#Then in a blink... like in a dream... the entire world around has changed. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

helvegen-s · 4 months ago

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an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: After a devastating crash, Oscar Piastri’s road back to F1 is anything but smooth. Stuck with Mandy, his stubborn physiotherapist, he’s forced to face pain, fear, and emotions he never expected. Racing was always his dream—but now, she’s part of it too.

Word count: 12k (wtf)

TW: graphic depictions of injuries, medical procedures, strong language, emotional distress and trauma, disability, sex (not explicit)

A/N: god, I love oscar (even tho i make him suffer like a bitch in this one...) again, i promise it has a good ending, just bear with me

masterlist

Oscar Piastri was living the best moment of his career.

McLaren had made an incredible leap in performance, and though he wasn’t the main title contender, he was constantly fighting for podiums and key points. The season was a dream come true—strategies were working, his confidence in the car was absolute, and the team supported him every step of the way. There was nothing better than feeling that rush of adrenaline when lowering the visor, hearing the countdown on the radio before the start. Everything in his life revolved around Formula 1, and at that moment, nothing seemed capable of stopping him.

It was a race weekend at Spa-Francorchamps. The track, legendary and imposing, always demanded the absolute maximum. Rain had been a constant threat, and the race had started under mixed conditions, with the asphalt in that tricky in-between state—neither fully wet nor fully dry—that tested a driver’s instincts to the limit. Oscar felt in control, managing the tires with surgical precision, confident in every move.

Until he wasn’t.

The crash happened in an instant, a blink that changed everything. An unexpected touch, the car losing control, the barrier approaching at impossible speed.

The impact shook him like a rag doll. The crunch of twisted metal, the deafening crack of carbon shattering, the sheer violence of hitting the barriers—all of it collapsed into a single second of absolute terror.

And then, silence.

He didn’t lose consciousness. He wished he had.

The world slowed down, as if time itself refused to move forward. The pain didn’t come immediately, as if his body hadn’t yet figured out how to process what had just happened. But when it did, it was a burning wave that consumed him entirely.

His leg.

He tried to move, but he couldn’t. Something was wrong—very wrong. With difficulty, he turned his head and saw it. His right leg… bent at an impossible angle. His stomach lurched. He felt bile rising in his throat but could barely breathe. The blood darkened the bright orange of his suit, sticky, hot. His mind screamed, but his body didn’t respond.

“Oscar! Oscar, say something!” His engineer’s voice came through the radio, sharp and desperate.

He tried to answer. Tried to tell them he was there, that it hurt like hell, that he couldn’t move… but his throat made no sound. He could only gasp, feeling the pain expand, the panic grow with every beat of his heart.

“Oscar, respond! Can you hear me?” this time, he heard Zak’s voice.

Every second of silence only made the desperation on the radio worse. He knew they were all watching from the pit wall, that the cameras were on him, that the entire world was waiting for a sign.

But he couldn’t give them one.

Fear hit him harder than the impact against the barriers. His career, his life, everything he knew… was it over?

A violent spasm of pain made him clench his teeth so hard he thought they would break. His vision blurred. He heard noises around him—the screech of the safety cars, the hurried footsteps of the marshals running toward him, the sharp ringing in his ears.

“Oscar! We’re on our way! Don’t move!”

The emergency team arrived in seconds, though to him, it felt like an eternity. Firm hands touched his helmet.

“Oscar, breathe. We’re here.”

Breathe.

He tried, but the air came in ragged, shaky gasps. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like he was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t control it. Everything around him was a whirlwind of noise, flashing lights, faces he couldn’t focus on.

They pulled him from the car with the utmost care, but every movement sent unbearable pain through him. A strangled cry escaped his throat, and the voices around him became even more urgent.

Then the helicopter.

He felt it before he saw it. The pounding of the rotors in the air, the deafening roar that made his skull vibrate. He shut his eyes tightly. His body was shaking—he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain, the adrenaline, or pure terror.

Someone placed a mask over his face.

“Oscar, count to ten for me.”

One.

He thought of his wrecked car.

Two.

Of the leg he might never use again.

Three.

Of everything that was at stake.

Four.

Of the fear—the real fear—that maybe, just maybe, he would never be a driver again.

Five.

Darkness.

The days blurred into one another, indistinguishable, trapped in an endless cycle of pain and emptiness.

Surgeries followed one after another. Some days passed without intervention; on others, he woke up to the news that another operation had been scheduled—another attempt to save what was left of his leg.

It was absurd.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him how severe the injury was. He had known from the moment he saw the way his leg had been left in the car, from the instant he felt the indescribable pain as they pulled him out, from the way the doctors spoke in urgent terms, as if every second mattered.

Each surgery was a battle he had never asked to fight.

They administered anesthesia, his body sank into unconsciousness, and when he woke up… everything was still the same.

The same pain, the same feeling of being trapped in a body that no longer responded as it once had.

The same damn certainty that maybe, no matter how many operations they performed, he would never be the same again.

Sometimes, he woke up from the anesthesia feeling confused, disoriented, his mouth dry and his stomach churning. They tried to make him eat, but everything tasted like nothing. The food remained untouched on the tray as he simply turned his head away, unable to even attempt it.

The pain was a constant, a searing presence that settled deep in his bones and refused to let him breathe. The painkillers barely helped, and when they did, they left him in a lethargic state where reality and dreams blurred together in an unpleasant haze.

The only certainty was the passing of the days, marked by the doctors’ visits, by the sound of his own pulse in his ears, by the way night fell without him feeling like he had moved forward in any way.

Nothing.

That was the word that defined his existence now.

Nothing to think about, nothing to do, nothing to look forward to.

Only pain. Only uncertainty. Only the echo of a future that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure still belonged to him.

The hospital clock marked time with cruel precision, each second dragging by like a silent sentence. Light filtered through the window at different times of the day, casting shadows on the white walls, but he never looked away from it.

Looking at anything else meant facing reality.

And he wasn’t ready for that.

His world had shrunk to that sterile room, to the machines beeping around him, to the soft murmurs of doctors coming and going, to the sound of doors opening when someone came to visit.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t look.

He didn’t have the strength to.

His mother had tried to talk to him at first. So had Lando. His childhood friends, the McLaren mechanics, Zak Brown… they all came in with the same worried expressions, with the same look of someone who wanted to say something but didn’t dare to.

He never looked at them.

He couldn’t do it without feeling a raw, burning anger in his chest. He couldn’t listen to them without the frustration building up like a knot in his throat. He couldn’t bear the weight of their concern, their pity.

Because if he did, it meant this was real.

It meant his career was in danger.

That his life was no longer his own.

That he was trapped in a bed, unable to move his own leg without feeling such unbearable pain that sometimes he wished they would put him to sleep and not wake him up until it was all over.

He clenched his jaw every time sharp, stabbing pain shot through his body, every time his leg—or what was left of it—reminded him of his own fragility. The doctors spoke of progress, of successful surgeries, of rehabilitation plans, but it all felt distant, irrelevant.

He knew that at some point, he would have to face it. That eventually, someone would force him to move, to try, to do something other than just lie there, feeling himself wither away.

But not today.

Today, he only stared out the window, lost in thoughts that ate away at him from the inside.

He replayed every second of the accident, like a broken film looping in his mind over and over again.

Could he have avoided it? Could he have turned sooner? Braked differently?

His brain tortured him with every possibility, every alternative, every little thing he could have done to not end up here.

To not be… this.

To not feel like a useless, broken piece of flesh.

And then she arrived.

The first time he saw her, Oscar barely lifted his gaze.

He heard her voice before he saw her—clear, firm, with not a hint of hesitation.

"Oscar, I’m Amanda, your physiotherapist. From now on, we’ll be working together."

He didn’t respond. He had no intention of doing so.

But then she stepped closer, placed a few papers on the table next to his bed, and waited. Not with endless patience, not with the forced sweetness he had noticed in other visitors. She simply waited.

And when he didn’t react, she continued.

"I know you probably hate me. Everyone does at first."

That, at least, made him look at her.

She wasn’t what he expected.

She wasn’t the image of an older therapist, hardened by years of experience. She wasn’t someone who radiated the wisdom of decades in the profession. She was young. Incredibly young to be standing there, to be the one McLaren had hired to fix him.

But she didn’t seem uncertain. Not even for a second.

She didn’t smile, didn’t try to soften her words. She simply looked at him with an impenetrable professionalism.

Oscar didn’t know what he had expected from the person who was supposed to give him his life back, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t someone who introduced herself with that much confidence, who spoke with that much honesty.

It wasn’t someone who, with complete calmness, made it clear that the worst was still ahead.

The sessions started the next day.

And within hours, she became the embodiment of his worst nightmare.

The pain was unbearable.

Oscar thought he knew physical suffering. He had felt it after minor accidents, after grueling races, after brutal training sessions. But this… this was different.

This had no purpose. No satisfying end. It wasn’t the consequence of something great, but of something that had taken everything from him.

“Move it.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I. Can’t.”

“Oscar.”

He hated the way she said his name. As if she had absolute certainty that he would succeed. As if she knew more about him than he did himself.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried, unsuccessfully, to move his leg. A single centimeter felt like a monumental task, and every time he tried, the pain blurred his vision.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t offer empty words of comfort. She didn’t try to minimize his suffering.

She just waited.

Waited for him to try again.

And when he did—when he managed even the slightest progress—she nodded ever so slightly, as if she had expected nothing less.

She never praised him. Never told him he was doing a good job.

As if, to her, getting better wasn’t an option, but an inevitable fact.

Oscar hated that. He hated the certainty with which she believed in his recovery, because he didn’t believe in it himself.

But more than anything, he hated how, despite it all, every morning when he woke up, she was still there.

Always there.

Always with that same determined look.

Always with that same certainty.

Oscar didn’t know what was worse—the pain or the feeling that, somehow, she had no intention of letting him fall, when all he wanted was to let go.

When Oscar left the hospital, he didn’t feel relief.

He had expected that being back to his home in England, near the McLaren headquarters,would make everything easier. That the air wouldn’t smell of antiseptic, that his days wouldn’t be dictated by visiting hours and surgeries, that he could find some peace in the familiarity of his home.

But reality was different.

Being home meant facing life outside the hospital, and that terrified him.

His mother was there with him, helping with everything he needed. She never complained, never made him feel like a burden, but that only made things worse.

This place had once been his sanctuary. Now, every corner felt like a reminder of what he had lost.

Especially the garage.

He had turned that space into his personal gym back when he would spend hours training relentlessly. Now, that same space had been transformed into his rehabilitation room. The weights and machines were covered in dust, replaced by support bars, resistance bands, and a therapy table.

And Amanda—Mandy, as his mother insisted on calling her—was there every day.

She entered with the same energy she had at the hospital, unfazed by his silence or his bad mood. She greeted his mother with a smile before dragging Oscar’s chair to the garage, waiting for him to start the session.

And he did, because he had no choice.

The exercises were unbearable.

The pain burned.

Every time he tried to move, his leg felt like someone was driving a red-hot iron through it.

And Mandy showed no mercy.

“Up,” she ordered, arms crossed. “One more time.”

Oscar gritted his teeth and glared at her.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Mandy, for fuck’s sake…”

“Oscar, for fuck’s sake.”

He let out a sarcastic laugh, incredulous.

She didn’t budge. She never did.

At night, when he dragged himself back to bed, exhausted and aching, he swore he hated her.

But no matter what he did or said, the next morning, she was always there.

Waiting.

But without a doubt, what he hated most about rehab were the days when Mandy helped him lie down on the therapy table, his right leg lifted, pink scars in plain sight.

Oscar hated these moments.

Not because they were the most painful—he reserved that for the rehab sessions where Mandy made him sweat until his muscles trembled—but because they left him completely exposed.

The massage sessions were necessary. He knew that. His leg had been through too many surgeries, too many stitches, too many hours of immobility. The skin was tight over the scars, the muscles stiff, and every movement reminded him that he wasn’t the same as before. Mandy said they needed to work on elasticity, circulation, pain relief. He listened to her say it in that neutral, almost dispassionate voice, as if she were talking about any other patient.

But that didn’t change the fact that it hurt like hell.

At first, he tried to endure it in silence. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and held on. But the longer the session went on, the more unbearable it became. Mandy wasn’t exactly gentle, and even though she used oils and her hands were firm and skilled, she didn’t hold back when she needed to press on the tension points.

So, without thinking too much about it, Oscar started talking.

“You know Eau Rouge has a 17% incline?” he blurted out, his jaw tight.

Mandy didn’t stop but responded calmly. “Doesn’t surprise me. Spa is a brutal circuit.”

Oscar winced as her fingers ran over an especially sensitive scar.

“Technically, the corner isn’t just Eau Rouge. It’s part of Raidillon, but people say it wrong.”

“Mmm. Fascinating.” The lack of emotion in her voice told him she didn’t care at all.

But that didn’t stop him.

“Did you know Formula 1 had its first season in 1950? And that the world championship only had seven races?”

“Oscar.”

“Did you know Niki Lauda won the title in ‘84 without taking a single pole position all season?”

“Oscar.”

“Did you know—”

“Oscar.” This time, Mandy stopped, pressing his leg a little harder than necessary. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re trying to distract yourself, aren’t you?”

He frowned but couldn’t deny it.

Mandy smirked and went back to work, massaging his leg with precision.

“It’s fine. Keep going. Surprise me.”

Oscar eyed her warily. “You don’t mind me talking?”

“I’d rather you talk than start yelling at me. Besides, I’m learning a lot. Like, what was that Spa incline again?”

“Seventeen.”

“Uh-huh. Good to know.”

The irony in her voice made him click his tongue, but for some reason, his initial frustration faded a little.

The conversation continued in a disjointed rhythm. Sometimes, Oscar complained about the pain; other times, he got distracted enough to forget why he was even talking so much. When Mandy pressed on an especially tight spot, he let out a grunt and muttered,

“I hate you.”

She didn’t even blink.

“You’re not the first to tell me that.”

That response, so unexpected and casual, made a laugh slip past his lips. Almost immediately, Oscar regretted it. He didn’t want to laugh with her. He didn’t want to like her.

But the truth was that, for the first time in a long while, the session hadn’t been just pain and frustration. And deep down, that terrified him.

The months passed, and though Oscar hated to admit it, he was starting to see results.

They weren’t huge, not yet. He wasn’t running, not even walking, but every day, there was something new. A little more mobility, a little less pain, a small victory that Mandy celebrated as if he’d just won a Grand Prix.

And the worst part was… he appreciated it.

The anger was gone. He no longer spent his days hating his leg or cursing his luck. Now, all that remained was frustration. The unbearable, slow, agonizing frustration of not being able to do what his body had been programmed to do for as long as he could remember.

But Mandy was there. Always.

And somehow, she had become the most constant thing in his life.

“Well, Piastri, today we’ve got a new set of exercises.” Mandy flipped through her notebook with a nonchalant air. “And by ‘new set,’ I mean you’re going to suffer.”

Oscar let his head fall back against the wheelchair and groaned.

“Why do you enjoy torturing me?”

“Why do you enjoy complaining?”

“Because you give me reasons.”

Mandy laughed and patted his good leg. “Come on, up.”

The sessions were exhausting. But Oscar had learned to tolerate them, partly because Mandy had stopped worrying about keeping up a strictly professional façade. Now she messed with him, made jokes at his expense, gave him ridiculous nicknames.

“That’s it, champ. You’re an inspiration.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. Netflix probably wants to make a documentary about you. The Rebirth of Oscar Piastri.”

“Mandy.”

“One man, one mission. To reclaim his leg. But first, he must survive his physiotherapist.”

He scowled at her, but the amused glint in his eyes gave him away.

That was the other part of the equation: Mandy knew when to push him and when to let him breathe. There were days when, instead of doing the scheduled exercises, she simply pushed his wheelchair to the park behind his house.

She was sitting on a bench beside Oscar’s chair, the cool breeze on his face, and he took a deep breath.

"You know I want to come back, right?"

Mandy stared ahead, arms crossed over her chest, enjoying the warming sun.

"I know."

"You know I will come back."

She took a moment to respond.

"I know you want it with everything you have."

"That’s not the same."

Mandy turned to him, her expression serious.

"Oscar, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But I won’t lie to you. I don’t know how this is going to end. No one does."

It was the conversation he dreaded most. But it was also the one he needed the most.

"And if I can’t?" he asked quietly.

Mandy was silent for a moment. Then she sighed and nudged him lightly.

"Then you’d find another way to be happy."

Oscar glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"Easy for you to say."

"No, it’s not. But it’s the truth."

They fell into silence.

Oscar thought about everything that had changed in the past few months. About the person he had been before the accident and the person he was now. He thought about Mandy, her laughter, her persistence, how she had become one of the few people he could truly be honest with.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to consider that maybe he wasn’t so alone in all of this.

The moment came without warning.

One day, after months of grueling exercises, of falls, of frustration, of pain, Oscar stood up.

It wasn’t heroic or cinematic. His legs trembled, his breathing was ragged, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest. But he did it.

With a crutch in one hand and his heart pounding in his ears, he took his first step without completely relying on someone else.

When he looked up, Mandy was watching him with a smile that held no trace of mockery.

"You’re a damn beast, Piastri."

He let out a shaky laugh, dropping his head forward as he tried to catch his breath.

But the victory was short-lived.

Because as soon as the news reached McLaren, so did the calls.

"How long do you think it’ll take for him to get back in a car?"

"What does his physiotherapist say?"

"Next season is already on the horizon. The sponsors are asking."

Oscar had lost count of how many times he had heard the word "normal" in the past few days, but every time he did, his stomach twisted.

He convinced himself that all of this was helping. Pressure had always been his fuel. If he worked harder, if he gave everything, if he pushed his body to the limit, maybe he could come back faster.

Maybe he could be himself again.

But what he refused to acknowledge was that, when left alone with his thoughts, the idea of coming back terrified him.

It wasn’t just the physical recovery. It was the uncertainty, the insecurity of not knowing if his body would hold up. If he would hold up.

And that was when the invitation arrived: an event at McLaren’s headquarters, with sponsors, staff, executives… Oscar had the sinking feeling they had invited him to reassure people. To put him on display, to let everyone see. "Look at him, he’s fine. He’s still alive. He has both legs."

The last rehab session before the event started like any other.

Mandy had set up a series of stability and mobility exercises. Nothing new. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

But at some point, everything started to fall apart.

The attack came without warning.

Oscar was standing, one hand gripping the crutch, the other pressed against the wall for balance. He had done this before, hundreds of times over the past months. One step, then another. Control the breath. Keep the posture.

But this time, something felt different.

First, a slight dizziness, a sharp pang of weakness in his injured leg. Then, his heart started pounding too hard, too fast. His skin felt hot and cold at the same time, a cold sweat running down his back.

He tried to take a deep breath, but the air wouldn’t fill his lungs.

No. Not now.

He couldn't breathe.

Panic hit him like a clenched fist to the chest. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, his hands trembled, his muscles tensed as if his entire body were in high alert.

Oscar staggered, and Mandy saw it before he could even get a word out.

"Oscar." Her tone changed in an instant. Firm, but concerned.

He tried to lift his gaze, but the room tilted around him. Everything was moving too fast and too slow at the same time.

"Oscar, sit down."

He didn’t know if she helped him or if his legs gave out on their own, but in the next instant, he was sitting on the bench against the wall, his head in his hands.

Everything was spinning.

He couldn’t breathe.

Each gasp of air got stuck in his throat.

“No… I can’t…”

His voice sounded strange, broken, like it didn’t belong to him.

Mandy knelt in front of him, hands on his shoulders, trying to ground him.

"Oscar, look at me."

He tried, but his vision was blurred, his chest so tight it felt like he was suffocating.

“Breathe with me, okay?” she said, taking his hand without hesitation. Her fingers were warm and steady around his. “Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale.”

Oscar trembled, his whole body shaking with chills, with the unbearable tension making him feel like he was about to fall apart at any moment.

“No… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can.” Mandy didn’t budge an inch. Her voice, though calm, held a note of urgency. “Listen to me, Oscar. You’re safe. You’re here with me. You’re not alone.”

You’re not alone.

Those words shattered him.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears came anyway, burning as they slid down his cheeks.

Months.

Months of holding everything in.

All the pain, all the frustration, all the anger, all the fear.

Months of pretending he was fine. Of smiling at the doctors, of enduring the pressure, of telling himself he had to be strong, that he had to keep going, that he had no other choice.

But there, in that moment, with Mandy holding onto him, with his ragged breathing and trembling body, everything broke.

Oscar gripped her with both hands, without even thinking, burying his face in her shoulder.

And he cried.

He cried like he hadn’t since the accident.

His body shook with every sob, every uneven breath. Mandy didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop him or brush it off. She just wrapped both arms around his back and let him fall apart.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck in an instinctive gesture of comfort. “I’m here, Oscar.”

He could only nod against her shoulder, because words wouldn’t come.

Everything he had buried crashed over him like an unstoppable wave.

The fear of never being the same.

The pressure of the entire world waiting for his return.

The terrifying possibility that, even if he came back, maybe he’d never be enough.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Only that, eventually, his breathing evened out, his grip on Mandy loosened a little, his head no longer felt like it was about to explode.

And she was still there.

She didn’t tell him to be strong.

She didn’t say everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

She just stayed with him.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were still wet, but the storm inside him had quieted, at least a little.

Mandy handed him a tissue without a word.

Oscar took it, wiping his face with a tired, embarrassed laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a list of clients who’ve cried in your arms.”

Mandy smiled, but her eyes still held concern.

“No, but you’re officially my most dramatic case.”

He let out a shaky chuckle.

She sighed, studying him with a sharp, assessing gaze.

“You don’t have to go tomorrow.”

Oscar looked down, twisting the tissue between his fingers.

“Yes, I do.”

Mandy didn’t argue.

She just placed a hand on his injured knee, steady as always.

“Then we do it your way. Not theirs.”

He didn’t answer right away.

But this time, when he looked at her, he felt like he could breathe.

The morning of the event arrived too fast.

Oscar looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt with trembling hands. He had spent months preparing for this moment. To prove to the world—and to himself—that he was ready, that he could come back.

But now, with the weight of expectations pressing on his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt felt too tight against his chest, like an invisible noose.

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Ready to dazzle the media?" Mandy peeked her head in with a half-smile.

Oscar exhaled sharply, letting his shoulders drop.

"If by ‘dazzle’ you mean not falling flat on my face in front of everyone, then yeah, I guess I’m ready."

Mandy stepped inside, crossing her arms as she looked him over.

"That’s not going to happen. You’ve worked too hard for this." She moved closer, automatically straightening his tie. "Besides, I’ll be there."

Oscar blinked.

"What?"

"I’m going with you."

He frowned, confused.

"Mandy, you don’t have to—"

"I’m not here because I have to," she cut him off, her tone firm, the one she used when she wasn’t taking no for an answer. "I’m here because I want to be."

Oscar didn’t know what to say.

There was something different in the way she looked at him now, something softer, warmer. It wasn’t just the professional watching over her patient. It was Mandy, his Mandy, the person who had seen him at his worst and never once backed away.

So instead of arguing, he just nodded.

"Thank you."

And this time, he didn’t just mean for the event.

The McLaren conference center was packed. Journalists, executives, sponsors—everyone was waiting for Oscar Piastri’s return.

Camera flashes flickered through the air, and voices blended into a constant hum. For a second, Oscar felt dizzy, the grip on his crutch making his knuckles turn white. Then, he felt a hand on his back.

Mandy.

"Breathe," she murmured next to him, so quietly only he could hear.

He did.

Every step he took was deliberate, measured, the cane clicking against the floor. He knew every eye in the room was on him, assessing him.

But he wasn’t alone.

Mandy walked beside him—his shadow, his anchor. Not in an obvious or overprotective way, but just enough for him to feel steady.

They approached the small stage where Zak Brown and Andrea Stella were waiting. The McLaren executives smiled at him, and though their words were encouraging, Oscar could feel the pressure behind every question.

"When will we see you back in the car?"

"How are you feeling physically?"

"Are you ready to compete again?"

Each question was a reminder of everything expected of him.

He smiled. Answered calmly.

"I’m working really hard on my recovery. I’m focused on coming back as soon as possible, but I want to do it right."

It was the right answer. The answer everyone wanted to hear.

But deep down, his chest tightened again.

The press conference went on, and while Oscar kept his composure, Mandy knew him well enough to notice the stiffness in his posture, the subtle clench of his jaw every time someone mentioned his return to normal.

When it was all over—when the cameras were lowered and the executives drifted into side conversations—Mandy stepped closer, leaning in just enough so no one else could hear.

"How do you feel?"

Oscar didn’t answer right away.

He looked around at all the faces expecting something from him. Then, he glanced down at his crutch—the constant reminder that he wasn’t where he wanted to be yet.

But when he lifted his gaze again, the first thing he saw was Mandy.

She wasn’t looking at him with pity, but with confidence.

And something in his chest, something that had been too tight all day, loosened just a little.

"Good," he finally said, with a half-smile. "A lot better because you’re here."

Mandy smirked.

"Of course I am."

And though Oscar knew he still had a long road ahead, for the first time in a while, he felt like he didn’t have to walk it alone.

The afternoon of the event passed in a blur.

After the press conference, Oscar endured the conversations with executives, the unwavering smile on his face, the pats on the back, and the promises of a bright future. He handled every question with the patience of a saint, but when he finally stepped outside, with Mandy beside him, he felt like he could breathe again.

They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, neither in a rush to leave.

"Alright," Mandy said, crossing her arms. "On a scale of one to ten, how unbearable was that?"

Oscar huffed.

"A fourteen."

She laughed—that soft sound that always did something to his chest—and shook her head.

"You survived."

"So did you," he replied with a slight shrug. "You had to sit through all of it with me."

"I always do," she said, looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.

Oscar felt a tingling at the back of his neck. Not discomfort, but… awareness.

Suddenly, he was more aware of her than ever before. Of her presence, the way the breeze lifted a strand of her hair, the ease with which they talked, as if there was no longer any barrier between them.

Oscar cleared his throat and looked away.

"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly.

Mandy raised an eyebrow.

“Are you asking me out to dinner, Piastri?”

“No,” he replied immediately. “I mean, yes. But… as a thank you, you know? For being here.”

Mandy looked at him with amusement.

“A thank you, sure.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Dinner started with the same relaxed energy as always.

Mandy didn’t sit across from him but beside him, in the corner of a small Italian restaurant that smelled of basil, garlic, and freshly baked bread. It was a cozy place, unpretentious, the kind of spot where people talked loudly and steaming plates of homemade food kept arriving at the tables.

“You do realize this is technically a date?” Mandy commented lightly, flipping through the menu without looking at him.

Oscar scoffed, taking a sip of his water.

“No, it’s not. It’s a thank-you dinner.”

“So you’re thanking me with food?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that sound exactly like what someone does on a date?”

Oscar slowly turned his head to her, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you want it to be a date?”

Mandy shrugged, but the amused smile on her lips threw him off.

“That depends. Are you paying?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, it’s a date.”

Oscar huffed but couldn’t stop the smile that twitched at his lips. Mandy had this way of turning any conversation into something light, of pushing him just a little outside his comfort zone without him realizing it until he was already laughing.

When the food arrived, Oscar leaned over his plate of pasta with the hunger of someone who had spent too much energy pretending to be fine all day. Mandy, on the other hand, picked up her pizza with a calmness that could only be described as irritating.

“You know,” she said, chewing thoughtfully, “if you were as fast on track as you are when you eat, you’d be unstoppable.”

Oscar froze, fork halfway to his mouth, staring at her in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re always complaining about recovery being too slow, but at this speed, you should be running marathons.”

Oscar set his fork down with an exaggerated thud on the table and turned to her, feigning outrage.

“Are you challenging me, Mandy?”

“I’m just saying what I see, Piastri.”

“Fine.” Oscar picked up his glass and took a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “Then I say your pizza choice is terrible.”

Mandy placed a hand over her chest as if she had just been stabbed.

“What?”

“Pineapple, seriously?”

“Oh, please, we’re not starting this debate.”

“There is no debate,” Oscar said with a shrug. “Just facts. And the fact is, you’ve committed a crime against Italian cuisine.”

Mandy shook her head, laughing.

“You know what’s worse? I’m helping rehabilitate someone with a child’s palate.”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

“Says the one eating pineapple pizza.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Of course, it is.”

“No, it’s not. But that’s okay, Piastri. Not everyone can have good taste.”

Oscar shot her a look of disbelief before shaking his head, a reluctant smile breaking through.

It was strange. Unexpected. But it felt good.

Easy.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the weight of recovery on his shoulders. He didn’t feel the pressure to become the driver everyone expected him to be again. He was just there, with Mandy, eating at a small restaurant, joking about nonsense.

And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to enjoy it.

The weeks passed, and their dynamic only continued to evolve.

Mandy was no longer just his physiotherapist.

She was the person who showed up at his door with extra coffee when she saw he’d had a rough night.

She was the one who sat on the floor with him when he got frustrated in sessions, saying nothing, just staying there until he was ready to talk.

She was the one who called him an idiot with the sweetest smile when he tried to push himself harder than he should.

She was the one who made him laugh when he thought he couldn’t anymore.

And without realizing it, Oscar started looking forward to seeing her more than he wanted to admit.

He started noticing the way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she was passionate about. He started remembering little details about her without meaning to—how she liked her coffee, how she scrunched her nose when she was focused, how she had a particular way of tilting her head when she was about to give him advice.

And worst of all… he started realizing she was looking at him differently too.

There was something in the way she watched him now, a softness in her gestures, a tenderness in the way she touched his arm to support him, in the way she whispered, “You’re doing amazing” after every small progress.

One night, after a particularly exhausting session, Oscar collapsed onto his couch while Mandy packed up her things.

“I hate you,” he muttered without conviction.

Mandy smiled, not even looking at him.

“I know.”

There was a moment of silence before Oscar spoke again.

“Would you stay a little longer?”

Mandy turned to him, surprised.

"What?"

"You don't have to. But… I don’t want to be alone tonight."

She looked at him for a moment, evaluating him. Then, without a word, she set her bag on the floor and dropped onto the couch beside him.

Oscar didn’t know what that meant.

But he didn’t feel the need to ask.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else, something deeper, as if a silent understanding had settled in that brief moment.

Mandy didn’t ask why Oscar didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t need to. She didn’t tell him everything would be okay because she knew that wouldn’t help. Instead, she just stayed.

Oscar turned his head toward her, noticing how relaxed she looked on his couch, as if she somehow belonged there. It was strange how Mandy, who had once been just his physiotherapist, had now become a part of his life in more ways than he could fully grasp.

"Do you want to watch something?" she asked suddenly, pulling out her phone.

"If it’s another video of cats trying to jump and failing, I’ve already seen them all."

Mandy scoffed.

"Don’t underestimate my ability to find quality content."

Oscar let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Prove it."

Mandy wasted no time playing a video. It was a compilation of funny falls—people slipping on ice, dogs miscalculating their jumps, kids getting scared by their own reflection.

And against his will, Oscar ended up laughing.

At first, just a small smile. Then, a quiet chuckle. Until finally, he let out a real laugh—the kind that rumbled in his chest and left him breathless.

Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye, smirking.

"Well, looks like you do have a soul after all."

Oscar wiped away a tear from laughing, his eyes still shining.

"And what about you? Are you going to admit you have a heart?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Who says I don’t?"

"You hide it well."

Mandy smiled but didn’t reply. She simply leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms over her chest.

The silence returned, but this time, it felt different.

Oscar felt the urge to speak, to say something important, something he had been trying to understand for weeks. But instead, he just exhaled slowly and said,

"Thanks for staying."

Mandy didn’t look at him, but her voice was soft when she replied,

"Always."

After a while on the couch, Mandy stretched her arms and stood up.

"Alright, I think it’s time I eat something. And you too."

Oscar groaned from his spot.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don’t care. You’re eating."

Oscar shot her a look of feigned exasperation as Mandy walked toward the kitchen like she owned the place. He had seen her move around his space so many times over the past few months that it didn’t even feel strange anymore.

"You do know this is my house, right?" he said, dragging himself off the couch with the help of his crutch.

"I know," Mandy replied without turning around, rummaging through the pantry. "But someone has to make sure you don’t starve to death."

Oscar huffed but didn’t argue further. He followed with unsteady steps, still slow, but more confident than he had been weeks ago.

"What are we making?"

"Something simple. I don’t want you collapsing halfway through the recipe."

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned against the counter as Mandy pulled out ingredients. They ended up cooking together, at their own pace. Mandy did most of the work, but she let Oscar help where he could—stirring the sauce, chopping a few things with effort.

It was a ridiculously domestic scene.

After everything they had been through, after months of rehab and pain, cooking together in his house felt like a line he hadn’t expected to cross.

When they finished, they sat at the table with steaming plates of pasta in front of them. The dim kitchen light cast an unexpected intimacy over the moment. Oscar watched as Mandy took the first bite and nodded approvingly.

"Not bad, Piastri. Maybe you’ve got a future in cooking if this F1 thing doesn’t work out."

Oscar smiled, tired but genuinely warm.

"Maybe I’ll open a restaurant. ‘The Cripple’s Pasta.’"

Mandy burst out laughing, and he was surprised by how much he liked the sound.

After a while, Mandy set down her fork and looked at him.

"How do you feel?"

Oscar lowered his gaze to his plate, idly stirring the leftover pasta with his fork.

"Tired. Sore."

Mandy said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

He lifted his eyes.

"But… good."

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued.

"Good, huh?"

Oscar swallowed.

"Yeah. Because I’m here. With you."

There was a moment of silence. Mandy looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Something soft, something that made his throat tighten.

"You’re an idiot," she said finally, but there was more fondness than anything else in her tone.

Oscar smiled.

"I know."

Mandy sighed and stood to clear the dishes, but Oscar stopped her, his hand gently wrapping around her wrist.

She froze, surprised by the gesture.

Oscar wasn’t sure what he was doing either—only that he didn’t want this moment to end just yet.

"Mandy…"

She waited, her gaze locked on his.

He could feel her pulse beneath his fingers.

He could feel the line between them blurring more and more.

Mandy didn’t move. She didn’t pull her hand away, didn’t make any gesture to tell him to let go of her wrist. She just looked at him, expectant, as if she knew he had something to say but wouldn’t pressure him to say it.

Oscar swallowed. His mouth was dry.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Mandy smiled, but there was something in her expression—something softer, more intimate.

“You won’t find out,” she said quietly.

Oscar stared at her. Something tightened in his chest.

That was when he realized how close they were.

How close they had been for months.

Only now, for the first time, he truly felt it.

The warmth of her skin, the way his breathing matched hers. The way his thumb, without thinking, traced the lightest touch against the skin of her wrist.

Mandy noticed.

And she didn’t pull away.

“Mandy…” he whispered.

He didn’t know what he was going to say next. He wasn’t sure of anything in that moment, except that he wanted to stay there. That he wanted her to stay there.

Mandy exhaled softly. Her fingers moved against his in the slightest motion—a touch so faint it barely registered, yet enough to make something inside Oscar go taut.

“Let’s watch a movie,” she said suddenly, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Oscar blinked, disoriented.

“What?”

Mandy gently pulled her hand away and started gathering the dishes, as if nothing had happened.

“A movie. You need it. And I don’t want to see you overthinking anything else tonight.”

Oscar watched her move around the kitchen, trying to process what had just happened.

But, for some reason, he didn’t feel disappointed.

Because Mandy hadn’t run.

Because he didn’t want to force anything.

Because this—whatever this was—made sense.

So he let out a soft laugh, shook his head, and got up to follow her to the couch.

The movie played on the screen, but neither of them was really watching.

Oscar tried to focus, tried to follow the plot, but his mind was elsewhere. On the way Mandy sat beside him, on how their bodies seemed to drift closer without either of them making a deliberate move.

Under the shared blanket, their legs brushed every now and then, and each fleeting touch sent a shiver down his spine. The first time, Oscar thought it had been accidental. The second, he wondered if he’d imagined it. But by the third, the fourth, the fifth—he wasn’t so sure anymore.

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore it.

And then he felt her hand.

Just a touch, the lightest brush of fingers, but it was enough to make the air between them feel heavier, charged. Mandy didn’t move away, and neither did he. Somehow, their hands remained still under the blanket, their pinkies barely touching, neither of them daring to be the first to move.

But Oscar felt every heartbeat like a drum, each passing second unbearably slow.

The tension was almost tangible.

Mandy swallowed.

“This movie is kind of boring, isn’t it?” she murmured.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been paying attention.”

Mandy turned her head to look at him, and Oscar felt the exact moment the air shifted between them.

She felt it too.

Her gaze flickered down to his lips for the briefest second, barely noticeable.

But Oscar noticed.

And that was all he needed.

His hand slid under the blanket until his fingers intertwined with hers, and Mandy didn’t pull away. On the contrary, her grip tightened slightly, her thumb tracing a small circle against his skin—a gesture so intimate and silent that Oscar instinctively leaned toward her.

Their faces were only inches apart.

He could feel her breath, her perfume, the warmth of her skin so close to his.

The moment stretched.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Oscar wouldn’t be able to say who closed the final distance. Maybe him, maybe her. Maybe it had simply been inevitable.

But when their lips finally met, when the kiss sealed with the sweetness of something held back for too long, Oscar knew there was no turning back.

The kiss started soft, hesitant, as if neither of them wanted to break the fragile bubble they had enclosed themselves in. Mandy was the first to react, tilting her head just slightly, parting her lips, giving Oscar the answer he hadn’t dared to ask for out loud.

And then, there was no more hesitation.

Oscar cradled the back of her neck with one hand, pulling her closer, losing himself in the warmth of her mouth. Mandy moved without doubt, her fingers tracing his cheek, his jaw, before tangling into his hair.

It was everything he had wanted, everything he had ignored for weeks.

The brush of their lips deepened, grew more intense. Oscar felt his chest expand with a sensation he didn’t quite recognize, something intoxicating that left him insatiable. She was fire and calm all at once—a refuge and a storm.

Mandy pulled back for a moment, breathless, her nose brushing against his.

“Oscar…”

There was no doubt in her voice, but there was something else—something that felt like a warning. As if she were giving him the chance to stop.

Oscar met her gaze, darkened by something he could feel echoing in his own body.

He didn’t want to stop.

So instead of answering with words, he kissed her again.

Mandy smiled against his lips before matching his urgency, her fingers tracing a slow, torturous path over the fabric of his shirt. Oscar shivered when she pressed her palm against his chest, feeling him beneath her fingertips, sliding her hand lower toward his abdomen with a boldness that made his pulse race.

The blanket slipped from their bodies as Mandy shifted onto his lap—carefully, with a near-imperceptible gentleness, as if she knew exactly how far she could push his limits without causing him pain.

Oscar buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent, whispering her name against her skin. Mandy let out a shuddering sigh, and he felt satisfaction ripple through him.

For the first time in months, Oscar didn’t think about his injury.

He didn’t think about his rehabilitation, the pressure, the fear.

He only thought about her. About the way her body fit against his as if it had always been meant to be there.

And how, for the first time in a long time, he wanted more.

The atmosphere had shifted. Desire still burned between them, the electricity was undeniable, but amidst the urgency, the hungry kisses, the clumsy touches, there was something else. Something much deeper, much more intimate.

Oscar barely registered how they got here, how their clothes started to disappear. He only knew that at some point, Mandy slipped off the couch, kneeling in front of him with effortless ease, helping him remove his pants with the same delicacy she always treated him with.

And then, everything stopped.

Oscar felt the cold air against his skin, against the scarred skin of his leg. He tensed, the instinct to hide, to pull away, flaring inside him like a reflex. He felt ridiculous for thinking about it—Mandy had seen his scars countless times, had touched them, had studied them.

But Mandy didn’t look away.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t make any expression of pity.

Instead, she placed her hands on his leg with a tenderness that completely disarmed him.

Her lips, warm and soft, traced over every scar, every mark that told a story of pain and struggle. She didn’t skip any, didn’t avoid a single one. She took her time, as if she wanted to memorize each line, each ridge, each imperfection.

Oscar didn’t know when his throat started to burn, when the pressure in his chest became unbearable. He only knew that before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek.

He didn’t understand why.

It was affection, it was tenderness, it was sorrow. It was everything at once.

Mandy lifted her gaze, and their eyes met. She didn’t say anything, but her look spoke volumes. Of acceptance, of devotion, of a love without cracks.

Without moving her hand from his leg, she reached up to his face, brushing the tear away with her thumb, unhurried.

Oscar leaned toward her and kissed her.

It was a slow kiss, deep, filled with everything they couldn’t put into words.

When they pulled apart, Mandy rested her forehead against his, closing her eyes for a moment.

“You’re incredible,” she whispered. And Oscar didn’t know if she meant his body, his recovery, his strength—or just him.

But it didn’t matter.

Because, for the first time since the accident, Oscar Piastri didn’t feel ashamed of what he was.

The night continued with an unexpected tenderness. There was no rush, no urgency. It was just the two of them, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and whispers, tangled in kisses and caresses that seemed endless.

Oscar had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed—and yet, so safe. Mandy touched him as if every part of him deserved to be cherished, as if his scars were testaments to his strength, not reminders of what he had lost.

When they finally rested, their bodies intertwined beneath the blanket, Oscar felt something new settle in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with passion or desire, but with peace.

Mandy traced lazy circles on his arm, her breathing slow, steady.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmured, her voice still drowsy.

Oscar took a moment to answer.

“That I don’t know how we got here.”

Mandy let out a soft laugh.

“If you need me to explain it in more detail…”

He rolled his eyes, laughing against her hair.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words.

“When I first met you, I hated you.”

“I know,” Mandy replied with amusement.

“No.” Oscar propped himself up on one elbow to look at her better. “I mean it. I thought I’d never be able to stand you. You were too stubborn, too optimistic.”

“Guilty.”

“But then…” Oscar exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Then you became the only thing keeping me sane.”

Mandy looked at him in the dim light, her expression softening.

“Oscar…”

“No.” He cut her off, feeling that if he didn’t say it now, he never would. “I just want you to know. That without you, I…”

He stopped, swallowing hard. Mandy reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, making him hold her gaze.

“I know,” she whispered.

And Oscar knew, with a certainty that scared him a little, that she really did.

That Mandy understood him better than anyone.

That if there was a way to truly heal, it was with her by his side.

Oscar remained silent after that, his mind caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. Mandy was resting against his chest, her breathing steady, but he couldn’t fully relax.

“Mandy…” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the dark.

“Mhm?”

“Is this okay?”

She lifted her head slightly to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

Oscar hesitated.

“Us. What just happened. The fact that you… you’re my physiotherapist. Or at least, you were. And that we’re crossing a line.”

Mandy watched him in silence for a moment before sighing with a small smile.

“Are you worried I’ll get you in trouble?”

“No, I’m worried you’ll get fired,” he answered honestly. “That this isn’t allowed in your contract or that—”

Mandy interrupted him with a soft touch to his cheek.

“Oscar, my contract ended weeks ago.”

He blinked, surprised.

“What?”

“McLaren only asked me to get you to take your first step. That was my goal as your physiotherapist,” she explained calmly. “After that, your physical trainer was supposed to take over.”

Oscar was speechless.

“So…?”

“So I stayed because I wanted to. Because I wanted to keep helping you. Because this was never just a job for me.”

Oscar felt something inside him crumble. All the doubts, all the insecurities, the nagging thought that maybe she was only there because she had to be… vanished in an instant.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Mandy smiled, that infuriatingly calm smile of hers.

“Because I know you. If you had known, you would’ve pushed me away. You would’ve said you were fine just so I wouldn’t feel like I had to stay.”

Oscar couldn’t deny it. Because it was true.

“So…” he said slowly, intertwining his fingers with hers. “This whole time…”

“This whole time, I’ve been here because I wanted to be.”

Oscar swallowed.

“And now what?”

Mandy rested her head on his chest again, tracing light circles on his arm.

“Now, you sleep. And tomorrow… we’ll see.”

But Oscar knew that, no matter what happened, she was already a part of his life.

And he didn’t want that to change.

The air in the garage feels heavy. No one talks much. The team of engineers and mechanics works around him with meticulous precision, preparing him for the private test. It’s just a test—no media, no spectators. But for Oscar, it’s much more than that. It’s his ultimate test.

Mandy stands to the side, arms crossed, watching him closely. She’s not supposed to be here—officially, her job ended months ago—but that hasn’t stopped her. And Oscar hasn’t tried to stop her, either.

When he finally sits in the car, when he feels the pressure of the molded seat against his back, when the cockpit surrounds him, when the steering wheel is in his hands and the tires are ready to hit the track… it happens.

The memory strikes like thunder.

A flash of light. The impact. The raw, metallic sound. The pain.

He can’t breathe.

He’s not here, in this garage. He’s back on that day, in that moment. He’s trapped in the wreckage of the car, the smell of fuel filling his nose, his leg crushed under the destroyed chassis.

He feels the same sharp pain in his leg. Almost two months without feeling it, and suddenly, it’s as if the injury is fresh. As if it just happened.

Someone says his name, but he doesn’t hear them. His breathing quickens. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. His eyes lock onto the halo, the carbon fiber, the chassis that isn’t broken, the helmet protecting him. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

But it’s not.

Sweat beads on his forehead. A ringing starts in his ears. He wants to move, wants to get out, but his muscles won’t respond.

A hand touches his arm.

Oscar blinks, as if snapping back to reality.

Mandy is there. She’s reaching for him from.above the car, her hand firm on his forearm. Her eyes, dark and steady, find his.

“Oscar.”

Her voice is low, calm, but not condescending. She doesn’t treat him like he’s fragile, like he’s going to break.

“I’m here,” she says, and those two words cut straight through him.

He doesn’t respond. He can’t. His breathing is still uneven, his heart still racing.

Mandy watches him for another second before moving her hand to his. Her fingers slide over his, carefully loosening his grip on the wheel.

“Look at me.”

Oscar lifts his gaze.

“You’re here. Not there. You’re in 2025, in this garage, in this car. And you’re okay. That was a year ago. You are okay”

He swallows hard. His jaw is clenched, his mind still filled with ghostly images.

“I don’t have to do this.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

Mandy nods.

“No, you don’t have to. But you want to. And that’s different.”

The team is still waiting. The mechanics pretend not to look, but Oscar feels their eyes. He knows they expect him to start the engine, to go out on track, to do what he does best.

But it’s not that simple. Not when fear is eating him alive.

Mandy squeezes his hand once more.

“You can step out right now, and no one will say a thing. It’s okay. But if you want to try, just try. Don’t think about anything else.”

Oscar closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Tries to find the ground beneath him, even though he’s in the car.

When he opens them, he sees her. She’s holding his hand, but she’s not keeping him there. She’s just there.

And that’s enough.

Oscar nods, slowly.

His fingers wrap around the steering wheel again, but this time, with control. Mandy releases his hand and steps back.

The mechanics get ready. The engineers check the data.

The garage fills with the roar of the engine as he starts it.

The fear is still there, like a weight in his chest. But now, there’s something else, too.

Oscar focuses on that.

And he drives.

The roar of the car echoes in his chest, a familiar vibration running down his spine and seeping into his blood. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and for a moment, doubt whispers in his mind.

What if he's not the same? What if he never will be?

But then he presses the throttle.

The tires bite into the asphalt, and suddenly, the world makes sense again. The wind slams against his helmet, the colors of the circuit blur around him, and adrenaline surges through his veins like an unstoppable force. The first corner comes faster than expected, but his body reacts before his mind does—steady hands, precise turn, clean acceleration on exit.

It’s like breathing. Like remembering who he is.

Every lap is an affirmation. Every brake, every change of direction, every fraction of a second shaved off the clock.

He is where he belongs. He is home.

When he finally returns to the pits, the echo of the engine still thrumming in his chest, Oscar allows himself to close his eyes for a moment.

He feels no fear. No doubt.

Only relief.

Lando is the first to reach him, landing a hard smack on his helmet before ruffling his hair once he takes it off.

"Seriously? After almost a year out, and you set a faster lap than me on your first run?"

Oscar smiles, taking a deep breath.

"I try."

Lando scoffs, but there's pride in his expression.

Zak, Stella, and the rest of the team surround him in seconds, congratulating him. Even a few drivers from the grid have come to see him, asking McLaren for permission just to be there. George pats his back, Alex and Charles can’t help but pull him into a hug. Even Colapinto is there, planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek.

But there’s one person Oscar searches for among them all.

Mandy stands at the back of the garage, not intruding, but with a small smile on her lips. Her dark eyes scan him up and down, as if making sure he’s truly okay.

And he is.

Later, as the sun begins to set, the two of them sit on the empty grandstands of the circuit. The roar of the engine is gone, but the day’s echoes still vibrate in the air. Mandy rests her elbows on her knees, gaze lost on the track.

"I saw you at Turn Five," she says suddenly. "There was a moment when you hesitated."

Oscar lowers his head, smirking.

"Yeah. But it passed quickly."

She nods. A long silence stretches between them, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Until Mandy sighs and says, "McLaren offered me a contract."

Oscar blinks, turning to her.

"What?"

"As the team's physiotherapist. They were impressed with my work with you and thought I could be useful."

Oscar stays silent, waiting for her to continue. Something in her tone tells him there’s more.

"I turned it down."

He frowns.

"Why?"

Mandy wets her lips, as if searching for the right words.

"I didn’t want my work to mix with… this. With you."

Oscar feels something warm in his chest. He can’t quite name it—gratitude, relief, something else—but it’s strong.

"So… you turned down McLaren?" he repeats slowly. "The team that treated you so well, gave you access to the best facilities, let you work with the most prized gem of their lineup?"

Mandy blinks.

"You?"

"Obviously."

Mandy laughs, shaking her head.

"You’re insufferable."

"And you clearly made a terrible decision."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Because tell me, which team signed you now?"

Mandy stretches with satisfaction before answering.

"Ferrari."

Oscar frowns, his brain processing the information.

"Ferrari?"

"Ferrari."

"Maranello’s Ferrari?"

"Unless there’s another one."

Oscar blinks.

"So now you’re going to be one of those people who speak Italian all the time and say ‘Forza Ferrari’ every five minutes?"

Mandy smiles, almost wickedly.

"Forza Ferrari."

Oscar looks at her with feigned disappointment.

"Mandy, for God’s sake, you haven’t even started yet and you’re already lost."

She laughs, giving him a gentle shove on the shoulder.

"Come on, it can’t surprise you that much. After all, someone has to be in the paddock to make sure you don’t do anything stupid."

Oscar watches her with a half-smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Oh, I see how it is. You didn’t stay because you like red—you just can’t live without me."

"Definitely not for the red. It’s hard to match."

"You’re not denying you can’t live without me."

Mandy rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her lips.

"I’m going to request to be assigned to Charles just to spite you."

Oscar places a hand on his heart, feigning a stab wound.

"Betrayal!"

Mandy bursts out laughing, and before she can reply, Oscar turns to her with a sly grin.

"You know what? It doesn’t matter. Everyone in the paddock knows you love me more."

Mandy raises an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh, really?"

"Of course. And if they don’t know yet, they will as soon as they see us together."

Before Mandy can throw back another sarcastic remark, Oscar leans in and kisses her. It’s warm, with the night breeze around them and the thrill of the day still running through his veins.

When they pull apart, Mandy exhales softly.

"You know what? Maybe red does suit me after all."

Oscar smiles, resting his forehead against hers.

"Forza Ferrari, I guess."

And Mandy laughs, kissing him again.

Throughout the season, Oscar and Mandy’s relationship had become an open secret in the paddock. Not because they had been careless—on the contrary, they had done everything possible to keep it private—but in a world where every gesture was scrutinized, some things were hard to hide.

Photographers had never caught them together outside the circuits, and in the paddock, they always maintained a professional distance. Mandy was disciplined about it, ensuring she never gave him special treatment in front of others, making sure no one could accuse her of favoritism at Ferrari for being with a McLaren driver. But inside the garages, in the hallways, in the small interactions away from the cameras, something was building between them—something any keen observer could notice.

Those closest to them—Lando, Zak, the McLaren team, Ferrari—knew. Lando had thoroughly enjoyed teasing them in private, dropping hints whenever he could, like when he caught Oscar glancing sideways at Mandy on the grid or when she walked past the McLaren mechanics and Oscar pretended to be engrossed in telemetry.

Their dynamic was simple: Mandy didn’t treat Oscar like a driver but as himself. She didn’t care about his lap times, his points, or championship statistics. She cared about whether he was sleeping well, whether the pain in his leg returned after grueling races, whether his mind was calm before he put on his helmet.

For Oscar, that was invaluable. In a world revolving around competition, having someone who saw him beyond the driver was a breath of fresh air.

Sometimes, when race weekends became too intense, they found themselves in the quieter corners of the paddock—a back hallway, the furthest spot in the Ferrari or McLaren hospitality, anywhere they could share a few minutes without cameras surrounding them. Mandy always had a sarcastic comment ready, and Oscar would respond with his dry humor, their back-and-forth banter momentarily making them forget the pressure.

And on tough days, when things didn’t go well on track, she was there. Not with empty words, not with forced motivational speeches, but with a hand on his back when no one was looking, with a quick message after a disappointing race: “I’m waiting at the hotel with ice cream. Don’t argue.”

That’s how it had been all season—care, attention, and a love woven in the margins of F1, in moments beyond the reach of headlines.

On the other hand, Oscar’s comeback season was exceeding expectations. He had returned stronger, more consistent, racking up podiums nearly every weekend. But the long-awaited first victory since the accident still eluded him. Despite it all, he didn’t feel frustrated. He knew it was only a matter of time.

But now, they were in Spa-Francorchamps. And with that came the second anniversary of the day everything changed.

Before practice sessions, interviews, and the inevitable noise of a Grand Prix weekend began, Oscar made a decision. He wanted to go to the crash site. To the exact corner where his life took an irreversible turn.

The rain was relentless as he set off. It was nearly nightfall, and the paddock was slowly emptying. People were retreating to their hotels, seeking rest before the intense day ahead. Mandy, however, stayed.

“You can still go back to the hotel. It’s cold, it’s raining, and I don’t want you to get sick because of one of my whims,” Oscar murmured, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the wet ground.

“And miss a dramatic moment of personal development like this? Not a chance. I’m about to witness a canon event,” Mandy teased, giving him a light shoulder bump.

Oscar let out a quiet chuckle, but his steps slowed as they neared the corner. It was strange how, after two years, his body still reacted to the sight of it. The memory of the impact, the pain, the fear—it all returned with chilling clarity.

He stopped a few meters from the exact spot, a tingling sensation running through his bad leg. Almost unconsciously, he tapped his thigh as if trying to shake off the feeling. Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye before intertwining her fingers with his, squeezing firmly.

“What are you feeling?” she asked softly.

Oscar swallowed hard.

“I don’t know. It’s weird. Like I can still feel it. Like I can see everything again.”

Mandy nodded, waiting to see if he needed to say more. But he just stood there, eyes locked on the track, the sound of rain filling the silence.

Finally, Mandy spoke, her tone light yet sincere.

“You know… in a way, we should be grateful to this corner.”

Oscar turned his head, frowning.

“What?”

“Well,” she shrugged, “if you hadn’t crashed here, McLaren wouldn’t have hired me, we wouldn’t have spent so much time together, and we wouldn’t have fallen madly in love with each other. So technically, if you think about it, Eau Rouge is the real matchmaker in this story.”

Oscar let out a genuine, warm laugh that cut through the cold night air.

“That is, without a doubt, the most twisted and optimistic way to look at it.”

“Better than being stuck in a pit of trauma and existential despair? Absolutely.”

Oscar shook his head, but the smile didn’t fade. He turned to look at Mandy, watching how the rain made her skin glisten under the dim glow of distant floodlights. He had no words to describe how much he loved her in that moment.

So he didn’t use any.

He simply leaned in and kissed her, with the rain falling around them, with memories losing their sharp edges little by little. Because Mandy was right. Eau Rouge had changed his life. But not just because of the accident. Somehow, it had also led him to her.

On Sunday, Oscar rounded the final straight for the penultimate time, each lap bringing him closer to something he had dreamed of but never imagined quite like this. The rain had eased, the track still damp but stable under his tires, and the McLaren was responding with surgical precision. From the first corner, he had dominated. He knew this day was his. No one could touch him.

His engineer’s voice came over the radio, filled with barely contained excitement.

“Last lap, Oscar. Last lap.”

Oscar took a deep breath. The roar of the engine, the vibration of the steering wheel beneath his hands, the feeling of the car as an extension of himself. It was him, fully. No doubts, no fear. Just speed, precision, victory drawing closer with every meter.

In Ferrari’s garage, the atmosphere was electric. With Leclerc securing second place, mechanics had their arms raised, team members were jumping, and in the middle of it all—Mandy. Her nails dug into Alex’s jacket, Charles’s girlfriend, both of them on the verge of losing their voices from screaming so much. Her faith in Oscar was absolute. She knew how this was going to end—she had known since the first lap.

When Oscar crossed the finish line, something inside him shattered and rebuilt itself at the same time. The radio exploded with the team’s cheers, his engineer repeating his name over and over, but he could barely hear it. Laughter escaped him uncontrollably, mixed with tears and a relief so deep it made him feel breathless.

He had won. He had won in Spa.

His hands trembled on the steering wheel as he slowed down for the cool-down lap. He looked around—the grandstands on their feet, flags waving under a gray sky that threatened more rain. It was poetic, perfect, as if the circuit itself was giving something back to him.

“Yes, Oscar! Yes, yes, yes!” Zak Brown shouted over the radio, and in the background, he could hear the McLaren garage erupting like they had won a championship.

Oscar let go of the wheel for a second, running his hands over his face, still in disbelief. He had dreamed of this moment, visualized it a thousand times, but now that it was real, it was overwhelming.

When he finally parked the car in parc fermé, his body moved before his mind could catch up. He unbuckled his harness clumsily, climbed out of the car, and jumped into the sea of McLaren mechanics. He let them hug him, shake him, pat his back—but his eyes scanned the crowd, searching.

Mandy.

And there she was.

In her red Ferrari polo, still wearing the team’s headset around her neck, eyes shining and lips trembling with a smile.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through the McLaren crew, dodged the drivers climbing out of their own cars to congratulate him, and reached her where she stood with the Ferrari team. It didn’t matter who was watching, it didn’t matter if there were cameras, the press, or social media.

He grabbed her by the Ferrari polo, stretched over the barrier, and kissed her.

With the raw emotion of someone who had fought against the worst version of himself—and won.

With the certainty that, in the end, she had always been there.

As the world roared around them, Oscar leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathless, both of them smiling like idiots.

"You know," Mandy whispered, her fingers still curled around the collar of his suit, "if you wanted to kiss me that badly, you could've just asked."

Oscar huffed a laugh, his hands firm on her waist. "Figured winning was a more dramatic way to earn it."

Mandy tilted her head, pretending to think. "Mm… I don’t know. Might need a few more wins before I’m fully convinced."

His smile widened. "Challenge accepted."

She kissed him again, softer this time. "Good. Now go collect your damn trophy, Piastri."

@smoooothoperator

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sohnric · 1 year ago

Text

plot twist – k. sunwoo

pairing: kim sunwoo x gn! reader

genre: coworkers au, enemies to lovers au. fluff, a poor attempt at comedy. movie theatre! worker sunwoo and reader. bitch boy sunwoo. the reader has anger issues. owner's son! sunwoo being annoying about everything. winter themes, sunwoo is a little kid about stuff but mostly the snow.

wc: 21k

warnings: swearing, a heated make out session. y/n's inner monologue is just my own feelings about this man im sorry. i watched too much of the office when writing this can you tell. also i made sunwoo's sister underage for plot reasons deal with it.

working with kim sunwoo has so far been the worst experience of your whole entire life. just his existence alone is enough to make your day completely miserable– though, one would think that working with movies on the daily would prepare you for the biggest plot twist of your life.

a/n: this took me SO LONG to write woah. i have a humble playlist for this fic if any of yall wanna listen to it while you read <3 a huge thank you goes to my best friend @csenke for being my biggest motivator and hype man when it came to this fic. thank u for being my first ever beta reader hihi i couldn't have done this without you i am forever grateful ily. also im tagging @heemingyu because whe told me to

ho ho ho! this fic is a part of the secret santa event by @deoboyznet ! @kimsohn maya, i was your secret santa this year, i hope you enjoy the fic i prepared for you

TONIGHT'S PREMIERE – UGLY TRUTH (2009)

If anyone ever asked you about your job in the movie theater, you wouldn’t really know what to say.

You see, what may had seemed like your dream job when you were little, acquiring the fairytale vision after going to the cinema for the first time to see the Horton movie when you were just 7, quickly turned into reality one ordinary day during your junior year of university. And it wasn’t even that hard; you just dropped off your CV at the movie theater on the corner of the town's square when you saw the sign that said ‘looking for part-timers’ in a messy, giant handwriting on the glass door– and soon enough, you found yourself in the depths of the vintage-looking cinema, wearing the red uniform the owner gave you, selling movie tickets to teenagers and taking out the trash. It’s hard to enjoy the job when you’re on bathroom cleaning duty, though, and the fact that this is what you once imagined to be the most exciting job in the whole entire world turns twice as boring when you realize just how mundane it really is.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to quit, well, because you need the money.

Do you hate working in the cinema? No. Not really. Sure, it’s kind of boring– especially on the nights when you’re selling tickets at the front and nobody comes in for hours– but it’s not that difficult. It’s not physically or mentally demanding, so you’d say that you’re still on the better end when it comes to work environment. Your boss isn’t a dick and you get paid on time– so really, if anyone asked you if you hated it, your answer would be no.

Until one fateful day, of course.

You’re met with a person that’s going to efficiently change this opinion around in one swift bat of their eyelashes and a drag of their hand through their messy hair.

“So… you’re the new part-timer?” a tall boy asks you one day when you arrive at work. You’re already wearing your uniform when you come through the front door– since you don’t really feel like changing in the toilets that are not staff-exclusive here– and frankly, his voice startles you on your way in.

“Yeah,” you nod, furrowing your brows at the stranger. “And you are…?”

“Sunwoo,” the boy says, matter-of-factly, as if you’re supposed to know who exactly he is now that he’s introduced himself to you. The look on your face may show that you’re still clueless, and see, that’s something that must have played with the boy’s ego. “Kim Sunwoo,” he snickers, “the owner’s son..?”

Blinking a few times, trying to remember if Mr Kim’s ever told you about having a son– he hasn’t– you gasp like a fish on the dry, nodding. “Oh… Hello..?” you mumble, not really knowing what to do with the information.

“Hi,” he says, face stone cold and motionless. Something’s wrong, but you can’t quite put your finger on it….

Well, you’ll have to deal with that later. “My shift starts in 5 minutes, so I gotta find Mr- your dad, and ask him what’s on my to-do list today, but it was nice meeting you,” you try to force out a polite (maybe even warm) smile before you turn on your heel and march towards the staff room, where Mr Kim usually resigns unless he is helping you out with something at the front. See, on not busy days, working at the cinema requires only one person. On Fridays, though, it can get tough. That’s when the owner makes the popcorn while you both sell and scan the tickets at the same time– sometimes you wonder why he doesn’t hire another person to help out with the job.

“Wait– newbie–”

The nickname startles you, again, as you turn around and squint at him. You have a name– and although he has no way of knowing it (other than his father telling him, but seeming that you didn’t even know about his son, Mr Kim isn’t big on sharing information)– but still, you’d love to be called by it. “It’s Y/N, actually.”

“Oh, right…” he hums, “well, Y/N, dad’s not here tonight, so… I’m… kind of in charge,” he says, nodding as he gets the words out, trying to prove his point, “he had other things to take care of, so he sent me down instead,” he explains, watching as your face morphs into one of quick understatement.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he nods, sucking on his teeth.

Thick silence overtakes the atmosphere. You feel awkward and out of place.

“So…?” you hum, waiting for him to tell you what to do.

Because a guy your age ordering you around at work is already embarrassing enough for a university student just trying to pay for their groceries. You’re not gonna ask for the orders yourself. You still have some dignity.

“So… I could take the ticket booth and you can clean the screening room, since there are no movies on tonight?” he suggests, rocking on his heels. The boy seems a bit shaken with the new sense of responsibility, but you figure that even his undoubtful awkwardness still doesn't put you above his position.

You mentally sigh. Cleaning is your least favorite part of the job.

Still, you’re not gonna talk back to your boss’ son. You’d like to keep your job for a while longer. At least until you find something better.

“Alright,” you nod, turning on your heels once more and preparing to disappear into the depths of the cinema.

His voice stops you again, though, frustration flowing through your veins. “Don’t forget to mop the floors! Oh, and the bathroom could use a clean as well.”

“Alright,” you nod again, your back facing him.

“Also, you need to get the gum off the chairs, I know it’s kind of disgusting, but there’s a-”

“I know how to do my job, thank you,” you turn, smiling ironically over your shoulder.

You don’t know what it is about the man that makes you so, so incredibly irritated. Maybe it’s the fact that every bit of information coming out of his mouth sounds like he’s mansplaining everything to you. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel humiliated to be told what to do by a man that’s your age. Or maybe, it’s just the sheer fact that you hate cleaning– the one thing he just told you to do.

Still, you go and get the vacuum. You go and mop the floors, you go and take the gum off the chairs and scrape it into a bucket you keep in the pantry in the back. You go and clean the bathroom, even though it’s 10 minutes until the end of your shift (you only work 4 hours on Wednesdays) and you spent almost your whole day cleaning the whole screening room by yourself (the screening room that’s giant and Mr Kim helps you with on most days). You go and wipe the mirror in the bathroom, as well as the windows in the hall.

You say that your work in the cinema is not physically demanding, but by the time you’re out, your back hurts and your knees are all bruised up from getting on the ground so often.

What really sets you off, though, is the sight of the owner’s son sitting in the booth, both legs up on the table and chewing on something, his phone in his hands as he watches, what you presume from the language resonating from the speaker, a silly anime. At least someone had fun during their shift, you think as you leave without saying goodbye to him, slamming the door behind you with a loud bang on your way out.

Quite frankly, you didn’t know what set you off so bad this time. Maybe you just had a bad day. Maybe it could've been fixed with your next shared shift with the guy– you never know.

Little did you know that it was only going to get worse from now on, though.

TONIGHT'S PREMIERE – PALM SPRINGS (2020)

If you knew your boss’s son would play the role of your supervisor from time to time, you probably wouldn't have taken the job when it was offered to you.

Why?

The reason is quite simple– while you go to work to make money, Kim Sunwoo goes to work to make your whole life a living hell. Ranging from always giving you the more difficult task of the day to making unfunny jokes about your performance (he once asked if you ran a marathon after you mopped the whole hall, his grinning figure staring at you from inside of the ticket booth), you’re starting to think that Kim Sunwoo is mentally stuck with the brain of an 11-year old boy.

More so with his recent endeavors. You don’t really know what he’s trying to achieve with all of this, but you’re starting to despise going to work even when you know he’s not on the schedule– somehow, you’re afraid his silly pranks and jokes will follow you and surprise you even when he’s not present. Is this his way of asserting dominance? You really don’t know.

It all starts one day before a movie premiere when Sunwoo walks up to you and introduces you to a new concession item to sell in the snack booth. While you don’t really know why one would even think of new combinations to sell at a cinema, since everyone’s just gonna get popcorn or nachos, you don’t really question the idea much further– Sunwoo’s father owns this place, so he must know the best marketing strategies for his business. The reality only downs on you when you’re forced to promote the “Ultimate movie mix” to every customer– which wouldn’t even be that strange, if the mix didn’t include the weird combination of pickles and candy.

Running on two all nighters and half an energy drink, you didn’t realize the snack stand doesn’t even hold pickles. You were notified the day after by your boss, though, and that wasn’t your best experience.

The terror follows when Sunwoo’s father decides to run a Star Wars marathon one weekend. The flood of customers wouldn’t be as hard to manage when you run the snack stand, but it does get more difficult when your coworker running around with a lightsaber knocks over all the buckets of freshly-made popcorn you just put on the counter for the customers to take.

He doesn’t even say sorry. Or help clean the spilled popcorn up from the floor. Or help you make a new batch.

He just laughs.

Sunwoo just loves to laugh at you. Like that one time he made you wear a giant popcorn costume and stand in front of the cinema for the entirety of your 4 hour shift on Wednesday to promote the new movie airing on Friday. Hardly anyone took the fliers you were desperately trying to force into their hands and when you came back, you saw Sunwoo pointing his camera at you from the big glass window.

The next shift, his dad asked you how Sunwoo did when promoting the movie. You didn’t have the heart to tell him he forced you to do the dirty business instead.

Another time, Sunwoo informs you via text in the middle of your shift that you should clean the bathrooms. The fact itself already makes you furious, but you follow the order nonetheless– because, well, what else can you do? You’re used to cleaning the toilets, since it’s a part of your job. It’s just the fact that a guy your age told you to that’s making you rethink all your career decisions.

The trip to the bathrooms quickly turns traumatizing when you step inside of the tiled room and have the door behind you close with a loud bang, followed by the light switching off. Screeching, you jump and try to escape the room with fear making your heart run faster than Usain Bolt, however, you find the door seemingly locked– the sound of Sunwoo’s snarky laugh coming from the other side making you recognise what just happened and how he’s pulling another one of his childish pranks on you again.

When the door finally opens, you throw the toilet brush into his chest and scream out a “I’m going to fucking quit if I see your face one more time!”. You’re over all formalities.

That doesn’t mean you’re not scared every time you enter a room in the cinema when you work with Sunwoo, though. Your reaction was strengthened very abruptly, you see.

Sitting in the ticket booth, door ajar to monitor your surroundings, you plop your head on your hand and glare at Sunwoo, chewing on your gum. If anyone saw you right now, they’d think you were trying to kill him with your stare, but the opposite would actually be the truth tonight– you were quite enjoying the sight of him wiping the sweat off his forehead and scowling at the neverending flow of customers.

The beauty of having ticket booth duty on premiere night is that everyone bought the tickets beforehand already, meaning that it wasn’t usually busy. Scanning the tickets and running the snack booth were the more difficult parts of the shift, and since Mr Kim decided to show up to work today, Sunwoo was graced with the snack booth duty– something that warmed you up from the inside and made you want to kiss your boss’s feet in gratefulness.

There’s just something about seeing Kim Sunwoo in misery that makes your stomach turn and do cartwheels. You’re in love with his pathetic, tired face.

His eyes meet yours when he takes a moment to breathe– the look behind them is pleading, almost embarrassingly hopeless as he internally wishes he was in your place. You think this serves him right for the weeks of torture, and when he becomes you to come over with a motion of his hand, you just shrug at him and bat your eyelashes in faked innocence.

It’s not your fault he’s on duty tonight. What does he want with you?

His lips mouth “Come here,” which makes you battle a satisfied smile. Poor Kim Sunwoo is helpless in his task. The rush just won’t stop and he’s asked of more than he can handle. You kind of feel sadistic when you truly think about your sentiments, but you think you’re only valid for feeding on his misery.

“Help!” he mouths again, and now you truly can’t battle the laughter anymore. His hair is tousled and sticking to his forehead. His uniform is dirty. The tie around his neck is loose. The sight makes you utterly satisfied.

As he mouths “Please,” accompanied by clasped hands and a pleading look that would work on most women, you finally decide to stand up from the uncomfortable chair in the ticket booth and shake your head in disbelief. You can’t even count how many times Sunwoo left you alone in the rush before a premiere, but you can’t really risk his father finding out you didn’t come to rescue his beloved son, since however you might hate this job, you still can’t lose it in your current living conditions.

Sighing and closing the door to the ticket booth after you, your legs take you to the snack stand. Eyes of enthusiastic customers looking almost high on coca cola and the smell of salted popcorn are on you when you finally reach Sunwoo’s side.

“So I’m supposed to help you with your work whenever you ask, but when I’m left cleaning the whole theater completely alone, you can sit around and play on your phone?” you jab, annoyed with the turn of events. You find a spare apron and tie it around your waist, not really wanting to dirty your uniform as you pour caramel into some buckets of popcorn, hearing your companion chuckle next to you.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Okay, so I’ll be back in the ticket booth after serving this customer-”

“My dad’s watching.”

“This is blackmailing,” you snap back, smiling ironically at your coworker.

Sunwoo grins at you when he hands two cokes to the teenage girls behind the counter, shrugging to himself. “Not my problem.”

You learned long ago that fighting with Kim Sunwoo is a battle you can never win. Logically, you know you’re always right, but the boy always thinks he should have the last word in everything, which makes ending an argument with him pretty much impossible. That��s why you stopped trying to prove your truth. In your heart, you know how it is, and no amount of snarky remarks from the feisty boy will change your opinion.

You two work alongside each other in silence for some time. You’d even say it’s efficient– you make the popcorn and he makes the nachos, both of you taking turns behind the coca cola machine, and after a few minutes in his proximity when he’s not being the butt of the Earth, your brain starts to question why you two can’t operate like this on a daily basis.

Oh, how foolish of you.

You’re quickly brought back to reality when you walk over with the grande size bucket of popcorn towards the counter, meeting halfway with Kim Sunwoo’s chest.

It takes everything in you not to scream, but the restraint is deleted as soon as you feel something cold dripping down the front of your uniform, your white button-up suddenly sticking towards your chest in a big, dark-brown pool around your waist area. One sharp look into his eyes is everything it takes you two to come to a mutual understanding of what your next action is gonna be– Sunwoo quickly puts the now empty cup of coca cola onto the counter and puts a hand towards his head in self-disappointment.

“Kim Sunwoo, are you fucking incompetent?!” you scream out, the sensation of your cold shirt sticking to your already sweaty skin making you want to crawl out of yourself and scratch your coworker’s eyes out with the claws of the demon he wakes up in you.

“Look, you don’t have to-”

“I just washed this yesterday, there’s a line of people waiting for their snacks up to the fucking front door, you just ruined the popcorn I made so now I have to redo it, and you just decide to spill this onto me?!” you continue with your rampage, not really caring about the eyes of everyone on you, just letting out all your built-up frustration that creeps inside of you every time you see his face.

“As if I did this on purpose…” he grunts as he turns around in his place and reaches for napkins, not really putting much thought into his actions as he presses the material into the damp place sticking to your skin.

The image startles you– Kim Sunwoo almost in physical contact with you, a paper napkin soaking up some of the coca cola flooding the surface of your skin– and as you watch his slender palms run over your front, your eyes falling to the fluffy hair at the crown of his head, you feel heat rushing to your insides, making you jump away from him.

“Sorry-” he mumbles out as you forcefully pry the napkin out of his hand, gritting your teeth.

“I’m starting to think you’re making me do everything just because you’re useless,” you spit at him.

Rolling his eyes, Sunwoo pokes his cheek with the tip of his tongue. “It was an accident.”

“Don’t care,” you grunt, walking away from the booth, “I’m going to change in the back, you better not burn the place down with the popcorn machine before I’m back,” you comment, sending him a sharp glare over your shoulder.

All that accompanies you to the staff room is Sunwoo’s loud sigh and a sugary-sweet tone he offers to one of the customers as he throws the ruined popcorn into the trash. “I’ll be right with you, miss!”

If anyone asked you if you hated your job now, you think you’d say yes.

Who are you kidding?

You’d definitely say yes.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – THE HATING GAME (2021)

You were quite pleased on your way to work today. It’s Wednesday, which usually means it’s not as busy. The weather is cloudy– good enough to not make you gloomy, but not quite sunny enough to make you wish you were outside instead of being stuck in the cinema the whole afternoon– and you packed a home-made sandwich with you to eat on your lunch break. Which is whenever, since you’re on ticket booth duty today– another great news.

The best thing about today, though? Kim Sunwoo isn’t working today.

That alone is good enough to make your whole entire day better. The sun shines brighter, your breathing is lighter, the air is clearer and the birds chirp louder when you know you don’t have to interact with the hellspawn that day. It’s like his absence alone is enough to heal all your wounds and delete all your worries– who cares about the fact that you’re barely getting through your Biology class when you know you won’t have to stare at Sunwoo’s face as you contemplate dropping out of university during your shift?

Maybe you should thank him, in a way.

And with all of this knowledge, a smile plastered on your face as you’re prepared to sit through your 5-hour shift in silence with an occasional swipe through your social media and a well deserved chicken-mayo sandwich towards the end of your shift, it’s quite natural for your smile to freeze and your spirit fall the moment you see the mop of dark brown hair walk through the doors of the cinema.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” you mourn as he walks by, only realizing you said the sentence out loud when the boy looks at you with a scowled face, a scoff escaping his throat.

“Didn’t know we were speaking to each other in third person now,” he says as he stops in his tracks and plops his head into the door to your booth, infesting your calm abode with his presence.

Deep breaths. In and out, Y/N. In and out…

“Hello to you too, Y/N,” he smiles, irony dripping off his tongue, “having a good day so far?”

“It was better without you here, thank you,” you snap back, rolling your eyes at him when his eyes flash with something akin to a victory– it seems you both take joy in making the other one absolutely miserable with your presence.

“Sweet,” he nods on his way out, grinning to himself. “Well, I won’t be long, so don’t let your mood drop too much.”

With that, he’s out of the ticket booth. All that’s left behind him is the smell of his cologne– the tingle of lemon and bergamot filling your nostrils in a way that makes the fine hair at the back of your neck stand up all alert– and silence. It makes you wonder about his whereabouts– you can never know… what if he’s setting up a trap for you somewhere? You wouldn’t be half surprised. You make a mental note to yourself to be twice as cautious when going to the bathroom next time. Just to make sure.

Before you’re able to think of any possible situations that Sunwoo could get himself caught in (while completely ignoring the fact that his father is somewhere in his office in the back– for all you know, he might just need to talk to your boss, like a son does sometimes), the woodworm of your thoughts appears in your view again, two rolled-up tubes under his shoulder as he walks over to the front door.

“Wait! What are those?” you ask, eyes zeroing on the very clear posters in his grip. The shiny white back of the big posters you have to sometimes put up in the front of the cinema are unmistakable to anything else.

“Posters,” Sunwoo replies, calling over his shoulder, already halfway out of the building.

“I know what those are–”

“Then why are you asking?” he huffs, shaking his head in disbelief as he takes a few steps towards the ticket booth, eyes meeting yours. His figure fills the door frame as he towers over you, still sitting on the chair. His eyes have a different kind of twinkle in them– you think, no, you know it’s mischief– making the blood in your veins boil at deadly temperatures.

“Because– well,” you huff, already frustrated, “we’re not allowed to take these,” you say, pointing to the two posters under his shoulder like a kid in the candy store. You try to ignore just how embarrassing you must look right in this moment.

“Oh,” he pouts, taking the posters from below his shoulder, unraveling one of them and resting the other one against the doorframe, “so you’re telling me… I can’t take those two amazingly big, shiny, cool posters of the latest Spiderman movie home for me and my friend Juyeon?”

You’re only half-aware of the fact that he’s teasing you right now, sighing at his innocent face. “No, Sunwoo. You can’t.”

“Hm,” he hums, looking at the poster from top to the bottom, seemingly sad about the news, “that’s terrible. Says who?”

“Your… your father, Sunwoo. He told me when I asked him the other day if I could take–”

“You wanted to take posters home from the cinema?” he gasps, looking at you with big eyes. He looks stupid. So, terribly stupid. Dumb. No thought behind his eyes. You want to smash his head against a concrete wall.

…He’s teasing you. It finally dawns on you.

Now, you want to smash your head against a concrete wall.

Still, you admit defeat with a solemn tone in your voice. “Well, I really wanted the Enola Holmes poster to put up in my bedroom…” you mumble.

“And my dad said no?” he asks, eyebrows quirking up towards his hairline.

“Yes, Sunwoo. Your father said it’s prohibited to take posters home from the cinema, that’s exactly why I’m stopping you right now,” you say, tone filled with annoyance. You know he’s enjoying your face full of misery. But still, if there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s following the rules and orders– if Mr Kim says you can’t take the posters home, you’ll go in the back and tear them into pieces before throwing them into the bin like you’re told to.

If things were going your way, you’d advise Sunwoo to do the same.

A day with Kim Sunwoo in it never goes your way, though. You should’ve been prepared.

“So I can’t take those posters home because my dad said no?” he clarifies, looking like a dummy. Like one of those kids that ask the most obvious questions during exams. Like one of those kids you want to sucker punch in the face.

“Sunwoo–”

“Well, Y/N-ie,” he purrs, the nickname making your hands curl up in fists, “that’s too bad… because I am the owner’s son, so… the rules don’t really apply to me, you see.”

And with that, he sends another sickeningly sweet smile your way before he turns on his heel and marches towards the front door again– not responding to any of your annoyed, infuriated calls of his name. He doesn’t stop at your warnings. He doesn’t care.

And just like that, he disappears just as fast as he appeared. The interaction didn’t last more than 10 minutes, but you consider your whole day ruined.

Fucking Sunwoo and his fucking privileges. And his fucking annoying face.

It’s not even that important. It’s just two posters that would get thrown out to the dumpster in the back at the end of your shift anyway. You don’t even care about those posters in particular– you just with equal rules applied to all workers in the workplace.

It’s not like Spiderman Homecoming is one of your favorite movies… not at all.

You could’ve had that poster. You deserved that poster. You sold tickets for it and served the snack booth when it premiered– not Kim Sunwoo and whatever his friend’s name was.

You kick the wall with your sneaker. It leaves a dirty mark.

You should’ve known the day felt too good to be true.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING (1993)

There’s a new thing Mr Kim is trying to lure more customers into the cinema. He calls it ‘Rewind Thursdays’, where he picks a movie from the past and airs it in the theater again to bring out nostalgia in the whole town. You think it’s a good idea– you remember when the Harry Potter movies had a rerun back when you were little, ecstatic that you finally got to see them in the cinema because you missed out on the experience when they were coming out for the first time. You went even though you saw them all before, and you had a blast. So in your books, this was the best thing that could happen to the little, old movie theater on the corner of the town’s square.

You were overbeared with joy when Mr Kim went up to you during one of your slow Wednesday shifts in the ticket booth with a paper and a pen, requesting you to write down your favorite movies. He informed you that he’d prefer it if they were older, to, quote, really get the nostalgia going, and you were happy to have some say in the list of movies to play for multiple reasons. One, because it meant he valued your opinion, and two, you don’t usually work on Thursdays, so if your favorite movie is on that day, you can go and relax in the cinema while watching it.

This all happened a few weeks ago. You gave the list back to your boss at the end of your shift, smiling brightly just thinking about it, and he told you he’ll get through it and see what he can incorporate.

The plan gets to you on one uneventful Wednesday. You are stuck in the ticket booth again. Today is one of the Wednesdays where Sunwoo is in charge, because Mr Kim is out of town. You hate those days most of them all, but recently, he’s been giving you your freedom and letting you work in the ticket booth instead of cleaning the already clean cinema, saying he has stuff to do in the back. You suspect he just sits around in his father’s office with his legs on the table, chewing on his obnoxious strawberry mints. The image makes you furious only the tiniest bit, because the fact that he’s out of your sight and isn’t ordering you around is enough to calm your nerves. It could always be worse, you remind yourself. It could always be worse.

“I have the schedule of ‘Rerun Thursdays’ all done,” Sunwoo says as he walks up to the ticket booth close to the end of your shift. His eyes look a little tired when he holds up a thick card to you, the design of the poster making your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Did he do that?

“It’s ‘Rewind Thursdays’, actually,” you note, pointing towards the very obvious mistake on the top of the poster.

“Oh fuck– you know what, not anymore,” he scowls, taking the poster back from you and pointing glares at the title he mistyped, “I spent 3 hours on this, I’m not remaking it.”

“It looks like a kindergartener did it,” you note, eyes scanning the bubbly font and the orange-yellow combination used throughout the whole design when he offers the paper back to you. It looks like a Winnie the Pooh convention is taking place instead of an event full of nostalgic movies, and you would tell him that, but he beats you to it with a tired remark.

“Well, if my father wanted this to look professional, he should’ve hired someone to do it,” he mutters, obviously hurt by your harsh words, “I used Canva. I don’t know how Photoshop works and my dad can barely operate the computer, so this is what we’re going with, okay?” he says as he explains, big eyes suddenly bearing into yours. “Unless you wanna redo it yourself…?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then this is the final poster,” he says, “I’m gonna hang those outside when we close,” he notes, watching you scan the movie titles. The event will take place in 4 weeks from the middle of November to the middle of December (right in time for Christmas movies to air, since you’re certain Mr Kim has another Christmas-themed business tactic up his sleeve).

“Did any of your movies make it?” Sunwoo asks, surprisingly friendly. You can’t remember a single casual conversation with the male– all you two do it either give each other the silent treatment or scream at each other (more like you scream at him, but he always deserves it…), so you’re kind of surprised at the change. Not pleasantly surprised. Just surprised.

Eyes falling to the second movie on the list, you feel yourself nodding as you smile. It’s like a dream come true– you can finally see your favorite movie in the cinema for the first time. You don’t know who to thank for this miracle, but something in your insides feels very grateful.

“Yeah,” you say, trying to seem unaffected. You’d rather kill yourself than to show any signs of emotion in front of Kim Sunwoo. All he deserves to see is your stone cold face.

“Which one?” he asks, seemingly interested.

“National treasure,” you hum, pointing to the movie on the list, having Sunwoo nod to himself. You expect him to say something to you– perhaps engage in a conversation like a normal person would– but suddenly, he gasps and takes out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket, offering it to you and playing the role of the manager again.

“Oh, by the way,” he starts, watching as you unfold the paper, “I know we don’t usually work on Thursdays, but since my dad decided to do all of this, we kinda have to, since he wouldn’t be able to handle the premieres on his own, so… Here's your schedule for the next 4 weeks,” he says, clasping his hands together in front of him.

It takes everything in you to not correct the male and tell him that those are technically not premieres, but when your eyes land on the little Excel table Sunwoo printed out for you, the feeling is overpowered with one of deep disappointment.

“I work the second week?” you ask, as if the question might magically change the schedule.

“I mean, I think you can read…” Sunwoo hums, shrugging to himself.

A heartbeat passes by of you staring at the schedule, a pit opening in your stomach at the realization. You only work 2 Thursdays out of 4, noticing the fact that you rotate with Sunwoo (with him somehow taking the first week, much to your surprise), but for some reason, one of those days had to be the day when National treasure is on.

And sure, you might think this is good– you can just watch the movie while you work!

Wrong.

Working means either staying in the ticket booth the whole time in case a customer comes, working the snack booth the whole time in case a customer comes, or cleaning the bathrooms. Working means also standing in front of the screening room sometimes, making sure no one is going in without a ticket in the middle of the movie.

There is no time for you to watch National treasure if you’re working.

Sighing, you decide to do something you always prohibited yourself from doing– you ask Kim Sunwoo for a favor. “Listen… my favorite movie is airing the week I work, so I was… wondering if we could exchange shifts? So I could go and watch it?” you ask, looking at your coworker with what you presume are pleading eyes. You hope it works on the boy– he looks like the type to fold under a tender gaze.

“So you want to get out of work only to still come?” Sunwoo clarifies, snickering.

“Pretty much, yeah,” you nod, tapping your fingers on the table.

“Well, the schedule is set,” Sunwoo shrugs, “I can’t do anything about it.”

Eyes sending darts to the very middle of Kim Sunwoo’s forehead, you take a few calming breaths before you speak up again. You don’t want to blow up on him when you’re asking him for a favor– you don’t think this approach would help you much in the situation.

“Why?”

“Because,” he shrugs.

“Because?” you repeat. “That’s the reason?” you say, a weak laugh dragging out of your throat.

“Pretty much, yeah,” he mirrors your previous response, the blood in your veins already growing hot from the confrontation.

“Sunwoo, you– come on,” you say, “just this once, please? I’ll take the first week. We can just switch, what’s the difference?”

Sunwoo tongues the inside of his cheek, eyes pointing towards the paper. “Schedule is schedule, Y/N. You have to follow it,” he says, an innocent look glazing his big fuckass boba eyes. Oh how you despise that look. It’s the look that tells you he finds this all so, so amusing, but won’t laugh in your face in hopes of teasing you some more.

“Oh, amazing,” you say, throwing the schedule to the table, “I knew I could always count on you ruining my day, Kim Sunwoo. And I bet you did the schedule as well! You knew it was my favorite movie, so you made me work that week. Very nice of you, you dumbass. Thank you very much,” you grunt, annoyance flowing through your brain and making you truly merciless– you have no proof of Sunwoo even knowing which movie of yours made it in, or proof of him making the schedule– you don’t care, though. All you want at this moment is to claw his eyes out and pop them in between your fingers to ease the anger on your insides.

You can’t do that, though, so a screaming match will have to do the job.

“Stop being so dramatic,” he scoffs, eyebrows furrowing. “I didn’t even know which one your favorite movie was, so how could I do this on purpose? Plus, I didn’t even make the schedule, my dad did–”

“As if I would believe that,” you roll your eyes, huffing. “You’re all owner’s son privileges this, owner’s son privileges that, but when I ask you for one thing, one! Single! Fucking! Thing! You can’t do it,” you bite, words dripping in spite.

“Look, I really can’t-”

“You can’t do this one thing for me?” you cut him off, the question sounding like an ultimatum.

“No,” he shakes his head, seemingly unaffected by the conversation.

“Because…?” you demand a valid reason.

“Because I just can’t,” he shrugs, casual and cool.

The world stills for a moment. You calculate your next move. Blood rushes in your ears, you see red. Your eyes fall on the clock– it’s 4 minutes after your shift. That’s it.

You take your coat draped over the chair, stand up from the chair and dash towards the front door. You can’t stand being around this man any longer– all he does is bring misery into your otherwise, already boring life.

Speedwalking out of the place, you yell out a harsh “Go fuck yourself!” over your shoulder, leaving Sunwoo to close the cinema by himself. You don’t even change out of your uniform before you go– your head is too clouded with anger to remember to do so. Cursing out your coworker isn’t the best thing you could do in this situation, more so when he’s the owner’s son, but suddenly, you don’t really care about losing your job at the cinema anymore.

Maybe you should quit yourself, actually.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS (2003)

In your books, there aren’t many things worse than working three days in a row. You can only think of so many even when you try hard enough: like going to school in your pajamas, getting sick on the day of an important event, ripping your pants on the metro, standing outside of the cinema in a popcorn costume for 4 hours…

Yeah. Not too many.

So naturally, on the third day of your work week, putting one sweetened coffee into your stomach after another, barely keeping your head up from the lack of sleep you’re getting in between classes, work, and writing your essays until 3 in the morning, you beg god for a calm shift. It’s Wednesday, the first week of Mr Kim’s ‘Rewind Thursdays’ event, and it just so happened that you were set to work the first half of the week while Sunwoo got the other half.

The only thing keeping you going is the fact that you and Sunwoo will now basically not see each other’s face for the next four weeks– with the exception of Fridays and Saturdays, the premiere days. You’re getting a lot of shifts this month, but hey… Christmas is coming. At least you’ll have plenty of money to buy gifts for everyone this year. (Or not. You’re very underpaid.)

Entertaining yourself by watching the world outside of your window and mentally betting on the race of raindrops falling down the glass surface– because your phone battery almost ran out during class this morning and you forgot to bring your charger with you– you hope you don’t fall asleep right in this moment. Your boss is somewhere inside and if he oh just happens to check up on you (which he never normally does, but you can never be too sure), you’re certain you’d lose your job after taking a nap in the ticket booth. Some things just can’t be accepted.

Cat fights with his son? Perfectly acceptable. Sleeping on the clock? Not so much…

Eyes drooping when the third raindrop race doesn’t go the way you bet on in your head, you figure you can just rest for a second or two… Eyelids shielding your irises from the orange hues of the lights inside, your brain already turning off and preparing a happy dream for you, you think that taking a nap is not such a bad idea right now…

Wrong.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” the noise of a thunder– actually, no, that was just someone’s voice– wakes you up and makes you jump in your chair, your knee hitting the bottom of the table making you hiss in sharp pain.

“Fuck, man–”

“Didn’t know taking a nap was in the job description,” Sunwoo grins at you through the glass window of the booth. His eyes twinkle in amusement as you drag your hand through your hair, trying to smoothe it down after tousling it in your weird sleeping position.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you mutter, not even meeting his eye.

“Oh?”

“Yeah… just had… my eyes closed…” you hum, scratching the back of your neck. Clearing your throat, you look back up at him with an disinterested look on your face. “Anyways, what do you want? You’re off today.”

Scanning his figure, fully taking in his appearance– the fabric of his dark gray hoodie a little stained with raindrops (you bet he ran from his car into the building without an umbrella. He seems like the type to be embarrassed about umbrellas.), the fabric of the garment enveloping his head and shading his face a little from the ugly yellow lights. His face is a little flushed– you presume it’s from the running– and his hair is falling into his face. You can barely see his eyes behind the curtain of chocolate locks– he really needs a trim.

“Damn, didn’t know you hated me so much that you can’t stand seeing me on my off days,” he jokes, leaning on the counter as if to stick his face as close as he can into yours. Thank god for the glass shielding you two– you think you’d give him a fist to the nose if you ever felt his breathing on your skin.

“I do,” you agree, impatiently drumming your fingers on the top of the table, “so tell me what you want so you can disappear again,” you say.

“I just went to check up on whether you were sleeping or not so I can tell my dad to fire you–”

“Kim Sunwoo–”

He puts his arms up defensively, eyebrows raising at your threatening tone. “Okay, not really. I don’t actually care that much. Besides, you promised to quit yourself anyway, so,” he explains, shrugging to himself, “believe it or not, I’m here to buy tickets for a movie.”

You shoot him a stare, the look in your eyes dead, stone cold as you ponder on his words. It’s cold outside, it’s raining, and Kim Sunwoo just happens to decide to buy tickets for a movie today. In a cinema that he works at. In a cinema that he works at tomorrow.

“You work tomorrow…?” you mirror your inner monologue, kind of confused at the turn of events.

“You know my schedule? I’m flattered–”

The irritation is slowly creeping into your bones again. Actually, it has been since he arrived, but the more he talks, the more agitating the whole encounter feels. Maybe you should tape his mouth shut the next time you see him– you bet the day would be so much better if you don’t have to listen to him talk.

“Why don’t you just buy the tickets tomorrow when you work? Didn’t have to walk here in the rain,” you explain, sighing to prove just how annoyed you are with his presence.

“Because I kinda need them today,” he says, clarifying to you with the tone you use when you explain mundane things to a child.

You don’t know what he did in his past life to get the ability to annoy you each and every time you meet him, but you’d like some of it to get back at him in your next life. Why you’re even thinking of past lives and the possibility of meeting Kim Sunwoo in your next one, you’re not really certain, but if it helps you to not smash the glass separating you two, you guess you can get behind the thought process.

“Okay,” you nod, painfully calm for the amount of screaming you’ve been doing internally, “what movie?” you ask, turning your body to the computer on your right and breaking eye contact with him. If he’s a customer, you’re going to treat him like one– no small talk and no arguments. You won’t ruin your day even more over a man that doesn’t know what chapstick is. (You don’t stare at his lips, just for the record. It’s just painfully obvious when he talks. Sometimes you want to reach over and pluck away the dead skin with your fingers– you won’t, though. That would be weird.)

Sunwoo straightens his back as he fishes for his wallet in the front pocket of his jeans. “National Treasure,” he smiles, making you break into cold sweat, “two tickets, please.”

Like a scene in a horror movie, your head turns without moving the rest of your body, eyes twitching when you see him standing at the other side of the booth, calm and collected. Suddenly, the scene makes sense– he bought the tickets to see your favorite movie on the day of your shift. Of course. He just has to rub it in your face.

Not only are you working that day. You will also most likely serve popcorn to him as he goes inside with whoever he is buying the second ticket for. And you will try not to trip him on his way inside the screening room.

It was a smart move for him to not go inside the ticket booth with you, even though he has all the right to. You bet he knows you’d claw his eyes out if you had the chance.

“You have to be kidding me.”

“What? I can’t buy tickets for a movie?” he asks, innocence dripping off his tongue.

Breathing deeply– while trying to contain the demon that’s begging to crawl out of your insides and tear him into 25 different pieces– you smile ironically at the male, gulping before you speak. “That would be 12 dollars, please,” you say, your customer service voice turning kind of eerie.

Not even letting the male choose his seats– he lost the privilege when he decided to come and buy the tickets for your favorite movie– you print out two tickets with the worst possible view (the ones in the first row, far right. If Sunwoo loses his neck because he has to look up at the screen for the entirety of the movie, well, who are you to hate that) and offer them to your coworker.

Like a mind game, the male slips them into his pocket without even looking at them, not breaking eye contact with you sitting behind the booth.

“Have a nice day,” he says as he takes two steps back before fully turning and escaping through the front door, figure dashing towards the old Prius parked in front of the building.

Bawling your hands into fists, you try the breathing exercises you found the other week. Calm your body and your mind, the title said. You knew you’d need those when you saved the post into one of your boards on Pinterest.

Still, you can’t help yourself. You simply cannot. You let it out– it’s not healthy to keep negativity inside.

He can’t hear you, but you still mutter a spiteful “I hope you choke,” under your breath as you settle back into the uncomfortable surface of the chair.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – YOU’VE GOT MAIL (1998)

Remember the time you said you didn’t really mind having more shifts in November, because it meant a bigger paycheck? Yeah… that was true. For a few days.

Until you got a phone call one day from none other than Kim Sunwoo– whose number you didn’t even want to save into your contacts, but after his insisting that it’s for work purposes, did so under the name ‘dumpster raccoon’– telling you that you have to get to work immediately, that his dad said so, and that it’s an emergency.

Do you believe him? No. Absolutely not.

His tone of voice was too calm to be in an emergency. If his dad wanted you to come to work today, he could’ve called you himself instead of making his son do it. And also, you really don’t know what’s so important to take care of on a Wednesday, since it’s the slow day of the week, but still– you angrily took off the facemask from your face before the timer even went off, shut your laptop with a half-watched episode of The office in your Netflix window, changed out of your comfy clothes and marched towards the cinema.

Because you never know. He might be saying the truth, after all. And if that was the case, you didn’t want to be caught disobeying your boss.

You get to the old movie theater on the corner of the town center at 4 in the afternoon. The sky is already getting dark and you feel the coldness of November seeping into your bones, and so you waste no time in getting inside and chasing the heat of the vintage-looking interior. Your boots make a thudding sound as you walk across the hall, seeing Sunwoo sitting in the ticket booth in his usual habitat: with his phone in his hands and his feet up on the table, chewing on his favorite strawberry mints. Now this sight screams emergency if you’ve ever seen one.

“What was so important for you to call me to work and then chill in the ticket booth all afternoon?” you ask, spite slipping off your tongue with every word you speak.

Sunwoo looks up at you from under his eyelashes, hair still slightly shielding his eyes. He doesn’t even have his uniform on– there’s a gray hoodie enveloping his torso (you swear he lives in this garment. You wonder if he even washes it sometimes) and black jeans hanging off his hips– and the more you stare at him, the more you feel like punching him in the face.

“Oh,” he hums, stretching out his limbs from the hours of sitting on the chair unmoving, “dad said to tell you to clean the screening room. Since it’s Thursday tomorrow, and all.”

The look on his face is innocent. He looks like he just told you the most casual piece of information– and truth be told, he kind of did. The whole thing is just not making any sense right now.

“I should clean the screening room today? You’re on the clock, though, why don’t you do it?” you ask, frustration clearly written all over your face. You were looking forward to having a self-care day today, so you can only imagine how tired of his endeavors you are right in this moment.

“Yeah, but I am on ticket booth duty, so I can’t,” he shrugs, frowning a little to prove his nonexistent point.

“It’s Wednesday. It’s not busy. You know you can do both.”

“Look, it’s not me, it’s my dad–”

“Is it? Is it, Sunwoo?” you huff, arms flying into the air. “Or are you just using me to do the work you don’t feel like doing? Because it really does seem like that right now,” you bite, running your hand through your hair in exasperation.

“Do you want me to call him?” Sunwoo asks, tone of voice suddenly threatening.

A heartbeat passes. You continue to have a staring contest with him. The fury inside of you rages like a storm. Still, you nod to the feeling of authority coming from your actual boss, and so you wordlessly turn on your heel and march towards the screening room, ready to clean the place in the least amount of time so you can go home and back to your selfcare endeavors. (You’re adding printing out Sunwoo’s face and throwing darts at it to the list of activities. You think you really need that right now.)

The screening room is dark when you come inside, and as you reach towards the lightswitch, you almost fear something jumping at you. See, the traumatic response from being locked up in the toilet from your coworker is still very present in your bones. When you stop working here, you’re going to ask for financial compensation for all the damage this boy did on your mental health.

You walk down the aisle of seats and try to inspect the damage. No movies air on Wednesday and there was only one kids movie going on Tuesday, so you can either expect it to be almost clean, or full of snacks that fell off the hands of grabby children during the cartoon. The more you inspect the place, though, the more it seems like… somebody already cleaned it before?

The floor is clean. The laminated surface under the seats has no smudge of dirt on it, like someone already mopped the place. And when you think back, the bins were empty as well.

The screening room was definitely cleaned before.

Which means that Sunwoo brought you here for absolutely nothing.

Suddenly, the lights go out. The whole room falls into darkness, and the anger inside of your veins very quickly mixes with panic as you try to climb up the stairs on the side of the screening room and escape. Your throat gets dry as you yell for your coworker, not really caring if your next outburst is going to get you fired or not.

“Kim Fucking Sunwoo, why the fuck did you call me to clean an already cleaned screening room?!” you yell, not really knowing if he hears you or not. Doesn’t matter– it feels cathartic to do so anyway.

Your feet stumble on the awkwardly-long stairs, your figure almost falling to the ground. Managing to hold yourself up and steady your body before your head hits the sharp corner of one of the stairs and makes you die, you continue on with your small tangent. “You really think this is funny? You’re having fun pranking me all the time? I hate your guts, Kim Sunwoo, and I hope you burn in hell!”

A bright light suddenly illuminates the screening room, coming from somewhere behind you. When you look over your shoulder, the screen is white for a few moments before the opening credits of a Jerry Buckheimer film flash on the big surface, halting you in your movements. The sound is a little too loud in the speakers, but it gets adjusted the moment you almost lose your hearing. The moment you see Nicolas Cage appear, it’s clear as day.

There’s a movie playing. And the movie playing is National treasure.

You think you’re hallucinating. This is surely a fata morgana.

Standing in the middle of the screening room, your mouth hangs agape and your eyes go wide as you watch the first few scenes of the movie. Ben Gates already learns about the hidden treasure passed down through American history when you feel a slight nudge to your shoulder, making you turn your head to see a tall figure staring you down with a bucket of popcorn in their hands.

You are confused. So utterly confused. The movie was on last week. You’d know– you worked the snack booth that day. The screening room is empty and it’s Wednesday– what’s going on?

“Can you sit? Or are you just going to watch the movie standing in the aisle,” Sunwoo grunts, balancing the big bucket of popcorn and two drinks in his large hands, the sight comical and almost making you want to watch him suffer some more.

Caught off guard, though, you let him back you into the aisle of seats, your figure slouching into one of the red cushions like a rag doll. Sunwoo takes place next to you, placing the big bucket of popcorn into your lap, before he settles into a seat as well and focuses his eyes and attention on the movie.

“What… what is this?” you ask, frozen in the seat.

“Hm?” Sunwoo frowns, looking at you. “National treasure,” he hums, “I thought you’d know, since you threw a scene about it that one time.”

“I- I know that, I just…” you trail off, still surprised at the turn of events, “what’s going on right now…?”

“We’re watching National treasure,” he notes, talking to you as if you were slow.

“What…?”

A sigh escapes Sunwoo’s lips at your utter confusion, his hand coming up to the bucket of popcorn in your lap and throwing a handful of the snack into his mouth before speaking. “Look, Y/N. You said you wanted to watch your favorite movie in the cinema, so that’s what you’re doing. Enjoy my owner’s son privileges for once,” he shrugs, watching as your face morphs into an unreadable expression.

That explanation satisfies you for a bit. The shock in your insides, though? Still present.

There’s something about the whole gesture that makes your stomach feel uneasy. Sunwoo did something nice for you– out of the kindness of his own heart– and you really don’t know why he would even think of something like this. You two aren’t on the best terms either, after all. Maybe he finally went crazy.

Or maybe you did and this was all the result of your imagination. Either or.

Yeah, you must be the one that’s gone batshit insane. Surely. You’re certain of the fact when you reach for the popcorn and accidentally touch his hand, the two of you deciding to get some at the same time, and your stomach does a flip and your brain makes a sign for you to quickly retract your hand– but the feeling of his slightly cold hand against your fingertips is now engraved into your memory and won’t leave and let you focus on the movie no matter how hard you try.

“You wouldn’t have to do this if you just let me switch schedules with you that time,” you note, “just saying.”

“I couldn’t,” he shrugs.

“Huh? But you bought two tickets..?”

“Yeah, but those were for my friends. I had to drive my mum down to grandmas that day, so I couldn’t go or take your shift that day,” he hums, not once breaking eye contact with the screen.

“If you would’ve just said so, I wouldn’t have made a scene about it–”

“Yeah… but I enjoy watching you make a scene,” he grins, shifting his attention towards you for a second with that lazy smirk playing with his lips. His hair is falling into his eyes and you have the urge to get it out of his face with a motion of your hand while also scolding him like a mother to finally get a haircut, just so you could see the twinkle in his mischievous orbs.

“You need to get serious help, then,” you grunt, pointing your gaze back towards the screen, unable to look at his face for any longer. He’s being annoying again. You’re annoyed.

“Probably,” he admits.

You two sit in silence for a while, the only sound accompanying you being the movie playing out on the big screen in front of you. You think this is the calmest you two have ever been around each other, and you’re starting to think that if Sunwoo just didn’t talk, you two could even get along.

Something touches the side of your thigh in the darkness of the room. Eyes darting to the source, you notice Sunwoo’s thigh pressing against yours, the cause of his obnoxious man-spreading, and something about the closeness of his body and the smell of his citrusy cologne makes you feel like your chest is heaving in on itself. You can’t stand him around you. You two can’t share this close of a space.

“Are you not leaving?” you ask.

“No,” he hums, “should I be?”

“Well, you’re on the clock…”

The man snickers, shaking his head in disbelief. “Y/N, you and I both know that the possibility of someone coming to buy a ticket on a Wednesday afternoon is close to zero. Me being there makes no difference in today’s sales.”

His hand knocks into yours again as you reach for more popcorn. You gulp, nodding. “Right…”

“And I wanted to see the movie to see if it’s really that good to make a scene about it,” he teases, another playful look sent your way from the corner of his eye.

You grunt, rolling your eyes. Oh how you hate his guts…

And even though you love the movie, you pray for it to end quickly. The more time you spend with Sunwoo forced into your zone of comfort, the more uncomfortable you feel– even the slightest movement of his body affects you and makes your brain turn on overdrive. It’s strange and it’s weird, and you don’t understand how hatred for a person could manifest in such reactions.

It’s better that you didn’t notice you two sitting in the love seat. God knows you wouldn’t handle that well. You’d rather die than to hold on to that knowledge.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – CLUELESS (1995)

They say that you only start realizing just how stupid people can be when you work in customer service. As one of the only three employees of the small, vintage cinema on the corner of the town’s square, you can only agree with the sentiment– you have a lot of stories to tell about the wonders of the human brain.

Like that one time you got screamed at because the movie tickets were ‘too expensive’ – because naturally, you should be able to change the price of them when asked. Or that one time you got screamed at because the movie tickets were sold out– because naturally, you should add more seats to the screening room just for the two middle-aged women to sit on during the premiere of the newest Orlando Bloom movie. Or when somebody yelled at you for the toilets being full after the movie– naturally, you are supposed to throw people out in the middle of them peeing. Or build new stalls. Either or.

They say that you only start realizing just how stupid people can be when you work in customer service, but truly, you also realize just how rude they can also be for no reason at all.

Much like today. It’s Friday, which means it’s premiere night. The tickets to all movies this week are sold out already, so no one is on ticket booth duty, and much to your relief, Mr Kim took the snack stand himself. Your responsibility for the day is scanning the tickets and then making sure no one is getting inside during the movie without a ticket.

It’s not a hard job. Not at all– you would even say nothing about working in the cinema is hard, when you don’t have an annoying coworker trying to make your whole life a living hell– but you see, customers love to make your job harder just by being unreasonably rude about things that are clearly out of your control.

“Sir, I really can’t let you in, I’m sorry,” you say, tone of voice polite despite screaming on the inside. In front of you is standing a tall man, maybe a few years older than you, the expression on his face full of anger and vexation. They say a customer is always right. You agree only when the customer looks like they could wait for you after work and beat you up in the bushes. Sadly, that still doesn’t mean you can let the man inside without a valid ticket.

“What do you mean? Little one, I’m telling you I bought the ticket here, so if you don’t let me in–”

“All tickets purchased for the screening should be able to scan through this, sir, and if it doesn’t work, I am not allowed to let you inside of the cinema,” you try to explain, getting kind of desperate. The line behind him was forming and the movie was supposed to play in a few minutes, so if you wanted to scan all the tickets in time, you had to be quick.

He wouldn’t budge, though. His eyebrows are furrowed and the guy behind him seems to be getting angry as well, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up alert, like a cat when it senses danger. You try your hardest to keep your tone firm, hands clasped politely behind your back. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, sir, or maybe check in with the owner about the issue? I don’t have the competence to–”

“Listen, I won’t be talking to anyone, because you will let me in, okay?”

“Sir, I can’t-”

Your sentence is cut off by the man again, his fury making you take a step backwards in fear. “And if you don’t, you will see the consequences.”

Gulping, you try to think of a way to get out of this situation. Mr Kim is too far away for you to call, and he is also busy– the line is long and Sunwoo isn’t working today. It’s just the two of you today, so your options are getting slimmer. You can’t let that man in without a working ticket– it seems like the one he’s showing you is either a fake one, or bought in another cinema– but it seems like if you don’t, he’ll have you dead before the next morning.

“So?”

Opening your mouth to answer (although your brain is still empty and you don’t even know what more to say), a low voice coming from behind you startles you in the middle of your crisis. “Is there a problem here?”

Turning your head to the source of the voice, you’ve never been more relieved to see Kim Sunwoo in your close proximity. You watch as he puts a rolled-up poster to the ground behind you before he takes another step closer towards your figure, his expression stone cold and glaring at the man in front of you.

“Your coworker here won’t let me in to watch the movie,” he complains, hand waving around in a threatening way.

Just having Sunwoo around makes you more confident. Clearing your throat, your eyes dart to your coworker, seeing his face morph into irritation. “It won’t scan his ticket, so…”

“If it won’t scan your ticket, it means it’s invalid and we’re not allowed to let you in,” Sunwoo says, tone of voice way less polite than the one you were using before.

“That’s ridiculous-”

“You are ridiculous,” Sunwoo grunts, annoyance clearly written all over his face. “You were asked to leave, so maybe you should.”

Truth be told, you’ve been in a couple of arguments with Sunwoo before. In none of them has he ever looked and sounded like this, though. You and Sunwoo argue with spite– sparks flying waiting to start a fire, curses and harsh words thrown around carelessly in moments of heated hatred. His tone is stern, but never threatening. Never mean. Not in the way he’s being right now.

It makes you stare at him wordlessly. He seems to be taking the lead in the situation, reacting territorially to the man in front of him. You can’t say you don’t feel safer with him around– you would be lying.

“Maybe you could just let me in and get this over with–”

“And maybe you could fuck off,” Sunwoo says back, something in his tone making your stomach feel all light. He looks serious, standing his ground, and the man finally seems to get the memo that he’s not watching the premiere tonight, because he backs off and grits his teeth at the male.

“Your boss will hear about this,” he threatens, making Sunwoo chuckle.

“I’m sure he will.”

Sympathetic looks are thrown your way from the women in the line behind that can finally come up to you so you scan their tickets. You smile at each one and try to seem unaffected by the exchange, but the memory of it still lingers in your brain and doesn’t make you rest easy as you greet the rest of the customers.

You didn’t even realize Sunwoo was still standing next to you, watching you work. He seems to recognise your shaken-up composure, tone of voice sympathetic and quiet as he asks: “You okay?”

“What?” you ask, surprised by the question, “oh. Yeah, I’m fine. He was just… being a bitch, the usual.”

“Yeah,” he snickers, “why didn’t you just scream at him like you do to me? I bet that would scare him away,” he notes, making you roll your eyes at the comment.

“Because he looked like he could beat me up, Sunwoo.”

“And I don’t?” he gasps, suddenly offended.

You scan the boy up and down, pretending to think it over for a few before you shake your head. “No,” you shrug, “I could beat you up.”

“Excuse you?” he gasps, crossing his arms at his chest in a defensive stance, the shock on his face mixing in with amusement.

“Don’t believe me? Wanna try?” you test, the conversation suddenly flowing freely, without you even noticing. You don’t pay it much thought, but you guess getting along with Sunwoo is easier when he’s on your side. Most of the time, he’s not, though– and maybe that’s the problem.

“Okay,” he nods, “meet me in the back when you’re off. No weapons allowed, we’ll do it the street style. This is a battle of fists,” he points a finger at you, the sentence making you sigh dreamily and point your eyes towards the ceiling.

“You can’t even imagine how long I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Sunwoo smiles at that– that dumb, boyish smile you usually so despise– and shakes his head at your antics. The conversation dies down a bit after the exchange– with you scanning the tickets and trying your hardest to make it through the line before the movie starts, when your coworker, dressed in none other than his signature gray hoodie and black jeans, nudges you with his elbow. “Want me to stay for a bit, or are you good now?”

“I can take care of myself, Sunwoo,” you sigh, “you can go about your day.”

“Well, it didn’t seem like it a few minutes ago–”

“I can take care of myself when I’m not confronted with a tall muscled man that is threatening me, Sunwoo,” you repeat, looking at the rest of the line, “so with him gone now, you can go about your day. What are you even doing here, by the way? I thought you were off today.”

“I am,” he nods, rocking a little in his place, shifting weight from his heels towards his toes, “I was just… here to drop off something for you,” he says, clearing his throat and pointing towards the poster he was holding when he first approached you, the shiny tube now resting against the nearest wall.

You shoot the boy a curious look, eyebrows furrowed in question. You don’t get to ask for clarification about the character of the poster, because he abruptly cuts off your train of thought, speaking fast as if to avoid making any more conversation with you. “I’ll see you in the back after you’re done for that fist fight, then. Bye!”

And before you get a chance to say anything back, Sunwoo swiftly turns on his heel and awkwardly marches towards the front door. You don’t have much time to inspect the thing he dropped off for you, but after you’re done with scanning the tickets and have time to breathe when the movie starts, you allow yourself to peek inside–

only to see a National treasure poster staring back at you, surface glossy and glimmering, as if you just opened a chest full of gold.

As you take the poster to the staff room with you (while also wearing a huge, embarrassing grin on your face for someone staring at the face of Nicolas Cage), making sure it’s safe and sound until you can bring it home with you, you wonder why you haven’t been civil with Kim Sunwoo before.

It’s good to have a taste of his owner’s son privileges sometimes.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – ME BEFORE YOU (2016)

The day is Friday, the 1st of December. Mr Kim’s ‘Rewind Thursdays' event is over and while Fridays are always the premiere days, meaning you usually have to work the evenings either in the snack booth or in the ticket booth, your boss told you you can have the night off under one condition– you come in the morning (since you told him your classes are done for the semester, he’s been keen on making you work at random times of the day) and help Sunwoo with Christmas decorations in the cinema.

And, well, who are you to say no to a free evening? Maybe you can finally have that self-care time you’ve been needing before your exam season starts.

“Can you get the ladder from the back?” Sunwoo asks, tone of voice not at all interested. You don’t know what the reasoning behind his mood is, but you figure it’s either the fact that he had to get up before 12, or the fact that he doesn’t really seem like the type to like decorating.

“Why don’t you get it?” you huff, wiping your forehead off the sweat that’s cumulated on it over the time you spent bringing out all the boxes full of decorations out of the staff room. “I brought everything in, maybe you can do some work for once.”

One would think your dynamics with Kim Sunwoo would shift after he’s been nice to you on multiple occasions. And sure, you don’t really fight with him as often and he hasn’t pulled a prank on you in a while, but some days, his whole presence is still just as annoying to you as it’s been for the past couple of months. There’s not really much you can do about it– especially not when he’s bossing you around and not doing any actual work himself.

“I built the christmas tree,” he grunts, opening one of the boxes full of ornaments, squinting at the contains with disgust on his face. “And I put up all the other useless stuff before you got here too,” he says, pointing a glare at you.

Looking around the theater, you notice various types of decorations all over the place. There’s some mistletoe hanging off the ceiling (which has you wondering how he even got it there in the first place) and garlands framing all the doorways– the greenery making the whole place decorated in a very vintage tone. It’s fitting to the theme of the cinema, though, and you can tell that Sunwoo really can’t be arsed to do any better, so you don’t mention it out loud in favor of avoiding another one of your petty cat fights.

Admitting your defeat, you storm back into the staff room and carry out the tall ladder, struggling to fit through the doorways and to cross the corners, praying to all higher forces that you don’t accidentally scratch off pieces of the wall on your way to Sunwoo.

You put down the metal construction with a loud thud, making the boy look up at you from beneath his bangs, the silent curse evident in his eyes. You don’t know what’s up with him, but again, you won’t ask. You try to tell yourself that you don’t really care either, but with every glance towards his direction, the question keeps bugging you and dancing around your brain.

You force yourself not to care.

Watching as he tries to untangle the Christmas lights, struggle evident in the frustration written all over his face, you sigh and walk over to him, taking the bundle of wire out of his hands and threading your skilled fingers through the lengthy cable. You’re an expert in untangling– you don’t own bluetooth headphones, so you do this pretty much every day before listening to some music. Your headphones love to tangle in your pocket no matter how neatly you try to keep them in your pants– it’s a mystery. Almost like the Bermuda triangle.

“I can do it myself,” Sunwoo huffs, eyebrows furrowing when he watches you work your magic.

“You seemed like it too,” you ironically note, letting the spiteful side of you win, enjoying yourself when you’re rewarded by the snarky roll of Sunwoo’s eyes– everything is back to normal. You two aren’t friends, you don’t like to be in each other’s presence, and no number of shiny stolen posters and private sessions in the screening room will ever change that.

“Hold this,” you say, thrusting the end of the cord into his hand, walking a few meters away from him as you detangle the lights, watching as he impatiently stomps the floor with his heel, reminding you of Snowball from The secret life of pets movie.

When you’re done and the Christmas lights are now a straight line of wire, you slowly walk over to the tall tree in the middle of the room, wrapping the lights around the fake forest-green needles. You’re glad that the lights are long enough to cover the whole thing and you don’t have to untangle another ones, and when you’re done, you watch your coworker plug them in, examining the small, colorful light bulbs.

“Okay, now the ornaments,” you say, more to yourself than to anybody in the room, as you waltz over to the boxes and take out the decorations varying in shapes and sizes. You don’t really know what color scheme Mr Kim wants you to go for– and you doubt Sunwoo is aware either, so you just take out the ornaments you find the most pretty and hang them all over the tree, making sure each branch is covered.

Sunwoo stands around for a while, unmoving as he watches you, before he sighs to himself and finally decides to help. You leave him be, thinking that it’s for the best if you two don’t speak today when he’s in such a bad mood, but you break that promise almost immediately when you stare back at the tree after retrieving some more ornaments from the box to your right and notice the almost painful clash of colors.

You should’ve known you can’t trust a man with decorating. The beautiful contrast of the baby pink and brown ornaments you put on the tree is now ruined by the green ones you intentionally left on the bottom of the box. The colors don’t go together at all and you want to claw your eyes out every second you have to stare at it.

“Sunwoo, those colors don’t go together at all,” you say, point and blank– no sugarcoating, no offensive words, just straight facts.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that tree looks terrifying, and it’s all because you ruined it,” you say.

Okay, maybe you are overreacting just the slightest. But isn’t there fun in making your coworker completely out of his mind? Is this your roles being reversed for the first time? Are you finally winning this little game?

Nevertheless, you are enjoying the outburst that follows from Sunwoo. Mainly because he looks like a child throwing a tantrum as he huffs and takes off the green ornaments he put on to the tree and throws the handful back into the cardboard box, not really caring if they break or not. You’ll be replaying this scene in your head forever before you go to sleep, for the absolute frustration and annoyance on his face is one of your biggest trophies. Right now, though, you’re battling the urge to laugh.

“Fine, do it yourself, then,” Sunwoo says as he walks away from the tree, choosing to sit on the floor cross-legged, taking out his phone and scrolling through social media.

Again, you don’t know what’s gotten into him today, but you force yourself not to care. You have a job to finish here so you can go home and enjoy your day, and that’s why exactly you just shrug and finish putting on the pretty ornaments, admiring your work every once in a while when you take a break and stare on the tall tree, kind of breathless from the beauty.

You’re not really big on Christmas, but you must admit that this is fun.

The sound of Sunwoo swiping through Instagram reels is the only thing accompanying your actions, and as you look over your shoulder and see his almost sad face, you bite your lip just to not ask him what’s the matter. You’re not supposed to care. And you don’t.

“Can’t you put some festive music on?” you ask instead, your lips just begging to have a conversation with the male, despite your best judgment.

“No,” Sunwoo barks back, not even taking his eyes off the phone as the sound of the reel changes into another one, a swipe of his thumb across the screen showing him another video.

Nodding to yourself, you carefully try to pick out your next words. Not really sure how to address the male, you choose to approach him with a hint of humor you’re not sure he’ll appreciate. “What’s up with you? You’re bitchier than usual,” you say, scanning the male with cautious eyes.

Sunwoo stops for a while– a millisecond of him halting his scrolling, an action you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t trying to see any shift in his composure– before he speaks up again. “Nothing,” he shrugs.

“Okay,” you say, a tone of voice full of doubt.

When you conclude that you’re not getting more answers out of him, you nod to yourself and dart back towards the Christmas tree, making sure you make more eye contact with the glossy ornaments than with your coworker sitting behind you on the ground. Not much time passes by before he speaks up again, though, tone of voice quiet and hesitant.

“I’m just not in the mood today,” he sighs, “I have a final next week and it’s stressing me out, I haven’t slept well in quite a few days, my dad’s making me work more than usual and on top of that, I absolutely hate winter.”

“You hate winter?” you choose to focus on the least serious topic of the little rant, not really knowing when your boundaries lay in discussing the more serious ones.

“Yeah,” Sunwoo chuckles, “it’s like a shittier fall. It’s cold and dark all the time. It would be different if it snowed, though. I love it when it snows.”

Snickering at his sudden confession, you shake your head. “You’re like a little kid.”

“I remember you calling me a child once,” Sunwoo hums in agreement.

“That was different,” you say, hoping to cheer the male up at least a bit with your usual quarrel.

“I figured by the way you threw the toilet brush to my chest,” Sunwoo laughs, the memory of torturing you fond in his brain. The poster he gave you almost made you forget about the fact that he managed to make your life a living hell for quite some time– maybe you should consider this a wake-up call.

The conversation quiets down for a bit, even the sound of Sunwoo’s Instagram reels discontinued as you two marvel in the now much more comfortable silence. Testing the waters, you clear your throat before speaking up again. “Don’t worry about that exam, by the way. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“How would you know?”

“You’re clever. You need to be clever to come up with all various ways to make my life more miserable,” you say, smiling when you hear him let out a breath of air through his nose, signaling a silent laugh.

“Any advice on the sleepless nights?” he asks, tone of voice light and humorous.

“Less things in your head,” you hum, putting the last ornament onto one of the branches, satisfied with your work. “Or melatonin.”

“Noted,” he nods, sharing a smile with you.

Walking over to the boxes stored a few feet away from the male, you open up the slim one thrown on the side, holding up the star. Your eyes meet his, a carefree twinkle in your orbs when you try to cheer up the boy’s inner child by doing a child's favorite activity. “Do you want to put the star on?”

He fails you, though. “No.”

“Why not?”

“You decorated it all yourself, so you can do the star,” he shrugs, not really into your idea.

“Oh come on–”

“I don’t feel like standing up,” Sunwoo grunts, the joy on your insides finally dying down when you get a taste of his usual composure– the one that really can’t be arsed with anything.

Sighing to yourself, you waltz over to the tall ladder, and despite your biggest worries, you continue climbing up the metal construction even when it wobbles and makes you fear you’re gonna fall. The whole thing is kind of unsteady and makes your heart thump in your throat, but you choose to get it over with and finally climb to the very top, outstretching your arm and putting the star on top of the tree, the decoration process now done and freeing you off your today’s work responsibilities.

Something akin to satisfaction beams in your insides as you climb down the ladder, and now, you’ll write this off to you being a little too excited with the vision of a face mask and popcorn at home– but your leg slips on one of the steps and despite the ladder being now magically steady, your body comes crashing down to the floor.

A yelp fights out of your throat, hands go flying in a desperate need to steady yourself or hold on to something that would make you not fall hard against the marble floor, when a miracle straight down from heaven comes to rescue in a form of flesh holding you up and shielding you from the fall, a grunt landing in your ears when your body settles into soft fabric of dark gray.

Head snapping to the source of the arms around your waist, surprised at the person’s strength used to balance you two on your feet as you fell (well, your knees buckled, but still, they haven’t yet hit the ground), you notice a pair of chocolate orbs staring down at you through a curtain of dark hair, wide eyes scanning your face and breathing out a puff of air.

“Look where you’re stepping next time, for fuck’s sake,” Sunwoo huffs, watching as your brain tries to process the near-death experience.

Registering his arms firmly placed around your waist (now realizing the soft fabric was the hoodie he’s been living in for the past few months), the citrusy scent of his cologne makes your head spin, eyes scanning his face in quick motions, as if not aware of who was your savior. You wonder how he even got to you on time (not really noticing him walking over to the ladder as soon as he saw it wobbling under you, holding it down to keep you from toppling over), and when your eyes curiously gaze at his chapped, yet plush lips, the warmth in your stomach makes you finally snap out of it.

Untangling yourself out of his limbs, much like you did with the Christmas lights a few minutes ago, you clear your throat and try to get your breathing back to normal. Your knees are a little weak, but you write that off to the shock of falling.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you just agreed to put the star on,” you complain, straightening your clothes as you walk over to the empty boxes nearby, stacking them into one another and avoiding all possible eye contact with the male.

It’s working– at least that’s what you keep telling yourself– up until you hear him chuckle and see a pair of hands taking the tower of boxes out of your hold, a charming grin sent your way as he walks away from you to the staff room. “If you say so.”

Okay, so it’s not working.

You’re fucked.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – THE PROPOSAL (2009)

“So… I was thinking,” Sunwoo starts one day, a bundle of rolled-up posters stacked up in his arms like a pyramid, puffs of cold air making clouds appear in front of his face as he speaks, “would you want to go see a movie with me?” he asks, tone of voice casual, as if he was asking you about the weather.

The poster you’re currently putting up into one of the glass holders outside of the cinema almost slips out of your frozen fingers out of shock, your heart skipping a beat. “Huh?” you hum, taking out a container full of pins out of your coat pocket and securing the poster to its designated place. “You want to bring money to your father’s competitor?” you joke.

“What? No,” he quickly replies, furrowing his brows as he shakes his head. “I meant, like, here,” he says, nodding towards the building to prove his point, taking a step aside when you close the glass door of the poster holder and move towards the next one, 3 more movie banners left to put up outside of the cinema.

The wires in your brain work on full force, trying to clear out any confusion caused by his sudden invitation. Sure, you two have gotten closer ever since you talked with him at the Christmas tree a week ago, but still, you didn’t know it was enough to hang out outside of work hours.

Instead of focusing the conversation on this unpredictable development, you turn towards clearing out the logistics instead. “How would we even do that? We either work at the same time or you work when I don’t and the other way around,” you say, taking the next poster from him and putting it up.

All of the movies airing the next two weeks are Christmas movies. Some of them are old, some of them are premieres, but still– you can’t really imagine watching a festive movie with your coworker. Up until last week, you thought of him as the next reincarnation of Grinch.

“I could get my sister to switch with me on a day you don’t work,” he hums, sheepish about his preposition. There’s something bashful in his tone, something shy in his gaze as he watches you put up the movie poster, but you try your hardest to ignore it for the sake of your sanity. You’re already having a hard time dealing with the fact that he appeared in your dreams twice since he caught you in his arms last week. You don’t need to add the switch in dynamic to the mix.

“Isn’t she underage?” you ask, snickering.

“Yeah, and?” he shrugs. “It’s a family business, Y/N. Everyone has to be included, underage or not.”

A laugh erupts out of your throat at the comment, shaking your head at the boy in disbelief.

“What would you even wanna see? Those are all Christmas movies,” you say, moving along and focusing your attention to the glossy material in your fingers.

“I don’t see how that’s a problem,” he says.

“Oh, it is,” you mutter, “I don’t like Christmas movies.”

Sunwoo grunts. “Well, I don’t really care. I saw your favorite movie with you, so you can return the favor and see my favorite movie with me,” he speaks up, making you roll your eyes at his words.

“There’s no way any of those movies is your favorite,” you note, doubtful tone haunting the boy.

“You wouldn’t know,” he laughs, making your heart do cartwheels at the sound, his teasing making you feel warmth despite the cold breeze trying to make your bones freeze into blocks of ice.

“I won’t go unless I believe you,” you say, grinning as you close the glass box and take the last poster out of Sunwoo’s hands, watching as the boy puts his frozen fingers into the comfort of his warm jacket, shielding them from the cold.

“Not fair.”

“Very fair, actually.”

“Oh come on,” he sighs, shaking his head in disagreement, “I thought we could watch a Christmas movie as a celebration to the end of semester,” he says, tone of voice almost pleading.

Securing the last banner into its designated place, you turn towards Sunwoo with an examining look on your face. He seems to be completely serious, eyes big pools of honey as he watches your face morph as you think. Something in your stomach makes it feel like it’s flying, making you clear your throat as you avert your gaze towards the line of Christmas movie posters on the brick wall. “Fine,” you gulp, “so what do you wanna watch?”

“The Polar Express,” he says, pointing towards the A3 scale you put up last, showing one of the movies that were older, but Mr Kim decided to air anyway– as if he was aware.

Fuck, you think. That’s my favorite.

“Absolutely not,” you cough, “I hate that movie.”

“Huh? How?” he sighs, face full of disappointment.

“Just because. It’s too long.”

“It’s not even two hours?”

Eyes quickly darting towards the poster, pupils shaking as you look towards the airing dates at the very bottom, you chew on your bottom lip, trying to find a way out. “You’re working on the 18th.”

“Okay, then we can go on the 19th,” Sunwoo says, determined to make you watch the movie with him. Why? You don’t even want to know at this point.

“I go home for Christmas break on the 19th,” you say, shrugging. “See? It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Y/N, come on–”

“Listen, can’t we just go back to hating each other instead of you annoying me about this stupid movie?” you sigh. In the whirlpool of events, you forgot just how insistent Sunwoo could be– who knows, maybe this was the real reason why you were so irritated with him in the first place.

Slowly walking back towards your workplace, hearing Sunwoo’s sneakers hit the ground behind you as he trails after you like a lost puppy, a sense of momentarily victory flows through your veins when you recognise that you found your way out. There was no way Mr Kim would let his underage daughter work instead of Sunwoo, and you truly were leaving home the evening of 19th. You already had a train ticket– you’re not gonna change your plans because of a man you despised just a few days ago.

“I never really hated you, by the way. Besides, you’re only saying that because you hate the movie,” Sunwoo grunts, chiming in front of you– making you think he’s being petty and doesn’t want to talk to you anymore, surprising you when he opens the door for you and offers you a solemn gaze, waiting for you to walk through the entryway and go back to work. (For you, it’s sitting in the ticket booth in silence. For Sunwoo, it’s pretending to work in the back, since his dad is absent today again)

Reciprocating his gaze, noticing the disappointment behind your coworker’s eyes, you feel something in your stomach drop, the weight of it so heavy you quickly avert your look.

“Maybe,” you shrug.

And maybe, the true reason is something completely else.

The words resonate through your brain– ‘I never really hated you, by the way’. Funny. Then what were all those months of torture all about?

You decide you no longer want answers.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – WHEN HARRY MET SALLY (1989)

You can’t believe you’re doing something nice for Kim Sunwoo.

Shoes hitting the gravel, your scarf pulled up so it covers your nose from the ice cold air, a hat hugging your head in warmth and shielding you from the aggressive weather, you start to contemplate your choices and your next moves. A sigh escapes your throat when your eyes land on the marquee above the entrance of the movie theater, teeth chewing on the inside of your cheek as you shift your weight from one foot to another.

Pulling out your phone to check the time, a shiny 7:24PM stares back at you, pushing you to walk up to the door of your workplace on your day off, 24 minutes after the beginning of The polar express.

You feel silly. You feel oh so stupid when you push the door open and your body is immediately engulfed in warmth, the yellow dim lights of the cinema making your eyes slowly adjust to the brightness contrasting the darkness of the outside world. You feel like you must have gone crazy, especially when your insides start to get all light and bubbly, hints of nerves tingling at the tips of your fingertips and the deepest corners of your stomach. There’s no turning back now, you tell yourself– and when your feet automatically take you to the ticket booth, gaze landing on the boy with his bangs in his eyes and an expression worthy of a kicked puppy on his face, you suddenly feel like your trip to the cinema was all worth it.

Clearing your throat, you notify your coworker of your presence, his big, doe eyes staring at you in surprise. Sunwoo’s mouth goes agape, shock overtaking his features when he takes in your appearance. (You bet he thinks you look laughable– your eyes teary from the cold and your figure stoic, numb limbs hanging by your side.)

“What are you doing here?” he asks, the question not as aggressive as it sounded out of your lips every time he paid a visit to the cinema on his days off for all these months.

“Uh… I forgot some things in the back and I wanted to take them home tomorrow, so I came back for them,” you hum, the practiced excuse slipping out of your lips with ease, “can you come help me?”

Sunwoo looks even more surprised at your question– although there is now a hint of confusion in the mix. What could you possibly have in the back to need his help with? For as far as he knows, you only ever kept your work uniform in your locker. “What? Can’t you get it yourself…?” he asks, noticing as you shake your head in disapproval.

“It’s… it’s on the top of the lockers and I can’t reach it, so-”

“Grab a chair…?”

You didn’t really expect to have Sunwoo question your half-assed excuse. Truly, you thought this was going to go smoothly– but knowing Kim Sunwoo, you should’ve known it was never going to go the way you planned. You’re determined to win, though.

And so it’s the time to bring out the big guns– men never say no when you praise them and make yourself look incompetent.

“Please? I don’t feel like bringing a chair and you’re tall enough. It will only take a second…” you pout, watching as the male in front of you sighs and stands up from his seat, nodding at your humble request.

Sunwoo follows you as you walk down the corridor, your heart thumping with the start of your little plan. Your steps are calculated and your movements carefully programmed, the nervousness in your stomach making you even more giddy with every meter of distance you two cross.

Before you two get a chance to make it to the back, you make a swift turn and open the doors to one of the rooms on the left of the hall, dragging Sunwoo by his hand and tugging him inside. His body stumbles against yours, but the door closes behind him faster than he can react to the impact. Steadying the boy back to his feet, you watch him with anticipation, awaiting his reaction.

The truth is, you haven’t thought the plan out this far. The depiction of it in your brain always ended with you sneaking him into the projecting room and his curious eyes peering into yours. Something about the image of the events always made you feel too overwhelmed– you never dared to imagine the situation further. (That would mean admitting some hidden desires to yourself, so you never even tried. That all makes this situation twice as nerve-wrecking, though.)

“What… are we doing here?” he asks, eyes darting around the darkness of the projection room, the only light illuminating his pretty features being the movie playing behind the glass of the small booth.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to watch The polar express with me?” you ask, voice a few octaves higher than usual.

“I… did…” he mumbles, confusion making him stumble over his own words.

“Well, you are working and I leave tomorrow, so I figured I had to find a way…” you shrug, watching as Sunwoo looks at you a little frozen, big eyes staring you down, gears turning in his head. You can’t really read him– you don’t really know if he’s going to laugh at you or send you home for ruining his shift. You don’t know if he appreciates the gesture, or if he thinks you’re being embarrassing. You don’t know if he registers the slight tremble of your hands and the lightness of your breathing, you don’t know if he realizes how much his reaction could make your day or completely ruin it (just like always), and so, you panic– and when you panic, you ramble. “I know we are technically not supposed to be here– well, me, at least– but I think that being with the owner’s son could make my boss let me off even if he somehow finds out, which I doubt he will, but–”

Sunwoo’s face starts slowly morphing, the slightest of shifts slowly adding up to a change of expression, having the male break out into the biggest, happiest grin you’ve ever seen him sport. His eyes light up and glaze your features in the softest of touches, his head shaking in disbelief. “Oh, you’re adorable.”

“What?” you ask, your heart doing seven somersaults and five cartwheels, eyes a big pool of surprise.

“You did this for me?” he beams, his grin so big and pretty it takes your breath away. Butterfly wings tickle in your stomach at the sight, having you mentally curse yourself– hold it together, Y/N.

“I- I mean, I didn’t really do anything, we just sneaked in–”

“This is the sweetest thing you’ve ever done for me,” Sunwoo hums, the teasing tone making its comeback in his voice, “actually, this might be the first sweet thing you’ve ever done for me–”

“Well, okay,” you roll your eyes, an embarrassed laugh dragging out of your throat as you turn on your heel and walk closer to the little table in the opposite end of the room, needing to avert your gaze from the boy for at least a second. The air is suddenly too heavy and it’s hard for you to breathe, heat rushing to your cheeks.

Eyes focusing on the screen in front of you, your brain tries hard to focus on your favorite Christmas movie. Failing, your head running thoughts full of conflicting emotions and erratic exclamation marks screaming the name of the boy behind you, you ask yourself how and when exactly you’ve gotten yourself into this mess.

Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten this job in the first place.

Ears painfully alert, listening to each sound heard in the small projecting room– the shuffling of Sunwoo’s feet as he nears your figure, the muffled noise of the movie playing in the screening room in front of you, the resonance of your own heartbeat in your ears as Sunwoo’s hands suddenly sneak around your middle, your jacket squeaking from the contact of his limbs as he hugs you.

“What–”

“Don’t fight me, Y/N. Just this once,” he hums, voice deep, but still a bit hesitant. It’s like he’s walking on unsteady land, cautious of his movements in fear of making you run away. He’s in a new territory, in your personal space– the scent of his cologne fills your nostrils again as his head settles itself on your shoulder, the two of you silently watching the movie for a few seconds, not really knowing how to proceed.

There’s something intimate in the way he holds you, in the way the movie is a mere background noise to the marathon of your thoughts, the blue light illuminating your faces as you both try your hardest to keep your cool.

A flashing thought of just how much you from a few months ago would hate the position it’s in right now passes by your brain, making you instantly feel foolish. Oh how much you’d love it if you stood here unaffected right now– there’s no way to battle the warmth flooding your insides right at this moment, though.

“This is nice,” he mumbles, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Thank you,” he says, your insides squeezing at the sincerity. It’s not often you get to see this side of Sunwoo– the sweet, patient one, the side of him that makes you feel safe in his arms and appreciated with the soft tone in his words. And while you realize you don’t hate the playful side of him just as much as you thought you did, you must admit the novelty of the situation makes you feel a bit more joyful than you’d like to admit.

The weight of his head disappears from your shoulder, making you feel momentarily disappointed by the action. You expect him to pull away and take a seat on the chair, to finally focus on the movie playing in front of your eyes, the thought alone making your spirit fall. The fire in your inside lights up like a match thrown into a pool of gasoline just as fast again, though, when you feel soft lips come in contact with your cheek.

They stay only for a second before they disappear, an airy laugh landing in your ear a second later. “Please don’t run away now,” he says, tone of voice uncertain, telling you that now the ball is in your court– your next actions could either make him the happiest man on Earth, or completely break him.

The choice is yours.

Your head turns his way, eyes instantly locking with his brown orbs searching for any signs of discomfort in your face. Slowly, as if still processing the events of before, your eyes trail over his features– the awfully handsome way his face was sculpted, the softness of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw, the slope of his nose and the plushness of his lips. They’re not as chapped today, making you wonder if he started wearing vaseline, and before you get a chance to stop yourself, you start wondering of the way his lips would feel on yours, imagination running wild.

He heaves out a shaky breath, your eyes darting back into his– as if to ask for approval, see if he’s okay with it. There’s a dazy look in them, gaze pressed to your lips, then to your eyes, then your lips again– a look you take as an invitation as you act against all your best judgment and lean towards him, pressing your mouth against his.

As if testing the waters, you make the kiss short. It was long enough to engrave it into your brain, though– to remember the way his perfectly shaped lips pressed against yours, the way the world stopped just for a moment, the way he tasted of the strawberry mints he always eats at work whenever he has nothing to do.

Sunwoo seems to find liking in the action– lips glazing yours again, pressing another peck to them before he deepens the kiss, the tingling in your fingertips intensifying and the excitement bubbling in your frame making you turn in your position, front facing him and pressing up against his chest. His hands quickly adjust, slipping under your opened jacket and settling on your clothed waist, the slightest contact making your knees weak and settle your bottom against the table behind you, hands grabbing the fabric of his sweatshirt.

He pulls back to catch some air, a boyish grin breaking out on his face, forehead knocking against yours in a sweet, giddy manner. “I’ve wanted to do this for months,” he huffs.

The sentiment makes a thousand question marks appear in your head– why did he make your life a living hell, then? Why did he pull pranks on you and make you hate every second spent with him? Why did he make you so furious each time and argued with you about the smallest things? How could Sunwoo possibly have wanted this for months, when you just only started noticing his attractiveness a few weeks ago?

“Why–”

“I’ll tell you later,” he says, cutting you off as he presses his lips against yours again, your mouth automatically welcoming his presence. Brain erased of all previous questions, his kisses working like a spell, you focus all your senses on the man in front of you.

Having your hands feeling up his abdomen, Sunwoo hesitantly asks for entrance with his tongue, running it along your lower lip until you welcome him in. You like this type of power battle much more than the one you had going on until now, and with each new movement, you feel yourself falling apart under him.

His fingers tug down on the sides of your jacket, pulling it down. You don’t need it anymore– with how heated you’ve gotten, you are actually kind of happy that it is gone. One of his cold hands sneaks under the hem of your jumper, fingertips trailing up and down your side, the other one tugs down the hat from your head, discarding it somewhere on the table behind you before it finds its place on the side of your jaw, angling your head in a way that allows him to deepen the kiss even more, the contact of your lips growing firmer as seconds go by.

Your scarf is swiftly untangled off your neck, Sunwoo’s skilled lips blindly trailing down the side of your mouth towards your jaw, feathery kisses ticking you before he gets more bold and sucks on the side of your throat, a shaky breath shyly escaping your lips.

“Sunwoo…” you say, tone of voice not really present, no real intention behind the call of his name.

The boy hums against your neck, having you gasp again when he lightly bites the softness of your skin, your hands shooting up to tangle in his hair when he licks the spot to soothe it after. Threading your fingers through his locks to ground yourself, you can’t believe you ever hoped for him to get a trim.

His hands firmly hold the underside of your thighs before he hoists you up on the table, continuing his confident attack on your neck when you’re sitting comfortably on the hard surface. It’s not like you didn’t feel excited, the tiniest bit thrilled at the mental image of his possessive marks all over your throat, but you were glad it was freezing outside and you could wear a turtleneck to hide the bruises from your family tomorrow. He nuzzles his nose into the hot skin of your neck, the action making you grin in ecstasy and endearment.

Getting lost in the way he was handling you, his touches firm, yet delicate, acted out in a way that makes you feel safe and comfortable with his passionate ministrations, you almost don’t notice the door swinging open, the figure of your boss like striking like the lightning in the doorway of the screening room.

“Sunwoo!”

The boy jumps, his body quickly ungluing itself off yours, as he listens to his father scolding him. “I don’t care what you two have going on over here, but you’re on clock! There’s a line waiting for the tickets for tomorrow’s movie and someone has to sell them right now.”

The boy clears his throat, voice a little hoarse. “Coming,” he says, trying to keep his composure. His hair’s a little tousled, cheeks rosy and lips puffed– the image that will haunt you in your sweetest nightmares now– and before you get a chance to say anything or let your brain process the events of the last few minutes, your panic works faster, making you act.

Quickly scattering for your things, you run out of the projecting room without saying goodbye to either Sunwoo or your boss, never once looking back.

You think of what you’ve done on your way home, bones freezing now that they weren’t in his presence. You try hard to regret your actions, but you don’t find it in you to do so– it’s kind of hard with the feeling of his lips still playing with yours.

Even though you’d hate to admit it just a few weeks ago, you must do it now.

Kim Sunwoo does make a really good kisser.

TONIGHT’S PREMIERE – PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (2005)

There are many thoughts swimming around your brain as you walk through the coldness of the town the next day, your duffel bag hanging off your shoulder. There’s a conflict between the actions of your body and your thoughts – feet on their journey to the train station, but head stuck in the small projection room of your workplace, your coworker’s kisses occupying your every sober thought.

It’s not surprising, but you haven't heard from Sunwoo since you left the cinema last night. Not a single text or a call– but you figure that this is just your dynamic. Sunwoo’s never been much of a texter when it came to you. He’s never had the reason to text or call you, unless it was work-related, and you think it will stay that way, even though you did make out with him just last night.

Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he just didn’t feel like pondering on the events any longer– maybe it was just a one-time thing for him and he didn’t put much significance to it. You wouldn’t know– it’s not like you’re suddenly an expert on the way he feels and operates.

You, though? How do you feel about the turn of events? Despite not wanting to admit it to yourself, the answer came to you the second you tried to fall asleep last night, every soaring thought in your brain showing you the reflection of his dazed look, desires of wanting him to look at you that way all the time oh so skilfully infesting themselves into every crevice of your neocortex. You want Sunwoo to like you. You want Sunwoo to want you. You want Sunwoo to be so enchanted with your existence that he thinks about you before he goes to sleep at night– just like you have done for the past few weeks.

The answer comes to you again when you feel something wet fall on the top of your cheek, making you turn your eyes towards the sky. Your breathing comes out in puffs of air as you watch the magic happen right in front of you– and as you watch the snowflakes scatter all around the place, you are in another inner argument. While the rational side of your brain is screaming at you to keep walking to the station so you don’t miss your train home, the delirious side is cooperating with your feet for once, your figure crossing to the other side of the street and walking over to the place you could get to even with your eyes closed at this point; all because you suddenly remember the conversation you had with Sunwoo when you were putting on ornaments to the Christmas tree.

It’s the first snow of the season.

Kim Sunwoo loves it when it snows.

Speed-walking towards the vintage movie theater at the corner of the town’s square, you feel something akin to childish excitement bubbling in your insides, a hint of nervousness inviting itself into your insides when you push the door open and aim straight towards the ticket booth, where you know Sunwoo will be sitting, wasting another shift away.

He’s there– eyes pressed towards the window, gaze following the snowflakes kissing the cold ground. You expected more excitement in his character, more childlike joy in his figure– and after taking in his composure: shoulders slouching and fingers picking at the skin of his cuticles, you suddenly feel silly for coming.

Well, here goes nothing, you think.

“Sunwoo,” you call, making the boy snap his head towards you in surprise, big eyes meeting yours the moment he recognises your voice.

You don’t receive a verbal response for a while. The boy just stares at you, a bit hesitant and clueless. His face reminds you of a small puppy trying to take in the new situation in front of it. His lips are formed into a small pout, gears in his brain turning and trying to process the reality of having you standing there, face beaten from the cold.

Clearing your throat, you try to take charge of the situation. “It’s snowing outside,” you say, eyes peering out of the window, all thoughts suddenly escaping your brain, words blanking off your tongue, “and, well… you said you like the snow, so…”

The boy’s mouth hangs agape, a twinkle in his eyes slowly appearing once again when he stares at you, your nervousness doing wonders to your conversation skills. “I- I don’t even know what I wanted to say with that, it’s just- I don’t know… I saw it was snowing and I automatically came here, so-” you stutter, the sentence cutting off as Sunwoo jumps to his feet and grins, wordlessly taking your hand into his and dragging you outside.

The duffel bag falls off your shoulder somewhere in the middle of the hall, discarded to the floor, before Sunwoo sharply halts in his steps and runs back towards the ticket booth, still dragging you with him by the hand. The boy grabs something off the table, the item not visible in your rear point of view, and before you have a chance to register what’s happening, you’re outside of the building again, coldness instantly slapping you in the face.

It’s dark out, but the heaviness of the snow provides enough light in the silent evening for you to see where you’re going under the yellow lampposts on the street. Instantly noticing the lack of Sunwoo’s warm hand in yours when he suddenly lets go, you turn your head to look at the male.

Terror fills your veins when you notice him gathering snow from the ground and pressing it into a tight ball, a screech escaping your throat when you watch him swing it at you, a playful, boyish grin playing with his features. The male chases you around and most of the snowballs don't even hit your running figure (he does have an awful aim), but you still duck anyway and try your hardest to win your snowball fight.

Numb fingers creating snowballs and halting them at his tall frame, but missing most of the time due to his fast reflexes, you laugh and let go of all the worries and questions clouding your judgment. Sunwoo looks enthusiastic, so much more lively than when you found him in the ticket booth just a few minutes ago– but that’s still not enough for you to let him win.

Gathering the icy texture into your hands, you run towards him, taking advantage of his inattention as he’s bent over and taking more snow into his hold, and halt the whiteness into his face just as he straightens his back and wants to prepare for his attack.

More laughter bubbles out of your chest when you watch him drop his snowball to the ground, admitting defeat. The snow is all over his face– slowly running down his cheeks like teardrops, redness tinting his nose and the sides of his face.

The male shudders from the cold, and you instantly start feeling bad. Only now you realize that he ran out without a coat, a gasp escaping your throat. “Oh god,” you mourn, hands flying towards his frozen face to wipe off the snow from his cheeks, fingers carefully tracing over his cold skin. His eyes open as he watches you, something in his gaze so tender you feel yourself melting even in the middle of the snowstorm.

The male shuffles his hands into the front pocket of his gray hoodie, taking out the item you now recognise to be the hat you accidentally forgot in the projecting room yesterday (and already mentally paid goodbye to), his frozen fingers tugging the fabric onto your head.

“Why are you putting this on me? You’re the one that’s freezing over here!” you scold him, shaking your head at the male.

He rewards you with an amused grin, watching your next moves. Acting on auto-pilot, not really putting much thought into your actions, you unzip your jacket and step impossibly near to the male. Holding the jacket open, you hug him around his middle, making sure you are sharing the warmth with him and keeping him as close as possible, shielding him from the cold with both the fabric of your puffer jacket and the heat radiating off your body.

Faces just inches away from each other, you peer at his face. He wears a warm expression, eyes peeking out from behind his dark bangs. Clouds of breath escape his mouth when he speaks, voice quiet, as if to not ruin the atmosphere. “I thought you would regret it,” he says, making you break out into a foolish smile.

“I thought so too,” you nod.

“And you don’t?”

Shrugging, you reply. “Not really.”

“Why?” he asks, suddenly doubtful. “You said you hated me. Which was odd to hear, honestly, since I did all this to get your attention anyway and I thought it was just how our dynamic works, but… I could see how it could be annoying to you…”

Chuckling, you roll your eyes at the sudden revelation. It’s sickeningly sweet how endearing he looks when he doubts himself, explaining himself to you in a nervous blabber. “I don’t hate you. At least not anymore.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” you shake your head, a tender gaze shared between the two of you, “I actually quite like you, I think…” you mumble, a little bashful to admit it out loud.

“You do?” he asks, the twinkle in his eye glimmering twice as much as ever before, tone of voice playful, yet laced with honest joy and surprise at your confession.

“I do,” you nod, voice barely louder than a whisper as you watch him lean closer towards your face, cold nose bumping into yours before he angles his head, breath mixing in with yours in the few seconds before he dares to kiss you again, capturing your lips with his.

The kiss is sweet. The kiss tastes of strawberry mints and the first snow, of unsaid confessions and longing looks sent your way every time you weren’t looking. The kiss makes your stomach fill with a thousand little butterflies, it melts away the ice around you, the two of you like a spark of a fire in the middle of a snowy land.

His actions have your composure faltering, hands untangling from behind him and moving up to cradle his face. He melts under your touch, leaning into you as your fingers trail over his cheekbones. Holding on to him, thumbs padding his soft skin, you’re reminded of the cold only when he breaks off you and shudders again, teeth clattering from the freezing temperature.

“Let’s get you inside,” you say, planting a short peck to his lips, “before you turn into an icicle,” you giggle, watching as he scrunches up his face.

“I won’t,” he shakes his head, “love warms me up,” he grins, making you roll your eyes at his bold statement.

“You’re so cheesy.”

“But you quite like me anyways, no?”

Sighing, moving away from him and tugging him back inside the cinema, you shake your head at the boy. “I’ll think about it on my train home,” you bite back, opening the door to the theater and aiming towards the duffel bag you dropped on your way out.

Sunwoo watches you with a warm gaze, an adorable smile playing with his lips. His figure seems to be visibly taking in the heat again, his face adorning a flush, pink color.

“So I take it as you’re not quitting anymore, then?” he teases as you walk back to the door, both of you ignoring the customers waiting for their tickets in the line in front of the forgotten booth.

“We’ll see,” you shrug.

“I’ll text you the schedule for January?”

“You better text me about something else too, Kim Sunwoo,” you bark back, opening the door towards the cold landscape, “or you’re gonna have a very uncomfortable return back to work in January!”

The boy laughs, the noise like a Christmas carol to your ears. “Noted.”

Slipping outside, you watch as he waves at you goodbye, your feet dragging through the snow towards the train station having more pep to their step now. You don’t even know if you can make it to the train on time, but you surprisingly have no regrets– you can always catch the next one, right?

Mentally wanting to slap yourself for the lovesick grin playing with your lips, you sigh.

The male that once made your life a living hell is now the one you look forward to seeing the most once you come back after Christmas break. It’s kind of strange, really.

One would think that working with movies on the daily would prepare you better for the biggest plot twist of your life.

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randomasfuk · 3 months ago

Text

No spleen and forever 17

I had a dream that explained Tim’s constantly young and sweet only 17 god knows how long my dreams are a funny sort of place but with abit of creativity it could be a dam good angst fic but this is coming straight from dreamland to tumblr no changes It started with Damian. For reasons unknown, he was going through old boxes of photos, and somehow, he stumbled upon pictures from Tim’s 16th birthday. That’s when it hit him—he’s been living in the manor for literal years, and not once has he heard anything about Tim’s birthday. He paused, thinking. No one ever mentioned it, not even in passing. So, like any sane Bat would do, Damian concluded that Tim must be a ghost.

In his mind, Tim had died years ago—probably around the time or shortly after he lost his spleen. The family, unable to cope with the grief which was why he was still able to interact with the world. He could touch things. He could get hurt and everyone was in collective denial. This explained everything: Tim didn’t age, and some of the odd dynamics he had with the rest of the family. But no one acknowledged it. Damian assumed that Tim didn’t know he was dead, and the rest of the family just pretended as if nothing was wrong. That’s why Tim remained seventeen, stuck in a perpetual state of youth, untouched by time.

Things went on like this for a while. Damian remained unusually wary of Tim, though it didn’t seem odd to anyone else, considering the well-known feud between them. But then, one day, Tim got captured. This time, the situation was more dire than usual, something akin to Jason’s experience. Bruce freaked out in a way that was almost out of character, and Damian, still convinced that Tim was a ghost, decided there was no need to save him. After all, ghosts couldn’t die, right?

Bruce called in the entire Bat-family, all hands on deck, and Tim was returned to them. That’s when Damian was called out for his lack of concern. With a deadpan expression, he simply said, “Drake’s a ghost. He can’t die. This was pointless and a huge waste of my time.”

The room went silent. Even Alfred, who had come down to the cave to offer everyone tea, was at a loss for words. Tim was the first to speak up, his voice thick with disbelief: “What?”

Damian, still completely serious, repeated, “You’re a ghost, Drake.” They just stared at each other in stunned silence until Bruce, clearly confused but doing his best to hide it, asked, “What makes you think that?”

Damian replied, “Drake hasn’t aged in at least two years. He’s untouched by the passage of time, while the rest of us inevitably age. I can only assume his death was linked to the loss of his spleen.”

And that’s when it clicked. Everyone muttered some form of curse under their breath. Alfred didn’t even bother scolding them. Well, except for Jason, who seemed to be barely paying attention. He suddenly piped up, “Wait, Tim doesn’t have a spleen? Since when?”

Damian, still trying to piece everything together, answered, “At some point, grandfather removed it from h—” He was cut off by Bruce.

“That’s beside the point, Damian,” Bruce said, his voice tense. Damian blinked, confused. He thought his reasoning had been sound, but clearly, he was missing something.

Bruce paused, clearly uncomfortable, before continuing, “I forgot your birthday. Twice. Consecutively.”

That’s when realization hit Damian like a ton of bricks. He was mortified. Bruce added, “That wasn’t my intention.”

Tim, who had been silent for a while, spoke up, “Yeah, I figured. Third time’s the charm, right? Besides, you weren’t the only one who forgot. I’m just disappointed that this gremlin over here was the one who noticed first.” He gestured to Damian, who still looked baffled by the whole situation.

Everyone else, except for Jason and Steph, offered their apologies. Jason and Steph, of course, knew exactly what had been going on the whole time. In fact, they had bet on how long it would take the others to notice.

“Hold up, you thought I was a ghost?” Tim spun around, finally processing Damian’s words.

Damian, still in disbelief, replied, “Yes. It seemed like the most plausible explanation. You haven’t aged since I got here, and I didn’t think Father and the others were as incompetent as they clearly are. I overestimated them. And you look almost… blue. You’re exceedingly pale.”

At that moment, everything became a bit more hazy. Bruce, trying to make amends, bought Tim multiple absurdly expensive, lavish gift, while the rest of the family threw Tim a belated 18th and 19th birthday party. They made sure to cover every detail, as if trying to compensate for the years they had ignored. Tim, however, was a little pissed. He owed Steph $500 from the bet and now had to start paying taxes. And Damian lost a lot of respect for his father and brother.

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mapsthewanderer · 2 months ago

Text

Plated II

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 6400ish words. The Bear AU goes harem drama, non MC reader! The slowburn has officially come to an end—world-building complete, and we’re diving in. This chapter includes: fluff, stress, banter, Raf being the most theatrical man alive, Caleb wrecking hearts (with zero remorse?), Zayne and Caleb drama and Sylus casually power-playing both you and his entire staff. Xav is a star. Definitely 18+ adult stuff, heavy kissing incoming. Brace yourself for the next chapter. It only gets wilder lol.

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox

Chapters: Pilot, chapter one, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

Needs blood | Chapter two

You drag yourself upright, groggy, heart thudding in your chest. The wine. Too much. Not too much. Just enough to keep you dreaming about leadership and pressure and the words—“I brought you here to lead.”

You groan. Shuffle to the door in nothing but an oversized black T-shirt that hangs low on your thighs, sleeves falling past your elbows.

You unlock it.

There he is.

Caleb. Sweaty from his run, hoodie slung around his neck, shirt clinging in all the wrong places. One hand holding his phone, the other clutching a folded paper.

His mouth is already open to speak—then he stops.

Eyes lower.

Linger.

And narrow.

“…Is that my shirt?”

You blink. “…What?”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous.

“That’s my shirt.”

You look down at the fabric. The worn collar. The faint, nearly invisible oil stain by the hem.

Oh.

“Caleb—”

“Nope.” He leans against the doorframe. “You made me run three extra blocks because I thought something was wrong. Turns out you were just wine-wrecked and wearing the softest shirt known to mankind.”

He exhales like it’s physically paining him not to laugh. “You never gave it back.”

Then, quieter—“After the egg incident. When Xavier set off that ridiculous steam trap and you walked out looking like a soufflé.”

Your face warms. “It was clean.”

“Barely,” he mutters. Then his smile turns sharp, warm. “But I missed that shirt.”

A pause. “Turns out, you wear it better anyway.”

You fold your arms. Regret every second of opening this door.

He grins like he just won a bet he didn’t need to place.

“Anyways. Good morning, chef.”

He holds up the folded paper like a trophy.

“Now let’s read how close we came to greatness.”

His eyes sweep you once—hair damp, bare legs, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

“You’re free to read it like that, by the way.”

A beat.

“But I can’t be held responsible for where that leads.”

You give him a look. You consider it.

Yet ten minutes later—you’ve changed.

The shirt’s replaced with something less compromising. Your hands are warm around the coffee mug as you lean against the counter, watching him pace across your kitchen, the review unfolded in his hands like it’s a classified document.

Caleb’s still flushed from his run, the hoodie now tossed over a nearby chair. His hair’s a little wild, sweat-damp at the temples. The paper flutters slightly with every motion of his hands.

“Here we go,” he mutters. “Opening line: ‘Plated is not for the faint of appetite.’”

He glances up at you. “Good start or warning?”

You sip. “Depends on the appetite.”

“Next: ‘From the first pour to the final plate, there’s an intensity to the place—one that feels deliberate.’”

A pause. He looks over the rim of the page.

“That’s Sylus. That’s totally Sylus—”

You move to pour Caleb’s mug.

He pauses mid-sentence. “Apple juice in mine. If you have some, that is.”

You stop. Turn. “…What?”

He doesn’t look up. “Try it. Trust me.”

You stare. Then shrug. And do it.

Only in his.

He takes a sip without flinching.

“Right. Raf. Here we go.” He clears his throat like it’s the main event.

“‘The dessert—a burnt citrus caramel with a blood orange shell—was nothing short of devastating. There’s flair, yes, but beneath it: precision. Rage, even. Like sweetness offered as defiance.’”

You blink. “Wow.”

Caleb grins. “I know. I think he’s going to print this and frame it.”

You lean back against the counter, refilling your mug. Caleb swirls his like he’s tasting notes of chaos and poor judgment.

“You seriously drink it like that?”

He shrugs. “It keeps me awake and concerned. Two essential states of mind.”

You snort softly.

He glances back at the paper. “Okay—next up. Timing.”

He reads: “There is one dish that arrives not just on time, but at the exact second it’s needed. Plated with such clean intention it feels sterile—but never cold. There’s something almost unnerving about that kind of precision. It cuts through the meal like a scalpel.”

He lowers the paper, smirking.

“Gee. Wonder who that could be.”

You’re already unlocking your phone.

“We’re calling him.”

He grins. “Put him on speaker.”

You tap the screen and hand your phone to Caleb. Zayne’s voice answers on the third tone. Flat. Alert. Not even groggy.

“What?”

“Morning, sunshine,” Caleb says, already smug. “You made the review.”

A beat.

“…Didn’t read it.”

You glance at each other.

“We figured,” you say. “Want the highlight?”

A pause. The faint sound of a door closing on Zayne’s end.

“Go on.”

Caleb clears his throat dramatically. “Sterile but never cold. Plated with clean intention. Unnerving precision. Cuts like a scalpel.” He lowers the page with a grin audible in his voice. “You’re officially terrifying.”

Zayne doesn’t respond immediately. Then:

“…They didn’t hate it?”

You smile.

“They didn’t hate it.”

Another pause. Then, just faintly:

“…Good.”

You can hear him sip something on the other end. Not black coffee, as you’d might expect—something sweeter. Probably laced with vanilla syrup and quiet shame.

“And the rest?” Zayne asks.

Caleb flips the page with the same energy as someone unwrapping something dangerous.

“Raf stole the entire back half. The dessert paragraph’s basically poetry.”

You chime in: “He made citrus sound like a battle cry.”

Zayne huffs—almost a laugh. “He’ll be impossible now.”

“Correct,” Caleb says. “Which is why we’re letting him sleep until noon.”

Zayne sighs.

“Call me if there’s real news.”

Click.

Caleb sets your phone down and exhales through his nose, still grinning.

“He’s pleased. That was Zayne’s version of fireworks.”

You sip your coffee again. Still too hot.

Caleb lifts the paper like a curtain.

“Let’s finish it, Hotshot.”

And you nod. Because whatever it says next, you’re ready to burn through it. Caleb flips to the last page like it might bite him. You watch him skim, eyes flicking across the text.

“No mention of Xavier yet,” you murmur, leaning over slightly. “Unless he snuck in under ‘atmosphere.’”

“Probably filed under mysterious ambient presence,” Caleb says, deadpan. “Or ‘sleeping garnish spirit.’”

You snort into your mug.

Then he pauses.

“Ah. Here’s Sylus.”

“Owner Sylus made a rare appearance at the front of house, offering the opening pour himself. The selection—a champagne from Montagne de Reims—was elegant and disarming. It’s a clever tactic: to control the mood before the food. A performance before the curtain rises.”

He glances up. “Disarming, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “He probably whispered the grape’s lineage like it was a war poem.”

“There’s no point calling him,” Caleb mutters, folding the paper. “He’s probably slumbering in velvet sheets inside a climate-controlled wine vault. Do not disturb until sundown.”

“Or unless we break a glass.”

He gives you a look. “God help us if we chip a decanter.”

The laughter fades, soft around the edges, and the quiet settles again.

Caleb taps the page.

“Here it is. Final line.”

His voice evens out. He doesn’t smile this time.

“Once a rising star in a kitchen that burned too hot, too fast—Caleb is the phoenix, if he’s willing to rise. But this time, he doesn’t fly alone. He has a brigade built sharper, steadier—and an anchor that holds the line when the flames grow high.”

He doesn’t look at you yet. Just breathes out through his nose.

Then: “There is fire in this kitchen. Not always contained. Not always kind. But fire nonetheless. I’ve seen stars born in less.”

He lowers the paper.

Your heart taps once, sharp and clear.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then—Caleb tilts his head slightly, watching you.

His voice drops just a little.

“They saw you.”

You meet his eyes.

“Did they?”

He holds the silence for one breath. Two.

Then—

“Yeah. They did.”

You nod, quietly. Sip your coffee. You’re still standing.

“An anchor…” he says quietly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not teasing. Not assessing. Just there.

And then he’s moving.

No warning.

He closes the space between you in two easy steps, arms looping around you, strong and steady and suddenly everything.

He pulls you close and holds on tight—tighter than you expect. The only thing between you is your hand curled around the warm mug, pressed to your chest like a fragile secret. Caleb doesn’t try to move it. Doesn’t try to move you. His warmth seeps in—quiet and steady—melting through places you didn’t realize had gone cold.

You blink. Once. Then again.

You don’t remember the last time you were held like this.

His breath is right above your ear when he says it:

“I’m so proud of you.”

Quiet. Firm. No smirk. No show.

He doesn’t let go right away.

And when he does, his hands linger a second longer than they need to—sliding away like he’s reluctant to leave that warmth behind.

He clears his throat. “We should meet the others.”

You nod, blinking again.

He tosses the paper onto the counter, then grabs his hoodie. Halfway to the door, he calls over his shoulder: “Text them. I’ll see you there.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

You’re left standing in the quiet.

The review still sitting on the counter.

And the warmth of his arms still stitched into your spine.

You reach for your phone.

It’s time to bring the brigade back together.

————————————-——————————————

The beach isn’t warm.

It’s cold in the kind of way that seeps into your sleeves and catches behind your collar. Gray sky, damp air, sand still dark from the night before. But the sea keeps moving—and so do you.

The brigade shows up anyway.

Zayne is already there. Coat long and dark, collar up against the wind. He doesn’t look like he planned to arrive first—but he’s perched on a driftwood log with a cup of something warm in his hands and a quiet watchfulness in his expression. When you approach, he doesn’t look surprised.

“They forced me,” he says, before you can ask. He doesn’t move.

But he stays.

Xavier follows quietly, hoodie under jacket, bringing something that might be homemade trail mix. Or birdseed. He offers it to everyone with sleepy eyes and no explanation.

Caleb arrives last of the inner circle, paper bag under one arm, a scarf around his neck like he walked out of a black-and-white film. He doesn’t speak right away—just looks at you, lips tugging into that quiet, lopsided smile that feels like it belongs to only you.

But the real center of gravity?

Rafayel.

Already there.

Already theatrical.

He’s splayed across a massive velvet blanket like it’s a chaise lounge in Paris. His coat is long and ridiculous—somewhere between oil-slick and plum. A scarf is tied over his hair like he’s mourning a poet. His sunglasses are far too glamorous for the weather.

As you arrive, he throws out his arms like he’s receiving communion.

“Dear chefs,” he croons, “the muse demands tribute.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “You mean pastries?”

“I mean praise,” Raf says, standing with a flare of fabric. “But fine. I’ll accept baked goods.”

“You said half an hour,” Zayne mutters. “We’re going on one.”

“The sun demanded more of me,” Raf sighs. “And the wind tried to negotiate, but I do not haggle with weather.”

You sit beside him. He lets you. Leans into your shoulder, not for warmth—just because he can.

“You did it,” you say.

He hums, light and airy. But quieter than before. “We did.”

Then—

He exhales. The sunglasses come off. His eyes catch in the gray light—pinkish blue, squinting against the wind.

“They called it devastating,” he says softly. Then with more flair: “Do you know how deeply I want that carved on my grave?”

You laugh. But his voice dips again, just enough: “What if I can’t do it again?”

You turn to look at him. His jaw is set, lips pulled tight at the corners like he’s daring you to call him dramatic. But the edge in his voice is real.

You bump your shoulder against his, gentle. “Then we’ll devastate them together.”

He closes his eyes for half a second.

Then sighs. “Ugh, you’re all so sentimental when I’m vulnerable.”

From the side, Caleb calls out: “You mean when you’re honest?”

“Absolutely not,” Raf says, sitting upright. “I am never honest. I am aesthetic.”

“Is that what you call that coat?” Zayne deadpans.

“This coat,” Raf gasps, pulling it tighter, “is sharper than your principles.”

The ocean hisses behind you. The waves roll in, quiet and constant. Somewhere, gulls cry like lost kitchen timers. Xavier has wrapped himself in a blanket and is now fully horizontal on the sand.

Caleb hands you a pastry from the paper bag.

Almond. Warm. Somehow.

The wind picks up.

And then—

a car pulls up.

Far end of the lot. Quiet. Clean.

You all look up.

Sylus steps out.

Impeccable. Black coat to the knees. Gloves. Impossibly polished shoes that will never touch the sand.

He walks toward you like the wind doesn’t dare touch him. In his hand: a single bottle of deep red wine, nearly black in the shadowed light.

He stops in front of Raf.

“Chef.” No smile.

He extends the bottle with one gloved hand.

“Sangiovese. Tuscany. 2010.”

His voice like velvet dragged across crystal.

“You may celebrate now.”

Raf blinks. Then clutches the bottle like a rescued infant. “I have never felt so seen.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Try not to pair it with anything pedestrian, chef.”

Zayne mumbles, “That’s a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.”

“No,” Sylus replies. “It’s a warning.”

He casts a glance over the group—his eyes catching yours last.

A nod. Just once. And he’s gone. Back to the car. Back to mystery. Coat snapping in the wind like punctuation.

You all sit in the pause he left behind.

Raf stares at the bottle like it might sing to him.

“I’m not opening it today,” he says solemnly. “It needs to be dramatic. Maybe lightning. Or sabotage. Or an affair.”

Caleb tosses him a corkscrew anyway.

——————————————————————————

By the end of the week…

——————————————————————————

The morning is heavy with silver light. The kind of light that feels quiet, even when the city isn’t.

You’re first through the door. The air inside is clean but cold—citrus, steel, and something just beneath: anticipation.

The pass is dark. The hoods silent.

You click the lights on one by one.

The kitchen inhales.

Then—

The door swings open. Caleb strides in, not rushed, but moving like he already knows how the day will end.

He’s on the phone, sleeves pushed up, jaw tight.

“He doesn’t touch the line unless I say so.”

A pause. He listens. Doesn’t blink.

“You want fireworks, call a show. I’m running a kitchen.”

He ends the call with one finger and a practiced exhale.

His eyes find yours instantly.

“Special menu. One-night only.”

You glance toward the prep list. “Sylus?”

“Who else.” He tosses a sheet of paper onto the counter. You catch it before it slides off.

——————————————————————————

Fire & Smoke

A post-review tribute.

— Featuring the Ravaging Dessert by Chef Rafayel.

——————————————————————————

You raise a brow. “He called it a tribute?”

“He called it marketing.”

He crosses to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. His handwriting is precise, like everything else he does when he’s trying not to think too hard.

“Sylus built the menu himself. Seven courses locked. Only thing left is the plat principal.”

You pause. “Why?”

Caleb’s voice dips—dry, exact.

“Because he wants a spectacle.”

By the time Raf arrives, the air’s already changed.

He doesn’t walk in—he sweeps, trailing fabric like storm clouds and attitude. His coat is somewhere between baroque upholstery and avant-garde rebellion, and his scarf is wrapped high, pinned with something that sparkles like a stolen heirloom.

He stops dead in the doorway, clutching a canvas bag to his chest as if shielding from a world that doesn’t deserve him.

“This,” he declares to no one in particular, “is a gross misuse of my creative superiority.”

He strides to his station, unspooling a tangled mess of herbs like he’s unrolling ancient scrolls.

“I was meant for galleries. For tragic love affairs involving painters with cheekbones sharp enough to cut fruit—not price-fixed menus orchestrated by capitalist vampires.”

From the far doorway, a voice like honey stirred through smoke:

“And yet you’re sold out.”

Sylus.

Holding an espresso cup so small it’s practically mocking the concept of caffeine. He doesn’t enter. He arrives. His coat is black, his gaze amused, his smirk painted with patience and profit.

“Full house,” he says. “People are calling it the aftermath menu.”

“You’re making money off my devastation,” Raf mutters.

“As any wise man would.” Sylus sips, unbothered. “Yet… We’re missing a centerpiece.”

He lays the printed menu down on the counter like a playing card. “Dessert’s already infamous. The rest? Solid. Professional.”

His crimson eyes flick toward Caleb.

“But this menu doesn’t just need polish.”

A slow smile.

“It needs blood.”

The room tightens. Even the steam from the stovetop seems to pause.

Caleb straightens from where he’s been overseeing prep. His ash-brown hair is pushed back from his forehead, damp at the temples. His arms are bare to the elbows, tension rolling beneath pale skin. Violet eyes cut toward Sylus like a warning dressed in steel.

“I’ve already approved the main dish.”

“You’ve approved it.” Sylus lifts one eyebrow, smooth and slow. “I haven’t.”

The kitchen door swings open again—clean, silent.

Zayne steps in, already rolling his sleeves up. His black hair is slightly tousled like he walked here fast, eyes sharp behind silver-framed glasses.

“Apologies,” he says calmly, setting his bag down and heading to the sink to wash his hands. “I got Sylus’ text.”

Caleb doesn’t look up from the prep table—just lifts his eyes for one beat.

Zayne meets the gaze.

No words. Just the slight nod between two men who know exactly what’s about to hit them.

Sylus.

Whatever this night is—it’s not going to be quiet.

Zayne dries his hands. Picks up his cleaver. And sets it on the board with a soft, purposeful clack. He rolls his shoulders once—discreet, economical—and brushes his black bangs from his eyes. His sharp green gaze slides toward Caleb.

Stillness.

Then, Sylus steps closer. “Two chefs. One dish. One claim to the plat principal.”

A hush falls so complete you can hear the low hum of the lights above.

Zayne’s tone is colder—cut from stone. He speaks without pause, without emotion:

“I’ll cook.”

Caleb doesn’t flinch. He stares Sylus down, jaw tight, the corner of his mouth lifting—not in a smile. Something hungrier. His voice drops:

“I’ll win, boss.”

——————————————————————————

Stations cleared.

Rules announced.

Sylus sets the stage with precision. “Monkfish. Forty-five minutes. Use anything in the pantry. No help.”

Raf practically floats to the pass, coat flaring like a cape. He drapes himself dramatically across the edge, hands clasped. “Ladies. Gentlemen. And lovers of all things seared—welcome to what will surely be remembered as the Reduction of Egos.”

And then—

A voice from nowhere.

“The line’s about to split.”

You spin.

Xavier is just there, leaning against the walk-in, a towel tossed over one shoulder, a single sprig of rosemary hanging from his fingers like a cigarette.

Raf jumps half a step. “Jesus—how long have you been there?”

Xavier blinks slowly. “Since Zayne came in.”

You and Raf share a look—equal parts impressed and unsettled. Xavier shrugs. “Thought it’d be rude to interrupt the pre-battle tension.”

Then he wanders off toward the dish sink like nothing’s about to explode.

Your eyes flick back to the line. Your pulse ticks louder. The clock starts.

Caleb moves first.

Fast. Fluid. The flame obeys him like it remembers his touch.

He fillets the monkfish in three clean motions, the knife kissing the flesh like he’s danced this step before. His hands are confident—the hands of someone who’s held a brigade together with nothing but command and heat. Oil in the pan. Fennel hits the board. Wine reduced to memory.

He doesn’t talk.

He commands the silence.

Zayne doesn’t rush.

He’s deliberate. Precise. He salts like he’s measuring atoms. The monkfish is scored like calligraphy, the skin seared under a weighted press. Hazel green eyes flick only to the clock—never to Caleb. Black hair strands falls once over his brow. He doesn’t push it back. He just keeps going.

His plate forms like a thesis. Every color chosen. Every sauce exact.

Raf, voice hushed like an announcer in a cathedral: “Caleb’s building something from instinct. From pressure. From fire. Zayne’s plating the thing Caleb feels—but he’s doing it cleaner.”

Xavier, eyes tracking both without blinking: “It’s not speed. It’s control. Caleb’s cooking like the world’s ending. Zayne’s cooking like it already did.”

The moment the bell sounds, both dishes land. Caleb and Zayne each call “hands,” almost in unison— reflexive, controlled, voices even.

A trained instinct. Like stopping themselves from yelling in a room that still echoes with ghosts, even during a cook-off held behind closed doors.

The heat still curls off the sauce. Both plates gleam under the hood light—one elegant chaos, one immaculate control.

Sylus steps forward.

He picks up a fork. Tastes Zayne’s first.

His expression doesn’t change.

Then—Caleb’s.

A longer pause. He chews, closes his eyes.

The kind of silence that feels like it might swallow the room whole.

Then—

He turns to you.

Red eyes unreadable.

“Chef.”

Your throat tightens.

You taste both.

Zayne’s is stunning. Exact. Cold beauty.

Caleb’s is heat, weight, memory.

But only one dish is leading.

You point to Zayne’s.

The kitchen freezes.

You don’t justify. You don’t explain.

Caleb’s jaw flexes. Just once.

His violet gaze drops to the steel. Then back up, like he’s locking himself down—before the burn escapes.

He doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t move.

And Sylus—voice smooth as ever, soft enough to gut:

“Well then.”

A beat.

“Starboy’s lost his shine.”

It hits.

Raf actually gasps.

Xavier’s eyes widen, blue under the glow like water catching lightning.

Even Zayne’s fingers curl once around the edge of the counter—just once.

Caleb doesn’t speak.

But he takes off his apron.

Folds it. Sets it down.

The slow turn of his heel is louder than anything else in the room.

He walks.

Through the line.

Past the pass.

Out the door.

Gone.

The kitchen doesn’t move.

Not at first.

The silence settles like dust, soft and heavy, hanging in the steam-warmed air.

Then Raf—stunned, breath caught somewhere between awe and heartbreak—whispers: “I’ve never wanted to faint and write poetry at the same time until this moment.”

And from across the line, Xavier’s voice comes quieter still—steady, strange, unshakably certain: “Stars don’t die.” A pause, almost reverent. “They collapse. Quietly.” Another breath. “And the gravity stays.”

——————————————————————————

The service is tight. Fast.

Caleb doesn’t bark. He barely speaks.

Orders come clipped, clean, just enough to keep the machine moving.

He doesn’t pace the line. Eyes everywhere. Hands silent. He doesn’t look at the pass like a battlefield anymore. He just holds it.

And the brigade?

They follow like it’s instinct. Like they were built for this exact weight.

Raf’s dessert hits the pass like a closing aria—bitter citrus, burnt sugar, the echo of rage folded into grace. The plates come back empty. One by one. Gleaming.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. His timing is surgical. His knives don’t hesitate. He doesn’t look up—but he hears everything. Every motion. Every breath.

Xavier? He doesn’t walk. He glides.

A shadow behind the line, exactly where he needs to be before anyone says a word. He replaces towels. Catches a falling ladle mid-air. Adjusts garnish like it’s wind-blown. He moves like time bends for him. Like he already lived this service, and came back just to make it smoother.

The pass pulses with momentum.

No one talks.

They don’t have to.

Because Caleb’s still burning.

Just lower.

Just closer.

Barely contained.

And when the last plate clears—

When the final note has rung and the kitchen exhales—

You slip out the back door. Let the cool alley air wrap around your skin like steel-washed silk.

Xavier’s already there.

A blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak. He’s holding a mug of tea that’s still steaming, though it’s hard to say if he’s drunk any. His blond bangs fall lazily over his eyes—bright, pale blue beneath. He looks like a dream with a spine.

As you step out into the cool air, he shifts—just slightly. Without looking at you, he lifts one side of the blanket.

An invitation. Silent. Effortless.

You don’t hesitate. You step in close, and he lets the blanket fall around your shoulders too. The warmth is soft and instant, but the quiet companionship is even warmer. He doesn’t look at you. Just says:

“You know what I noticed?”

You wait.

“They didn’t even talk about the food.” A pause. He swirls his tea without looking down. “It wasn’t about cooking. It was about who was left.”

You breathe out, watching your own steam mingle with his.

Xavier shifts slightly, the blanket bunching around his elbows. He glances toward you now—his eyes catch the light from the kitchen vent, just enough to glow that soft, impossible blue.

He studies you for a moment. Thoughtful. Almost sleepy. Then: “I read the review.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you?”

He nods. “It described you as the anchor.”

You blink. The words linger strangely.

He lifts the mug again, doesn’t sip. “I thought that was funny.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He turns his gaze back to the alley, to the quiet city beyond.

“Because I already said that. Days ago.”

You pause. “You think it’s strange that it matched?”

Xavier finally looks at you again. Really looks.

His voice is soft, but the words are sharp in their simplicity: “Not strange. Just correct.”

You smile. A little helpless.

He watches you, blinking slowly, like you’re something familiar and still a bit magical. Then, very quietly: “You hold all of us. Even when you don’t notice.”

And then he sips his tea, eyes closing for a moment like the warmth has reached all the way through.

A gust of wind pulls his bangs aside. For one breath, you see the full brightness of him. A childlike shell with the soul of a thousand quiet rooms. He’s not just observant.

He understands.

You settle beside him beneath the blanket, the quiet stretching wide around you. And then—gently—you let your head rest on his shoulder.

He doesn’t shift or speak. He just sips his tea once, eyes half-lidded, as if the moment was expected. You feel the urge to snuggle closer—to let the warmth, the stillness, the Xavier-ness of him settle the last of the tension in your chest.

So you do. And he lets you.

Steam.

Silence.

And the anchor.

Then, after a while—

His voice again, quiet and sure: “Caleb survived.” He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “But he didn’t come back the same.”

Xavier turns. “Maybe he’s not supposed to.”

The door slams open.

Caleb.

Hair pushed back, coat half-buttoned, fire in every line of his body.

“I’ve had it.” His voice is low, clipped, but crackling with heat. “I don’t care how many bottles Sylus opens, or what kind of blood he squeezes from the press release. I’m not doing this anymore.”

You straighten. “Caleb—”

“No. I’m done.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, eyes flashing. “It’s not the work. It’s him. It’s the way he plays with people. With fire. I rebuilt myself after that last kitchen. I won’t burn out again just because he wants another headline.”

His fists clench, then release. But he doesn’t calm. He looks at you—just once.

Eyes full. Angry. Tired.

Then—

He turns and walks.

Out into the night.

Gone.

Silence again.

You’re still by the wall, breath caught.

Xavier sips his tea once more. Doesn’t speak. Then, softly—

He nods toward the alley.

Not a word.

Just a gesture.

Go.

You don’t hesitate.

You push off the wall the moment Xavier nods, feet already in motion, the door still swinging behind Caleb.

He’s fast when he’s angry. Always has been—like motion’s the only thing that keeps him from combusting. You spot him a block ahead, already cutting across the intersection, sleeves rolled up, pace clipped, jaw tight.

You call his name.

He doesn’t stop.

So you run.

Your boots echo off the sidewalk as you catch up, breath fogging in the cold. You reach out—fingers just barely grazing his wrist.

He halts.

Not all at once—more like he lets himself be stopped. Shoulders still braced. Pulse still hammering.

“Caleb.”

He turns halfway. His jaw’s tight. His violet eyes—storm-lit.

But they’re tired.

“I can’t do this,” he says, low. “Not like this. Not when he’s using us like pieces. I rebuilt everything after that last place. Everything. I can’t burn it down again for someone else’s performance.”

He runs a hand through his hair—messing it up worse, bangs in his eyes now, breathing hard like he’s still mid-sprint. “It’s not the work. You know that. It’s him. The way he pushes. The way he smiles while we break.”

You step in. Closer.

“Take a breath.”

“I have.” His fists clench again. Then open. Then clench. “I told Sylus I’m not coming in tomorrow. Before I almost—” He breaks off. Shakes his head.

“I was inches from hitting him. And the worst part?” He looks at you now, finally—really looks. “I don’t even know if it would’ve made me feel better.”

You find the bench without words. A few feet away. Half-lit by a buzzing streetlamp.

You sit first. He doesn’t move at first, then sighs—grudgingly, like he knows he’ll follow you even before he starts walking.

He drops onto the bench beside you. Stiff. Tense.

“Do you remember that night?” he asks suddenly. “Culinary school. After the exam. When we sat on the sidewalk with burnt toast and frozen peas because the oven broke and I said we’d improvise?”

You smile. Slowly. “You stole the wine from the instructor’s cooler.”

Caleb lets out a half-laugh. Just a puff of air. “You kissed me on the cheek that night.”

You turn to look at him.

“I remember.”

The silence stretches.

And then—he reaches for your hand.

Just once.

His fingers slip between yours, tentative and hot and so sure.

And then you’re leaning in.

He meets you halfway.

Slow at first. Then deeper. Then—more.

His hand cups your jaw, steady. The other slides behind your knee, pulling you up and into his lap like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

Your fingers knot into the front of his shirt.

He groans. Low. From somewhere buried in his chest. His mouth open over yours, breath sharp, tongue brushing yours like he’s claiming every last second he’s denied. Strong hands settle at your hips, then grip, dragging you down against him.

Grinding.

You feel him. All of him. Your lips part, and he bites—soft, but with teeth. Your lip catches between his, and he doesn’t let go until you gasp his name.

His eyes flash—violet in the dark, wild with restraint.

“Come home with me,” you whisper, your breath skating the edge of his mouth. Your voice is low, but steady. “You always had a reason, Caleb.”

He freezes—just slightly.

“Another shift. Another call. Another shot at proving something.” You swallow. “And every time, I let you walk away.”

Your hand moves up, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw—slow, aching. “You’d leave me half-undressed with excuses still clinging to your mouth.”

A pause.

His eyes close for a beat—like your words landed where he couldn’t brace for them.

You breathe him in. “Don’t care about the career. Not tonight. Don’t choose it over me. Not again.”

And when you kiss him, it’s full of every time he almost stayed.

Caleb freezes.

Just for a second.

Then clutches his jaw tight, like it physically hurts to pull away. He does anyway. Breaks the kiss—but only just.

His forehead leans against yours again, voice shaking as it leaves him: “You’re killing me.”

And you know he means it. His hands still cradle your thighs. His pulse bangs in your ears. His mouth hovers so close you could slip back into him with half a breath.

But he stays still.

“Not like this,” he mutters again.

His forehead rests harder against yours, like it’s holding something in. “I really can’t.” It sounds like it hurts. “I’m your boss. I can’t… not like this.”

A breath catches between you. His hand tightens against your side, then loosens—like even touching you makes this harder.

“I never meant for you to walk into my kitchen,” he murmurs. “Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t want it.”

You blink. But he keeps going—soft, low, barely audible above your breath.

“When Sylus introduced the new hire and I saw you…” His eyes close for just a second. “I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what to do.”

A pause. His voice frays.

“I didn’t want to be your boss, Hotshot…”

His confession hovers—raw, electric. Like something neither of you were meant to say out loud. Then—

“I just wanted to cook beside you again.”

You feel the heat from his skin. His hand still in yours.

“I want to.” His voice is hoarse, thick with every time he didn’t say it. “You have no idea how much I want to.”

Then—his voice drops even lower. Barely more than breath: “Everything I’ve done—every step forward, every goddamn shift I took… it was always to build something good enough.”

A pause. You don’t dare move.

“So you’d never have to stay overtime. So you’d never burn out like I did. So you’d walk into a kitchen and know someone already bled for you.”

His voice cracks at the edges.

“I thought if I became the best, I could finally be enough. For you.”

And in the hush that follows—your voice cuts through, soft but steady.

“I never asked you to.”

You squeeze his hand.

He lets you.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not the kiss.

Not the fire.

But the truth he never let himself hear.

“I’m going to take tomorrow off. Clear my head. I have to. I can feel it happening again.” A pause. “I’m trying not to burn.”

You don’t say anything else.

Neither does he.

You just sit there, hand in hand, the cold biting at your ankles, but his palm stays warm. The quiet of the street hums around you. Distant traffic. A flicker of neon from a bodega across the intersection.

He exhales slowly, eyes forward. You watch the tension in his shoulders loosen by degrees—like maybe, just maybe, he’s letting go.

Your phone buzzes in your coat pocket.

You fish it out, thumb brushing the screen.

XAVIER: Let him rest. Let yourself, too. A good flame never dies. It just finds better fuel.

You smile. A soft, tired kind.

You look at Caleb. He’s watching the sky now, like it might answer something.

You squeeze his hand once more—then gently let go.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” you say.

He nods, slow. The corners of his mouth twitch up—not quite a smile, but close.

You stand.

And walk back into the city glow, the weight of the night trailing behind you like steam off a still-warm plate.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Where the hell did everyone go

I turned around and you all VANISHED like ghosts in a tragic romance

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown to: Helloo?? Is this kitchen cursed??

Do we need a group exorcism or just better communication skills???

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Why do I feel like I’m the only emotionally available one here?? Send help.

You huff out a quiet laugh.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Breathe, chef. We’re still here.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Lies. You’re literally GONE. But fine.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I have a plan. Don’t ask. It involves fairy lights, Zayne’s tolerance threshold, and possibly emotional whiplash. I’ll get back to you.

A pause.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No one gets to spiral into oblivion on my time. Not when I still have glitter and questionable playlists to weaponize.

Then one more line, quieter.

Careful.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I just… want everyone to feel okay again. That’s all.

The typing dots linger…

Then vanish.

Seconds later, your phone lights up again.

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: If this involves singing, I’m out. If it involves cake, I’m listening. Don’t make me regret this.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Will there be cats? If not, I will accept glowing drinks and uninterrupted wall space. Also… thank you.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I’m in. Don’t scare Xavier. Or Zayne. Too much.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No promises. Only glitter. And maybe a slow dance. Depending on who apologizes first.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: And if Xavier brings up cats again, I’m walking into the ocean. I don’t care if it’s metaphorical. I hate them.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: i just think they’re cute… you’re the one spiraling

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I don’t own one. But I’d trust a cat over most people.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: This is why I can’t have one day of peace. You’re both sympathizers.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: correct

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Accurate.

Still nothing from Caleb.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

You tuck your phone away.

And keep walking.

——————————————————————————

Chapter three

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Oookay peepz! That was the second-to-last chapter before my brain officially switches to radio silence. Well… sort of. You know me—I always have something simmering. I can’t wait to yeet the next chapter into the void so you can help steer the chaos with a lil poll vote (no pressure, just a fun choose-your-path moment—like a proper otome game, heeeh). Also! I’ll be posting something I’ve called Plated Interludes during the week—just little snippets full of banter, fun, and questionable choices. I’m down so bad in this AU, and I’m seriously so grateful you’re sticking around for the ride. Hearts all around! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

102 notes · View notes

zorange13 · 21 days ago

Text

— your name in wet paint, nishimura riki

vandal art student! nishimura riki x law student! black fem reader

synopsis: in the heart of new york city, you, a driven law student, run into Riki, a reckless street artist who gets you into a bit of tailspin. upon a one-off kiss, he swears there’s something more he has to offer than spray paint. he’s messy, impulsive, and everything that you didn't know you needed. and in just a few hours, your entire world changes.

cw. illegal activity, cursing, forced proximity/deception, emotional whiplash, mentions of hunger and food, eating, police chase, new yorker riki, new yorker reader, riki’s a little delusional but disgustingly charming, small age gap (riki 21, reader 19), pining, riki has slight manic pixie dream boy tendencies, socio-political commentary (gentrification, red-lining, etc.), meet-weird (???), citation/quoting The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot, kissing, smut (fingering, p in v, etc. the whole thing), virginity loss,

minors dni.

wc. 18.7k

inspired by The Sun Is Also a Star and Before Sunrise.

—

— New York City, Lower Manhattan, Greenwich Village: circa 4:26 PM

You were just trying to get home before dinner.

You swear—you were just trying to make it home and out of Bleecker Street before the sun dipped too low. If God could just let you make it one borough up north, back home safely in Baychester, then that’s all you needed. You would never ask Him for another thing again.

But as you start bustling your way through the gentrified streets of Lower Manhattan, you look to your left and are silently deliberating.

Shortcuts at this time, or any time, in a city like this were in fact dangerous and a part of you debated taking the risk. Granted you had taken this way a few times but never a shortcut. Not at this hour.

Still, you had things to do. Legal briefs to write, dinner to reheat—you were starving, shows to watch. Literally anything would be better than being outside right now. Never in life would you travel all of this way to study again—a “change of scenery” was no longer something you desired. Columbia University’s library and your bedroom was more than enough.

Nonetheless, you pondered and pondered. Then figured that the MTA wasn’t going to wait for you. So you veered left.

It wasn’t dark out, no, you weren’t stupid. You wouldn’t have taken this way if you couldn’t see down the abyss that was this alley. But it was narrow, it stank. Smelt of cat pee, weed, and faintly of…cheddar cheese?

But it shaved a solid five minutes off your walk, so putting a little pep in your step wasn’t an issue—nope, not at all, no problem.

You removed your headphones quickly, you weren’t scared. Just alert. What you didn’t expect was a hiss. Stopping in your tracks, afraid it might’ve been a stray cat or human being.

It’s New York, you really never know.

But this sound was ahead of you and curiosity did in fact, kill the cat but you tried not to let it kill you. Carefully stepping forward and looking down slightly to your right, you spotted a figure—someone. Someone crouched in front of the wall, seemingly a guy—hoodie half up and already partially covered in the vibrant colors that lay on his black clothes. A sharp spray of aerosol cut through the air as your eyes fell upon the wall to see what he was doing.

A stupid dumpster was blocking your view, requiring you to take a step forward and accidentally, your foot kicked a stray, empty can. Making you freeze and put your hands up in defense.

The guy turned to you sharply, equally as stunned as you are. “Oh my god, you scared the shit out of me.”

You blinked, “I scared you?” Your hands are still half-up like you’re getting arrested by a particularly dramatic mime. He’s still holding the spray can, finger mid-press, the paint hissing a little tail as it dies out.

Something about him feels familiar. Not in a ‘I’ve seen you around campus or in a dream’ kind of way. But in a weirdly boyish, pretentiously attractive guy you only see on social media kind of way.

And attractive he was. Even though he was crouched, judging by the length of his legs he seemed tall. Sharp jaw, cat-like eyes, and equally as sharp, yet upturned nose. The skewed lighting in this alley complimented him in some weird, sick and twisted way. That somehow, in any situation he still looked akin to a supermodel. Someone that looked like that had no reason being holed up in a dirty, dingy alley.

He was beautiful.

So as he stayed crouched, slightly turned to you in a half-zipped hoodie, revealing the white long sleeve he had on under it that peeked through the cuff. Hair a bright, dazzling silver—he looked at you with something unrecognizable. “I don’t know, thought you were a cop or something.” He shrugged. “You’re not a cop…are you?”

You deadpanned as you tightened the straps on your backpack. “Do I look like a cop?”

He gives you a once-over, suddenly making you super conscious of your appearance. Your tight, coily hair was out. Frizzing from the tad bit of humidity in the atmosphere. Old, faded flare jeans and some beat up sneakers you’ve had since middle school that you just never grew out of. As well as a thick zip-up your mom gave you for your birthday last year. You didn’t look a mess, you just looked like a normal person going about their day.

He shook his head, grunting as he stood up. “No,” he dusted his gloves off as he stepped back to admire his work. “You caught me just as I was finishing though.” Mystery boy smiled, “What do you think? Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Your eyes darted everywhere but the wall. Surprised that he would even want a stranger’s opinion. Partly because you were still sizing him up—trying to clock if this was some kind of setup—but mostly because the last thing you expected was him wanting your opinion. “Um…”

You looked past him to the wall, finally taking in the spray-painted chaos in front of him. It was abstract—vivid and strange—but somehow…weirdly moving. It was the kind of thing you wouldn’t understand in a museum, but might stare at anyway.

“It’s okay, I can take criticism.”

“You know you just graffitied a private building. That’s a crime.” You muttered quietly. “But besides that…it’s beautiful.” You played awkwardly with your sleeve, biting your lip.

He let out a breathy laugh as he tidied up, taking his gloves off and tossing them into a small duffel bag. “Thank you, but…there’s no harm in a little public beautification, right?”

You smiled despite yourself as you bent down to pick up the can that ignited this exchange. “I guess not.” You toyed with the empty can as your eyes found his bag. “Do you always do this?”

“I think you really are a cop.” He turned to you with a smile before zipping up his bag.

“Close,” you nodded, “law student.” You pointed to yourself with a glint in your eyes.

His smile faltered for half a second—just a flicker—but it was enough to clock. “Oh,” he said, like he wasn’t sure if he should keep talking to you or start running.

You raised an eyebrow. “Relax. I’m not gonna chase you down and recite Miranda rights.”

“Thank you,” he said, tossing the duffel over his shoulder. “But I do this enough. Enough to know where the security cameras are and aren’t.”

That wasn’t an answer. But it also was.

You eyed him for a second. He was still watching you, like he hadn’t quite figured you out either. Like maybe he was waiting for you to say something cop-adjacent again so he could bolt—or maybe he just liked the way you were looking at him.

“What’s your name?” You said as you mindlessly sprayed the ground, though there was no give. The aerosol only emits air and lightly sputters out the remnants of some bright blue paint.

He smirked, “You first, you’re the one trying to build a profile on me as we speak.”

You tilted your head, deadpanning, “I said I’m a law student, not a snitch.”

“Those lines get blurry,” he waved his hands cavalierly, “But I’m Riki.”

You nodded slowly, giving him your name, but as you prepared to respond you heard a pointed voice from down the alley. “Hey! You two!” And that’s when you both heard it: the faint static crackle of a walkie-talkie and the distinct sound of boots against concrete. Hurried and heavy.

You looked at him with wide eyes, “Wh—” But he didn’t have time for words, he grabbed your hand and looked at you firmly. “Run.”

Without another word, he took off with your hand in his at rapid speed down the alley. The can in your hands dropping and his duffel abandoned. He’ll come back for it later. But for now, he was forcing your legs to move faster than you thought were physically possible. Huffing and puffing down the way.

As you two reached the end, you stopped and looked both ways, seeing that there was nowhere to go. You had already passed the part that you were meant to leave out of to go to the train. But Riki was quicker. His hand, still held tightly on yours, guided you to a fire escape. “Go, c’mon.”

“This is crazy,” you whisper-yelled as you climbed up the fire escape with awkward finesse and him following closely behind, right on your heels.

As you scrambled up and he hoisted himself behind you, the metal creaked beneath your weight. Your hands slipped once on the rusted railing, but Riki was there—one hand steadying your back before urging you upward again.

“You’re doing great,” he muttered, and somehow you hated how calming his voice was. Like this wasn’t a literal felony footrace.

You reached the top, chest heaving, heart trying to break dance out of your ribcage. He hopped up beside you, barely out of breath, and looked around quickly—eyes sharp and scanning the skyline like he’d done this before.

“You do this often?” you panted, half-joking, half-wheezing.

“Only on days ending in Y.” He gave you that stupid cocky grin and took off again, toward the roof but quickly stopped when he saw you weren’t behind him. “What are you doing?”

As you peered down at the far and wide gap between you and the ground, sweat started forming on your brow. Stomach twisting and lurching. You shook your head frantically, “I can’t do that.”

Riki’s eyes widened as he frowned, looking back at the fire escape as he heard the same groaning that the metal gave them you two when you were on it. Signaling that the cop wasn’t too far behind. “Come on, please? It’s not even that far.”

“Riki, no.”

“Please, just trust me. You really gotta trust me.” He quickly walked backwards toward the middle of the roof. His hand hasn’t let yours go this entire time. “Just don’t look down.”

Seeing the cop make his way to the rooftop with you two lit a fire under both of your asses.

“Shit.” You cursed under your breath, eyes flicking from the cop to the rooftop ledge, to Riki—whose fingers tightened just enough to say we are so screwed unless you jump, right now.

He gave you one last pleading look, that infuriatingly cinematic silver hair catching the wind like this was some kind of indie action movie. “I got you. I swear.”

“I hate you,” you muttered, heart pounding as your legs twitched with hesitation.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna miss me if we get caught,” he grinned—and then he ran, tugging you right along with him.

Your feet slapped against the concrete, wind rushing past your ears as the ledge came closer, faster, too fast, and your brain screamed STOP but your body didn’t listen because—

You jumped.

And for one horrifying second, you were airborne. No ground. No roof. Just air, your hand in his, your scream trapped in your throat—

And then impact.

You hit the other side hard, tumbling into Riki, who had twisted just enough to break your fall—with your backpack that had been performing extremely well—and immediately groaned, “Ow. Okay. Maybe that was a little far.”

You whined at the pain shooting through your back, most likely the stainless steel water bottle having been the thing to jut out and poke you. “Fuck you,”

He let out a pained laugh, “Damn, at least buy me dinner first.” He stood and rubbed his elbow before he reached down to help you up.

You could feel the onset of bruises forming on you, but none of that mattered. “You said it wasn’t even far, that you would—I almost died!” You pushed his shoulder with your not-aching hand.

“But you’re very alive!” He gestured to you as he took the excuse to scan your body. “I’d rather a bruise than a casket.” Smiling as he unzipped his hoodie, taking it off and wrapping it around his hips.

The sound of the rooftop door slamming open across the gap cut off the sarcasm instantly. You both whipped your heads toward it—flashlight beams sweeping the rooftop you’d just left, voices yelling over each other, and then…one of them looked directly at you. He must’ve called for backup.

“There!” someone shouted.

Any and all angry responses you had were all out of the window. You both darted to the far edge of the roof, this one not having a door to follow through. But fortunately, a fire escape to drop down on. Like last time, he let you go down first. And as you both made your way down, he accidentally sandwiched your hand between a rung and his foot. “Ow! Bitch!” You hit his leg as you kept moving down the ladder.

He gasped softly, “Sorry!” He whisper-yelled, sounding more amused than concerned.

You both hopped down onto a stack of milk crates with a loud clatter. You winced. “Subtle,” you muttered.

The momentary silence was broken when there were frantic steps toward your way. Paranoid that it might be the same cop, you both scrambled behind a nearby dumpster. Squatting behind it in close quarters. “Wh—is that—” You sputter out but are shushed by Riki. “Aht!” He holds his finger to his lips as he looks at you.

The world seemed to go silent as you both pressed yourself against the wall. The dumpster reeked of sour milk and corn chips as the sun had baked it, only intensifying the stench. But despite that, amidst the silence, crunching of gravel beneath boots was enough to send your senses aflame.

Your eyes widen, mouthing “What the fuck.” To which Riki shook his head with firmness, not even trying to look your way—but focusing on where the cop was coming from.

As the officer encroached, your stomach twisted and hands started shaking. Panting and trying to mellow out your frantic breathing, you grab the collar of your sweater and cover your mouth with it.

You know for a fact that if he saw you two, you’d be arrested and charged with trespassing, vandalism, fleeing law enforcement, and reckless endangerment. There was such despicable irony in this being a possibility yet you worked your entire life up to this point to resist exactly this. You, of all people—Miss GPA, Law School, Future of the Fucking Judicial System—were now crouched behind a dumpster, next to a guy who thought “Don’t look down” counted as a real strategy.

And still. Still.

You didn’t move.

Because despite everything—sweat clinging to your back, the stench clogging your throat, the very real chance of handcuffs—his hand brushed yours. Barely. Not even gripping this time. Just…there. A silent “I got you.”

Your heart, already trying to launch itself through your ribcage, gave one loud, traitorous thump. And as the cop was approaching and inspecting every nook and cranny you had to do everything in your power to ensure you did not go to jail.

So you grabbed Riki, no build up, no foreplay, no teasing. You crashed your lips against his without a thought. It was hilarious actually, you could taste the shock on his lips but none of that mattered. He complied and wrapped his arms around your shoulders to pull you closer as you both leaned into the lie.

Or, at least—that’s what you told yourself it was. A distraction. A decoy. A get-out-of-jail-free kiss. Right?

Except his fingers curled into the fabric of your sweater.

Except his mouth moved like he meant it.

Except you weren’t looking forward to pulling away either.

Your brain was screaming ‘girl, what are you doing’ but your body? Your body was a traitor. A criminal. An accomplice.

The cop’s boots paused. Peeking over the dumpster and onto you two, but you didn’t stop. It didn’t matter who was watching, no one else mattered. Nothing mattered.

But with finality, the officer smacked his teeth and sighed. “Damn kids,” turning back, retreating to wherever he belonged: giving up.

Riki didn’t let go.

Not immediately as least, his hands found your hair as he mindlessly massaged your soft coils. But his lips lingered, slow now. Like if you gave him another second, he’d kiss you with more than he meant right now.

You finally pulled back—breath catching. “Is he gone?”

His hands left you and he nodded without a word, slightly dazed.

You stand up, surveying the area—scanning for any sign of law enforcement. A person, anything. But no, not a soul. And you didn’t even realize that it was already dark out.

Riki stands up, eyes never having left you as he walks toward you. Still wordless. Heart also clenched but nowhere near from fear.

Your adrenaline was starting to simmer, hands starting to clench but your stomach wasn’t fueled with fear anymore. Now it was solely anger.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You turned around and shoved Riki, hands practically making marks in his firm chest.

“Ow!” He yelped as he held his chest. “Nothing,” he whined. “What was that for?”

Your brows furrowed, chest heaving and vein in your forehead pulsing as you feel yourself start to see red. “You! You almost got me arrested and made me run from the fucking police!”

Riki blinked, caught off guard by your rage. “Us. I almost got us arrested,” he corrected, hands raised in surrender. “Teamwork makes the felony, babe.”

Wrong answer.

You shoved him again.

“Are you joking right now?!” you snapped, voice sharp enough to cut through the night. “You think this is funny? I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid shit like this, and you dragged me into it like it was a fucking side quest!”

He stumbled back a step but didn’t stop grinning, which only made your blood boil harder. “Okay, okay! Chill! I didn’t drag you—”

“You literally did and said trust you!”

“I meant it!” he protested. “And hey, we’re not in jail, are we? You kissed me, we got away, that’s a win.”

You stared at him like you were trying to set him on fire with your eyes alone.

“Oh my god, I should’ve let them arrest you,” you hissed, turning away to pace, hands flying to your head. “I should’ve said, ‘Yup, officer, that’s the guy, right there! Trespassing, being annoying, fuckass attitude!’”

“Guilty on all counts,” he said with a dramatic bow, still following your every move.

You stopped pacing. Your chest rose and fell in furious silence. “You think everything’s a joke. Like none of this matters.”

His smirk faltered for the first time.

“People die over shit like this—over shit way less than this—and you think this is fucking funny?”

Riki blinked. The playful spark that had lit his eyes the whole evening dimmed like someone had finally flipped the switch.

“I didn’t think it’d go that far,” he said, voice low and defensive.

You let out a dry laugh. “Wow. Not even an apology. That’s crazy.”

“You’re fine, aren’t you?” he shot back, arms lifting in some half-shrug, half-shield. “You made the jump. We’re not in cuffs. I figured you could handle it.”

“Oh, you figured.” You stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I don’t know you. You dragged me up there like we were in a fucking movie, and I followed because—for some goddamn reason—I thought you knew what you were doing.”

Riki looked you up and down—less like he was checking you out now, and more like he was trying to piece you together. “So what, you kissed me and screamed at me in the same five minutes? You might be worse than me.”

You bristled. “Yeah? Well next time, maybe don’t nearly get a complete stranger arrested for thrills. You’re not charming. You’re a walking liability.”

And with that, you turned around and stormed off.

And he—stupidly, predictably—followed.

You stormed off, heels of your shoes hitting pavement like war drums—but apparently not loud enough to discourage the cockroach with good hair tailing behind you.

“Okay,” he called out casually, like you weren’t mid-rage, “but real quick—was the kiss, like, fake-fake? Or fake with feelings?”

You stopped. Turned. “Are you serious right now?”

He grinned, slowing to a walk beside you like this was just a post-date stroll and not a felony-adjacent escape. “Because I felt something. Like…chemistry. Heart palpitations. Internal fireworks. You know.”

“You’re about to feel a restraining order.”

“And yet you haven’t run again.” He gave a mock-swoon. “God, you’re into me.”

You groaned. Loudly. “What is wrong with you?”

“Only child. Coddled. Maybe a head injury or two.”

“I don’t even know your last name!”

“Nishimura.” He said it proudly. “And you’re gonna remember it, it might be yours soon. Who knows?”

You turned again to walk away. He followed.

“For real though,” he said, easily catching up. “What if we just…went out sometime? No cops, lore, full names exchanged and everything. I’ll even tell you my shoe size if you want.”

You didn’t even dignify it with an answer.

“Okay, okay, how about I make it up to you with coffee?” he added. “Or tea. Or a smoothie. Or a long heartfelt apology in the form of interpretive dance and slam poetry. I’m flexible.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m persistent,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

You sped up, “Where is this even coming from?”

His voice hasn’t wavered, “Three minutes ago when you kissed me.” He matched your pace, “I can cook, by the way. I clean. I’m like, decently smart.”

You groaned, “If you were smart, you would leave me alone. Wait—how old are you?”

“Twenty one,” He said like he hit the jackpot, voicing it immediately and swiftly.

You blinked, “Ew. Nope. Too old.”

He furrowed his brows in worry, “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Riki raised an eyebrow, looking at you like you’d just dropped a bomb on him. “Nineteen?!” He almost shouted, his arms flailing dramatically as if he’d just discovered you were a time traveler or something. “That’s barely even a gap! C’mon, you’re acting like I’m forty.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost gave yourself a headache. “Yeah, well, twenty-one feels ancient when I’m still figuring out how to survive college, Riki,” you shot back, not breaking your stride.

“Okay but, besides…what just happened I have a really good future ahead of me. I promise I’m not just some ruffian that likes to vandalize corporate buildings.” He strides widely, ensuring he’s beside you. “I go to Columbia, I major in Design and—”

You stopped, “Wait—where?”

He looked at you with furrowed brows, confusion residing heavily in his expression. He slowly spoke to you like you were five years old. “I said I go to Columbia University…”

That irritated you but you didn’t even care to acknowledge it. “No you don’t…” You said in disbelief. Heart beating rapidly as that weird shaking in your hands reignited.

“How are you gonna tell me—” He smacked his teeth as he reached into his pocket, showcasing a sleek black wallet. Then immediately handed you his student ID.

It was a picture of him, straight faced, again reminiscent of a model. His name and graduating year. Undeniably real. This sent you into a whirlwind. “What the fuck.”

“Do you think I’m not smart enough to be there or something? Because I know you—” You cut him off, putting your hand up as you looked at him. “I go to Columbia too.”

Riki blinked at you, his expression a mix of amusement and disbelief. “No way,” he laughed, laughing as if you were Kevin Hart or Dave Chappelle and you just said the funniest thing in the entire world. “Columbia Law?”

You nodded, closing your eyes to mediate the aggravation and pure coincidence. “Yes,”

But he just slowly stopped laughing, a bright grin following immediately after. “I mean…this has to be fate, right? Some otherworldly, cosmic sign that we just have to know each other right?”

“Yeah, you lost me.” You brushed past him as you kept walking hurriedly to which he quickly followed right behind you.

“So I had you?”

“Never,” you shook your head and toyed with the straps on your backpack like you always did under pressure.

He jogged up to match your pace. “I mean, think about it. All the schools you could’ve picked. FIT, Parsons, NYU, Fordham, any of them.” He brushed his hair out of his face. “But somehow, someway, you bump into me in a random alley and we just so happen to be in a closer proximity than we thought. That means something, right?”

“Then how come I’ve never seen you around?” Which makes sense, people like him stand out more than anything. Tall, handsome, fit, the school wasn’t that big. I’m sure someone would’ve acknowledged the hot, art major somewhere and put him on Fizz.

He shrugged, “I come and go as I please,”

You scoffed, what a privileged asshole. “Okay…whatever that means.”

“But now I have a reason to go,”

You shot him a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Too late.”

You groaned, speeding up like walking faster could shake him off. But to no avail. “You’re literally insane.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I believe that. Like seriously,”

He tilted his head, smirking. “So what you’re saying is...you’ve been thinking about me?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “I’m still thinking about that restraining order.”

“That’s still thinking about me.”

You stopped walking so fast, your brain buffering. “You’re not serious.”

He shrugged again. “Only about the things that matter.”

You looked up at him, squinting like he was an overexposed camera flash. “And you think I matter?”

He didn’t answer right away. And you hated that. Hated the way his smile fell just slightly—like he was thinking. Actually thinking.

Then, way too softly for your comfort, he said, “I think you could.”

Your stomach did a weird thing. Like it tried to throw hands with your logic and then tapped out halfway through.

So you did what you do best—deflect. “Well, I think you’re lost.”

And just like that, his grin snapped back into place like muscle memory. “Nah. Found exactly what I was looking for.”

You sighed, “Okay,” you rub your forehead as if you could soothe your headache from the outside. “What do you want? Truly.”

His smile faltered a little, simmering into some sort of seriousness. “You.” He edged closer to you, looking at you with gentle eyes.

A part of you wanted to step back, to reject him further. But you couldn’t deny the feelings and attraction brewing between the two of you. So you didn’t step back, because you didn’t want the indirect mention of fate that Riki mentioned to be real. “I don’t know you.” You muttered with little confidence.

He smiled again, letting out a breathy laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. “You can get to know me. I promise, I’m not that bad.”

You shook your head, “Then what? What’s your big plan?” Shrugging at his flippant attitude.

He tilted his head like he was genuinely considering it, like this was a business pitch and not some unorthodox meet-cute. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe we talk. Maybe we get dinner. Maybe you don’t call the cops on me—crazy idea, I know.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your ancestors. “You’re not even trying to be normal about this.”

“What is normal? It’s a social construct,” he countered, hands waving around like what you said was nonsense. “Girl meets boy. Boy tries not to screw it up in under five minutes. I’m doing my best here.”

You let out a snort you tried (and failed) to muffle. “Your best involves mildly harassing me and romanticizing a chance encounter where you were literally spray painting a wall.”

“Technically,” he held up a finger, “you walked into my crime scene. I was minding my criminal business.”

You blinked at him. “Did you just say ‘my criminal business’?”

He nodded, “I did.” But he held his hands up, “But just give me a chance, please.” He looked around to assess where you two stood. It was already dark out as established, but there were still many people lingering in the streets. The cool weather breezing through your hair as if this were some postmodern, A24 film. The neon signs from the stores meddling about and casting a sensual glow on both of you, melting and simmering into your skin. “What time is it?”

Furrowing your brows, you tap around your jean pockets for your phone. Finally landing on it, you pull it out and read, “6:19 PM.”

He nodded firmly, getting straight to the point. “Give me until midnight.” His eyes looked into yours, a mix of desperation and anticipation. “Midnight, to show you that this wasn’t just some fluke.”

You stared at him, squinting like he’d just challenged you to a duel instead of whatever this was supposed to be. “Midnight?”

“Midnight,” he confirmed.

You blinked slowly. “Is this Cinderella? I’m so confused.”

“If you want it to be then, yes. It can be whatever you want. I can be whatever you want, just please. Give me the five and a half hours.” He nodded as stepped aside, pulling you out of the way of passersby and slightly bent down to plead.

“Oh my god.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rubbed your forehead again. This man was going to give you wrinkles. “And what exactly happens at midnight? The spell breaks? Do we forget this ever happened?”

He nodded, “We can. But if you don’t like me after then I will leave you alone. Even if I see you around campus I will walk past you like I never knew you if that’s what you wanted.”

You stared at him, trying to evaluate his expression and you didn’t track that smugness, that cocky smile that has been half of what you’ve been seeing for the last two hours. Just him, crouching down to meet your height in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’re so dramatic,” You shook your head with a small smile.

His ears perked up at the fact that he got you to smile. But he didn’t want to get overzealous. “I’m an artist,” he smiled. “Just don’t think too much into it.” He tilted his head, peering at you with gentle eyes. “Take the chance…five hours of your time.”

You stared at him for a beat too long, and maybe it was the mix of city noise and his hopeful expression—or the fact that he looked at you like the universe personally dropped you in front of him—but you felt your resolve falter.

“…Fine,” you muttered.

His face lit up. “Yes?”

You sighed with a nod, “Okay,” pointing at him firmly, “But don’t ask me to do anything.”

He put his hands up in defense, “Swear on everything I love, you won’t. All I’m asking you to do is be pretty.” He smiled, “But what do you wanna do?”

You waved your finger with a smile, “No, no, no. My job is to be pretty, not think. You’ve been hounding me for the last hour, buddy. My only request is nothing illegal.”

He clutched his chest like you’d just professed undying love. “You being pretty and funny? You’re trying to kill me.”

You gave him a look that was this close to amused. “Don’t push it.”

“Right, right,” he nodded solemnly, already walking backward like a man on a mission. “Nothing illegal. Got it. Which really narrows down, like, seventy percent of my plans.”

“You’re not helping your case,” you called after him.

He spun, walking forward now, ensuring you weren’t too far behind. Gratefully, you were now walking side by side. “Are you hungry?” He looked down at you, waiting for your answer.

Amazingly enough, your hunger was one of the contributing factors as to how you even ended up in the situation in the first place. The sudden need for a shortcut being how you ended up walking side-by-side the human form of mono. Easy to get apparently, but hard to get rid of.

But the adrenaline you were running off of had seemed to die down. And now that your body was exiting that fight or flight, it was like a trigger—his words. That you didn’t even remember being hungry until he asked. So as your stomach growled obnoxiously, probably being the loudest thing on the street—even above the cars. Without any thought you wrapped your arms around you, not even wanting to look him in the eye.

Riki smiled endearingly, “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” He looked at you, gently asking. “Do you eat meat?”

You nodded, keeping your eyes trained on the sidewalk like maybe if you stared hard enough, it’d open up and swallow you whole. “Yeah,” you muttered, voice small.

“Cool,” he said, like you hadn’t just had your internal organs announce themselves to the world. “I know a spot.”

“Of course you do,” you mumbled, shooting him a side-eye.

He grinned, unbothered. “It’s not even sketchy this time, I swear.”

“‘This time,’” you mimic his words with a smile.

“I said what I said.”

You couldn’t help the huff of a laugh that escaped your nose. He caught that too, of course, but didn’t say anything. Just walked beside you with that infuriating little bounce in his step like he was winning some imaginary game you never agreed to play.

After a block or two, you turned a corner and the world cracked open with the smell of grilled meat, sweet and savory spices, and the unmistakable comfort of street food glory.

“Ta-da,” Riki said, gesturing grandly to a tiny halal cart lit by the glow of string lights and years of character. “Best lamb over rice in the city. You can fight me on that.”

“I’d rather fight you, just cause.” But as you scaled the cart, you noted the rust that crept onto metal signs and the near decrepit wheels and half-faded photos of food that were tacked to the vehicle. This cart was one more bowl away from breaking down and coming apart.

That’s how you knew this food was about to be the best you’ve ever tasted.

You gave him a blank look. “You really like the sound of your own voice, huh?”

“Almost as much as I like the sound of yours,” he shot back with a wink.

You looked away before he could catch the corners of your lips twitching upward again.

—

You walked beside him as he held the plastic bag with both of your guys’ food inside. Simply following his lead, “Do you wanna go on a picnic?”

Your brows furrowed at the request, “A picnic?”

Riki nods with a smile, “Yeah, I think I know just the place. Only mild trespassing, it’s abandoned. So does that count, Ms. Law Student?”

You deadpanned. “It absolutely still counts.”

“Legally?”

You snorted, “Legally. Morally. Every -ly you can think of.”

“Okay, okay.” He held his hands up again, that now-familiar ‘I’m charming please don’t arrest me’ gesture. “But if I told you it had one of the best skyline views in Manhattan and nobody around to ruin it—just you, me, and lamb over rice—would you consider turning a blind eye to justice?”

You squinted at him. “I’m tired of you and your felonies.”

“Technically it’s a misdemeanor.”

You blinked.

He grinned wider. “I looked it up. Once. While hiding.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then gave a long sigh that tasted a little too much like amusement. “Lead the way, Picasso.”

— New York City, West Village: circa 7:04 PM

The rest of the walk was quiet in the way only New York could be—horns in the distance, muffled chatter spilling from windows, and your footsteps synchronized like some kind of reluctant duet. When he led you around the back of an old building, pulling open a rusted side gate with the grace of someone who’s done this many times, you just sighed again and followed.

And as the two of you started the climb—graffiti-tagged stairs, occasional creaks and all—you realized you weren’t even thinking about the risk anymore.

Just the view at the top.

The rooftop door groaned open like it hadn’t been touched in years, and Riki held it for you like a gentleman and a menace all at once. The second you stepped out, the city greeted you—wind tugging at your hair, the buildings glowing like embers in a dying fire. The skyline stretched across the horizon like a living painting. A couple pigeons took off at your arrival like even they knew they weren’t cool enough to be here.

You took a slow breath. “Okay…wow.”

Riki didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, letting the moment do the heavy lifting. Then he set down the bag of food, spreading out two of those obnoxious plastic bags like a makeshift blanket. “Your table, m’lady.”

You sat in butterfly position, trying to play it cool while your knees absolutely did not cooperate. As you took off your backpack, he handed you a container and a plastic fork, and the second you cracked the lid, the steam hit you in the face like a warm hug and a slap all at once.

“You’re gonna owe me when this changes your life,” he said between bites of his own plate.

“You’re real confident for someone who literally just admitted to mild trespassing.”

He grinned mid-chew. “Confidence is all I’ve got.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t argue.

After a few minutes of nothing but chewing and the sound of distant city life echoing up the building sides, Riki wiped his mouth with a napkin and tilted his head at you like he was switching gears. “So. Bronx girl, huh?”

You raised a brow. “How’d you know?”

“Your accent.” He pointed his fork at you. To which you drew back, “I don’t have an accent, you just hear funny.”

He shook his head with a smile, “No, you do. You say ‘lost’ like ‘law-st.’” He laughs, his mouth partially full as he covers it with his hand.

You threw a crumpled up napkin at him, “I do not! You loser.” Matching his laughter despite yourself. “I think I sound just like every other New Yorker if anything.”

“It’s cute,” He smiles as he takes a sip of his water bottle and lets the charged silence stew between you too. “So, which part?”

“Baychester,” you answered. “You?”

“Queens. Forest Hills.” He smiled. “But I went to high school in the Bronx for like, five minutes.”

You drew back but didn’t want to throw him off. Forest Hills is one of the wealthiest areas in Queens—probably New York in general. Knowing that there was a Whole Foods on almost every corner moves you, making you feel like you and him shouldn’t even be having this conversation. But if you’ve learned anything today, it’s that you never really know anyone. So you let it go, kept it in the back of your mind.

But you nodded slowly, chewing. “Explains a lot actually, which school?”

“Taft.”

“Oh God,” you laughed as you also covered your mouth. “I’m so sorry,”

William H. Taft High School wasn’t exactly terrible. But if there was chaos and extremely mild anarchy in a school it would be this one. Which—hindsight 20/20—makes a lot of sense for someone like Riki.

“Yeah, yeah,” Riki waved you off, dramatically wounded. “Laugh it up. I lasted, like, three fights and a lockdown before my mom yanked me out.”

“You fought?” you blinked, already knowing the answer.

He shrugged like it was Tuesday. “To be fair, only one was my fault. The second one was self-defense. The third was...well. Mysterious circumstances. That was early freshman year though, so it didn’t go on my record.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re the mysterious circumstances, aren’t you?”

“Guilty.” He grinned.

You shook your head, still smiling despite every part of you that knew better. There was something infuriatingly magnetic about him—like if hooliganism had a pretty face and nice hands.

“So, what about you?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Why law school? You trying to save the world or something?”

You poked at your food again. “Not the world. Just…my block.”

He laughed, “Okay, J-Lo.”

You reciprocated the laugh, lightly shoving his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up,” Leaning back to where you sat, crossing your legs in butterfly position as you stifled a laugh. “That’s not funny.”

Riki nodded, laughter diffusing. “It was funny,” but his eyes softened as he looked at you. “But why? Seriously.” He let his words hang warmly in the air, like this was the first real thing he’s gotten or even felt all night.

Your own laughter died down, finally leaning toward introspection. “Well…” you sighed, looking up in thought. “Seeing neighborhoods like these in Manhattan compared to the ones near me… The ones that generations of families grew up in, seeing how they slowly start to not become theirs anymore…infuriates me.”

Riki didn’t say anything, just let you speak as he digested your words. Nodding in understanding as he knew exactly the things you were speaking of.

“The Bronx is the only borough that has slowly resisted gentrification and walking through places like Greenwich Village and the Upper East Side upset me because…you see these gorgeous brownstones and high rise buildings. Then you turn the corner and there’s poverty, uncleanliness, liquor stores, weed dispensaries where they don’t need to be.” You went on, “The people that look like me are basically set up to be trapped in these hubs and red-lined areas so we can’t further our lives and only…prove them right.”

As Riki listened to you with intention, eyes never leaving you—his heart softened at the passion behind your eyes. The way you spoke so firmly—yet with care, about the world you lived in. But even as he listened he couldn’t help but develop more respect with each passing word. “And you don’t wanna prove them right…” He said softly.

You nodded, slowly. “Exactly. I want to make it out without selling out. I want to help people stay in the places that made them who they are. That raised them. That’s if they want to. But they shouldn’t be pushed out so…” You sighed, “housing law it is.”

Riki’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words yet. Instead, he just gave a small smile—gentler than any expression you’d seen on him all night. “That’s very admirable and I know I really don’t know you yet but…I’m proud of you.”

You glanced over at him, surprised by his sincerity. Face warming up as you looked down, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks…you?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, tipping his head back for a second like he needed to stall. “Damn, I was seriously hoping you would make this all about you.”

You shook your head, “Don’t deflect, why do you do what you do?” You smiled, “And don’t say ‘because it’s fun’ or I’m kicking your ass off this roof.”

He looked at you sideways, considering, before shrugging slowly. “I just wanna create something that outlasts me.” He went into the bag to grab a huge, saran wrapped, chocolate chip cookie before he broke it in half and gave the rest to you. “I feel like…art has always been an escape for me. My parents have always instilled creativity into me and…there’s nothing more addictive than forcing people to see me.”

You got to understand him in a way. The way he looked at you with such gentleness and a smidge of desire. But it wasn’t demeaning, like he looked at you like you were something to be conquered. Rather something to explore out of curiosity, like not being told to touch that big red button in action movies.

“I firmly believe that if no one wants to hear you, make them listen. Whether it’s in a judicial chair, art on a wall, words on a page, screaming through your window, music, anything.” He says firmly, “I don’t like being silenced.”

You smiled, shoulders relaxing as you felt yourself become a little more comfortable in his presence. Which is something you’d never thought you might feel. “You sound like an anarchist.” She broke a piece of the gooey cookie and popped it in her mouth.

“I’ve had a couple ideas.” He nodded with a quirk of his brow. But something he said before had piqued your interest.

“Wait,” you tapped your knee with your fingers, trying to stir up a proper way to word this. “You said you got into a few fights in high school, right? Your freshman year?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he confirmed with a bitter smile. Remembering those days where his mom had to pick him up from school. Forcing him to hear lectures about how she didn’t come to the States for him to act like a dummy and blah blah, immigrant parent lectures, blah blah.

And you hated the stirring in the bottom of your stomach at hearing him call you ma’am but that’s not here nor there. “How did that not get on your record? I mean, Columbia’s pretty strict about shit like that.”

He adjusted himself as he pondered your question, taking his zip-up that was once tied around his hips to ball it up as a makeshift pillow. Groaning as he slowly reclined his body against the cold, empty stone of the rooftop. He shifted, getting comfortable and looking up at the star-polluted sky. “In case you can’t tell,” Riki looked over at you with that same cocky grin. “I can be very convincing.” He rested his hands on his stomach as he folded the cuffs of his sleeves over his large hands a little.

“And a little bit of a liar but this isn’t about me right now.” He waved off, “but I just really pleaded with them to expunge it. I was young, fourteen years old, bright future, blasè blah. That most of the fights were out of character and that I was having a hard time at home. Anything that was going to keep my very Japanese mother from killing me.”

You tilted your head in interest. “Were you?”

“What?”

You clarified, “Having a hard time at home?”

His grin faltered, not completely disappearing but definitely softening—melting into something smaller, something quieter.

He inhaled through his nose, exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice lower now. “But not in the way they thought.”

You didn’t press him, just let the silence stretch as he looked back up at the sky like it might help him piece the words together.

“My parents...they love me. A lot. But they love me in that ‘you will succeed or else’ kinda way.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “I was dancing since I could walk, painting since I could hold a brush, and speaking three languages before middle school. And none of that ever felt like enough.”

Your brows furrowed, gaze softening. “That’s a lot.”

He nodded. “Yeah. And I didn’t even mind it, not at first. I liked being good at things. But somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t know who I was when I wasn’t performing. Like if I wasn’t impressive, I didn’t matter.”

You sat up a little straighter, the cookie in your hand forgotten. He wasn’t just opening up—he was unfolding.

“So when I started acting out, it wasn’t ‘cause I was angry or whatever. I just wanted to know what would happen if I wasn’t perfect for once.”

You smiled gently, “It wasn’t like you did too poorly. You’re attending one of the most respected and prestigious universities in the country.” You adjusted your legs as they started to tingle, signaling they were falling asleep. “That has to count for something.”

“It counts for everything.” His eyes glued to the sky, swearing he saw a shooting star zip over the moon. “I just knew that fucking around all of my life wasn’t going to really get me anywhere.” He shrugged, “I’m twenty-one. While I’m still young, my time for making dumb mistakes isn’t going to be forever unfortunately. Plus, I wasn’t going to let all of my hard work go down the drain like that, no way.”

You nodded, watching him carefully, understanding the weight of what he was saying. He had a self-awareness that was rare for someone his age, and it made you respect him more. You shifted on the rooftop, legs now crossed beneath you to stop the tingling from spreading.

“I get that,” you said, voice steady. “There’s always that balance between wanting to live and not wanting to screw up what you’ve worked for.” You paused, then added, “But you don’t have to be perfect to succeed. You’re allowed to stumble. We all are.”

Riki let out a slow breath, eyes still on the sky. “Yeah, but I don’t know if I really know how to stumble without completely falling apart.”

There was a slight vulnerability in his voice that he hadn’t shown before, and it made you feel like you’d just uncovered another layer of him—one he didn’t often let people see. You hesitated for a moment, then took a chance.

“Maybe you don’t have to know,” you said softly. “Maybe you just need someone to help you back up when you do.”

His gaze flicked to you then, meeting your eyes with a kind of quiet intensity. He didn’t respond right away, letting the words settle between you two. The air felt heavier suddenly, charged with something unspoken.

After a moment, he chuckled lightly, breaking the tension. “Yeah? So what, you’re gonna be my personal safety net, huh?”

You grinned, teasing. “Maybe. Depends on how many dumb mistakes you make.”

He raised an eyebrow, that cocky grin returning. “Well, you might be real busy then.”

The playful banter was back, and it felt like the pressure between you two had lifted just a little bit. But the look in his eyes, still holding yours, said something deeper lingered.

“Guess we’ll see,” you said, the words lighter, but the undertone carrying the weight of everything you hadn’t quite said yet.

Riki’s gaze softened again, but this time, it wasn’t for show. It was real. “You know,” he started, his voice quieter, “I never thought I’d actually...get along with someone like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Someone like me? How so?”

His gaze shifted to something a little more playful, teasing. “I don’t know…since I met you, you just seemed so uptight like—”

You leaned up empty containers of food, swatting at his chest again. “I’m not uptight. You just caught me at a terrible time and had me run from the literal police.”

Riki nodded with a small smile, “Yeah? What else did I do…?” He smoothly grabbed your hand as you were leaning back. Leaving your palm burning in his grasp. You didn’t dare pull away.

“Then chased me down the street for me to go out with you.”

The glint in his eyes remained, toying with your fingers with the same hand. Eye contact never letting up. “Mhm, and now?”

You swallowed. The rooftop felt quieter than before. Maybe it was the way his thumb brushed the center of your palm—like he knew exactly what he was doing, but didn’t need to gloat about it.

“Now you’re annoying,” you said, voice a little breathier than you intended.

He huffed a laugh, head tilting just slightly as if he could see straight through your bravado. “You think I chased you down the street because I like bothering people?”

You raised your brow. “You don’t?”

Riki smiled at your jab. “Well…I meant what I said. After you kissed me, what I felt was…electric.” He let out a breathy laugh, but you didn’t know if it was for you or him. Just something a result of introspection. “And I just couldn’t let this go without seeing it through. Everything just feels so uncanny and…like a weird coincidence.” He adjusted himself again, still not letting go of your hand.

“Do you really believe in that stuff?” You tilted your head, curls falling in your face. “The whole fate, destiny thing?”

He laughed, something that you’ve been hearing a lot of recently. Not that there are any complaints. “No, that’s the thing. I don’t.” He turned his head back up to the stars. “But I do believe everything happens for a reason and—like,” Riki sat up, scooting a little closer to you. “Think about it. You just somehow decided to be in the alley I was in. Mind you, no one has ever seen or caught me ever. Then we find out that we go to the same school. When we kissed it felt like I was floating.” He rambled, grip on your hand tightening—but not enough to hurt you.

“So you’ve kissed strangers before?”

“Yeah,” his eyes flitted to the side with a nod, as if it was an obvious answer. But judging what we’ve seen of him thus far…of course he has. “But none of them have felt like this.”

“So, what’s your goal? We met three hours ago.”

Riki blinked once, twice. The kind of pause that held weight, not hesitation.

“Exactly,” he said, like that explained everything. “That’s how I know it’s real. Time doesn’t move normal when something actually matters.”

He leaned in just slightly, not close enough to kiss you—yet—but enough for you to feel it, the magnetism of someone who never did anything halfway. His voice dropped just a bit lower, like it was only meant for you to hear.

“My goal?” He repeated your question, rolling it over like he was tasting it. “To find out what this is. Between us. Even if it’s just for tonight, or a week, or whatever. But I’m not gonna pretend like I don’t feel this. And I don’t wanna bullshit you and say I’m some perfect guy—I’m not.” He offered a small shrug, thumb brushing over your knuckle again. “But I’m not gonna disappear tomorrow, either. If you let me stay.”

You stared at him. Hard. Trying to find the catch. The trick. The usual posturing that guys with smirks like his tend to carry like armor.

But there wasn’t any. Just warmth. Just honesty, tinged with mischief, but solid underneath. And that scared you more than if he’d lied.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” you whispered, half-joking, half-dead serious.

He grinned slowly, devilish. “I already told you,” he murmured, that damn twinkle in his eye again, “you kissed me first.”

The tension held thick in the air, humming like static between your bodies.

Neither of you spoke.

You weren’t even sure you were breathing properly—not with the way Riki was looking at you, like you were something tender and wild all at once. His hand was still curled around yours, steady and warm, like he had no plans of letting go unless you made him.

Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it, but he didn’t comment. Just kept his gaze locked on yours, like he was memorizing the moment. Like he’d already written about it in one of his sketchbooks and was just checking to see if he got the shading of your eyes right.

His thumb skimmed over your pulse again.

The rooftop, the city, the stars—none of it felt real. Only him. Only this.

You swallowed again. That same ache curling low in your stomach, the kind that had less to do with lust and more to do with want. Pure want. Dangerous want.

And then, before anything could tumble out of your mouth that you couldn’t take back, you inhaled sharply and broke the spell.

“So,” you blurted, sitting up straighter, “where are we off to next, Houdini?”

Riki blinked. A beat passed. Then he snorted, full and bright.

“Wow,” he said, letting go of your hand just to shove his own through his hair. “That was smooth. Really killed the moment.”

You smirked, grabbing your water bottle to hide the way your hand was shaking just a little. “Yeah, well. Consider it payback for the ‘uptight’ comment.”

He tilted his head, considering you with a grin that said fair enough. “Okay, well I have some place I wanna show you.” He grabbed a plastic bag to toss the discarded containers in. Even he was decent enough to not litter. You followed suit, grabbing the water bottles and napkins as he held open the bag.

“Is it legal?”

He frowned, “Tragically, yes.”

“Bless your heart.”

— New York City, Upper Manhattan, 116th and Broadway. Columbia University. Circa 8:49 PM

It turned out to be the campus library.

But not the front-facing, normal-people part.

You followed him past the security doors (seeing him type in a few numbers), up two staircases, down a back hallway that smelled like dust and vanilla extract, and into a tucked-away room you didn’t even know existed. No fluorescent lights. Just floor-to-ceiling windows, shelves lined with old poetry books, and a pair of velvet chairs facing a skylight.

You blinked. “Is this…the Rare Books Room?”

Riki turned, that smug glint in his eye fully engaged now. “Mmhmm. Closed to the public after 8. But I may or may not have flirted my way into a key code once.”

You crossed your arms, trying not to look impressed. “All that effort…for books?”

He plopped into one of the chairs and looked up at you. “Nah. For moments like this.”

And suddenly, the silence wasn’t awkward—it was loaded. Safe. Special. Like you’d stepped into a pocket of the night that didn’t exist for anyone else but the two of you.

“Pick something,” he said, nodding toward the poetry shelf. “Read to me.”

You blinked again, thrown off. “You want me to read you poetry?”

“No,” he said, leaning back with a grin. “I want you to let your guard down. But we can start with poetry.”

Surprisingly enough, you hadn’t started to feel nervous until now. Slightly overwhelmed with the array of literature to choose from, but also the guy that was looking at you with a mixture of anticipation and kindness. It seemed that he could never look at you in one way. Nothing ever seemed simple with Riki and a part of you liked the dichotomy. “Which one do I pick?” Your eyes scanned the hardly lit room, the moon being your only source of light.

“Any one. I’m not picky.” He said softly as you gave a small shrug.

You hesitated. The weight of the shelves full of words pressed down on you like an invisible hand. It wasn’t so much the pressure of picking a poem—it was more the pressure of picking the right one in front of him. The one that wouldn’t feel like you were exposing too much.

Riki was watching you closely, his gaze softening as he waited for you to pick something, anything. His eyes never left you, like he was giving you space but also asking you to take the leap.

You ran your fingers over a book spine, feeling the edges of each title like a string of lifelines. Finally, your hand brushed over the weathered cover of one particular collection. “This one,” you said, more to yourself than to him, your voice a little unsure.

You opened the book and began reading softly, the words spilling out into the room, the only sound between the two of you. You could feel Riki’s attention on you with every line you read, his gaze never straying.

“Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets…”

It felt strange reading something so melancholy in this space, in this moment. But somehow, it fit. You didn’t glance up at Riki as you spoke, but you could feel him absorbing each word as if it were more than just poetry—it was a conversation without speaking.

The words felt strange on your tongue at first. But with each verse, something softened. Your voice steadied. You wandered a few steps forward, eyes glued to the page, trying to find a rhythm. But the poetry filled the silence like it belonged there, like it had been waiting in the wings this whole time.

“The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels…”

You were only vaguely aware that Riki hadn’t moved. That he was still sitting in the chair, slightly manspread like some museum exhibit of patience. His expression was unreadable, except for the way his eyes didn’t leave you.

You took another step, and then another. And before you could register what was happening, his hands found your waist.

He didn’t say anything. Just gently guided you down until you were sitting on his lap, your back to his chest, the book still open in your hands like nothing had changed.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you didn’t stop reading.

“…And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidious intent…”

His breath was steady against your shoulder as he eyed the book now. Warm. His arms rested around you without pressure, like he didn’t want to startle you out of the moment. Like he knew you needed this stillness more than anything.

“For I have known them all already, known them all:Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;I know the voices dying with a dying fallBeneath the music from a farther room.So how should I presume?”

You weren’t sure when the words stopped being just a poem.

And started being the way he listened to you.

You read the final lines slowly, like they were something sacred. Like they were the last thing tethering you to the ground.

“We have lingered in the chambers of the seaBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brownTill human voices wake us, and we drown.”

The silence that followed was deafening in the best way.

You finally lowered the book, your hands settling in your lap. His arms were still around you, and you could feel the way his chest rose and fell beneath you—steady, like he was trying not to startle the moment. Like if he moved too fast, it would all dissolve. That he would ruin all of it.

You turned your head slightly. His face was close. Closer than you remembered. Closer than you expected. But there was no rush in his eyes. Just that same impossible softness.

And then—quietly, slowly—he leaned in.

You met him halfway.

There wasn’t anything dramatic about it. No breathy gasps or hurried hands. Just his mouth brushing yours with such care it almost didn’t feel real. Like he was making sure you had every chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

You deepened it first.

It wasn’t perfect. Your noses bumped a little. Your hands weren’t sure where to go at first. But it was real. And warm. And—God—it lingered.

You hated the fact that you now understood the electricity that Riki was talking about. Fortunately, he didn’t take advantage. He took everything you were giving him without being overzealous.

Carefully, he placed his hand on your jaw. Tracing your cheek with his thumb as he slowly threaded his lips with yours. Like a puzzle piece, it just fit so perfectly. So naturally.

This wasn’t your first kiss, but it felt like what it should’ve. Not awkwardly, poorly timed, two young teens unsure of what to do but just trying to make something out of it anyway. However, this didn’t feel as such. This felt sure; sure, that the guy you were kissing actually knew what he was doing and was more than happy to guide you. So he did.

The hand that was on your jaw moved to your bicep to guide your arm up. This way your hand rested on his shoulder, he didn’t want to push you or take advantage of the moment and you were grateful for that. But now it seemed less like he was kissing you. More like you were kissing each other. You moved your hand to the side of his neck to deepen the kiss.

Riki subconsciously smiled into the exchange, taking this as a sign that you were just as into this as he was. His hands mindlessly drift to your fluffy curls, which he seemed to do the last time. Savoring the texture in his hands as if he wasn’t ever going to feel it again. Bunching them in his hand gently as he ran his hand down your head and played with a singular curl at the ends.

His silver hair was surprisingly soft considering what it took to get it there. Since he was playing in your hair, you had no problem indulging in his either. And wasn’t ever going to pull away, he didn’t want this to end. But it had to. So just as you pulled back:

“See,” he murmured, voice roughened by something too intimate to name. “Told you this wasn’t just a coincidence.” He rested his forehead on yours as he gently—ever so slightly—let his index finger graze your lips.

“You know what’s crazy,”

“What?”

You sighed, whispering into the solemnity of the room. “I didn’t even pick this on purpose.”

“And you kept doubting me.” He nuzzled his nose into yours with a smile. “I’m starting to think that I have a great intuition.” Riki’s smile brightened as his fingers tightened, bunching around the fabric of your hoodie.

You let yourself lean into a bit, finally letting yourself smile without restrictions. “I think so too.” Sighing, “But what time is it?”

His eyes found the analog clock on the wall in front of your conjoined bodies. Squinting lightly to read it within the dim room. Luckily, the moonlight hit it just perfectly—letting him be able to read: “9:30.” He stroked your cheek as he peered into your eyes. The mixed perceptions of his now soloing into one: kindness. “Two and half hours left. Are you done for the night?”

A part of you was overwhelmed at the thought that this seemingly magical night was coming to an end. The other was happy to make the most of it and now you were all in, and fully ready to adhere to Riki’s impulsivity for the next couple of hours finally.

You shook your head in thought, “No, I’m…not really in any rush to get home. Plus Uber’s cost at least thirty-five dollars and that’s not something I wanna spend money on when I can just catch the train.”

“Yeah, I’m not letting you take the subway this late.” He furrowed his brows as if what you said was ridiculous—which it was.

“No, no! I don’t wanna take it now. That’s insane.”

He brushed his hand over the back of your head, into your hair. “I can get you an Uber if you want. It’s not a big deal.”

You sigh, “No, I have no way to pay you ba—”

“You don’t have to. I’ll eat the money if it means you’re safe. Plus I dragged you out here, the least I can do is get you home—make sure you get home.” He kissed your cheek gently, now taking full advantage of the proximity between you two. Taking in your scent like it was intoxicating, like his kryptonite.

“I don’t want to go home.”

He froze a little, his heart dropping—not in panic, but in that weird way when someone says something so real you forget how to breathe for a second.

You weren’t looking at him. You were staring at the shadows moving along the far wall, like saying it out loud made it too fragile to face.

“I don’t want to go home,” you repeated, quieter this time. “Just…not yet.”

Riki didn’t ask why. He didn’t press. He just nodded like he understood more than you knew how to explain.

“Okay,” he said. Soft. Sure.

He sat up a little, arms still loosely around you. “Wanna go somewhere else? We don’t have to do anything crazy. I just—” He scratched the back of his neck. “I just don’t want this to end either.”

You finally turned to look at him. His silver hair caught the moonlight, soft and out of place in the best way. There was no smirk this time. Just that sincerity again. That stillness.

“Where would we even go?” you asked.

He blinked once. Twice. Then smiled.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I could make an irresponsible financial decision.”

You snorted. “What does that even mean?”

“Come with me and find out,” he said, tapping your arm for you to stand and you do. Riki stands with a dramatic groan and gives you his hand. “I know this is a bit overused today but…trust me.”

— New York City, Upper Manhattan, 242 West 76th St. The Wallace Hotel, Circa 10:09 PM

He paused right outside the glass doors of the hotel, hoodie pulled low like he was ducking paparazzi.

“Okay, real quick,” he said, turning to you with a deadly serious expression that had no business being this funny. “I need you to do me a solid.”

You blinked. “Are you about to propose a drug deal right now?”

“I wish,” he muttered dramatically, glancing behind him like someone was watching. “Nah, I just—can you check us in?”

“…Check us in?”

“Yeah. Use your ID. I’ll pay for everything, I just—” he glanced left and right again. “I can’t put my name down.”

You stared. “Why? Are you literally wanted by the NYPD?”

He threw his hands up. “Technically, no. But like…do I want my name on file the same night I accidentally fled a crime scene? Also no.”

“Riki,” you said, holding back a laugh. “You did graffiti.”

“Which, in the eyes of the law, is vandalism,” he countered, finger raised like a professor. “And also, I left my bag there. It’s got, like, three cans and a half-eaten bag of Hot Cheetos. I’m practically breadcrumbing.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re not a fugitive, bro.”

“Yet,” he said ominously.

You rolled your eyes but pulled out your wallet anyway. “Fine. But if I get flagged for being your accomplice, I’m putting paws on you.”

He beamed as he handed you a thick wad of cash from his wallet. “That’s my girl.” You took it with reluctance.

You shook your head as he pulled open the door for you with a little bow. “Alright, let’s check in before your Hot Cheetos turn state’s evidence.”

—

The lobby was dimly lit and upscale in that “broke people should never laugh” kind of way. You stuck close to Riki, eyes flicking toward the front desk. He didn’t look even slightly nervous. If anything, he looked like he belonged here—hoodie, smirk, and all.

He approached the concierge with the kind of swagger that made you want to check if his sneakers were levitating.

“Good evening,” he said, smooth as silk. “Just one room for the night. Something quiet, if you’ve got it.”

The concierge gave a slow nod, clearly clocking the late hour, your backpack, and the ridiculous amount of chemistry floating between you two like fog. “Name on the reservation?”

“No reservation,” he replied easily. “But she’ll be checking in.” He gave you a quick glance, then looked back at the woman behind the counter.

The concierge hesitated. “I’ll need to see her identification, then.”

You slid yours over. Riki didn’t even flinch. He just leaned one arm on the counter, watching you calmly, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

“And how many keys?” she asked.

Riki didn’t even glance at you this time. “One’s fine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “One?”

He smirked. “Unless you plan on locking me out.”

The concierge paused typing and definitely had to stop herself from smirking too. She slid the keycard across the desk.

Riki took it with a quiet, “Thanks,” and then gently steered you toward the elevators, hand low on your back.

The second you stepped inside and the doors closed, he exhaled. “See? Easy.”

You side-eyed him. “You’re way too good at that.”

He gave a half-smile. “Nah. You make it easy to play it cool.”

—

You two padded down the exquisite hallway, covered with stunning floral wallpapers. The coloring wasn’t abrasive nor was it too subtle to where you misjudged its luxury. Riki held the key card though and you scanned the numbers on the doors:

501…

502…

Yes! 503.

You jut out your hand, just in time to stop the tall man from going further. He stopped and turned, letting out a quiet “Oh…” before opening the door.

You didn’t even have time to comment before you were taken aback by the space you stepped into. It was average sized, nothing too crazy but you didn’t even care. It was for less than a day and it wasn’t like you needed Daddy Warbucks’ mansion to be able to sleep.

But it was so modern and sleek, the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling not those dramatic ones. Though those are beautiful, there was something so cute and kind of chic about it. The two bathrooms. Then the bed. The bed was where your attention landed and absolutely refused to leave. King-sized. Crisp white sheets. Pillows stacked like luxury clouds. It looked like it cost more than your monthly rent. You caught yourself staring too long and quickly turned away like you didn’t just imagine a soft place to collapse after a day of accidental vandalism and heart palpitations.

Riki shut the door behind you with a soft click. He stood still for a second, scanning the room with a thoughtful nod.

“I feel like I should apologize for how suspicious that check-in was,” he murmured, tossing the keycard onto the nearby table. “But I kinda nailed it, right?”

You snorted. “You didn’t really have to do that, but I guess you did a decent job.”

He shrugged off his hoodie and kicked off his shoes, flopping onto the end of the bed like he owned the place. “You’re welcome for the free luxury experience.”

You dropped your backpack onto the chair, slowly lowering yourself onto the opposite side of the bed. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, as if inviting you to sink deeper. “This place is nice.”

“You deserve nice,” he said casually, and it would've felt light if he hadn’t looked at you like that—like he meant it.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, toeing off your sneakers. “You’re really leaning into the whole charming fugitive thing, huh?”

Riki smiled, that same lowkey one that made your chest tight. “Crime’s my love language.”

You laughed—too loud for a place this expensive—and flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling.

There was a beat of silence before he asked, voice a bit softer now, “So…what happens now?”

You turned your head toward him. “You tell me, Picasso. I’m just following your lead.”

He leaned in slightly, propping his head up on his hand. “Then let me ask you something important.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Do you want to watch trash TV and eat overpriced snacks from the mini bar...or do you wanna talk about how weirdly perfect this night has been?”

A small smile crept onto your lips. “Can we do both?”

“You’re going to ruin my life, I fear.” He mirrored your smile as he cupped your jaw.

You let out a small laugh, “Says the guy that dragged me into a police chase.”

“And it’s crazy because…I want so desperately to say sorry to you and feel bad. And I do feel bad, for putting you through that emotional distress, so I’m sorry. Sincerely, but I don’t feel bad for what it’s gotten me thus far.” He professed under the warm lighting of the hotel, probably the most flattering he’s looked all day. But he’s looked amazing even in the shitty lighting of the alley so that’s not saying much.

You cleared your throat before your brain could spiral deeper into that thought. “Okay, I hate to ruin the moment,” you murmured, sitting up, “but I really want to shower.”

He blinked. “You—huh?”

“Huh?” You mocked him but then laughed to yourself. “I feel grimy, Riki. Like, totally disgusting.”

He laughed. “Fair. But…you don’t have clothes.”

You raised an eyebrow, already halfway off the bed. “Wrong. This is another very crucial thing to know about me.”

You grabbed your backpack and unzipped a side pocket with dramatic flair, pulling out a little pouch like it was Excalibur. “Behold—pads, tampons, toothpaste, deodorant, toothbrush, and emergency underwear.”

He stared, impressed. “You’re actually…cool as fuck.”

“I know right.” You smirked, holding it up like a badge of honor. “All one ever really needs is a fresh pair of underwear.” You shrug.

“So what are you gonna wear when you get out?”

You firmly stand and stretch, “I’ll just wear a robe to bed.” You walk to the bathroom cavalierly, smiling as you scan the shiny bathroom and open the shower door to turn on the water. “There’s only one robe though.” You call out.

Riki walks to the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, watching you with interest as usual. “I’ll just call downstairs and have them bring one up, or I’ll go down to get one. Whichever works.” He hands you a towel and washcloth that sat on a shelf below the sink.

You take it with both hands as you look up at him, eyes full of warmth. “Thanks,”

He nodded as he stepped to you with ease, “No problem, gorgeous.” Tilting his head, “It’s just a towel,”

“No,” you shake your head. “Thanks for just…not being the shitty person I thought you were. In some weird way, you’ve brought me out of my comfort zone and even though it has been a bit much. Still…” You look up in thought as Riki stares at you, no pressure behind his gaze but encouragement. Like he was just waiting for you to get where he needed you to be.

“This has been one of the best days of my life and I have no one but you to thank for that.”

Riki’s expression didn’t shift much—but his eyes did. They softened in that distinct way only he could manage. Like he was keeping a hundred things behind them and choosing, deliberately, to just show you the one that mattered.

“I’m really glad you didn’t run off when you had the chance,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter, the kind of quiet that sticks in your chest.

You laughed softly, glancing at the now-steaming shower behind you. “You kidding? I almost did. Like five times. You’re exhausting.”

He grinned, stepping back toward the door. “I know. I’m an acquired taste.”

“I expect you to be done when I am,” you called after him as he slipped out.

“Your wish is my command, I live to please you.” he said, blowing you a kiss before the door clicked shut.

The shower was warm. Hot, even. Not just temperature-wise, but the kind of hot that made your thoughts swirl a little. Like the water was washing off more than just grime—maybe a little bit of fear, a little bit of doubt. You let it.

By the time you stepped out, towel-wrapped and robe-draped, the room had dimmed a little. Riki had turned off the overheads, leaving only a lamp by the bed casting a soft amber hue across the room. He was lounging at the edge of the bed in a now-matching robe, legs sprawled, flipping through channels on the TV like this wasn’t the weirdest, best night ever.

His head turned as you walked out, and he stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not in a wow hot girl in towel alert way either. In a stunned, slow-lidded, maybe-a-little-speechless way.

“You got your robe,” you said, padding over to your bag to stash your used clothes.

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes following you. “Had to charm the concierge.”

You snorted. “I swear you’re gonna get banned from like…every Manhattan hotel.”

“That’s okay.” He grinned. “We’ll just start hitting Brooklyn.”

You gave him a mock bow. “Your criminal empire awaits.”

He laughed—really laughed. The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his whole chest shake.

Then he patted the spot next to him. “C’mon. Snacks and garbage TV. Your choice.”

You flopped beside him with a satisfied groan. “If they got 90 Day Fiancé on here, I swear—”

Riki tossed you a chocolate bar from the minibar. “We’re watching people ruin their lives together. Very on brand if you ask me.”

You slipped under the thick duvet and scooted closer to him. “Pass the remote, please.”

He did without a word and moved his arm behind you to bring you closer to his chest. His scent clouding your senses, taking in the sweet smell of the hotel soap. A lavender soap and the matching lotion mixed so well with his body chemistry, making you hesitantly poke your face into his neck.

He jumped back a bit with a laugh, “What are you doing, weirdo?” He says playfully, but his words contrast his actions as he’s pulling you closer. Nearly on top of him.

“Nothing,” you pull back and face the TV and flip through the options. “You just smell nice, I like lavender on you.”

Riki smiles as he stroked your robe-covered thigh, testing the waters and sliding his fingertips under the cloth—just barely. “Duly noted,”

— New York City, Upper Manhattan, 242 West 76th St. The Wallace Hotel, Circa 11:10 PM

The TV was still on, but neither of you were watching.

At some point, the half-eaten snacks were left to the side, and you both shifted down, bodies facing each other under the plush hotel duvet. The lights were off—completely this time—just the low, flickering glow of the TV playing muted chaos across the room. But your eyes had long since adjusted to the dark, and all you could see now was him.

Riki. Inches away. Head resting on the pillow, hair slightly tousled, lips parted like he was mid-thought.

You blinked slowly, barely breathing. “What are you thinking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze scanned your face, gentle and a little too knowing.

“Whatever you’re thinking about,” he said, voice hushed.

You smiled, but it was small—honest. “That’s such a cop-out.”

He shrugged, face still close enough that his breath tickled your skin. “It’s the truth.”

You shifted a little closer, like your body made the decision before your brain could. “Okay. Then what do you think I’m thinking about?”

He let the silence stretch for a moment, a soft exhale escaping his nose. “I think you’re wondering if this...us…if this is just some weird blip. Like a temporary high.”

Your eyes searched for his own in the dark. “And is it?”

He swallowed, barely noticeable. His hand moved slowly between you, fingers brushing against yours like he was asking for permission to say what came next.

“I don’t want it to be,” he said. “I think this is the first thing that’s felt real in a long time.”

Your heart thudded, loud enough that you were pretty sure he could hear it too.

“I was thinking something similar,” you whispered, like saying it louder might shatter it.

You both stared at each other again, and that stretch of silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full. Heavy with everything neither of you were saying. Warm with things you didn't know how to name yet.

Riki’s fingers finally laced with yours under the covers.

And then he said it. Soft. Stupidly soft.

“I don’t think you ruined my life.”

You tilted your head, barely smiling. “Yeah?”

“I think you might’ve saved it a little.”

Neither of you said anything after that. You didn’t have to.

You just stayed there. Still. Quiet. Staring.

Letting the warmth between you speak louder than anything else. But you just couldn’t let it be still. You couldn’t just be in this moment, feeling every single thing in every square inch of your body and be still.

For once, you wanted to take a page out of Riki’s book.

Mirroring your prior actions, you lean in swiftly to plant your lips onto his. Almost as if you were fearless of this outcome, and you were.

He responded instantly, resting his hand on your cheek as he tenderly ravished your lips. The kiss was calm, both of your heads lying against the pillow, just lazy. Quietly, chastely hearing the smacking of your lips in the nearly silent room.

The calmness felt like a haze, like you were meant to do this. Just to be here, with him until you couldn’t anymore. But you just wanted more, a part of you yearned for more. So you pulled back slowly, resting your hand on his own cheek. Gently stroking it and letting the illumination from the TV cast a varying glow on his face.

You pecked his lips one time before hesitantly moving to his neck. Letting the tingling in your body control you more than you thought it ever could. As you continue your ministrations, you could feel the clenching in his body as he tries not to react. Like he’s trying to act like he’s not affected by you being this close to him. Pulling back again, you look at him. “Are you okay?”

Riki nods, “Yeah,” he rests his hand on your waist. “I just…I don’t want us to ruin it.” He says tenderly, like he was afraid to hurt you.

“You think we’ll ruin it?” You hesitated—something you’ve been doing a lot in the last few minutes. Maybe you hadn’t been as much like him as you thought. “Are you—do you not see me like that?”

Urgently, he shook his head. “No. Wait—no I—I mean.” Riki sat up, turning on the bedside lamp so he could look you in the eye. His eyes and lips were slightly puffy from impending slumber and earlier activities. “I do want you, and see you like that. I just don’t want this to be ruined by one night of lust. Because I genuinely like you.”

You nodded in understanding, “I get it. But…I just want to…can I be honest with you?” Your eyes looked down at the pillow as you adjusted your robe beneath the covers.

“Of course you can, baby.” He strokes your cheek in earnest.

You sighed, looking at him. “No guy has really…liked me before.”

Riki blinked. “What?”

You smiled a little, embarrassed but trying to keep it together. “Not really. They’ve wanted me. Or they liked the idea of me. But no one’s actually liked me. Not like you do.”

There was a moment of silence—soft, heavy silence that made your heart race.

Then Riki tilted his head like he was trying to get a better view of your soul. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, voice low but full of fire. “You’re beyond likeable.”

You let out a breathy laugh, half in disbelief. “Riki—”

“No, I’m serious.” He leaned closer, his palm still warm on your cheek. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re absolutely gorgeous, stunning. You’re interesting. You challenge me, which, by the way, is annoying, but I love it. And you’ve got this look when you’re thinking real hard—like right now—where your eyebrows do this thing…” He reached out and lightly traced your brow with his thumb.

You were speechless. The kind of silence where your whole chest aches a little, because someone just said something that wrapped around a wound you didn’t know was still bleeding.

“So yeah,” he whispered. “I like you. I like you more than I probably should. And if this is you trying to run from that by kissing me until we forget it—I’ll let you, because I like the way you kiss.” He smiled gently. “But just know I’ll still like you tomorrow. And the day after that. Even if we never do anything ever.”

Your throat tightened, your eyes hot in that way they get when someone sees you too clearly. “And I’m not really an impulsive person but I just really want this. But I don’t want to make it seem like I’m trying to convince you to want to have sex with me.”

“You don’t have to convince, babe. I will have sex with you.” He nodded calmly. “I just like you enough to consider how you’ll feel after. I just want you to be sure. That if we do this then we don’t regret it right after.”

“I won’t. And I know I won’t because I know that if it felt right in the moment then it wasn’t a mistake. Especially when you’re the first person to make me feel like this.” I grab his hand from my waist and hold it to my heart. “I want my first time to be with someone like you.”

Riki blinked. “You’re a virgin?”

You nodded slowly, feeling suddenly so small under the glow of the bedside lamp. Like the confession shrunk you.

“I mean, not like...because I didn’t want to ever. Just that it never felt right. And with you, it just...does.”

He sat back, eyes widening just a fraction—not in surprise, but in recognition. Like something about you just clicked into place. Then, after a beat of silence, he smiled softly and whispered: “Well. I’m honored.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, but your chest still ached. “I just didn’t want that to make this weird.”

“It’s not weird,” he said instantly. “You’re not weird. You’re...you’re incredible.” He took your hand from where it rested on your heart and pressed it to his lips. “But thank you for telling me.”

You searched his face. “Are you sure you still want to?”

Riki nodded, “Yes, I want to. Only if you’re sure.”

Nodding firmly, “Totally sure, a bit nervous—but sure.”

He stood and went into his jean pocket for his wallet, pulling out two condoms then placed it on the bedside table. Then went onto the bed back next to you. “Nervousness is normal.” He kissed your cheek gently. “But at any point if you wanna stop, tell me. I’m not kidding, okay?”

“Okay.”

He nipped at your neck skillfully. “It might hurt a little, and that’s normal. But I’ll go slow…slower than slow.” He smiled into your neck as he traced his hand down the lapel of your robe. “Can I open this?”

You nodded, eyes low and chest slightly heaving. “Yes, please.”

Without untying the belt, he opened the neckline and revealed your tits. You shivered at the cool air of the room hitting your bare body. He continues kissing your neck and raises his hand but stops himself. “Can I touch you?”

You nod, “Yes, anything. Please. Just don’t stop. Do anything you want—” Chest heaving, vision blurry and he’s barely touched you. You’re just overcome with anticipation that you don’t even care what he does anymore. You just want him.

He places his hand over your tit carefully as he massages it, eliciting a quiet moan from you. His lips track from your neck to your chest, kissing the valley of your breasts as his left hand is still holding your tit. “Isn’t this so perfect already?” He kissed just above your stomach. “Your beautiful body, your tits fit so perfectly in my hands. Like you were made just for me.” He leaned, still leaning on his side next to you, and swirled his tongue around your nipple.

Watching your back arch off of the bed he smiles, clearly enjoying the pleasure he was giving you. But he didn’t stop, he latched his lips around it and gently sucked, at this point flicking your other nipple with his other hand.

Your heart is in your stomach and you feel nothing but his warmth, the muscle on your breast and its wetness. And even with the warmth, it feels like heat. Like fire, spreading through your body just like it was earlier when you were close to him. But now the heat moved to your core and it was pooling into the underwear you had on.

He released your tit from his mouth quietly, a string of saliva still between and his lips still puffy—appearing thicker than they already were. At this, you had a reaction beside yourself and clenched your legs closed. A stinging, aching feeling between your legs that signified that you needed something from him now. You didn’t want to be overzealous or greedy; but it seemed like he knew what he was doing. Or like he knew you. “You want more from me?”

“Mhm, I do.” Your brows furrowed in discomfort. “Please touch me.”

He smiled as he kissed your lips, “You want me to touch you? Give your pretty pussy some attention? Give you a little taste before you get what you’ve been waiting for? My gorgeous girl. Is that what my baby wants?”

You whined, his words going straight down to your core. Only making the blood rush even worse. “Please,”

He untied your robe finally and looked down to see that your underwear was on. He laughed quietly, “Why do you have these on?”

Shrugging, unsure how to answer that question. “I–I just didn’t want her to be out. In case I slept weird or something. Didn’t wanna flash you.”

Riki nods, “I think I’m the last person that would care about you flashing me. But I get it.” He slowly runs his hand down your stomach, smiling as he lightly squeezed the pudge on your sides. “Can you take them off for me, please?”

You lift your hips as you slide them off and let them fall to the carpeted floor. Now you laid barren, fully exposed, only the robe on your arms. You watched as his eyes scanned you attentively, like he was trying to remember every last inch of you. But when his eyes laid on your pussy, you subconsciously threw the robe over it—afraid that he would judge you. “Sorry…I haven’t shaved—”

Riki smacked his teeth as he moved the robe back. “I don’t give a fuck about shit like that. Hair ain’t never stopped me.” He laughed as he traced his fingers down your slit.

“Are you sure? We can sto—”

He shook his head, “Relax…I know this is a very vulnerable position you’re in and you want this to be perfect but I like you. I like this. Hair is not a big deal, I don’t care about it. I like women.” He nodded, “I actually prefer a little hair, it’s hot.” Riki didn’t even wait for a response before he slipped one finger into your soaking wet folds.

You gasped at the sensation, not knowing what to do with your hands. Instead, one hand gripped onto the ivory sheets and the other balled in a fist. Riki smiled kindly at this, “It’s okay…relax. Come here, let’s try this.” He sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. Then he parted his legs and patted the space. You, still stuck for words but nonetheless compliant.

As soon as you sat down, back against his chest as he sighed of relief. “You got it, all you have to do is relax. Touch me how you want, this is all for you, my love.” He kissed your shoulder as he caressed your stomach and slipped his finger down to your core. “You’re so wet, is this all for me?” He gently, slowly, brushed his finger along your clit, eliciting a moan. “Hm?”

You threw your head back on his shoulder, shivers rippling through your body. “Yes, all for you. Because of you.”

“Mmm,” he smiled into your shoulder. “I’m gonna put my fingers in, please tell me if you don’t like anything. I’ll stop.” He kissed your bronze skin, smelling like the sweet scent of the hotel lotion—lavender and vanilla.

Then he slowly inserts a finger into you, carefully watching the way your body reacts. And after seeing your body respond positively to it, he slowly thrusts his finger all the way in. “You’re so tight around my fingers, my love.” Then bottoms out, then slowly inserts another finger just to test the waters. Your arousal made it easy.

As the sweetness you felt in your core spread to your heart, you smiled. The pleasure clouding your brain and the position he had you in, the heat from his chest spreading to your entire body as he continued to thrust his fingers in and out of you. The wetness squelching and your panting being the only thing heard in this quiet room. He curled his fingers inside of you, brushing them against the walls of you, making your hips lift off of the bed. Without a word, he kissed your neck. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” you climbed off of him and next to him to grab a condom from the table, handing it to him. He took it with a small laugh as he put it between his teeth, freeing his hands as he laid you down on the bed again. Letting himself climb on top of you, grabbing the condom from his mouth to put it on the bed next to your head.

And it seemed like this was him letting himself go slightly; he pressed some of his weight onto you as he pressed his lips to yours. Releasing a groan into your lips as he gently groaned into the exchange. Grinding his hips into yours and this is the first time you registered how hard he was.

His tongue meshed well with yours, the warm, wet muscle working to taste every inch of your mouth. And he sat up, finally, and untied the robe. Letting it fall down his shoulders and onto the bed to reveal a lean, muscular figure. Strong pecs, toned arms, a sculpted torso that told you that he knew exactly what he was doing. He just wanted you to see him, he wasn’t trying overly hard to impress you.

You sit up yourself and mindlessly reach out to run your hand along his abdomen. His laughter made them contract, “You like them?”

Not answering, you move your other hand to his cock. He was the perfect mix of girth and length, just perfectly thick and not too long to where it made you afraid. You were already nervous, no need to add to it. But regardless you took him in your hand and slowly moved it. Making his head fall back with a sigh, “You don’t have to do this, babe. T-This is about you.” He said that, yet his body was twitching like he was trying to hold himself back.

You shook your head, “Then let me try this.”

He bit his lip, leaning into it. “Then…can you move your hand faster for me? Just for a second.”

Smiling gently, you increased the speed of your hand; stroking him with a firm hand. Riki sighed, letting out a slight whimper. Whispering your name as his body almost gives. But he can’t let himself go yet. “Okay, okay.” He huffed out a smile, “Lay back for me, baby.” He grabbed the tin next to your pillow and opened it with his teeth, putting it on his length. Sliding it down like he’s done this multiple times which he probably has.

He settled between your legs, stroking your thighs gently as he lifted them. Nearly putting them to your chest but just high enough not to make you uncomfortable. “I’m gonna go slowly, I think I prepped you enough but…I just wanna make sure you’re good.” Riki leaned down to kiss her knee. “I’m gonna make this so special for you, my love. You have no idea,” he kisses down your thighs. “My sweet, stubborn girl.”

You smile at his little jab, “Shut up,” you run your hands through his hair.

He sits up, lining himself up with your pussy but before he pushes in, he looks you in the eye. “It might hurt a little but I can stop if it becomes too much. So…are you sure?”

You looked at him with wide, doe eyes. “I’m sure,”

Riki exhaled, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He nodded once, slow. Then, with steady hands, he guided himself in—the tip pressing into your warmth as he kept his eyes on you the whole time. His jaw clenched, his breath hitched, but he moved with care. Inch by inch.

Your walls stretched to accommodate him, the fullness almost overwhelming—a burn that bordered on unbearable for a second. But he was there, kissing your temple, murmuring quiet things: “Just breathe. You’re doing so good. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as he bottomed out with a quiet groan against your skin.

He stilled.

“Okay?” he whispered.

You nodded quickly, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just…give me a second.”

He didn’t move—just kissed your cheek and ran his thumb along your side. Letting you adjust. Letting the pain melt into something else. Something warmer. You felt it start to bloom slowly—the tension easing, the pleasure starting to lap at the edges.

When you gave a soft nod, he pulled back just a little and rocked into you again—slow and controlled, like he was afraid to break you. But he didn’t have to say it.

You were already breaking for him.

The slight stinging was there still but pleasure began to make it subside—making you let out a whimper as you felt a mixture of sweetness and relief where you needed him most. But he worked his hips into yours, his cock gliding against the walls of your wet pussy. His girth brushing against your swollen clit from stroke to stroke. “F-Feels so good, Riki.” You cry out, “S’good,”

He held your leg as he buried his face in your neck, kissing your neck alongside other parts of your face: nose, lips, cheeks, ears, eyes, everything. “You like my cock? You like what I’m doing to you?”

His words ignited you, “Mhm, yes, baby I love it. More. More.” You wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer.

He smiled into your neck as he let your leg go, hugging you back as he lost himself in you and the skin to skin wasn’t making it easier on him. But he whispered into your ear, his thrusts increasing in roughness. “More? You want more? Because I can give you—”

You cut him off with a moan, crying out as tears pool in your eyes. He kisses your jaw, “I can give you more.”

Your skin, covered in goosebumps and body clinging to him like a koala, heart pounding—your eyes rolled back at the sensation and you didn’t think it would take you nineteen years to have a full sexual awakening. You had toys, masturbated regularly, but none of that seemed to compare to the real thing and a swirl of fear, excitement, and lust overtaking your senses.

And you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Give it to me.” You pant out, sweat collecting along your forehead.

“Yeah?” Riki pulled back from you, leaning in close to your face. “Want me to give you everything I’ve got?”

You nodded, eyes glassy and lips parted as your body trembled beneath him. “Please,” you whispered, and it sounded like surrender. Like reverence.

Riki let out a ragged breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so fucking amazing.”

Then he gave it to you.

Every stroke after that felt like he was carving himself into your memory — deeper, harder, more urgent. Your name left his lips like a prayer, like a promise. His hand slipped under your lower back, lifting your hips slightly to hit that devastating angle again and again until your legs were shaking around him.

You were gasping now, sobbing his name, clutching his back like he might disappear if you didn’t hold tight enough. Then, somehow you got curious. “Wait,”

He immediately stopped, leaning up and sitting on his knees. “Everything good?” Riki nodded with lifted brows.

You, still winded, mirrored him. “Yes, perfect. I just…wanna be on top. If that’s okay.”

He smiled as he caressed your thighs, “That’s more than okay, come on.” Before you could even reposition yourself, he leaned forward and flipped you both over in one swift, fluid motion—still buried inside you. The sudden shift pulled a gasp from both of you, your laughter caught between moans as your bodies adjusted.

But the moment passed fast.

Because once you were on top—eyes locked, chests heaving—it was like everything else disappeared.

Your hands braced against his chest, and as you started to move, his grip tightened on your hips like he was trying to anchor himself. He watched you like you were a miracle—eyes dark, lips parted, head thrown back against the pillow with a groan that could’ve torn the sky in half.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Just like that, baby. Ride me just like that.”

You rolled your hips, the angle hitting a spot that made you whimper, and you could feel him twitch inside of you.

His hands wandered—your hips, your waist, your chest—like he couldn’t decide what part of you he wanted to hold most. “You feel so good,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I’m losing my mind.”

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your rhythm picking up as your bodies slid together like puzzle pieces soaked in sweat and lust and love. He moaned into your mouth, both of you chasing that same high with each movement, each breathless kiss.

“I don’t ever want this to stop,” you whispered.

And Riki—Riki looked at you like he meant it when he said, “Then don’t. Stay right here. With me. I want you forever.”

As you felt your thighs start to give in slightly, Riki could feel it in your movements. He pulled you down, your bare, pillowy tits meeting his firm chest. And lifted his hips to drill into your pussy, going at a nearly inhumane speed.

Your world blurred—breath, heartbeat, and the heat of his body flooding every sense. The headboard thudded a slow rhythm against the wall while his name tumbled from your lips in shaky fragments.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice raw. “I’ve got you. First time or not, I know your body—let go for me, I’ve got you. Cum for me, please.” He let out a chilling, guttural moan. “Let me be your first, your last, everything you want. I just want you—please. Together.”

You clung to him, nails raking his shoulders, thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight—hot and sudden—then snapped. A broken cry tore free while your body clenched around him in waves. Seeing white behind your eyes as let him ride you through it.

Riki followed a heartbeat later, burying his face against your throat with a low, helpless groan. He held you there, hips shuddering through the last pulses, arms wound tight as if he could fuse you together right before spilling into the condom.

For a long moment neither of you moved, the only sound was your mingled breathing and the hush of late‑night traffic far below.

Finally he smoothed a damp curl from your forehead, kissing the spot it had rested. “You okay?”

A breathy laugh escaped you—equal parts spent and stunned. “More than okay.”

He smiled—soft, boyish, a little awed—then eased you onto your side without letting go. Blankets came up over bare skin; his palm settled over your heart as if to reassure himself it was still beating. “Did I do good for you?” He said quietly.

Your eyes were half open, considering how you managed to stay awake for the entire day was beyond you. But this was more than enough motivation to keep you awake and you were grateful for all of it. “It was…everything that I thought it would be. And more.”

He took the condom off and disposed of it at the bedside table. “I’m glad…” he smiles. “I…really care about you.” Riki kisses your lips gently, as if the lust just evaporated.

“I care about you too. I don’t want this to end.” You shook your head with a smile.

Riki stood up but not before kissing your hand and padding to a bathroom to bring a damp washcloth back. He wiped you down gently, muttering apologies when you flinched from the sensitivity. And when he finished, he tossed the cloth aside and crawled back into bed—pulling you into his chest, arms cocooning you like a shield.

Your eyes catch the digital clock that resided on a nearby desk, it reading 12:00 AM on the dot. You nudged him, “Look,” your mouth gaped in awe.

Riki’s eyes went in the direction of the desk but he squinted. “Fuck I need glasses.” He leaned up closer. “Oh shit!” He laughed, pointing at the clock. “If fate isn’t on our side then I don’t know what is. Truly.” Riki threw himself onto you, enveloping you in a hug. “Oh…my baby.” He squeezed you closer, the only thing between you both at this point being the duvet.

You hugged him too, smothering a laugh. “Well I guess I gave you those five and half hours.”

“Mhm, so…what do you say?” He leaned back, already knowing your answer but still wanting to take the formality. “Am I worth keeping around?”

You rolled your eyes fondly, letting your fingers trace the lines of his jaw. “You already know the answer.”

“I do,” he whispered, smiling like it still surprised him anyway. “But I think I just wanted to hear it.”

You leaned in to kiss him—slow, soft, and lingering. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise.

“I’m keeping you,” you said against his lips. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

“Forever then,” he said without missing a beat, his voice low and certain. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin. His heartbeat was slow and steady against your cheek, his breath fanning across your temple. Silence settled over the room, not awkward or empty, but full. Like it had been waiting for the two of you to claim it.

And maybe you didn’t know what the morning would bring—what the world outside this little cocoon of blankets and whispered confessions might say.

But right now, here, with his arms around you and your body still humming from the aftershocks of being truly wanted, truly seen, for the first time…

You let yourself believe him.

That forever didn’t sound so impossible after all.

#enhypen #enhypen x reader #kpop x black reader #enhypen fic #niki x reader #kpop #enhypen niki #niki smut #kpop smut #nishimura riki #niki nishimura #enha #enhypen au

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lixies-favorite-cookie · 2 months ago

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⊹☾⋆⁺₊🎧✩°｡ music to my eyes ₊˚｡

♪ ⋆⁺₊ ahhh im so so excited to post this collab with my best friend and fav seungmin today minho tomorrow stan @sunnysdiary we have been playing around with some ideas for a duo write forever now and it's finally here! sunny really saved my life becoming my best friend at the time i needed her most and i can't wait to share this journey with you all where we will be posting lyric themed fanfics for all of our boys!! we spent 4 hours on call yapping about this

— there is not a set date when these will be posted because we both have a very busy schedule, so please be patient!

— feel free to send me or sunny an ask or comment to be added to the taglist!

— as always these are in the first draft stages so parts and pieces may change as we see fit.

— this is also in honor of 800 followers!! thank each and every one of you who have followed me your support makes my entire universe, and with that, happy reading!!

🎧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐥𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 ⟶ @lixies-favorite-cookie

BANGCHAN has been your rival since FBI school, but when he dropped out to become a bodyguard you thought that was the last time you had to see his infuriating face again. That is until four years later, you've made a nice spot at the top of the FBI food chain when tragedy strikes. You were kidnapped and left for dead by the infamous Kaelthos, but now you're back—and you're not alone. What are you going to do when your supervisor sends you back to Thanatos Tower clad in a masquerade mask and your new bodyguard—bangchan.

Maybe I'm too Busy bein' yours To fall for somebody new Now, I've thought it through Crawlin' back to you — Arctic Monkeys, Do I Wanna Know?

🎧 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 ⟶ @sunnysdiary (aka my literal wife)

MINHO was way too nervous about finally taking you out after months of gazing at you from afar. All he wanted was to impress you, causing him to make some...questionable decisions. Beyond all that you decided to give him a chance.

Is it cool if I hold your hand? Is it wrong if I think it's lame to dance? Do you like my stupid hair? Would you guess that I didn't know what to wear? I'm just scared of what you think

— blink-182, First Date

🎧 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⟶ @sunnysdiary

CHANGBIN and you had a planned date night, but girlhood of course had to slap you in the stomach, cramps beyond belief and so you asked to stay in and Changbin was more than happy to do that with you.

'Cause you watch the TV while I'm watching you There's not many people I'd honestly say I don't mind losing to But there's nothing like doing nothing with you

— Bruno Major, Nothing

🎧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟶ @lixies-favorite-cookie

HYUNJIN has been there throughout it all. From the moment you stumbled upon him during a midnight walk, pacing back and forth with your first draft in hand to finding you atop a rooftop in the middle of seoul, sobbing after a crippling rejection from your dream publisher—hyunjin has been there throughout it all; yet you have never talked to him long enough to figure out his name. You don''t have to, you follow the red string.

About the star that couldn't shine or blink Out of a million, billion Felt like an alien, alien Then that little star was surely Going to become the biggest thing

—Stray Kids, youtiful

🎧 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 ⟶ @lixies-favorite-cookie

HAN JISUNG has never lost a race. Throned King of Tokyo's Midnight Circuit when he was 17, he hasn't lost the title since—that is until you come into town. You were a fucking icon, utterly anonymous yet beloved by racers all around the world, known for your pink flaming-heart glasses and electric nickname, Neon. Nobody knows who you are or where you came from, but when you wittfully correct his accidental slip-up one night, he quickly realizes two things: you were impossible to flirt with and he's no longer the best racer in town. What will happen when the Queen of Cali challenges the King of Tokyo to a race? Who say's Tokyo can't have a queen too?

If you can, baby boy, then we can go all night 'Cause I'm zero to sixty in three point five Baby, you got the keys Now shut up and drive (Drive, drive, drive) Shut up and drive (Drive, drive, drive)

—Rihanna, Shut up and drive

🎧 𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 ⟶ @lixies-favorite-cookie

LEE FELIX was your new bodyguard, and you hated his guts. In a world where all humans are expendable hate was your only shield from pain. Now you're 5,956 miles from home, landing in Seoul South Korea with your infuriatingly perfect bodyguard on a very important mission—locate and eliminate the man responsible for sending your father's worst criminals to prison. Will you be able to keep it together, seeing felix every day for the next year? There's so much that could go wrong. You can't fall in love with him, he can't fall in love with you—that would be apocalypse.

Your lips, my lips Apocalypse Go and sneak us through the rivers Flood is rising up on your knees Oh, please Come out and haunt me, I know you want me

—Cigarettes After Sex, Apocalypse.

🎧 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 & 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 ⟶ @sunnysdiary

SEUNGMIN finally takes the chance to kiss you after yet another successful date. He's so scared of what you'll say he runs off, little did he know you wanted it just as much as he did.

But we couldn't go very far 'Cause you locked your keys in your car So you sat and stared at my lips And I could already feel your kiss

—Troye Sivan, Strawberries & Cigarettes

🎧 𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟶ @sunnysdiary

JEONGIN teases about proposing to you by proposing with paper rings, and when you least expect it, he actually does. With a real ring this time.

I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings Uh-huh, that's right Darling, you're the one I want, and

—Taylor Swift, Paper Rings

⊹☾⋆⁺₊🎧✩°｡ music to my eyes's fanfic genres ₊˚｡

🎧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐥𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 ⟶ rivals to lovers, fbi profiler!reader, fbi bodyguard!chan, fake dating for the sake of a mission, action, tension

🎧 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 ⟶ shy!lee know, highschool!au, fluff, cute-awkward moments

🎧 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⟶ marriage!au, fluff, period comfort

🎧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟶ red string theory, angst, hurt and comfort, author!reader, idol!hyunjin, strangers to lovers, very emotional

🎧 𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 ⟶ mafia!au, bodyguard!au, enemies to lovers, heavy forbidden love, found family, mystery!au, hurt and comfort, action

🎧 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 & 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 ⟶ bf!seungmin, fluff, nervous seungmin

🎧 𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟶ dating!au, fluff x 1000.

⊹☾⋆⁺₊🎧✩°｡ music to my eyes's taglist ₊˚｡

—@kissesmellow21

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lelengerine · 3 months ago

Note

johnny + you - nct dream + fem reader

͙͘͡★ right where we left off

song prompt. “we knew each other in our childhood, but we drifted apart—except i just found out we’ve unknowingly been in the same class for weeks, and now i can’t stop staring at you, wondering if you remember me.”

pairing. childhood playmate!johnny x reader

tags. plot inspired by you [nct dream], college au, childhood friends to ??? but its cute (trust), lots of fluff and a hint of teasing, written with fem!reader in mind but no prns are explicitly used

wc. 1.0k words

notes. this is my first time writing for johnny (and the first work for my drabble event) so im really thankful for this req 🥺 hope you enjoy reading it!! likes, reblogs, and feedback are very much welcome!

꒰ m.list | event m.list ꒱

johnny suh used to be the tall kid who lived next door, but it all feels like a fever dream now—one of those memories so golden-hued and fleeting that you wonder if you had simply dreamt it.

but he was real.

the easygoing boy with scraped knees and a reckless grin, the one who smelled like sun-warmed asphalt and a hint of mischief. the one who, for one dazzling summer, made you feel like the world was brighter just by being in it.

you two weren’t exactly friends, not in the way childhood best friends built forts together and swapped friendship bracelets, yet he noticed you, saw you in a way no one else did back then.

“hey,” he had said one afternoon, standing over you as you sat on the curb with a book in your lap. his shadow spilled across the pages, and when you looked up, the sun framed him like something out of a coming-of-age movie. “you live next door, right?”

you had blinked at him, startled. it wasn’t that you hadn’t seen him before—you had, a lot—but he had never talked to you. not like this. not like he wanted to.

“um. yeah?”

“cool,” he said, rocking back on his heels. the, with a lopsided grin, “wanna learn how to skateboard?”

spoiler alert: you were terrible at it, but he was always patient when it came to you. he laughed when you nearly crashed into a mailbox, pulled you up when you fell, and—despite your complete lack of skill—told you, “you're getting better.”

you called him a liar then and there. still, you’d like to think that was the moment it happened.

the beginning of your crush.

it was the kind that snuck up on you in small steps, cautious yet welcomed. the kind that felt like a warm embrace, making your stomach dip every time he so much looked your way. the kind that had you replaying every little interaction before bed, searching for meaning in the spaces between his words.

but then—just as suddenly as he appeared in your life—he was gone. his family moved away before summer even ended, and you had stood in your driveway, watching their car disappear, pretending you weren’t a little heartbroken.

you still remember how words of empty consolidation filled your mind like a mantra, telling yourself to quickly get over it—that it was nothing more than some puppy love and how it’d fade over time.

years passed by, and that had managed to stay true… until it didn’t, because sitting two rows ahead of you in your 8 am lecture—lounging in his chair like he has all the time in the world—is the same johnny suh.

you nearly choke on air.

how had you not noticed him before? how had he not noticed you? you’ve been in this class together for weeks, and yet—

he stretches, arms lifting above his head, and you swear the entire room shifts around him. he looks different now, but that’s to be expected. he’s grown taller, features sharper, and his presence seems more striking in a way that has the whole class on him.

seriously, how have you never noticed him?

and though some things have changed, the way he tilts his head, the lazy way he scribbles in the margins of his notebook? it’s still somehow him.

you find your heart doing something weird, a mix of nostalgia and sheer what are the odds disbelief. maybe that’s why you’re slow to register him suddenly looking up from the pile of papers on his desk to stretch.

his eyes skim over the room, disinterested—until they land on you and make contact. he pauses, brows furrowing slightly, lips parting, and you see it—the flicker of something almost there, a memory trying to slot into place.

and then—

recognition.

a slow smirk tugs at his lips before he mouths, i know you.

oh god.

your brain screams at you to look away, to try and play it cool, but you’re frozen, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze.

he turns back to the front of the class with a satisfied look on his face, leaving you to piece your embarrassment together, so it doesn’t come off as a surprise that as soon as the class gets dismissed, you’re already making a beeline for the door, fully prepared to pretend this never happened.

but fate—or rather, he—has other plans.

“hey.”

his voice—deeper than you remember, but still so effortlessly warm—makes you stop in your tracks.

when you turn, he’s standing there, hands in his pockets, wearing the smuggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“you were staring,” he says.

“i was not.” you splutter, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter.

he raises an eyebrow, amused. “i caught you, though?”

oh my god. he’s utterly the same—slightly infuriating, confident, and completely, ridiculously charming. and you? you feel like you’re twelve again, sitting on the curb, looking up at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

“didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, tilting his head.

“yeah,” you breathe, still processing. “it’s been a while.”

his gaze flickers over your face, as if committing it to memory, the grin on his lips returning after a brief second “you still skate?”

you let out a laugh—nervous, ever so slightly breathless. “not after you left me with zero guidance.”

“sounds tragic,” he sighs, shaking his head. “guess I’ll have to make it up to you.”

your heart does a somersault. “oh?”

“coffee.” his expression turns teasing, “unless you’re still avoiding me.”

you blink, completely baffled even though you know he’s only messing with you. “i just saw you again.”

“exactly,” he says. “that’s, like, years of lost time. we’ve got a lot to catch up on and i’m not losing my chance a second time around now, that’d be stupid of me, no?”

the giddy warmth bubbling in your chest spreads like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, leaving no room for hesitation. it’s almost ridiculous how easily the words form on your lips, like they’ve been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

“okay,” you say, tilting your head with a playful smirk. “take me out then.”

and when he smiles in return—easy, familiar, like no time has passed—you realize it: some feelings don’t disappear. they just linger, quiet and patient, until the moment is right.

#lelengerine: youth lovesome 🩷#nct fluff #nct 127 fluff #johnny fluff #nct drabbles #nct 127 drabbles #nct imagines #nct 127 imagines #johnny imagines

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chaosandcandies · 3 months ago

Text

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅴ: Daddy's Home

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

ISEUL PRACTICALLY COLLAPSED on her bed after dinner.

Her mom’s homemade soup sat warm in her belly, the steam and spices settling like a blanket around her exhaustion. She barely registered the taste — something rich, familiar, and comforting — but it didn’t matter. The warmth of it carried her into unconsciousness before she could even change into pajamas.

Her body sank into the mattress like she was made of lead, limbs heavy and unmoving. The world outside blurred and faded, her eyelids too stubborn to stay open.

At some point, she felt a faint brush against her hair, followed by a kiss to her forehead.

"I’ll call you later," her mom whispered, voice distant and fading. "Try not to give your dad a heart attack."

Iseul mumbled something incoherent in response, already slipping back under.

The apartment was quiet.

For exactly twelve hours.

Because when Iseul woke up, it wasn’t to the soft hum of the city outside her window.

It was to her front door crashing open like a thunderclap.

"ZHAO ISEUL!"

Her entire body jolted upright, eyes flying open like she’d been electrocuted.

"Oh my God," she rasped, voice scratchy. She blinked blearily at her bedroom door, trying to figure out whether she was still dreaming or if an earthquake had hit.

No. No earthquake.

Just her father.

The sound of heavy footsteps pounded through the apartment, growing louder and louder until —

Her bedroom door flew open.

And there he was.

Her father stood in the doorway like he owned the place, suitcase in one hand and a massive bag of snacks in the other. A pair of sunglasses perched on his head, and his shirt was the most aggressively patterned thing she’d ever seen — a Hawaiian print monstrosity with flowers the size of his face.

He looked like he’d come straight from a tropical vacation.

Or maybe straight from chaos.

"Wake up, champion!" he boomed, voice echoing through her skull. "Your hero has arrived!"

Iseul, hair a tangled mess and voice barely functioning, could only croak out, "What."

Her dad tossed the bag of snacks onto her bed like a victory prize. "I brought provisions!" he declared, flinging his arms wide. "And I canceled all my meetings for the next two days to nurse you back to health."

Iseul groaned, pulling the blanket tighter around herself like it could shield her from reality. Her body still ached from exhaustion, her head foggy and sluggish — but nothing weighed heavier than the guilt blooming in her chest.

Her dad had flown all the way from China.

For her.

"You didn’t have to come," she mumbled, voice muffled beneath the fabric. "I’m fine."

Her dad clicked his tongue, peeling the blanket off her face with zero remorse. "Fine?" he echoed, raising a brow. "You faint in the practice room, and your leader calls your mother in a panic. And you think I wouldn’t hop on the next flight out?" He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "What kind of father do you take me for?"

Iseul turned her face into the pillow. "A dramatic one?"

He gasped. "Rude!"

The guilt only sank deeper, curling like a knot in her stomach. She peeked up at him through her tangled hair, voice small. "You didn’t cancel anything important, did you?"

Her dad snorted, flopping back onto her bed like he belonged there. "Just a few business meetings and a dinner with your grandpa," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Nothing life-changing."

Iseul paled. "Grandpa?"

"Eh, he’ll survive," her dad said breezily. "Told him my daughter was sick, and I had to come play nurse. He said I was being dramatic."

"You are dramatic," she muttered.

Her dad ignored her, propping his head up on his hand. "Besides, I haven't seen you since you. I missed you, kid. And why am I hearing your debuting in a boy group from your mom after everything was decided? Spill everything."

She hesitated, biting her lip. But the exhaustion weighed heavier than her pride, and she as she gripped the blanket in her fists.

Her dad waited, patient and steady.

And slowly, the words started to come.

She told him about joining Stray Kids. About the pressure of replacing someone she never even met. About the long hours, the constant feeling of not being enough, and the way her body betrayed her no matter how hard she pushed.

Her dad listened quietly, letting her talk until her voice cracked and her shoulders shook.

When she finished, he leaned back and sighed. “I’m proud of you, kid. But you’re an idiot.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

“You’re chasing your dream, and that’s amazing,” he said, flicking her forehead gently. “But you can’t self-destruct trying to prove yourself to people who already chose you. You made it. You’re there. Now stop treating yourself like you’re disposable.”

Iseul’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to insist that she had to push herself harder — but the warmth in her dad’s voice made it impossible.

Scrambling to change the topic, she asked, "Are you… are you gonna stay here?"

Her dad scoffed, leaning back like she’d asked the dumbest question in existence. "What kind of man stays at his ex-wife’s house?" he said, looking utterly offended. "I’m not trying to get my kneecaps broken."

Iseul blinked. "My mom wouldn’t break your kneecaps."

"She threatened to last time I accidentally took your baby photos to show my friends," he said, shuddering dramatically. "I value my life, thanks."

"So where are you staying?"

He grinned, eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store. "The hotel on the corner! They’ve got an awesome snack bar. All-you-can-eat shrimp skewers after 10 p.m."

Iseul gave him a deadpan look. "You’re here to take care of me, and you’re already planning a shrimp feast?"

"It’s called multitasking," he said, winking. "I’ll bring you some if you’re good."

She rolled her eyes, flopping back onto her pillow. "I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that."

He stood up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m starving. Let’s eat. Come on get up, chop chop!"

And within minutes Iseul was dragged into the kitchen and her dad was unpacking the takeout bags, whistling an offbeat tune as he arranged everything on the kitchen table. He moved like he owned the place, which, technically, he didn’t — but that never stopped him.

Iseul sat slumped in her chair, her head resting on her folded arms as she watched him in a daze. The exhaustion still clung to her body like a second skin, but the familiar chaos of her dad’s presence was strangely comforting.

“You know,” he started, popping a piece of chicken into his mouth, “I watched some of your group’s old videos as I waited at the airport.”

Iseul groaned, sinking deeper into her blanket cocoon. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

"I was doing research!" he declared, tearing the packet open with way too much enthusiasm. "Had to see what kind of people my daughter’s hanging out with. The dramatic one —"

"Which dramatic one?" Iseul mumbled.

"The one who dances like he’s fighting ghosts," he said, mimicking Hyunjin’s facial expressions.

Iseul snorted. "That’s Hyunjin."

"Yeah, him! He’s got moves, I’ll give him that. And the one who looks like a squirrel —’’

"Han."

"Right. He screams a lot."

Iseul laughed, voice cracking. "That’s accurate."

Her dad dumped the ramen into the boiling water, stirring it like a pro. "And that leader of yours — Bang Chan?"

She tensed, fingers twitching around the blanket. ‘‘What about him?"

Her dad grinned over his shoulder. ‘‘He’s got ‘dad energy.’ Bet he nags you all the time."

Iseul sighed, tilting her head back. "He does. Constantly."

Her dad snickered. "I like him already."

Iseul simply rolled her eyes as she chewed on a piece of chicken. Her dad paid no attention to it as he continued, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I approve of him, though. He is cute - not cuter than me though - plus responsible.”

Iseul almost choked on her chicken. “What the hell is wrong with you? Bang Chan-ssi is like this responsible older brother who looks out for everyone.”

Her dad hummed thoughtfully. “Uh-huh. And what about the other boys? Should I be screening future son-in-laws?”

“I’m going to choke on my food.”

“Better you than me,” he said, smirking. “I’m not ready to give you away yet. But if any of them are rich, let me know.”

Iseul let out a defeated groan, resting her forehead against the table. “I should’ve stayed asleep.”

“But then who would I bully?”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “You’re worse than the boys.”

“That’s my job,” he said, handing her a drink. “To annoy you enough that you miss me when I’m gone.”

Iseul took the drink, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I... I do miss you, though.”

Her dad's teasing expression softened. He reached over, ruffling her hair like she was still ten years old. “I know, kid. I miss you too.”

For a moment, they just sat there — the noise of the city muffled behind the apartment walls, the glow of the kitchen light casting shadows on their faces.

Then he cleared his throat. “Anyway, what about this Hyunjin guy—”

Iseul threw a napkin at him.

Iseul buried herself in the couch, wrapping the blanket around her like a burito after she finished eating to her heart's content. She was just about doze off again when her dad tugged the blanket off of her.

"Alright," he declared, "Let’s go to the arcade."

Iseul cracked one eye open, staring at him like he’d grown another head. "What?"

"You heard me," he said, already yanking her blanket off like a magician revealing a disappearing act. "Get up. We’re going out."

"Dad, I can barely move," she groaned, swiping at the blanket he was peeling away.

He wasn’t fazed. "You’ve been lying around all day. You need fresh air."

"I don’t need air. I need sleep."

"Nah," he said, grabbing her wrist and tugging her upright like she weighed nothing. "Sleep is for people who haven’t been scolded by their mom and abandoned by their leader."

Iseul scowled, trying to wrestle out of his grip. "Chan didn’t abandon me."

"Then why do you look like a kicked puppy?" he teased, digging through her closet and tossing her a hoodie. "Come on. Get dressed. I’m undefeated at basketball hoops, and I need to keep my streak."

Iseul flopped back onto the couch, hoodie draped over her face. "You say that every time, and I always beat you."

Her dad pointed dramatically. "Today’s the day I crush you. Let’s go."

She let out a long, suffering sigh, knowing he wouldn’t let this go. "If I pass out, it’s your fault."

"I’ll carry you home like a princess," he shot back, already grabbing his wallet and keys.

"Gross," she muttered, but she dragged herself up anyway, stuffing her feet into her sneakers. "And don't cry for help when mom kills you once she gets to know about this."

The arcade was loud and chaotic, with flashing lights, blaring game music, and a crowd of kids screaming over every win and loss. Iseul’s dad fit right in. He beelined for the basketball game, dragging her along like an overgrown child on a sugar rush.

“Prepare to lose,” he declared, cracking his knuckles.

Iseul raised a brow. “Careful, you might throw out your back.”

“I’m thirty-eight, not eighty.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He gasped, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”

She smirked, stepping up to the machine. “You’ll be fine. If you collapse, I’ll carry you home — bridal style.”

Her dad snorted. “I trained you to punch people, not princess-carry grown men.”

She picked up a basketball, spinning it on her finger. “I can do both.”

They started the game, and her dad actually put up a fight — sinking shot after shot with the determination of someone trying to reclaim their glory days. But Iseul was fast, barely needing to aim, her body moving like it still remembered dodging punches and calculating footwork.

She crushed him by nearly double the score.

Her dad stared at the screen in disbelief. “You cheated.”

Iseul wiped imaginary sweat from her forehead. “Talent isn’t cheating.”

He huffed. “Whatever. Pick the next game.”

They tore through the arcade like chaotic gremlins, jumping from game to game without a break. Her dad obliterated her at air hockey, but she wiped the floor with him in every rhythm and dance game. They screamed at the claw machine, spent way too many coins on the zombie shooter, and nearly broke the DDR machine trying to out-dance each other.

By the time they collapsed onto a bench with slushies in hand, her dad was panting like he’d run a marathon. "I don’t know where you get that arm strength," he wheezed, sipping his drink.

Iseul shrugged. "Maybe if you stopped skipping arm day, you wouldn’t lose so badly."

Her dad barked out a laugh. "Savage. Who raised you?"

"A lunatic," she deadpanned, taking a sip of her slushie.

Her dad ruffled her hair, "Come on, let's get a drink."

The convenience store hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, shelves stacked high with brightly colored snack bags and rows of instant ramen cups. The glass fridge doors gleamed, reflecting the light drizzle outside, and the faint smell of fried food lingered in the air.

Iseul scanned the shelves, eyes flicking through the array of drinks, while her dad trailed behind her.

“You’re going to get yogurt, aren’t you?” he asked, hands in his pockets, voice laced with teasing.

Iseul didn’t even glance at him. “And?”

He smirked. “You know that’s basically just dessert pretending to be healthy, right?”

Iseul grabbed a mango yogurt from the fridge. “Says the man who ate three corndogs at the arcade.”

“That’s called fuel,” he declared, patting his stomach. “Protein and carbs. Athlete essentials.”

“Yeah? What sport are you training for? Competitive napping?”

He gasped, clutching his chest like she’d stabbed him. “Why are you so mean to me?”

“Because you deserve it.” Iseul shut the fridge door with her hip and turned to the snack aisle. “Besides, you’re just mad I destroyed you today.”

“I let you win,” he muttered, sulking behind her.

Iseul raised a brow. “Sure you did.”

They weaved through the aisles, bickering the entire way — her dad dramatically lamenting his "tragic defeat," and Iseul shooting back savage remarks without missing a beat. It felt almost normal, almost enough to silence the lingering ache of failure still gnawing at her chest.

But then she spotted them.

Or rather, heard them.

“Just grab the banana milk,” Hyunjin whined, dragging his feet down the aisle like he hadn’t slept in days. “Everyone likes banana milk.”

Felix shook his head, voice laced with stress. “What if she doesn’t?”

“We can’t just guess,” Jeongin muttered, clutching a pack of ramen like a lifeline.

Iseul froze, gripping her yogurt tighter. Her dad, oblivious, followed her gaze — and lit up like Christmas lights.

“Ohhh,” he whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Your friends?”

Iseul grabbed his sleeve, yanking him into the corner of the aisle like they were hiding from the FBI. “Shut up.”

Her dad peeked over her shoulder, grinning. “Which one’s the ‘oppa’?”

“I’m disowning you.”

But he ignored her, watching the chaos unfold.

The boys stood by the snack section like they were planning a heist. Chan had his hands on his hips, brow furrowed like he was deciding national policy. Han was crouched, staring at the lower shelves like the snacks might start speaking to him.

“This is ridiculous,” Seungmin muttered, rubbing his eyes. “We should’ve just asked her.”

Jeongin sighed. “She’d say she didn’t want anything.”

Hyunjin groaned. “Why is she so difficult?”

“She’s not difficult,” Felix shot back, defensive. “We just don’t know her well enough yet.”

Seungmin pointed to the fridge. “She always gets mango yogurt from the vending machine.”

The aisle fell silent.

Chan blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Seungmin deadpanned. “Every night after practice.”

Hyunjin slapped his forehead. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

“I thought we were focusing on snacks, not drinks.”

Han flopped onto the floor, face-first. “I’m so tired.”

Iseul’s dad looked back at her, eyes practically glowing.

“They’re buying stuff for you?” he whispered, barely containing his excitement.

Iseul shoved him toward the fridge. “Get your stupid drink and leave.”

He snorted, grabbing a water bottle. “They’re trying to figure out what you like. That’s cute.”

“No, it’s weird.”

“No, it’s cute.” He tilted his head. “Unless one of them likes you?”

She nearly dropped her yogurt. “Oh my god, leave.”

“Maybe it’s the pretty one,” he whispered, wiggling his eyebrows.

“They’re all pretty.”

“True,” he mused, then nodded toward the aisle. “Want me to go say hi?”

Iseul turned pale. “No.”

“Oh, I’m definitely going to say hi,” he whispered, eyes gleaming as he glanced at the boys.

“Don’t you dare,” Iseul hissed, voice low and sharp.

He smiled wider. “Watch me.”

And before she could stop him, he strolled right into the aisle like he owned the place.

Iseul nearly disintegrated on the spot.

“Hey, are you guys Stray Kids?” her dad asked, casual as anything, like he wasn’t about to ruin her entire existence.

The boys froze like they’d been caught committing a crime.

Chan turned around first, polite smile snapping into place despite the confusion in his eyes. “Uh… yes, we are.”

The rest of them scrambled to bow, all awkward and stiff.

“Hello,” Felix greeted, voice automatically sweet.

Her dad bowed back with an easy grin. “I thought so. I recognize you from the videos.”

Iseul slammed her forehead against the fridge door.

“Are you a fan?” Jeongin asked carefully, clutching a ramen pack like a shield.

Her dad glanced over his shoulder, making direct eye contact with Iseul. She shook her head furiously, silently begging him to stop.

He turned back to the boys, smile turning absolutely evil.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I’m Iseul’s dad.”

The way their expressions shifted was almost cartoonish.

Felix nearly dropped his basket. Jeongin audibly gasped. Han banged his head on the shelf as he tried to stand up, and Hyunjin looked like he forgot how to breathe.

They scrambled to bow so fast it looked like they might break something.

"Oh my god," Iseul whispered, pressing her yogurt to her forehead in despair.

"Hello, sir!" Chan said, bowing deeply. "It’s really nice to meet you!"

Her dad waved them off like they were old friends. "No need to be so formal! I’ve seen your videos. You guys are great! Especially you." He pointed at Hyunjin, who flinched like he’d been caught stealing.

"Me?" Hyunjin echoed, horrified.

Her dad nodded. "Yeah! You’re the one who glares at my daughter, right?"

Hyunjin turned pale. "I— I don’t —"

Iseul on the other hand felt she will pass out because of embarrassment.

Her dad clapped Chan on the shoulder like they’d known each other for years. "What are you guys doing here anyway?"

Felix, voice barely above a whisper, said, "We wanted to buy Iseul some snacks... but we didn’t know what she likes..."

Iseul physically shrank.

Her dad, being her dad, burst out laughing. "Why didn’t you just ask her?"

She snapped upright. "Because they didn’t know I was here!"

The boys all turned in slow motion, like horror movie protagonists realizing the monster was behind them the whole time.

"Iseul?" Felix said, voice laced with disbelief.

She lifted her yogurt cup in defeat. "Hi."

They gawked.

"Why are you...?" Jeongin started.

"You should be resting," Minho scolded, arms crossed. "I told you — if I caught you out here, I’d tie you to your bedpost and force you to sleep."

Iseul visibly flinched, the memory of Minho’s threatening text flashing in her mind like a caution sign. Meanwhile, her dad beamed like Minho had just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

"You sound just like her mom," he said, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Her dad ignored her, casually picking up a bag of chips from the shelf and tossing it into the boys' already overflowing basket.

Chan, eyebrows furrowed, turned to Iseul. “Wait — why are you even outside? You’re supposed to be resting.”

Before she could answer, her dad did, beaming. “I dragged her out. Thought playing in the arcade would burn off the fever.”

“You what?” Chan’s voice cracked, horrified.

“Don’t worry,” her dad said cheerfully, inspecting their basket like he was evaluating their life choices. “She won all three rounds of dance battles. You guys should ditch the banana milk. She hates it. Oh, but she loves these yogurts. Buy more of those.”

Hyunjin immediately set the banana drink back on the shelf like it burned him, eyes flicking to Iseul with newfound curiosity. Meanwhile, Han’s mouth dropped open as he whirled around to face her, finger jabbing in accusation.

“You are the reason why the vending machines are always out of yogurts!” he cried, scandalized.

Iseul froze, like a criminal caught red-handed. “I — what? No! That’s — I just... maybe I buy a few.”

“A few?!” Han’s voice pitched higher. “We’ve been at war with the vending machine for weeks! I swear, every time I go for one, it’s already empty. It was you all along?”

Felix snorted, tossing another pack of yogurt into the basket. “Honestly, respect.”

Iseul’s dad cackled, clearly having the time of his life. “Oh, yeah. She’ll inhale those. It’s like her guilty pleasure.”

“Appa, please,” Iseul begged, clutching her head.

Hyunjin leaned on the cart, watching her with an amused grin. “I feel betrayed,” he said, voice dripping with faux hurt. “All this time, I thought we were suffering together.”

“I didn’t know you liked yogurt,” Iseul muttered, eyes darting to the side, her face burning.

“Because you hoarded it,” Seungmin deadpanned, shoving a bag of popcorn into the basket.

“Can we not make my snack habits a public spectacle?” Iseul hissed, her face practically steaming.

Her dad slung an arm around her shoulder, squeezing. “Kiddo, you brought this on yourself.” Then he turned to the boys, eyes twinkling. “Also, if you’re buying ramen, get the extra spicy one. She likes to cry while she eats.”

Han’s jaw dropped. “You cry while eating?”

“She calls it ‘cleansing her soul,’” her dad said, nodding solemnly. “But really, she just likes the pain.”

“Appa, I’m begging you,” Iseul hissed, trying to wriggle out from under his arm.

Her dad grinned like he’d just dropped the juiciest bombshell of his life, completely ignoring Iseul’s horrified expression. “Oh, and one more thing — if she eats spicy ramen, don’t try to keep up. Last time I tried, I thought I ascended to the afterlife.”

Hyunjin bit back a laugh. “You’re a masochist and a yogurt hoarder? Fascinating.”

Before Iseul could protest, her dad turned to the boys, smile bright, voice light as air — but eyes gleaming with something just a little dangerous. “By the way, if any of you make her cry for reasons other than spice, I’ll know.”

The boys froze.

“I’ve got connections.” He winked. “And a lot of free time.”

Chan visibly tensed, bowing instinctively, like a man who knew when to show respect to a higher power. “Of course, sir.”

Seungmin, for the first time, looked mildly alarmed. “Connections?”

Her dad’s smile widened. “Oh, yeah. The fun kind.”

Felix gulped, clutching the basket like a lifeline.

Han, brave but stupid, squinted at him. “What do you do?”

Her dad tilted his head, tapping his chin. “I make people disappear.”

The boys collectively flinched. Even Minho subtly shuffled behind Felix, using him as a human shield.

“Appa,” Iseul groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You run logistics for grandma’s shipping company. Stop acting like you’re in the mafia.”

Her dad shot her a playful glare. “You’re ruining my image.”

“You’re traumatising my members!” she snapped back.

He ignored her, giving the boys a once-over with an exaggerated, thoughtful hum. “Hmm. You all look strong enough. Maybe I should recruit you. We could use more hands loading cargo. Ever lifted 50-kilo crates for six hours straight?”

Jeongin paled. “I don’t... I don’t think that’s legal?”

Her dad laughed, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Kidding, kid. You’re cute. You’re safe.”

“Spectacular,” Jeongin whispered, looking like he’d just survived a near-death experience.

Her dad, still brimming with energy despite emotionally wrecking the boys, clapped his hands together. “Alright, since we’re all hanging out now, who’s up for another arcade round?”

Iseul nearly dropped the basket. “Appa, no.”

Her dad ignored her. “It’s just down the street! Quick round of games, maybe some basketball —”

“Appa,” Iseul groaned, “you dragged me out to ‘sweat out’ my fever in the arcade. I already beat you three times. What more do you want?”

Her dad put a hand over his heart, wounded. “To reclaim my honor. We aren't leaving until I win.”

Iseul snorted, "Looks like we are going to stay there forever then."

He grinned wider, patting her head like a smug cat. "Then I guess I better start looking for an apartment nearby."

She swatted at him with her yogurt cup. "You’re literally the most embarrassing human alive."

"And yet, you love me," he said, beaming.

She glared at him. "Do I?"

He gasped, clutching his chest like she’d shot him. "Betrayal! After I flew all the way here for you?"

"You came for the arcade."

"True," he admitted, nodding sagely. "But I’m staying for the drama."

Chan, who’d been quietly watching their back-and-forth, shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t tell if this is cute or concerning.”

Minho smirked. “It’s both.”

Her dad’s grin widened, the kind of cheerful, easygoing smile that belonged to someone who had absolutely nothing to lose. He clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming.

"Arcade sounds fun, right?" he said brightly, but there was something just off enough about his tone to send a chill down their spines. "After all, I gotta make sure the people around my daughter are... trustworthy."

The boys stiffened.

"And by trustworthy," he continued, voice dripping with faux innocence, "I mean the kind of guys who wouldn’t accidentally break her heart, push her too hard, or — you know — cause her any unnecessary stress."

Felix nearly dropped the bag of gummies he was holding.

Chan cleared his throat, carefully stepping forward like he was handling a wild animal. "Of course, sir. We... We promise to look out for her."

Her dad’s smile sharpened. "Good! Because if she ever comes home upset because of one of you..." He trailed off, looking thoughtful. "Well, I was a rebellious teenager. Got into a few fights. Broke a few bones. Old habits die hard, you know?"

Han made an awkward, nervous laugh. "Haha, that’s... that’s a joke, right?"

Her dad beamed. "Sure! Let’s call it that."

Iseul groaned, pressing her yogurt to her face like it could physically block out reality. "Dad, please stop scaring my members."

He turned to her, utterly unbothered. "I’m not scaring them. I’m bonding."

Iseul wanted the ground to swallow her whole. “Can we please just go to the arcade so I can end this nightmare?”

Her dad gasped, clutching his chest. “Nightmare? I’m giving your friends a valuable life lesson!”

“By threatening them with bodily harm?” she deadpanned.

“Friendly harm,” he corrected, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “It builds character. So leader-nim, let's raid the arcade, eh?”

Chan, already dead inside, stared at the ceiling. “What’s one more bad decision?”

Jeongin, still clutching a bag of chips like a lifeline, whispered, “Spectacular.”

The arcade lights blinked like neon stars, music thudding against the walls in chaotic waves. Her dad was already loading up on tokens, face alight with childish glee.

Jeongin and Felix immediately shot toward the racing games, practically elbowing each other to claim the best seats. Han and Seungmin zeroed in on a zombie shooter, their laughter echoing through the room as they fought over who got the bigger gun.

Iseul crossed her arms, already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. “This is going to end in disaster.”

Hyunjin, standing a little too close, leaned down to her level. “What? Afraid we’ll beat you?”

Iseul's eyes widened. for the first time, Hyunjin didn’t seem uncomfortable around her. He didn’t flinch or stiffen or ignored her completely. He just looked at her, like she belonged.

Instantly she recovered, sporting an unimpressed look, “I’m afraid I’ll have to carry you all.”

Chan, loosening up for the first time in days, clapped his hands together. “Alright! Let’s split up and see who can get the most tickets. Losers buy snacks.”

Minho scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from someone who got stuck in a claw machine once.”

“I did not get stuck,” Chan argued, face flushing red. “I just... leaned in too far!”

Iseul bit back a laugh, eyes twinkling. “And people say I’m the liability.”

Her dad, already dumping tokens into a basketball game, shouted, “Enough talk! Who’s brave enough to take me on?”

Iseul groaned. “We don’t have to start with basketball.”

Her dad grinned like a villain. “Oh, we do. I need to regain my honor.”

“I destroyed you last time.”

“Let an old man dream.”

Hyunjin, eyes flicking between them, couldn’t help but notice the ease in her voice — the way she sassed her dad so effortlessly. She wasn’t stiff or careful. She was comfortable.

And something about that tugged at him, sharp and uncomfortable.

Chan must have seem to forgotten that he is a grown man for bounced on his feet. “I wanna play! Iseul, team up with me?”

Before Hyunjin could even open his mouth, Han materialised out of of nowhere and looped his arm through Iseul’s, grinning. “Too late! She’s mine.”

Hyunjin’s stomach twisted, sharp and immediate. Why does he get to be so close to her already?

Iseul seemed just as surprised, her eyes wide with disbelief. Han caught the look and tilted his head, grinning. “What’s wrong? Don’t want to be on the winning team?”

Miss the chance to get on Han’s good side? No way.

Iseul shook her head so fast it was a blur. “Let’s crush them.”

Hyunjin watched the exchange in silence, an uncomfortable tightness settling in his chest — something sharp and unwelcome.

The game started — and all hell broke loose.

Iseul sniped shot after shot like her life depended on it, her movements fast and fluid. Han tried to keep up but mostly just fumbled, shooting wild bricks while screaming in panic.

On the other side, Chan played with the intensity of someone trying to win an Olympic medal. He jumped, twisted, and nearly face-planted twice. Changbin cheered him on, waving his arms like a maniac.

“You got this, hyung!” Changbin shouted. “Think of the snacks!”

Chan, drenched in sweat, shouted back, “I’m trying, okay?!”

Her dad, meanwhile, had turned into a full-blown competitor. He was practically body-checking Minho to get better angles, muttering under his breath like a war veteran.

“Faster,” he hissed, flicking a ball at the hoop. “We can still beat them.”

Minho dodged another ball. “Why do I feel like I’m in a survival game?”

Seungmin, not even playing, watched the chaos with mild interest. “This is better than TV.”

Hyunjin, struggling to focus, found himself watching Iseul instead of the game. The way her eyes gleamed with determination, the way her tongue peeked out when she concentrated. The way she actually laughed when Han tripped over his own feet.

The guilt settled deeper in his chest. He’d been cold to her. Dismissive. She’d cried because of them. And yet, here she was — playing, joking, trying.

The buzzer went off.

Iseul and Han won.

Han collapsed to his knees. “I’M A CHAMPION!”

Iseul wiped her forehead. “You made, like, four baskets.”

“I assisted!”

“You got in my way.”

“I provided moral support!”

Hyunjin hated how easily they bickered, how natural it felt. And he hated how much he wanted that with her.

Han wiped sweat from his forehead, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Y’know, you’re kinda cool, Iseul. I thought you were the type of girl who cried at every minor inconvenience.”

Hyunjin’s heart dropped.

Iseul froze, blinking at Han like he’d just sprouted horns. “What?”

Her dad, who had been retrieving a ball, spun around like a storm brewing on the horizon. He tossed the ball aside and placed his hands on his hips, smiling a little too brightly. “Oh? Is that what you thought?” he asked, voice sweet as honey.

Han, completely oblivious to the incoming danger, shrugged. “Yeah, I mean — the whole rain incident, you know? It kinda gave off those vibes.”

Iseul slapped a hand over her face. “Han, please.”

Her dad stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with a loud pop. “So you’re one of the boys who made my daughter cry?”

Han blinked. “Huh?”

Hyunjin took a step back. Chan visibly paled. Changbin grabbed onto Seungmin like a human shield.

Her dad continued, voice laced with deceptive cheer. “The boys who left my baby girl walking alone in the pouring rain?” He clapped a hand on Han’s shoulder, the way a villain does right before delivering a finishing blow. “Care to repeat that part?”

Han stiffened like he’d been turned to stone.

Iseul groaned. “Appa, stop threatening them.”

Her dad didn’t even glance at her. “I’m not threatening them. I’m enlightening them.”

Minho, rubbing his ribs from all the body-checking, smirked. “I like your dad.��

Her dad beamed. “See? At least someone has taste.”

Hyunjin bit his lip, hands clenched at his sides. The mention of Iseul crying reopened the wound of guilt festering inside him. And now, seeing her dad defend her so easily, so fiercely, made it worse.

Iseul had people who loved her. Protected her. And Hyunjin had been part of the reason she needed protection in the first place.

He turned away, pretending to tie his shoe just so he wouldn’t have to see the look on her face.

But he still heard her voice — light, sarcastic, and far too kind for someone they’d treated so poorly.

“Appa, let’s go before you start a war. Minho-ssi is apparently a champion in DDR.”

At that her father's face lit up. Pointing at Minho, he explained, "What are we waiting for them? It's time to get a new champion!"

Minho simply snorted, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. He was taking this way too seriously.

“Come on,” Minho said, rolling his shoulders like a fighter entering a ring. “Let’s settle this properly.”

Her dad cracked his neck. “Oh? You think you can beat me, kid?”

Chan, looking horrified, grabbed Iseul’s arm. “Stop them. This is going to end in bloodshed.”

Iseul, leaning against the machine with her water bottle, took a sip and shrugged. “Nah, let them kill each other.”

Hyunjin watched her from the corner of his eye. It still threw him off — how easily she joked, how she didn’t seem to carry resentment even though she had every right to. She stood next to Han like they’d been friends for years, not like he’d been one of the people who ignored her existence for weeks.

The game started. The music boomed through the arcade, vibrating through the floors.

Minho and Iseul’s dad stomped and twirled, matching the arrows on the screen with terrifying accuracy.

“WHY IS HE SO GOOD?” Changbin shouted, holding onto Chan like his life depended on it.

Minho smirked, sweat dripping down his face. “I’m unbeatable.”

Iseul’s dad didn’t even look winded. “I used to dance with Iseul's mom to pay our rent.” He spun, nailed a triple combo, and pointed at Minho like he was commanding him to bow down. “Step it up, pretty boy.”

Seungmin burst out laughing. “I am genuinely scared right now.”

Han leaned over to Iseul, panting. “Why are you both so stubborn?”

Iseul grinned. “Genetics.”

Hyunjin watched her laugh, and it felt like a punch to the gut. She looked... happy. Like she fit here, like she belonged. He hated how badly he wanted her to laugh like that because of him — not Han, not anyone else.

The song sped up.

Minho and her dad went feral.

By the end, the DDR machine was shaking, the screen flashing PERFECT COMBO in huge letters. Minho dropped to his knees, gasping for air, and Iseul’s dad stretched like he’d just done light yoga.

“Good game,” her dad said, wiping his forehead with a triumphant smirk.

Minho, looking betrayed, clutched his chest. “I lost to a dad.”

“You lost to the dad,” her dad corrected, patting Minho’s head like a dog. “But you’ve got potential, kid. I might take you in as an apprentice.”

Han doubled over laughing. Changbin was on the floor wheezing. Chan rubbed his temples like he aged five years.

And Hyunjin?

He couldn’t take his eyes off Iseul — watching her laugh so hard she nearly fell over, watching her dad mess with everyone like he’d known them for years.

Hyunjin had been pushing her away all this time. And the worst part?He was starting to wish he hadn’t.

The arcade night stretched longer than any of them planned. One game turned into another, and then another, until their legs ached and their voices grew hoarse from screaming.

Minho challenged her dad to a rematch — this time on the claw machine. He lost again. Felix discovered the joy of whack-a-mole and declared himself the king of the game, even though Seungmin consistently beat him. And Han? He somehow convinced Iseul to play Mario Kart, only to regret it when she mercilessly destroyed him three rounds in a row.

“You said you were bad at racing games!” Han whined, slumped against the seat.

Iseul shrugged, holding up the plastic wheel. “I said I think I’m bad.”

Hyunjin barely played after that. He just... watched her. He told himself he was tired, but that was a lie. He couldn’t tear his eyes away — the way she stuck her tongue out when she concentrated, the way she beamed when she won, the way she teased Han like they’d been friends forever.

It burned.

It burned to know he could’ve had that too.

By the time they started wrapping up, her dad clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, one last game,” he declared, dragging them toward the punching machine. “Let’s settle the score.”

The boys immediately rallied around him, their competitive streaks kicking in like clockwork.

“What are the stakes?” Minho asked, rolling his shoulders.

Her dad grinned. “Lowest score pays for dinner.”

The boys screamed in protest, already jostling for position. Hyunjin stayed back, his heart pounding in his chest, watching the way Iseul stayed quiet — chewing her bottom lip, fidgeting with her hoodie sleeve.

Chan went first. He punched the bag with all the force of someone trying to avenge a fallen comrade. The screen flashed a high score, and Felix gave him a standing ovation.

Then came Minho, who punched with the precision of a trained assassin. Seungmin’s turn followed — he punched casually, looking mildly annoyed, and still got a solid score.

Changbin stepped up next, cracking his knuckles. “I was born for this.” He punched the bag so hard the machine rocked.

Han whistled. “Remind me to never make you mad.”

Felix punched next, nearly toppling over from the force, and giggled when his score barely cleared Chan’s. Then it was Hyunjin’s turn. He ignored the tightness in his chest, the way his throat dried out, and punched the bag with everything he had — just to get the frustration out of his system.

“Not bad, prince,” Han teased, clapping him on the back.

Her dad stretched, rubbing his hands together. “I’m getting old, so I’ll let my daughter go for me.”

The boys turned to Iseul like he’d just suggested she wrestle a bear.

“She’s sick,” Chan said, appalled.

“She’s tiny,” Changbin added.

“She’ll break her wrist,” Felix whispered, horrified.

Her dad laughed. “Oh, will she?”

Iseul sighed, stepping forward. “It’s fine. Let me punch the thing so we can eat.”

Hyunjin frowned. There was something... off. The way she cracked her knuckles, the way she exhaled slowly, the way her stance shifted — like she was sliding into something familiar.

Something practiced.

Iseul punched the bag.

The impact echoed through the arcade.

The score shot up, blinking, climbing, before settling on a number that left everyone stunned. She didn’t just beat their scores — she obliterated them.

Felix’s jaw dropped. “What the—”

“WHAT?” Changbin screeched.

Han clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. “No. NO.”

Minho stared at the machine, then at Iseul, and burst out laughing. “I fucking love her.”

Hyunjin couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The sight of her standing there, unfazed, rubbing her knuckles like she’d done this a thousand times, made something twist painfully inside him.

Chan was the first to break the silence. “Iseul,” he said, carefully, “why are you built like that?”

Iseul looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. “I, uh... used to box.”

The boys exploded.

“YOU WHAT?”

“You boxed?”

“When?”

“For how long?”

Iseul’s dad, completely unbothered, had shit-eating grin on his face. “She trained for a couple of years.”

“A couple?” Felix squeaked.

“Why would you stop?” Han asked, eyes wide.

Iseul swallowed, suddenly very interested in the floor. “It... wasn’t a good fit.”

Hyunjin didn’t miss the way her voice wavered. Or the way her dad’s smile dimmed, just for a second.

She’d looked so powerful, so confident when she hit that machine. But now? She looked small.

He hated that he noticed.

He hated that he cared.

“We should go,” she said quickly, brushing past them. “I’m hungry.”

They followed her out of the arcade, buzzing with questions, but Hyunjin stayed quiet — haunted by the memory of her punching that bag like it was personal.

Because maybe, for her, it was.

The diner was tiny, tucked into a quiet street corner with flickering neon lights and handwritten menus plastered on the walls. The kind of place that smelled like grease and nostalgia, where the chairs wobbled, and the tables were a little too sticky, but the food tasted like a warm hug.

They crammed into a booth that was absolutely not meant to hold nine people, limbs tangled, shoulders pressed together. Iseul was squished between Felix and Han, with Hyunjin squeezed on the end so tightly he could feel her elbow bump against him every time she shifted.

The moment they sat, her dad slapped his phone on the table. “Alright, gentlemen,” he said, eyes gleaming, “prepare to witness greatness.”

Iseul immediately froze. “Appa. No.”

The boys ignored her. They swarmed the screen like moths to a flame, faces practically pressed against each other as they squinted at the shaky, low-quality video playing on her dad’s phone.

It was a boxing match.

Her boxing match.

The Iseul in the video looked younger, her hair tied back, sweat glistening on her skin. She moved with sharp precision, dodging punches, throwing brutal hooks, her entire body coiled with tension.

“IS THAT YOU?” Han shouted, pointing at the screen.

Felix gasped. “You look terrifying.”

Changbin stared in awe. “You’re ripped.”

Jeongin's eyes widened. “I’m never talking back to her again.”

Hyunjin barely heard the noise around him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. From her.

She was relentless — faster, sharper, like she needed to win. And she did win.

But not without a price.

The video zoomed in on Iseul clutching her ribs, breathing heavily, eyes watering as the referee lifted her arm in victory.

“Broke her rib in the first round,” her dad said proudly, shaking his head. “Still won the match. My daughter’s a beast.”

Felix gaped at her. “YOU BROKE YOUR RIB?”

Iseul fidgeted with her straw, eyes glued to her lap. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Chan echoed, horrified.

Her dad laughed. “She barely flinched. I thought the medic was going to faint.”

Hyunjin glanced at her, taking in the way her shoulders had tensed, her fingers trembling slightly against the cup.

There was something wrong.

She looked... haunted.

“Why’d you quit?” Seungmin asked, voice quieter now.

Iseul inhaled sharply, like she was trying to steady herself. “The medic said I couldn’t play in the finals,” she muttered. “And then I wanted to continue music, so yeah, here I am.”

It didn't feel like the whole story, yet nobody pressed on.

Han shifted uncomfortably. “Damn.”

Felix reached out, patting her arm. “That sucks.”

Iseul forced a smile. “It’s fine. I didn’t care that much anyway.”

Liar.

Hyunjin clenched his fists under the table, guilt pooling in his stomach like lead. He recognized that look on her face — the hollow smile, the forced indifference. He knew what it felt like to have your dream slip through your fingers.

And he hated that he’d made it worse for her.

Her dad ruffled her hair, oblivious to the tension. “She’s stronger now,” he said brightly. “After all she is surviving you lot.”

The boys laughed, but Hyunjin stayed quiet, watching the way Iseul stirred her drink, her eyes distant and far, far away.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627

STORY HINT: Iseul loves her yogurts. She eats them every day during breakfast and before sleeping in night. When her mom and dad were together, her dad and she would eat in front of the TV with an old boxing match turned on.

This is like the longest chapter I've written. Like I could've separated it but then it would've looked inconsistent, so yea, i hope u had fun! I genuinely love Iseul's dad because he is just so confident. I based him off on Modern Family's Phil Dunphy (if u know who i'm talking abt then i love u), and he is like super fun. Also in the end i shifted the pov to hyunjin's, added a little angst but hey ROMANCE IS STARTING YALL!!And yall know the drill - don't forget to leave likes and comments <33 Stay safe! ~Candy

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