she showed the world.

The version no one saw was the one who stared at herself in any reflection for a moment too long, trying to spot any imperfections and critiquing the ones she had. The one who pressed the ends of her hand to her temple when things became too much, roughly rubbing against her skin to not panic. The one who felt the beginnings of a headache every morning before she even stepped outside.

But there was no time for that.

Today was a big day. So big that she nearly ran over one of her co-workers in the complex’s private parking lot. The woman leaned out of the window, looking at her co-worker, Simon, was entrapped within his phone, coffee in other hand.

“Simon.” She clipped as she exited the car, standing beside the driver’s side with her bag slung over her arm and her eyes narrowed like the barrel of a gun.

Her junior partner, Simon Gellar, flinched, nearly spilling his coffee. He was leaned against the concrete column next to his vehicle, relaxed as if he had no multi-million-dollar contracts waiting for him upstairs.

“Nadine! Goodmorning.” He blurted, straightening up, phone still in hand. His thin wire glasses were crooked from how fast he’d jerked up.

She leveled a gaze at him. “You’re in my line of motion. Next to my parking spot. Were you planning to get hit by my car?” She asked, and though she was being sarcastic, her stoic face didn’t lean into that notion.

Simone scrambled back, laughing awkwardly. “Sorry, sorry. I was—uh—watching something.”

“I gathered.” She pushed past him, heels echoing. Still, curiosity peeked through her otherwise impenetrable wall of ice. She pivoted at the elevator. “What was so important it made you forget spatial awareness?”

Simon followed her with a sheepish grin, lifting his phone to show a paused video. “This new AI prototype. It’s a for a government project. They’re calling it a fully integrated domestic interface. Basically a robot with a personality. They’re doing a limited civilian roll-out.” He explained.

Nadine gave a single, unimpressed glance at the screen. It was paused on a thumbnail image—what looked like a man stepping out of a delivery crate, bare-chested, perfect skin, electric-blue eyes, and a jawline engineered with an questionable precision.

“They sent you a stripper?” She deadpanned.

Simon choked. “We-well, no! Th-this isn’t mine, this is some guy online. A-and he’s, uh, he’s supposed to be adaptable. Learns your habits, routines, even preferences. The AI body is designed to assist with home tasks and companionship. There’s an application online—”

“Companionship?” Nadine asked, one brow arching as they stepped into the elevator.

“Not like that. I mean—maybe like that.” He said, squinting. “But—anyway, apparently they already started selecting people to house the prototypes.” He sipped his coffee, missing the twitch of Nadine’s jaw. “Random civilian testing. They’re sending out offers from low to high-income environments.” He continued.

The elevator dinged. Nadine stepped out before the doors fully opened.

“Mm, sounds like a weird distraction. Who has time for pet projects from a government that doesn’t care about them. Let me know when they build one that can argue in court and bill clients.” She deadpanned before the elevator dinged and she stepped off, stuttering down the hall to her office.

“Will do.” Simon called after her, blushing as he pushed up his glasses and watched as the woman walked away from him.

✦

Nadine’s office sat at the top floor of the firm—an expansive corner with floor-to-ceiling windows, brushed gold fixtures, and enough clean lines to make any minimalist cry from joy. But it wasn’t decoration that mattered, not to her at least. It was power. Clients walked in and knew exactly who was in charge and who was a leader.

She dumped her bag on the chair and was halfway through her espresso number two when the day officially launched.

By 7:15 AM, she was pacing through an emergency strategy meeting regarding an international corporate dispute. She cut through the legalese with surgical precision, offering airtight solutions and eviscerating anyone who hesitated.

By 9:00, she was on a three-way call with the CEO of a pharmaceutical giant and their scandal-scrambling PR team, coaching them through deposition answers while reading through a second case file on her desk.

By 10:00, she was downstairs in one of the firm’s conference rooms, dressed in a power stance that had the opposing counsel checking their notes twice before daring to even speak. She flipped through paper evidence like chapters of a book she’d already read, correcting a junior associate mid-sentence with nothing but a hard stare.

Every moment, every move, every gesture, was precise. Intention was behind it all.

There were no lunch breaks for her, only a small snacks here and there, or of like the food version of a power nap. And even then, she canceled today’s one-on-one with the DA’s assistant five minutes before she was supposed to show. Nadine opted to pace the rooftop patio instead, shoes clicking against stone as she answered emails, reviewed evidence, and toggled between two back-to-back client emergencies.

Her assistant, Jane, appeared like a ghost, silent as ever behind her at 2:35 PM. “You’re behind by twenty minutes.” She said softly, placing a fresh folder on the edge of the table. “And you haven’t eaten.”

“I’ll eat…later.” Nadine replied, flipping open the folder.

Jane hesitated. “Should I reschedule your chiropractor again?”

“Does he do brain surgery now? If not, no.”

✦

The rest of the day continued in a blur of depositions, and back-door negotiations. She squeezed in a quick stop at the firm’s media floor to prepare for an interview with New York Legal Elite next week—her sixth cover in two years.

By the time she returned to her office at 6:47 PM, her makeup was still flawless. But her shoulders had a weight she didn’t let show and her temples ached with the pressure of having to always be better. A pressure she put on herself everyday.

She sat at her desk, the city lights beginning to glow outside her window, and pressed her fingers to her forehead.

Three seconds. Just three seconds of quiet.

But then her phone buzzed.

BiBi: On our way up. The twins are bringing “surprises.” Brace yourself.

Nadine closed her eyes for one heartbeat before standing.

Her apartment was ten minutes away. She could beat them there, she thought. Maybe.

She did not beat them here. Inside, chaos was already blooming. Her penthouse was already lit up when she stepped inside at 7:15PM. She barely had time to set her bag down before she heard the commotion. Marley was dancing on the rug in her socks, while Micah had discovered the fridge’s smart screen and was trying to play Mario Kart through it.

“NADIIIIINE!” The two high-pitched voices screamed in unison. The twins came barreling toward her, curly hair flailing behind them like capes. They launched into her legs with the force of tiny meteors.

“Oof.” Nadine said, catching her balance. “Are you two ever not moving at Mach 10?”

“Nope!” Markey grinned. “We made cookies!”

“With Aunt Bianca’s help.” Micah added with a proud nod.

Bianca appeared behind them, holding a wine bottle and looking way too comfortable. “And I brought provisions. You look like you’ve had one of those weeks.” She said with a small pout on her lips.

Nadine raised a brow, looking over at the older woman. “I have those every week.”

“Exactly my point.”

“I missed the Nelson Towers!” Micah said, throwing herself dramatically onto Nadine’s ivory couch.

Nadine gave her a small smile, sliding off her heels. “Your mom should’ve brought you to court last week. You would’ve seen me destroy a man three times my size.”

“Did you throw a chair at him?” Marley asked.

“No, I used the law.”

“That’s boring.”

“No, my friends, that’s winning.” She grinned. As she moved around her home, making her way into the kitchen. Bianca settled onto a stool at the kitchen island, watching her sister silently. After a beat, she asked, “What time did you go to bed last night” she questioned, the sudden ask causing Nadine to scrunch her face as she looked over at her. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Bianca spoke again. “When was the last time you slept through the night?”

Nadine simply sighed as she turned her back and opened the fridge. “I sleep.”

“That’s not what I asked. I said through the night, not on your files. What time?”

Nadine pulled out a green juice and a yogurt, even though her stomach was already tight with stress. “B, I appreciate the visit. But I don’t need a wellness check. I’m at the top of my game, so I would say I’m doing pretty fine.” Nadine said with a small smile.

This only caused Bianca to give her a look. “You’re at the top of your ulcer.”

Nadine’s sarcastic grin dropped as her jaw flexed, nostril flaring as she glared at her sister.

Bianca continued, gently now. “Nay, you’re doing amazing. But you’ve been in trial mode for two straight years. You don’t date. You barely see sunlight. You don’t even blink unless it’s part of a strategy or some shit.”

Nadine stayed quiet, her spoon tapping the edge of the yogurt cup.

“You don’t have to prove anything anymore.” Bianca added.

And that struck something. Not that Nadine showed it.

“It’s not about proving.” She finally said. “It’s about maintaining. You fight your way up from nothing, and you learn fast—falling isn’t dramatic. It’s silent and quick. It’s one missed call, one lost case. One person thinking you’ve lost your edge.”

Bianca didn’t press further. Instead, she let out a sigh before she called out to her children. “Alright girls, thirty minutes, then we’re heading out.”

The twins groaned but obeyed, bouncing off to the guest room.

Bianca reached for Nadine’s tablet to put on a cartoon on the television, or something to entertain them while she packed snacks.

What she didn’t notice was Micah and Marley sneaking back in and whispering behind the kitchen counter. They had a letter in their hands, a piece of paper they found tossed haphazardly in the living room. And once they read it, the twins were all on board.

“There it is!” Marley whispered.

“I wonder why she didn’t answer. Robots are so cool.” Micah questioned, rereading the page over and over again in excitement. “Maybe she didn’t want one.”

“That’s dumb.” Markey sighed before pulling out her purple glitter pen from her back pocket. “Should I do it?” She questioned, looking over at her twin. There was a moment of silence that passed between them, staring into the other’s eyes before looking back down at the paper.

“Do it.” They said at the same time.

With sticky fingers and wild curiosity, they marked the “Accept Housing Unit” checkbox on the government letter Nadine had flagged but never opened. Marley then folded it back up before move to place it into the mail slot next to the front door, hearing the suction sound as the letter was whisked away back to the owner.

A pop-up confirmed the delivery on the screen next Mail Drop, causing the to high-five before they scurried off. “Okay, now we have to fill this out.” Micah said, pulling the retractable delivery screen closer as the screen loaded a soft blue logo. AURA | Adaptive User Response Assistant. Marley was already typing on the screen like she worked at NASA. “We so can’t tell mom about this.” Micah mumbled nervously.

“No one’s telling Mom.” Marley muttered.

“Okay, well, if Auntie Nadine gets mad, I’m blaming you,” Micah said, peering at the glowing tablet in his sister’s lap. Marley let out a sigh, rolling her eyes at her brother. “She’s not gonna get mad,” Markey tressed with a whisper. “She’s gonna love it. You saw the commercial—this thing can do laundry, make dinner, answer emails. It’s like if Iron Man was a butler.”

“No, it’s like if Pennyworth was a robot.” Micah added, eyeing the girl next to him. “That was a really bad…analogy? Have you ever even read Ironman?” The boy judged.

“Shut up.” Marley deadpanned. “We’re making Auntie Nadine’s house ten times cooler. You think she’s gonna notice another package with all the stuff she orders?”

“She will if it walks and talks.”Micah said, grinning. “Now hurry. I think this is the setup survey and anyone can come checking up on his at any minute.”

The screen adjusted to a smooth, futuristic interface.

AURA Configuration Survey. Optional. But, if you want to make the experience unforgettable…

“Unforgettable.” Marley repeated with a smirk. “Let’s go.”

Private Configuration Survey – AURA Unit #007

Answer honestly to ensure optimal user experience.(Note: Once submitted, preferences are locked in for bonding phase.)

1. What kind of support will the user benefit from most? (Select all that apply):

[ ] Physical assistance (lifting, running, protection). [ ] Task management (emails, errands, organization). [x] Emotional balance (stress de-escalation, energy reading). [x] Conversational engagement (company, reminders, reflection)

“Definitely that one,” Marley said, pointing. “She talks to herself too much.”

“I don’t think she notices.”

2. What is the user’s current lifestyle?

[ ] Highly active, social, fast-pace. [x] Independent, professional, busy. [ ] Creative, exploratory, experimental. [ ] Relaxed, home-oriented

3. How should AURA respond under pressure?

[ ] Assertive and directive. [x] Calm and grounded. [ ] Humorous and light [ ] Silent until prompted

4. What kind of presence should AURA have in the home?

[ ] Subtle but attentive. [x] Always on-hand. [ ] In the background unless called. [ ] Commanding and structured

5. How emotionally intuitive should AURA be

[ ] Not at all—task-focused only. [ ] Moderately—pick up on moods, offer support. [x] Highly—understand shifts in tone, body language, even silences

“Okay, she’s gonna love that.”Marley said with a grin. “Remember when she cried at the end of Paddington 2?”

“Well, so did I….”

6. The user prefers companions who are…

[x] Thoughtful and calm. [ ] Straightforward and direct. [ ] Reserved and quiet. [ ] High energy and expressive

7. Ideal communication style?

[ ] Formal and efficient. [x] Warm and intuitive. [ ] Light and witty. [ ] Minimal

8. Would the user appreciate personal attention to detail? (e.g. remembering birthdays, moods, routines):

[x] Yes. [ ] No. [ ] Only when relevant

9. AURA should interact like…

[ ] A professional assistant. [x] A loyal companion. [ ] A discreet observer. [ ] A supportive coach

Micah tilted his head. “What does ‘loyal companion’ mean?”

Marley shrugged. “I think it just means cool sidekick energy. Like Watson or Chewbacca.”

“Nice.”

10. Anything else we should know about the user? (Optional):

Marley hummed in thought for a moment before she began typing quickly. “She drinks coffee every morning at 6:45, she falls asleep with documentaries on, animal or history, and she forgets to eat when she’s on high emotions. Anger, stress, sadness. She likes it when people notice little things but gets weird when you say nice stuff too directly. She’s kind of secretly lonely but she won’t admit it. Oh, and she likes jazz but not the weird kind with screechy horns.”

Micah blinked. “Whoa. That’s kinda deep. You really know your stuff.”

“I pay attention.” The girl said. Marley then hit SUBMIT with a grin.

The screen flashed. Profile Logged. Preparing AURA for transport. Estimated arrival: 2-3 business days.

The twins then high-fived. “She’s gonna freak out.” Micah whispered.

“In a good way.”Marley added. “Hopefully.”

✦

It was now the next day, and if you couldn’t tell by now, Nadine Nelson was not one to wake up late.

That was the first rule of her universe. The first part to her routine. Her alarm chimed at precisely 5:45 AM, every morning without fail, a single soft note, like the chip of a bird, before she silenced it, sat up, and began the orchestration that was her life. Her body and mind moved like synchronized gears in a Swiss watch—sleek, efficient, and expensive.

So when a loud, jarring knock knock knock banged against her front door at 6:15 AM, it was not just an interruption.

It was an affront.

Her eyes snapped open, head jerking toward the illuminated time panel beside her bedroom light switch. 6:15? Her jaw clenched. She was already behind schedule.

Muttering under her breath, she shoved off her covers and grabbed her silk robe from the hook near her bed. Her movements were less precise this morning, more agitated than usual, and still a bit sleepy as her slippers scuffed across the hardwood as she stormed to the front door.

When she opened it, ready to deliver a verbal cease and desist, she paused.

There was a man at her door, next to a large package. But the man at her doorstep didn’t look like the usual FedEx or UPS guy. He wore a crisp black-and-white suit with polished shoes, a slim earpiece tucked behind one ear. He stood beside a large, square wooden crate perched on a steel dolly, taller than he was and easily the size of a refrigerator.

“Yes?” Nadine asked, her tone sharp as broken glass.

The man, unreadable behind dark glasses, tilted his head. “Are you Nadine Nelson?”

She didn’t like the way he asked it. Like he already knew the answer.

“Yes.” She replied flatly, arms crossed over her robe.

“Great. This is for you.” He said, stepping forward and pushing the crate toward her. Nadine moved out of shock, and instinct with a crate that size barking towards her, inevitably letting the man in with the crate, but once she realized she was coming drier into her honey she stepped in, palms up. “Uh, excuse me!” She said, stopping him. “I didn’t order anything. And certainly not something that looks like it should be in a warehouse.”

The man didn’t blink, but that the should tell through his glasses. “You are Nadine Nelson, correct?”

She sighed, jaw tight. “Yes. I already said that.”

“Then this is for you.”

Without another word, he wheeled the box into her foyer. Her eyes widened as the dolly clacked over her expensive floors, the crate casting a looming shadow across the pristine white walls of her home, from the sun shining through the large windows.

“Wait—hold on.” Nadine said, gripping the belt of her robe. “I’m serious. I did not order this. You need to take it back.”

The man was already turning for the door. “Take it up with customs, ma’am.”

“What? Customs? What customs?”

He ignored her completely. As he stepped outside, Nadine caught him press two fingers to the earpiece tucked behind his ear. “It’s been delivered.” He said coolly, then walked down the hallway of her luxury building as her front door slid shut on its own.

Nadine stood there in stunned silence, her arms hanging at her sides as she stared at the box now squatting in the middle of her living room.

Then she screamed.

A long, guttural scream that echoed off the marble and glass of her carefully curated life. Something she tended to do to let out her overflowing emotions.

And after a minute or two of huffing out of breath and anger, she turned on her heel and stormed back to her bedroom. Her phone was still on the nightstand, glowing from a few missed notifications. She didn’t even bother to text. She opened her voice message, hit record, and in her usual no-nonsense tone, she snapped.

“Clear my schedule for today. All of it. There’s some bullshit I need to take care of.”She pressed send to Jane, and then tossed the phone onto the bed without a second thought.

Back in the hallway, she opened the hall closet and pulled out a crowbar from the bottom shelf of her emergency tool kit. She hadn’t touched it since she assembled her custom bookcases two years ago, but it felt oddly satisfying in her grip.

The walk back into the living room was almost cinematic if someone else was there to view it—robe flowing, face full of anger, slippers skimming the floor, crowbar in hand. The crate sat there like a taunt. Uninvited. Immovable.

She didn’t hesitate to go to town, unleashing her irritation onto the box. Nadine wedged the crowbar into the gap between the wood slats and yanked. A nail groaned before it snapped loose, followed by another, and another. She was methodical but furious, stripping the crate open like a woman possessed with rage. Bits of sawdust and packing foam floated through the air, nails flying left and right, a bit dangerous but she didn’t seem to care at the moment. All of it littering her previously immaculate living room.

Nadine kicked aside the last of the packing material, breath puffing from her lips in irritation. She was done. Done with the entire thing. She expected to find an overpriced espresso machine or something.

But instead, she opened the crate and was met with… another crate?

Her brows lifted, her irritation fading into a slow, confused frown.

It wasn’t like the shipping box. This one was different. Striking. A dark wood, deep mahogany with an almost matte sheen. The surface gleamed with intricate carvings, elegant but oddly ancient, like something pulled from the archives of some old, forgotten dynasty from long ago. And in the center was a large gem. Oval-shaped, but a natural look to it, like it was just pulled from the earth and placed into the center. It was embedded like a heart, its color a deep blue, almost black in the shadows but gleaming cerulean where the light hit. It shimmered like water at midnight.

Nadine let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her fingers hovered over the jewel, almost drawn to it, like it was calling to something beneath her skin. Something primal.

She reached forward.

The stone was cool. Smooth. Her fingertips just barely grazed the surface when—

FLASH.

The gem lit up instantly, glowing from within like a waking eye. Nadine gasped and jerked her hand back, stumbling slightly.

“What the hell?” She whispered.

But she couldn’t look away, no matter how bright the light got

The light from the gemstone pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like it had a heartbeat. And then, as if in response to her shock, the carvings along the chest began to glow as well—lines of a sliver blue creeping from the jewel into the grooves and patterns etched into the wood, filling every line until the whole thing shimmered in a way that made her chest tighten with unease and…awe.

Nadine blinked, and her heart thudded against her ribs.

This—this was definitely not something you could order off Amazon.

And that’s when she noticed it. Taped to the inner panel of the crate, partially obscured by packing straw, was an envelope. Thick. Heavy. Cream-colored paper with a glossy finish and silver wax seal.

She reached for it, peeling it free. The seal bore the emblem of the United States, but stylized. Sleek. Futuristic. Her name was printed across the front in smooth, robotic cursive.

𝐓𝐨 𝐍𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧

She frowned. A deep, suspicious furrow. This crate was for her?

Snatching the envelope, she tore it open and unfolded the single sheet inside. The words were printed, formal, precise. But they sent a jolt down her spine.

𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐬. 𝐍𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧,

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀—𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝’𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐬, 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭.

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡-𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞, 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐥.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞.

—𝐂.𝐑.𝐈.𝐒.

𝐂𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 & 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 | 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

There was a purple glitter check mark by the question. And she closed her eyes as she took in a deep breath, already knowing who to blame for this. Nadine stared at the letter, then at the crate, then back again.

She was going to kill her niece and nephew.

And then—once the twins were grounded for life and Bianca was chewed out for letting them touch her mail—she was going to sue whoever thought it was cute to send her a six-foot robot without consent.

But for now, she placed the letter down slowly and stepped closer to the chest.

It hummed. Just once. A low vibration that rippled across the wood floor and into the soles of her feet. Then, the chest unfastened with a hiss.

The lid groaned.

A long, sinuous sound of pressure escaping, like the breath of something long dormant finally allowed to exhale. Mist pooled from the edges of the ornate coffin-like crate, curling along the floor like tendrils of fog. The dim morning light poured through the windows, catching the shimmer of the gemstone embedded in the chest—still pulsing with a slow, deliberate rhythm, like a heartbeat.

Nadine stared, crowbar slack in her hand, chest rising and falling too fast for comfort.

Inside, the shape was obscured. Cloth. A velvet-like black material draped across something… someone.

Another hiss whispered from the crate. The latches disengaged with an audible thunk. And slowly, ever so slowly, the coffin-like chest began to open—hinges smooth and silent, assisted by unseen tech. The lid released fully and slid backward, revealing more of the figure beneath.

Nadine inched forward, each footstep muffled by the hush of mist and the pounding of her heart. Her instincts screamed at her to stop. To turn around. To call someone. Her sister. Jane. The FBI. The CIA. The Pope.

She stared at it, eyes narrowing. “What did you two do?” She muttered, already picturing her nieces, innocent smiles hiding devilish delight, whispering and giggling as they plotted this chaos.

But her curiosity was stronger. That damned glimmering jewel. That sleek envelope with her name etched like some sort of prophecy. That letter that claimed this… thing knew her already.

The cloth stirred and Nadine froze.

Then the fabric peeled itself away—mechanically, precisely—revealing skin.

Well, no, not skin. It couldn’t be. It was just some beautiful mimicry of it. Smooth and matte. A man’s chest, carved with symmetrical precision and framed by sculpted shoulders. They were bare and powerful in the right compression shirt with the cut sleeves.

Nadine’s breath hitched.

And then he sat up. The fabric slipped off like water while Nadine stared, mouth slightly open.

It was slow and graceful, like someone waking from a century-long slumber. The man—because that’s what he looked like, down to the subtle flex of his hands—was breathtaking. Sculpted. Not just handsome, but deliberately so, he was made this way. Smooth dark skin, eyes like obsidian glass, and a face that didn’t seem designed but born from every secret longing she’d never dared voice. His eyes opened—two smoldering pools of warm obsidian, rimmed faintly with glints of silver. They found hers immediately.

Nadine staggered back a step.

He blinked once. Tilted his head. And then—smiled.

Not a robotic, lifeless twitch. But a curve of the mouth that felt… devastatingly real. It was warm and gentle. Intimate in a way.

Nadine almost forgot he was meant to be a robot and not some random man in a box.

“Nadine.” He said.

Her name, from his lips, made something low in her belly twist. His voice was deep, perfectly modulated, with just enough grit to make her toes curl. It was soft but strong, like thunder rolling far away across the sea.

“You—you know my name?” She asked, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. But she did anyways with the uncharacteristic stutter that slipped through, totally unlike her. The crowbar was still in her hand, but it felt laughable now. She wasn’t in danger. She was… almost enchanted in a way.

“Yes.” He said, stepping forward with fluid, feline grace. He towered a good foot above her, dressed in a fitted black uniform that shimmered faintly in the light. “I’ve always known your name, known it since you were assigned to the prototype queue.” He replied. “I was made for you. I’ve been learning you ever since.”

“Learning me?” She repeated, throat dry.

His eyes softened as he nodded. “I’ve watched your presentations. Your interviews. I’ve studied your calendar. Your habits. Your moods. What calms you. What drives you. What keeps you up at night.”

Her brows furrowed. “And why would you do that?”

“So I could be ready when you needed me.”

The words hit her like a wave. Sudden and unsettled something deep within her. It was undeniable.

“I didn’t need anyone.” She snapped at him out of instinct.

The man tilted his head, his eyes glowing blue as he scanned her face. ‘Defensive’ it flashed across his eyes. “No.” He agreed. “But you deserve someone.”

And then there was silence. A thick, emotional silence hung between them as Nadine stared up at him. His face was symmetrical, almost distractingly beautiful—like something a sculptor would weep over. But it was his gaze that disarmed her. No flicker of code was viable besides the unnatural glow, and even that was a bit comforting. There was no empty mimicry. He just looked at her, his eyes never once leaving her face.

“Who… what are you?” She whispered.

He then extended a hand with a small smile. Palm up. As if offering her not just an answer, but himself.

“I am AURA-7.” He said. “My designated name is Michael, but you can call me whatever feels right.”

Nadine didn’t move at first, her brain screaming a thousand warnings at her as her eyes flicked between his face and hang. Her chest was tight, unsure.

But her hand reached out anyway.

And when their skin touched—when her fingers slid against his palm—it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t metal. It was warm. Comforting and real. And this was the first time she’s touched someone in such a non work manner in a long time.

He smiled again, this time slower, more intimate.

And Nadine Nelson, woman of routine, disciple of control, high priestess of solitude… felt her entire world shift beneath her feet.

[wendichester]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ highway to heaven,

summary. if god created weed, it was to be experimented with. and who better to smoke your first joint with, than with an unexperienced angel?

pairing. castiel x reader genre. crack

wordcount. 653

notes / warnings. drug use (weed), strong language, and dumbassery of the highest order. no actual angels were harmed in the writing of this piece

You honestly don’t know how it starts. One minute, you’re talking about stress, the next, you’re in the bunker’s garage sitting cross-legged on the floor with Castiel, a tiny metal grinder in your lap and a suspiciously dusty joint tutorial video playing on your phone.

“This is... illegal in several states,” Cas says, frowning at the plastic bag you bought from a sketchy gas station two towns over.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, “so is most of what we do. Plus, I googled. It’s legal here. Ish.”

Cas watches as you fumble with the grinder like it’s a cursed object. His brow furrows like the fate of humanity is now tied to this little herbal project. “Why are there so many steps?”

“Because the universe hates convenience,” you mutter, finally dumping the crushed flower into a paper and rolling it with the delicate precision of someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re doing.

It looks... passable. Lumpy, slightly bent, but a joint nonetheless.

“Are you sure this will relax us?” Cas asks, tilting his head like a confused labrador. “It smells like skunk. Evil skunk.”

“That’s part of the charm.” You hand him the lighter. “Here. You can have the honor.”

He squints at it like you just gave him a tiny bomb. “What is this?”

“Oh my God. It’s a lighter, Cas. You flick it.”

He flicks. Nothing happens.

You flick. A spark. “Okay, now suck in while I light it—no, not that fast, you’re gonna—yep. You coughed.”

Cas is hacking like a dying lawnmower, eyes wide, hand flailing at the smoke. “It’s burning me. Why would people enjoy this?!”

You’re already giggling. “Just give it a second.”

A minute later, the two of you are leaned back against a dusty tire rack, joint passed back and forth like some kind of sacrament. The high hits fast, like a slap wrapped in glitter. The world gets a little floaty. Your limbs stop belonging to you. You feel your own smile stretch across your face and it won’t go away.

“I feel... untethered,” Cas whispers, looking at his hands like they’re the secret to the universe. “Am I still in my vessel? Or did I shed it like a snake?”

You wheeze. “You’re not a snake, Cas.”

He touches his face. “Then why do I feel scaly?”

You double over with laughter. “You’re just high, dude.”

“This is high?” He looks around dramatically. “Then where are the clouds? Shouldn’t there be clouds? Or birds? I want to talk to a bird.”

“You can talk to birds,” you say, sobering for half a second. “You’re an angel.”

“Exactly. So where are they?”

You try to stand but forget how knees work and end up just sort of... hovering over Cas like a melting starfish. “Oh my God. We forgot the snacks. What are we doing without snacks? This is a crime.”

“Is this part of Hell?” Cas asks, blinking at the ceiling.

“No, Hell has vending machines that steal your quarters. This is worse.”

The door creaks open behind you. You both freeze like raccoons caught in a trash can.

Dean pokes his head in. Stares.

You’re 85% sure your pupils are the size of Jupiter.

He sighs. “I told Sam they’d hotbox the garage.”

Cas perks up. “Dean! Did you know clouds are not sentient but should be?”

Dean doesn’t blink. “Okay, I’m gonna go pretend this isn’t happening.”

He shuts the door.

Silence.

Then: “I think we blew his mind,” you whisper.

Cas nods solemnly. “I like being a cloud.”

You both burst into another fit of unstoppable laughter. You never get around to snacks. You fall asleep with your head on Cas’s shoulder and a goofy smile plastered across your face.

Next morning? The garage still smells like a Phish concert.

You blame the skunk.

Cas blames the snake inside him.

Dean never looks either of you in the eye again.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[crushpunky]

drew and actress!reader’s first anniversary

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

the highly requested :)

Y/n woke up peacefully, her head resting in Drew’s lap as he brushed his fingers through her hair. With a long inhale, she wrapped her arms around his torso before peering up at him.

“Good morning.” Drew said, his voice raspy. He traced a finger along her jawline as he admired her freshly awoken features.

“Good morning.” Y/n whispered, moving to sit against Drew’s chest. She rested her cheek against the skin of his collarbones, the necklace she had gotten him resting alongside her. Drew smoothed his hand down her back, resting his hand on the swell of her thighs.

“So…” Drew said, a sly grin spreading across his lips before the two of them started laughing.

“What?” Y/n asked, furrowing her brows as she looked Drew up and down.

“I think you should… go check out the kitchen.” Drew smiled impossibly wider, his cheeks tinged pink with excitement.

“I should? And why’s that?” Y/n teased, causing Drew to shrug his shoulders playfully. With an exaggerated groan, y/n rolled off of Drew and onto her feet.

“I’m just saying… maybe there’s something there, I don’t know.” Drew raised his hands in faux innocence as he climbed out of bed. He stretched his arms above his head with a groan. Y/n looked him up and down, watching the way the muscles of his body moved and admiring the brilliant tan of his skin and its speckling of freckles.

“Go!” Drew laughed, shooing y/n out of the bedroom with a playful tap of her butt.

“Ok, ok, I’m going.” Y/n smiled, padding down the hallway. She peered around the living room, looking for anything out of the ordinary before moving to look at the kitchen. Immediately, she was greeted with the reason she’d been told to come out in the first place. There, perched atop the kitchen counter, was the bright, purple espresso machine she had been telling Drew all about for the last few months.

“Joseph Andrew!” Y/n squealed as she whipped around to see Drew’s wide, mischievous smile. Y/n crossed the kitchen in only a few seconds, excitedly looking over the brand new machine in all its glory. Her fingers fiddled with the buttons, the steam wand letting out a cloud of steam that made y/n let out an excited giggle. Drew walked up behind her, just as happy to see her excitement over her gift.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Y/n said, wrapping Drew in a tight hug before peppering his face with kisses. The blush on Drew’s cheeks only grew.

“Happy anniversary, baby.” Drew murmured, wrapping his arm casually around her torso. Y/n smiled up at him, unable to stop herself. Then, Drew’s face suddenly contorted into an expression of realization before he reached above the refrigerator. As he brought it down, y/n saw the wrapped box he now held in his hands.

“Drew!” Y/n scolded him as he offered the box out to her with a grin. “I haven’t even given you your gift and you’re already on gift number two?!”

“Gotta keep up, baby.” Drew pressed a quick kiss to y/n’s temple before depositing the box into y/n’s hands. He soothed his hand up and down her back as she pulled at the ribbon atop the box before carefully removing the paper. Inside was a velvet box, which caused y/n to look up at Drew widely.

“Drew, this is too much…” Y/n said, shaking her head as Drew beckoned her to continue. Slowly, she opened the box. Inside it was a dainty gold chain, and nestled in the middle, sat a twinkling, serif “d” charm. Y/n felt her breath catch as she stared down at the necklace, her fingertips brushing against the cool metal as she admired it.

“I, uh, know this is kind of a… selfish gift, but I hope you like it.” Drew murmured.

“It’s…” Y/n looked up at him, a slight glint in her eyes as she smiled. “I love it.”

Drew let out a sigh of relief as y/n picked up the necklace from its box. She unclasped it before handing it to Drew and turning her back to him. Drew reached up, draping the necklace around her. The cool metal of his rings brushed against the nape of her neck as he moved her hair out of the way, sending shivers down her spine before he finally fastened the clasp. In an excited skip, y/n ran to the bathroom. In the mirror, she admired the golden charm that rested against her collarbones. Seconds later, Drew appeared behind her. He eyed her reflection closely, taking in each aspect of her before wrapping his arms around her.

His biceps flexed as he squeezed her tightly, lowering his head to kiss her temple before leaving a trail along her jaw. Y/n felt her heart skip, her eyes fluttering close under Drew’s touch. She allowed herself to bathe in it for only a moment before she abruptly opened her eyes once more.

“Get in the shower.” Y/n said suddenly, causing Drew to lift his face from her neck with a furrow of his brow.

“Uh… ok?” Drew said with a slight chuckle, unwrapping his arms from around her to rest his hands on her waist. “Will you be joining me?”

Y/n swallowed harshly before shaking her head repeatedly. A small pout formed on Drew’s lips before he threw his head back with a dramatic groan.

“I’m sorry!” Y/n whined, turning around to face Drew. “As much as I would love to… I have something I have to take care of.”

With a sigh, Drew pressed a quick kiss to y/n’s head before shoving her away playfully.

“Have a great shower!” Y/n teased as she looked back at Drew as he turned on the shower.

“Oh, I will.” He said, stepping out of his boxers just as y/n closed the door to the bathroom. As soon as the door shut, y/n quickly took off to fetch Drew’s gift.

“Y/n?” Drew asked as he exited the bathroom, expecting to see y/n perched on the bed, but surprised to find it empty. Drew ran a hand through his dampened hair, water droplets falling onto his fresh t-shirt as he turned towards the hallway..

“Shh, shh, you gotta be quiet, ok?” Drew could hear y/n whisper, followed by the muffled clinking of metal.

“Y/n?” Drew asked again as he began padding down the hallway. As soon as he peered around the corner, and looked into the living room, his jaw dropped. There, resting sweetly in y/n’s arm, was a brown and white speckled puppy. But not just any puppy, the puppy. The puppy Drew had fallen in love with while the two of them had been volunteering at the shelter over the last few months. The puppy that had Drew dropping hints about expanding their family with a furry friend. The puppy that had immediately trotted up to Drew, tail wagging, and stole his heart. 

“Happy anniversary.” Y/n said, smiling widely as she sat the dog down on the ground. Immediately, the puppy clumsily bounded over to Drew. Drew sank to his knees as the dog hopped into his lap, barking happily as Drew immediately pulled the puppy into his arms. The dog licked his jaw, causing Drew to let out an almost childlike laugh before he looked up at y/n.

“Thank you.” Drew said, his voice cracking slightly as he rose to his feet. He stepped towards y/n, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into his side as they looked at the lively puppy on Drew’s chest. Y/n scratched the puppy’s head before peering up at Drew. She noticed the glassiness in his eyes as he smiled down at the dog before looking over at her. Y/n reached up, wiping a stray tear from Drew’s cheek, causing him to let out a small chuckle before pressing a quick kiss to y/n’s head.

“I love you. Thank you so much.” Drew whispered, petting behind one of the puppy’s floppy ears.

“What do you want to name him?” Y/n asked, smoothing a hand down Drew’s back. Drew gnawed at his lip, gazing gently at the dog in front of him.

“How about Charleston?” Drew said, to which the dog let out an excited bark. Y/n laughed at the dog’s reaction.

“Hello, Charleston.” Y/n smiled, resting her head on Drew’s shoulder, the two of them staring lovingly at their new addition.

[pheastinyworld]

kisses... and cuddles? ❀•°•───────•

Summary: gabe always needed to hug you after every kiss you shared, it became routine. but two years into your relationship, you finally asked him why.

Word count: 2.05k

Warnings: none that i'm aware of, let me know if there are!

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it was a strange habit you noticed quite early on in your relationship. without fail, whenever gabe pressed a kiss onto your lips, less than a second after you'd find his head buried in the crook of your neck and his arms snaking around your body to hold you close. it was cute, you loved this little routine that he just had to do. a kiss and then a hug. 

you never questioned why he did it; it just became a normal thing, something you expected. in fact, you couldn't remember a single time since your very first kiss when he hadn't hugged you directly after. 

when it first started, you thought it must have been that lovey dovey feeling you get at the start of a relationship - the one where you just want to be as close to the other person as possible. but two years into being with gabe, you started noticing it more often and became curious why he always retreated into your embrace.

his friends that actually brought it to your attention. you were laying on your stomach across gabe's bed typing out an assignment that was due for your econ class - gabe with his head rested on your back, scrolling on his phone.

“how much longer baby?” gabe spoke up, his tone sweet as honey, knowing it would make you break your study.

“I'm sorry. the paper’s taking so much longer than it should be.” you turned on your back, supported by your elbows, a maneuver that forced gabe to lift his head and reposition to lay it on your stomach. “but if I get it down tonight I can be at the game tomorrow.”

at that, he smiled, happy that at least you'd be in the crowd; his girl, with his name sprawled across her back, supporting him. gabe looked up at you and his heart literally felt like it was melting at the sight of your smile. the boy was so down bad and he knew it too.

“I guess that's fine…” he drew out, rolling his eyes playfully before moving up to hover over you slightly, your noses touching and both of you grinning like idiots.

“im sorry, I know you wanted to hang out.” you apologize one more time, reaching your hand up to brush the hanging pieces of hair from his forehead before running your fingers through it. his eyes closed and he let out a content hum at the gentle scratch of your fingernails against his scalp.

“you don't need to apologize, I get it.” gabe responded, dropping his head so his forehead rested on yours. “just wanna make sure i can see my pretty girlfriend near the glass tomorrow when I play.” 

your cheeks flushed a little. “promise, i'll be there.” 

and although as a thank you, gabe leaned down to press a gentle kiss upon your lips. you smiled into it as you felt his hand rub up and down your sides, not sure if it was soothing your giddiness or his.

once he pulled away, before you could even process it, his head was on your shoulder, face crawling into your neck and his arms wrapping around your body to pull you flush against his.

you ran your fingers through his hair again, eyes closed to bask in his tight hold. you were so used to this you didn't even question it, not only a routine for him but a routine for you-

“are you two decent?” you heard will shout from the door as he pushed it open and walked inside, ryan following in tow.

“why'd you even ask, you walked right in anyway.” gabe huffed, sitting back up to rest against the headboard.

“I don't know, felt like the right thing to say.” 

“I thought you guys were going to be at the gym.” you said, reaching for your laptop to rest it on your legs.

“yeah but like the whole lacrosse team decided to come in and hog the machines.” ryan mumbled while reaching for the basket of snacks will and gabe kept in their room. “I'm starving, can we go get some lunch?”

“yeah I'm down.” will agreed before turning to you two, “you two down?” 

“I can't but gabe's free, his stomach's been rumbling for the last thirty minutes.” you spoke, pulling a laugh out of gabe's best friend's.

“hey, you said you couldn't hear anything!” gabe turned towards you with a slightly offended look, making you giggle.

“I could and it's getting distracting so go and have lunch please.” 

gabe huffed before quickly pecking your lips. being around the boys, you'd expect him to not go through with his little habit, but you found him hugging you, head right under your chin.

“oh my god, stop, my eyes are going to fucking fry.” 

“jesus gabe, way too much pda dude.” 

you laughed at his friends, watching as gabe rolled his eyes and got off the bed.

“see you guys.” you shouted as they walked out the door, pulling farewells from each boy.

as they made their way out, you caught some of their chirping at gabe.

“you take so long saying goodbye to her man.” 

“yeah the kiss and then the hugging as well, you're so whipped bro.”

you only just managed to catch the last bit before the door closed. you had never actually thought about it. you were in a two year relationship with someone you loved so much and you had never realized this little thing he did. you sat up in his bed for a while, econ paper momentarily forgotten as you tried to think back to a time when he hadn't hugged you directly after a kiss. you came to realize very quickly, you really couldn't think of one time.

you forced yourself to push your questions to the back of your mind, keeping a mental note to ask about it later, and resumed typing.

the next evening, you sat with grace and some of your friends, blankets draped across your laps as the warm ups began. tonight they were playing michigan state and you all chose to sit right up against the glass so you could see everything up close. 

like always, gabe searched for you in the crowd, and once found, he beelined to your section. he tapped on the glass as if your full attention wasn't already on him. your cheeks were already beginning to burn at how widely you were smiling at your boyfriend, hopping up and tapping the glass right back at him.   

he picked up a puck from his stick and into his hand, motioning his throw up without letting go of it to warn you what he was doing. you stood back a little and caught the puck, looking back up and finding it impossible to smile even wider at him. you adored the fact gabe would give you a puck each game. 

no matter how much the boys chirped at gabe for being very visibly head over heels, you knew you were just the same. you wanted to somehow break through the glass and hug him when he smirked back at you, giving you a goofy wave before skating back to practice shooting. 

“you two are so disgustingly cute.” grace giggled as you sat back down. you blushed a little and thanked the older girl when she placed the shared blanket back over you. 

you fiddled with the puck the whole game. the last period ended in a 5-2 for boston, with gabe getting two assists. 

your friends decided to head back to their dorms and you and grace stayed back, knowing the boys would take a while to clean up post-game. 

it only took about half an hour before you and grace spotted some of the boys heading out, the two of you walking to find the three boys so you could all celebrate with a dinner.

gabe and his two linemates came into their sight, all of them giggling away as usual. as they got closer, and gabe spotted you, his boyish smile you loved so much appeared on his face, his hands reaching out to you as he got close as if it was the most natural thing.  

he pulled on your hand and led you away from the group so you two were just out of earshot.

“you played so well!” you praised, standing on your tip-toes to wrap your arms around his neck and place your lips against his. 

“thank you.” he mumbled, slightly incoherently as he continued to work his lips in unison with yours. 

and just like that, he pulled away, giving you one more peck before drawing you into his arms, his head taking its place against your neck. you huffed out a small laugh, before deciding it was time to ask him why he always did this.

“gabe?” you tried getting his attention, but all you were met with was a hum, reverberating from his throat, “sweetheart.” you retracted your head so you could see him straighten up a little, grinning lovingly down at you.

“yeah?” 

“I wanted to ask you something.” suddenly you felt all shy. 

“ask away baby.” he was so sweet you just wanted to forget the whole thing. he looked at you expectantly, rubbing either sides of your waist to soothe you, already catching you were nervous.

“well, I've realized that every time we kiss, you end up having your head like attached to my shoulder. I was wondering why you always hug me after.” you looked up as his eyes grew wide as if he was a little boy caught eating special tucked away candy he wasn't supposed to eat. 

“oh, um.” he pulled one hand away to scratch the back of his neck. “okay promise you won't tease me?” 

you furrowed your eyebrows but still nodded at him to continue. 

he swallowed as if it would gain him some confidence. he never thought you'd ask. he had kinda forgotten about it really, it had become so normal for him. but he knew exactly why he started doing it and in all honesty he was a little embarrassed about it, it was his little secret. 

“when we started dating and um I kissed you for the first time at that party,” he was speaking slowly, wanting to choose the right words, “I was like really nervous, and I had felt my face heat up so hot. I didn't want you to see me so red and so stupidly shy that the first thing I thought of was to hug you and hide my face.” 

your lips parted, fighting the grin that was threatening to build on your face, not wanting to risk him getting too embarrassed to finish his story. but, you were so endeared by him in that moment that you couldn't say a word. this, however, made gabe even more scared and he began to ramble.

“and I thought it would go away and I would get more comfortabl- not that I'm not comfortable around you, I am, of course I'm comfortable around you.” at this point you couldn't help it, a wide smile tugging on your lips, “just every time, I would get so flustered.” 

“gabe-” 

“I mean, I still kinda do, not as much but stil-”

you did the only thing you could think of to shut him up, pressing a firm kiss upon his lips, and feeling him melt into your touch. and without thought, you then wrapped your arms tighter around him and buried your face into the crook of his neck, feeling his tension release as he dropped his head against your shoulder.

“you're literally perfect, d'you know that.” you mumbled into the fabric of his suit. “like you could not be any more perfect.” 

you felt his laugh run through his body before he pulled away.

“so you're not weirded out?” he asked, his lips forming into a playful pout as you brushed over his reddened cheeks with your thumb.

“I didn't think it was possible to love you even more than I do, but I think you just made that happen.” you grinned at him.

“for fuck sake, are you two done yet? i want to go get dinner.” ryan groaned loudly, making the two of you laugh.

“come on, let's go feed your linemate.” you giggled, slipping your fingers into his.

it's safe to say, you never regretted asking him about his cute little habit.