#and she was one of them for some reason...

[saatorus]

almost yours — a satoru gojo fic

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

wc — 35.4k (never let me estimate my own word counts again)

read it on ao3

warnings — smut, p in v sex (unprotected and protected), fingering, oral (f receiving), making out, brief 7 minutes in heaven trope (couldn't control myself sorry) tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, kind of unreliable narrator vibes, afab reader, more inaccurate representations of frat parties and possibly frat culture ^_^

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on. He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.” He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then. He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore. Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different. Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges. And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot. So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way. Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra, not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me. It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major—nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body. Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up. And then—there’s him. Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts. You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you. 

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets. “I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!” Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.” Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system. He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?” You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.” You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?” He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.” You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs. You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts. And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change. But you know it is. He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly. You look up, startled. “What?” His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?” Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire. He’s still watching you. But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand. Still. You tuck it away. Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night. He won’t. But you will.

–

​​It’s been three years since that night. The one where your heart skittered up your throat at the sound of his laugh, where he’d tugged the ends of your hair and called it pretty, where he’d looked at you like he saw something there. Or maybe he was just being friendly. You over analyze simple interactions with men a little too much.

You’d replayed it for weeks. Obsessively, stupidly. Burned it into your mind like it meant something. But time has a way of softening things, even the sharpest crushes. The ache of it dulled as college rolled on, as you kissed boys who weren’t him, as you got older and started dressing for yourself instead of wondering if he’d notice. Now, you’re sitting cross-legged in Seiko’s childhood bedroom, half in a blanket cocoon, sipping flat soda out of an old anime cup you both used to fight over when you were twelve. The window’s open, the curtains swaying with the breeze, and the room smells like spring air and vanilla body mist. “Okay,” Seiko says, her voice muffled as she flops back dramatically onto her pillows, “I’m literally not kidding anymore. If prices of apartments go up by even one more dollar than the current budget I’m on, I’m just going to live in the campus library like a cryptid.”

You snort. “You’d last two nights before you begged for my airfryer and moisturizer.”

“That is so true,” she groans, throwing a hand over her face. “Wait—why don’t we just move in together? Like… actually. Find a place off-campus. Split the bills. You’re always here anyway, and you hate your housemates. And I wanna get out of this house already. Like, I need to feel like an adult, stat” You blink at her. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Deadass.”

It’s not a bad idea. You are here all the time—your uni ended up being like twenty minutes from Seiko’s family home, and when your dorm got too loud or your brain got too tired, she always had a spare blanket and instant noodles ready for you. Half your stuff’s already in her closet. Living with Seiko wouldn’t be hard. You’ve survived sleep-deprived all-nighters, food poisoning, two breakups, and a disastrous eyebrow waxing incident together. An apartment feels like a natural next step. “I mean, yeah,” you say, stretching your legs out on the bed, “I’d be down. But only if I get the good side of the fridge.”

“You don’t even cook!”

“Exactly. So I deserve extra space for my stash of thirty minute butter chicken and diet coke.”

“Fair point, the thirty minute butterchicken has been one of your greatest finds at the store yet,” she nods solemnly. It’s easy like this. Girl talk, real talk. The kind that only comes after years of shared notebooks and late-night crying and stupid dances in the hallway. You’re mid-scroll on your phone, looking up open listings, when Seiko suddenly straightens up with a weird look on her face.

“Oh shit.” You glance over. “What?”

“I just remembered—my mum texted me this morning… Satoru’s flight from Japan is today.” You freeze, thumb hovering mid-air. “Seiko.”

“I swear I thought it was next week! But turns out she meant this Sunday, not next.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper, heart doing something traitorous in your chest.

She cringes. “Sorryyy. It’s not like he’s crashing in this room. He’s taking the guest one downstairs.”

“That’s not the point,” you mutter, flopping back into the pillows like the dramatic main character you are. “I need, like, mental prep. A warning! A buffer zone!”

“It’s been three years,” she reminds you, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not still—”

“I’m not.” You cut her off quickly, sitting up. “I’m not. I got over it.” You say it with the conviction of someone who has—not just because time passed, but because you actually did the emotional legwork. You remember how you’d finally told Seiko about your crush a few months after Satoru had flown out for that scholarship program. It was during a late-night snack run—Melonpan and slurpee in hand, parked outside the 7/11 under shitty yellow streetlights. Your voice had cracked halfway through the confession. “I think I had a thing for your brother,” you’d said, casual in that fake-casual way. “Like, a crush-crush.” And Seiko, bless her heart, didn’t freak out or make it weird. She just shrugged and sipped her drink like you’d told her the weather.

“Yeah,” she’d said. “That was kinda obvious.”

“Obvious?” you’d gawked. She’d snorted. “You stared at him like he was a Greek god who worked part-time at Uniqlo. And you got aggressively nice every time he walked into the room.” After that, the dam kind of burst. You ended up telling her everything—every humiliating thing you’d done in the name of Satoru Gojo. Like the time you spent twenty minutes curling your eyelashes before a family barbecue, only to blink so aggressively at him that your contact lens folded in half. Or how you once tripped over her cat trying to sprint to the bathroom when you heard his voice in the hallway—because you hadn’t shaved your legs and you simply could not be perceived like that. Seiko had listened to it all with a mixture of horror, amusement, and deeply affectionate judgment.

“You’re disgusting,” she’d said once, fondly. “But you’re my disgusting best friend, so I guess I have to love you anyway.” Now, three years later, you smirk a little at the memory. “I was like sixteen,” you say, brushing invisible dust off your shirt. “And he was older and cooler and looked good in white t-shirts. It wasn’t exactly hard to crush on him.” 

Seiko hums. “You also wore a push-up bra every time you knew he’d be home.”

“Don’t slut-shame me for being sixteen and desperate for attention,” you say with a grin.

“You also practiced putting on eyeliner with a spoon.”

“I hate that you remember everything.”

“You told me your soul left your body when he looked at your knees once.”

“Okay, now you’re making things up.”

“You tried to use cherry lip gloss as blush.”

“That one’s valid. TikTok taught me that.” Seiko laughs and tosses a pillow at you, and the room’s full of that deep, cozy joy that only comes when someone’s known you long enough to remember your awkward era and still wants to live with you. It’s quiet for a second after that. The breeze flutters in, catching on the posters still stuck to her walls—old anime prints, boy band photos from your middle school years, a collage of polaroids with all your worst angles and best memories. You sigh and glance at her. “So… what do we do if he actually shows up?” She shrugs. “We act normal. We’re adults now. You’re not gonna combust from seeing his stupid face again.” You both dissolve into uncontrollable laughter again, that warm, stupid haze settling in the room like an old blanket—the kind woven from late-night confessions and shared snacks, music blasting from your phones, and way too many years of embarrassing stories. And even with all the teasing, the grossed-out big sister act, the ridiculous confessions—you know she gets it. You’re not that girl anymore. Satoru Gojo might be coming back tonight. But you’ve grown up. Gotten your heart broken a few times. Learned how to kiss without thinking about someone else's older brother. You’re not that girl anymore. But you do still kind of hope your eyeliner holds up.

–

The first sign that something’s changed is the sound of the door. Not a knock—of course not. Gojo Satoru never knocked in his own house. It’s the familiar click-clack of the handle Seiko’s parents never replaced, followed by the solid thud of shoes on hardwood and the faint rustle of bags. And then, casually:

“Yo! I’m home!”

Your stomach drops. Seiko, still mid-sip of her Diet Coke, just blinks at you from across the living room. You’re sitting criss-cross on the rug, wearing a hoodie that may or may not have a bleach stain and socks with cartoon strawberries on them. The TV is paused on some half-watched dating show, and you’re surrounded by empty chip bags and your laptop, still open on a tab labeled apartments near campus cheap please.

“…You said tonight,” you whisper, already scrambling to smooth your hair down. “I thought it was tonight!” Seiko whisper-hisses back. “Mom must’ve meant this afternoon!” And before you can gather the scraps of your dignity and disappear up the stairs, he’s already in the room. Gojo Satoru. In the flesh. Three years older. And apparently, bulkier than God intended. He's in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and you hate that the first thing you notice is how tight the sleeves are around his biceps. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Forearms that probably didn’t look like that the last time you saw him. There’s a duffel slung over one shoulder and a Lawson bag in the other. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

He stops short in the doorway when he sees you. “Oh,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t know you were here.” You go stiff. “Yeah. Hey.” It’s weird. It’s so weird. You haven’t seen him since that summer—since the night before he left for that international scholarship program. And now he’s standing there like no time has passed, like his shoulders didn’t double in size and like your brain isn’t short-circuiting from sheer secondhand awkwardness. Satoru looks at Seiko. “You didn’t read my texts again, did you?”

“They were blurry photos of vending machine sandwiches,” she deadpans. “Forgive me for not decoding that.”

He shrugs, dropping his bags to the floor with a loud thump, going over to trap his sister into a bear hug, smirking when she squealed and said something about not being able to breathe.  “I said I was coming today.”

“No, you said, ‘soon.’”

“Well, I meant today.” There’s a beat of silence. You try not to look directly at him, as if eye contact will cause some sort of emotional combustion. You can feel how out-of-place you suddenly are—socks on the wrong foot, posture too stiff, heart hammering in your chest like you’re sixteen again. He looks at you once Seiko has scrambled out of his grip, hands shoved into his pockets. Not weirdly. Just… like he’s trying to remember something. 

“So how’s college? Seiko keeps me updated on the entire experience, but how’ve you been finding it? Big jump from highschool?” He asks, voice casual in that way that somehow makes it worse.

You nod. “Yeah. Um, good! Nice, I like it. Fun, even.” He raises his eyebrows slightly, impressed.

 “Nice. What’s your major?”

“Psych,” you say, then immediately hate how your voice goes just a little too high on the “-ch.” You clear your throat. “Psychology.” He nods again, the way people do when they don’t actually know what to say next. “Cool. Lots of reading?”

“Yeah. Um, way too much.” You try to laugh a little, like a normal person, but it comes out thin. You shift your weight. He shifts his. Somewhere behind you, a fly buzzes. “How was Japan?” you ask, because someone has to fill the silence before your ears implode from the pressure. He perks up a little, like he’s glad for the safer topic. “It was good. Really cool. I was in Tokyo for the most part, did this exchange thing with Todai—Tokyo University.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They had me in this physics program for my undergrad, working with some grad students on quantum optics stuff.”

You blink. “Quantum what now?” He grins, and you hate that it's still the same cocky lopsided thing it was at seventeen. “Lasers.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a self-deprecating shrug. “Mostly just a lot of math and equipment malfunctions. The usual.” You nod, because you have absolutely nothing to add to that, unless your psych notes on Pavlov’s dogs suddenly become relevant to international laser research. The silence creeps back in, loud as ever. “Cool,” you say, again. Your default setting, apparently. He nods. “Yeah.” 

You both just stand there for a second too long, not quite looking at each other. Then—

“Wow, this isn’t awkward at all,” Seiko deadpans as she looks between you both, sipping her drink with all the grace of a sitcom character arriving to save a scene. You both instinctively reply, “Shut up,” in unison. Which only makes it so much worse.

Seiko just raises an eyebrow at you like you’re the one being weird, and mutters something about grabbing a snack before disappearing into the kitchen again. And then it’s just you and Satoru again. Standing in the middle of the living room. A full foot apart but worlds away. He shifts his weight, glancing around like he’s re-familiarizing himself with the space. The rug. The shelves. The old family photos that haven’t moved in years.It’s weird seeing him here again. Weirder seeing him like this. Older. Bigger. Built like he’s been bench pressing trucks for fun. His hair is a little longer now, swept back lazily, an undercut visible, and his whole presence feels heavier—not in a bad way. Just more… there. Same face. Same dumb grin. But it doesn’t feel like the same person anymore. And god, this is awkward. He clears his throat. “Well. I’m gonna shower.”

“Cool,” you say, like a robot malfunctioning. And trying not to imagine him naked. In the shower. Water running down his built body. He grabs his bag again, nods, and heads upstairs. Only when he’s gone do you let your whole body collapse back into the couch. Seiko reappears two seconds later with a bowl of cereal. You groan into your hands.

 “What the hell was that.”

She chews. “That was my brother. Looking like a protein powder ad.”

“Oh my god, you’re right. Did I act up?”

“You said ‘cool.’ Like someone’s dad.” You scowl. “Okay, well you forgot to mention he turned into a brick wall with legs.”

“Gross. That’s my brother.”

“You’re the one who said protein powder!”

“Yeah, and you looked like you were going to pass out just from seeing his arms.” You huff, closing your laptop screen with a huff.

“Shut up.”

–

It’s the week before uni starts again. The tail end of your well-earned university break—half spent in your disaster of an apartment with even more disastrous flatmates (you genuinely can’t even get into how bad it is without spiraling), and half in the cozy, warm bubble of your best friend Seiko’s family home. You still don’t know why she ever wants to move out of here. The fridge is always full, the floors are always clean, her parents adore you, and the water pressure in the upstairs bathroom makes you want to marry the plumbing. But there is one caveat to all this domestic bliss. Being in the house of your gorgeous, lovely best friend means now constantly being around her equally gorgeous, equally lovely older brother. Now, to be fair, you said you were over it. The crush. The obsession. The years-long pining that began in childhood and ended somewhere between your first college situationship and your second real heartbreak. It’s been three years since he left for Japan. Three years since you confessed the whole dumb thing to Seiko—who just blinked at you and said, “Yeah? It was so obvious.” Three years since you mentally filed away every mortifying thing you’d ever done in the name of impressing Satoru Gojo.

(“Remember when you wore that way-too-small bra and couldn’t breathe the whole day?” Seiko had giggled. “Or when you put on lipgloss just to ask him what time it was?” “Shut up,” you groaned, face down in her bed. “No, you shut up,” she’d laughed. “It’s endearing.”)

And it was fine. You were fine. You got older. You had experiences. You weren’t that girl anymore. But you’re also just a girl. A really hormonal, 20-year-old girl. With eyes. And a pulse. And a deeply cursed memory of the way he used to ruffle your hair like you were some scrappy little sister. So yeah. It’s complicated. Satoru Gojo has been back from Japan for a few weeks now—and oh boy, had he made his presence known. The living room and his upstairs bedroom have basically become dual command centers of chaos, filled with overlapping noise and endless energy. He’s constantly switching between the two, dragging Suguru along for the ride—also freshly returned and, much to Seiko’s unspoken delight, always over. There’s laughter echoing from the TV, loud cackling over dumb reels, or occasional testosterone-fueled howling whenever they’re deep in some Fortnite deathmatch or FIFA playoff. Sometimes you walk into the kitchen and there’s a stranger raiding the fridge. Sometimes you step into the hallway and trip over Satoru’s gym bag, which weighs more than your trauma. And god—he’s jacked now. Not like, oh he works out sometimes jacked. More like, I could throw a car if I wanted to jacked. Broad shoulders. Arms that stretch his t-shirts in unfair ways. Thighs that should be illegal in those loose basketball shorts. You hate that you’ve noticed. You hate that you still kind of care.

You’re coping. Barely. One afternoon, you’re sprawled on the living room couch with Seiko, sharing a packet of sour gummies and flipping between bad reality TV shows when the front door bangs open. “Back from war,” Suguru announces, tossing his keys on the entry table like he owns the place. “We got slushies,” Satoru says, trailing behind him, arms full of way too many drinks. “Someone help, I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Oh my god, why’d you get six?” Seiko says, hopping up. 

“They had a buy-three-get-three deal,” he shrugs. “Math, baby.” You linger behind her, offering a casual wave as Satoru spots you. He nods back, all easy smiles and post-gym glow, looking annoyingly good in a dark tank and sweats. His hair’s messier than usual, like he towel-dried it in the car and gave up halfway through. The four of you end up lounging in the living room, Suguru and Satoru on the floor, you and Seiko curled up on the couch. Suguru’s the first to start shit. “Remember when you two used to pretend to be spies and sneak snacks from the kitchen?” he grins, pointing at you and Seiko. “That was your idea,” Seiko fires back. “Yeah, but you were the one who tried to crawl under the dining table and got stuck between the legs of a chair.” You’re halfway through a laugh when Satoru adds, “She cried for ten minutes. Thought she was gonna die under there.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Seiko says, throwing a gummy at him. He snorts, catching it effortlessly. “I saved you. That makes me a hero.”

“She only cried ‘cause you told her cockroaches resided in the legs of that chair and they were gonna crawl all over her,” you say with a giggle. Satoru turns to you, mock offended. “I was building childhood resilience.” You all laugh again, the energy light and familiar and buzzing. But then—

Suguru smirks. “Honestly, the way you two used to follow him around like ducklings—”

“I did not,” you start, horrified.

“Sure,” Satoru grins, easy and warm. “You were like a little sister. Like I had two little sisters.”

Your heart doesn’t shatter or anything. You’re not a teenager anymore. But something still winces inside you. A slow, dull ache. Not because you wanted him to say something else—but because that confirms it. All the years of wondering, of analyzing every glance or moment, just shrinks down into a single, harmless label.

Like a little sister.

You catch Seiko’s eye for a second. She doesn’t say anything, but you know she saw the exact second your expression faltered. Back upstairs later, you’re sprawled on her bed again, half scrolling your phone, half dissociating into the pattern on her ceiling. “Hey,” she says softly, nudging you with her toe.

You blink. “What?” She winces, dramatic. “I am so sorry. If the guy I liked said that about me I would simply pass away.” You groan into her blanket. “Seiko, stop.”

“No like—why’s he so dumb? He didn’t mean it like that, I swear—he just says the first thing that pops into his head sometimes, you know how he is—”

“I don’t like him anymore,” you say firmly, sitting up. “Seriously. It’s not that deep.” But your younger self stings a little. Because now you know. It’s all been filed neatly into kid stuff. Little sister things. Nothing that ever reached him the way it reached you. You’re not hurt. You’re just… grounded. Suddenly and irrevocably grounded. Seiko flops next to you, throwing an arm over her eyes. “He’s an idiot. A weird, gym-rat, physics-nerd idiot. Weirdo. Total weirdo.”

You snort. “That’s a lot of hyphens.”

“He deserves them.”

–

The first week of uni starts with a heatwave. Everything feels sticky. Pavement melting under your shoes, tote bags sticking to your shoulder, the air around campus thick and weirdly scented with iced coffee and sunscreen and overpriced cologne. Your phone keeps warning you about the UV index. Every lecture hall feels either suffocating or like a freezer on full blast. It's a miracle you haven't already dropped out. Life feels like it's slipping back into place—until it doesn't. Because now Satoru Gojo is here. At your university. I mean, obviously, he was bound to. Something about an honours year. You knew it was coming. You’d heard Seiko mention it offhandedly over break. “He transferred in with Suguru, their credits aligned or whatever, I don’t know. Something about physics and—oh my god, are you listening?”

You’d nodded, but your stomach had dipped. And now he’s just… here. It starts small. A glimpse in the courtyard during the week. You’re sitting cross-legged under a shady tree with your friends when you hear someone laugh loud and obnoxiously behind you. You turn. He’s leaning against a bench, sunglasses perched on his head, grinning while talking to some third-years like he’s known them forever. His presence is so big. He’s always taken up space—but now it feels more deliberate. Like he knows it. Like he expects it. You don’t wave. He doesn’t see you. That should be the end of it. But then it happens again. In the campus gym, where you’re trying to kill time on a treadmill before your next tutorial, and he walks by, all sweat and tank top and biceps that really need to calm down. He’s fist-bumping the guy at the front desk. Later, you hear one of the girls in your class whisper, “That’s Gojo Satoru, right? The hottie in that physics thing in Japan?”

Of course he was. It becomes a pattern. You don’t even need to look for him—he just keeps showing up. In the science wing, at the club fair where he somehow ends up manning the booth for the rock climbing society and the anime club. He’s basically an unofficial campus ambassador by week two. People know him. Your university, for all its massive sprawl and fancy name, is crawling with alumni from your high school. It’s like a silent, unspoken network—people recognize each other, even if they don’t acknowledge it. It means Satoru doesn’t have to try that hard. The guys already like him. The girls—well. You hear his name a lot. For obvious reasons. Floating through stairwells. Written in notebooks with dumb little hearts. There are rumors, already, that he’s seeing someone from the bio department.

You tell yourself you don’t care. And for the most part—you really don’t. Your classes are packed. Your workload’s heavy. You’re constantly flitting from the library to lectures to the café where you work weekends, barely keeping your head above water. And still, sometimes, in the middle of it all—you’ll catch him across campus. Headphones in. Laughing with Suguru. Buying a stupid energy drink at the vending machine by the student union. Sometimes you think he catches you too. But you never talk. You see Seiko more often. She’s in a few overlapping courses with you, and sometimes you sit together on the lawn between lectures, splitting snacks, complaining about professors. She doesn’t bring up her brother unless you do. You never do. 

“Did you get that neuro reading done?” she asks one day. You nod, eyes flicking past her—to the quad where Gojo’s tossing a football lazily with Suguru and some guy from your econ lecture. Seiko follows your gaze, then groans, muttering, “God. He really is everywhere.” You snort. “He’s like a university cryptid.”

“Don’t give him that power.” 

You smile. But your fingers twist in your lap. You don’t say it, but part of you feels it—like you’re in the wrong timeline. Like you’re living in the aftermath of a story that never got its ending. He’s so comfortable here. Like he’s always belonged. Meanwhile, you’re still figuring out how to breathe around the memory of a crush you swore you let go. The closest you get to speaking is when you’re leaving your psych lecture one afternoon, earbuds in, digging for your sunglasses. You bump into someone’s arm and look up—and it’s him. He blinks. Then flashes you that old, toothy grin. “Oh. Hey.” You freeze, smile stiff. “Hey.”

He opens his mouth, like he might say something else—but then someone calls his name from behind, and he glances over his shoulder. “Catch you later, yeah?” You nod, and he’s gone. It’s stupid. So stupid. You shouldn't feel anything about a moment that small. But it stays with you, hours later. The heat of the hallway. The faint smell of his cologne. The way your voice felt weird in your own throat. You walk to your next class and pretend your heart isn’t fluttering like it used to when you were fifteen. You’re older now. You’re different. But maybe some things still live under your skin, soft and stupid and waiting.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Seiko texts you last minute asking if you can drop off the notes from your shared class.

can’t believe I forgot my entire folder at yours pls drop it off if u can i’ll owe u one xoxo

You type out a “dumbass ho” and stuff the folder into your tote bag. It’s not a big deal. Her house is barely a fifteen-minute walk from campus, and besides—her mum usually answers the door and immediately offers you snacks, which is always a win. What you don’t expect is for the door to open and reveal him.

Satoru. He’s in a black t-shirt and grey sweats, his hair a little messy, like he ran a hand through it one too many times. There’s a faint shine to his skin, maybe from a workout, and he’s holding a water bottle like he was in the middle of something when the doorbell rang. “Hey,” he says. Just that. A flat, casual hey. Like he wasn’t someone who used to give you heart palpitations for fun. You blink, pulse suddenly louder in your ears than it has any right to be. “Uh—hi. I brought Seiko’s notes.” He nods and steps aside, letting you in. You’re immediately hit with the familiar scent of the house: something citrusy and comforting, and now… faintly laced with deodorant and aftershave. “She’s out,” he says, shutting the door behind you. “Went to grab some stuff from the store. She should be back soon.” You clutch the folder like it’s a lifeline. “Oh. Cool. I can just leave these in her room or something.”

He shrugs, walks past you, heading toward the kitchen. “You can wait if you want. She said she wouldn’t be long.” You follow hesitantly, standing awkwardly near the dining table while he grabs a glass and fills it with water. There’s a quiet tension hanging in the air. Not heavy, not hostile—just… weird. Like you’re both aware of the fact that you used to be on casual, even teasing terms, but now there’s too much time and space between then and now. 

“You want water or something?” he offers, without looking. You shake your head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He leans against the counter, takes a slow sip. The silence settles again, this odd in-between where neither of you knows how to talk like normal people. Then, he glances at you, eyes flicking briefly from head to toe. “You used to be shorter.” You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’re still short,” he adds, lips twitching slightly. “Just. Less so.” You stare at him, genuinely unsure how to respond. It’s not an insult, exactly, but it also feels like a trap. If you protest too much, it’s pick-me behavior. If you act like you don’t care, it’s awkward. If you joke back, does that make it banter? Are we… bantering? You end up huffing out a weird little half-laugh, scratching your arm. “Cool. Glad my growth spurt was almost imperceptible.” He actually chuckles at that, a small sound that catches you off guard. “Didn’t say it wasn’t appreciated. You’re like—what? An inch taller?”

“Two and a half inches more,” you correct, instinctively defensive.

“That’s generous.”

 You roll your eyes and plop your tote bag down onto the chair, trying to play it cool despite the heat in your cheeks. “Glad to know the years haven’t dulled your talent for stating obvious facts.” He grins, and for a second—just a second—it feels almost normal again. But then it dips back into silence, and you both shift awkwardly in the space. He drinks more water. You pick at the strap of your bag. “So,” he says eventually, voice mild. “You’re studying psych, right?” You nod. “Yeah.” He nods back. “That’s cool. You like it?” You pause, debating how honest to be. “It’s… interesting. Not as glam as people think it is. A lot of research. Stats. Trying not to spiral about your own life because of 2000 word essays in the middle of cognitive lectures.” That earns you another short laugh. “Sounds about right.”

You look up at him, heart thudding in a weird rhythm. “What about you? Japan looked cool from the stuff you posted.” He shrugs, but there’s something almost sheepish about it. “It was good. Managed to complete my undergrad, thankfully. Lot of weird hours. Labs. Professors that hated when I was late. Which was often.” You smile, despite yourself. “Shocker.”

“I know. Me? Unpunctual?” He gives a mock gasp. The words settle in the air, kind of dumb and light—but they cut through the awkward tension just enough that something unspoken slips into place. Like, okay. This isn’t the same as before. But it’s not totally broken, either. Still, you’re hyperaware of every breath, every glance. This close to him, it’s impossible not to notice the slight sheen on his arms, the veins on his forearms, the fact that the Gojo Satoru who once teased you about having mismatched socks is now built like a Marvel superhero who occasionally gets mistaken for a Greek statue. He’s being nice. Not in a flirtatious way. Not in a performative way. Just… like a person. A guy who knows you used to be closer, but isn’t sure how to bridge the gap. A guy who probably doesn’t know you once practiced your signature with his last name in the margins of your math notebook

The front door creaks then, and you both turn as Seiko walks in carrying two tote bags. You both glance at each other, then away, and Seiko bursts into laughter. “God, you both are so weird. I hate it.” You shoot her a look. “You’re the one who made me come over because you forgot your notes.”

“Okay, but I had a lot on my mind,” she says airily, waving you off as she kicks off her shoes.

“You left a folder the size of a small child on my kitchen table.”

“I was in a rush!”

“Doing what? Lying horizontally on my floor and watching edits of Business Proposal?”

She gasps. “That was for my mental health. You know how much better I feel after seeing Ahn Hyo-seop.” Satoru, still leaning in the doorway with his water bottle, snorts. “Nah, she’s been like this forever. You’re braver than I am for entertaining her.” You blink, caught slightly off guard, and glance at him. There’s the faintest grin playing on his lips, like he’s enjoying this a little too much. Seiko glares at him. “Excuse me? Who asked you?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, casual and maddeningly smug, “if she forgot a folder, you know it’s probably still under a pile of her clothes or shoved between couch cushions or something. Classic Seiko behavior.” You can’t help it—you snort, loud and involuntary, and cover your mouth with your hand. “That’s actually so true.”

“Traitor!” Seiko gasps, swatting your shoulder. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Oh no,” Satoru says, mock-serious, “she’s right to switch teams. You’ve been doing this since elementary school. Remember when you swore you didn’t lose that permission slip and it turned out you’d used it to doodle hearts all over?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME,” she cries, dramatically throwing her hands in the air.

“You drew Suguru in a wedding veil,” he adds helpfully. You’re laughing now, a real laugh, the kind that warms your cheeks and loosens your spine. There’s something stupidly delightful about the fact that he’s joking with you. Siding with you. Even if it’s at Seiko’s expense. Even if it’s meaningless. But still. A twinge. A fluttery, ridiculous little swell of something in your chest that you stamp down before it can fully form. 

“Oh my god, I actually hate you both,” Seiko mutters, dragging you toward the stairs by your wrist.

“You love us,” Satoru calls after you.

“No, I tolerate you,” she calls back.

“Same difference.” 

You glance back one more time at him before Seiko hauls you up the stairs. He’s leaning against the bannister now, looking amused, eyes flicking briefly to meet yours—and for a moment, it’s not awkward or distant. It’s just… kind of nice. Then you’re being pulled into Seiko’s bedroom, and the door shuts behind you, cutting off whatever weird, fluttery feeling had started to creep up your spine.

–

"I swear," Seiko groans, shutting her laptop dramatically and tossing it onto the floor. "If I have to look at one more studio apartment listed as a ‘cozy urban oasis,’ I'm gonna cry." You snort, lying on your back and tossing a scrunchie at her head. "Maybe we should just live in a van. Free rent. Adventure. Character building."

"Shut up," she says, batting the scrunchie away. "You're too high maintenance to live in a van." You gasp, putting a hand to your chest. "Excuse me?"

She grins wickedly. "You need, like, twelve skincare products and two duvets to function."

"That’s just basic self-care," you argue, sitting up on your elbows. "You’re the one who needs complete silence and two white noise machines to sleep."

You open your mouth to throw another insult when the door creaks open without a knock, and in strolls Satoru, looking wholly unbothered, as usual. He’s wearing grey sweats and a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair is messier than usual, like he just woke up from a nap or something. You really wish you didn’t notice how broad he looks now, or how easily he takes up the space when he steps in like he owns the place.

"Hey," he says casually, rifling through the desk drawers without really explaining himself. "Either of you seen my charger?" Seiko doesn’t even glance at him. "Which one?"

"The black one with the weird fray at the end. It's hanging on by a thread but it's my favorite." You shrug from the bed. "Haven't seen it." He makes a noncommittal sound and keeps searching. Seiko sighs dramatically, flopping onto her back. "God, I hate apartment hunting. It's literally the worst thing ever."

"It’s really not that bad," you say mildly.

"You're just zen because you don’t have to live with your parents and have them coddle you about coming home at 8pm," she snaps playfully. You’re about to argue when Satoru straightens up, tossing something on her desk—some random cable that’s not his charger—and says offhandedly, "I've got a friend who’s trying to lease out his place near the uni." Both your heads snap toward him.

"What," Seiko says, sitting up fast. He leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your conversation. "Yeah. It's a big three-bedroom. Nice kitchen, close to campus. Think he’s desperate to find people soon." You and Seiko exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Wait, close to campus?" she says, voice climbing in excitement. "That's exactly what we’ve been looking for!" Satoru shrugs. "I can text him. Tell him you’re interested." Seiko practically bounces in place. "Yes, yes, please. Tell him! Oh my god, you're a lifesaver." Satoru smirks a little. "You’re welcome. Bow down to me later."

You roll your eyes. "Don’t give him more of an ego, Seiko."

"I can’t help it," she says sweetly. "He’s doing the bare minimum and yet it feels like a miracle." Satoru scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You’re lucky I even mentioned it. I could’ve just let you two suffer and die in a moldy shoebox."

"You're such a hero," you say dryly.

"Finally, some respect," he says, flashing you a wink—so casual you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Seiko claps her hands together. "Okay, okay, when can we see it?"

"I’ll text him now," Satoru says, pushing off the doorframe. He’s halfway into the hall before he calls over his shoulder, "Also, I’m charging a finder’s fee." You grab a pillow and throw it at him. It hits the doorframe and flops pathetically to the ground. You hear him laughing as he disappears down the hall. Seiko flops back onto the bed with a loud, theatrical sigh. "Holy shit, what if this is actually it?" You grin. "I'd be shocked if Satoru managed to help us not end up in a hellhole." 

The two of you dive back into excited chatter, tossing around potential decorating plans and screaming every few minutes out of pure relief that maybe, finally, the end of the apartment hunt is in sight.

–

A few days later, you’re sitting shotgun in Satoru’s ridiculously new, ridiculously shiny car—some black BMW that still smells like leather and money. It purrs like a cat when he taps the gas, and honestly, you're a little scared to breathe too hard in it in case you somehow depreciate its value. "Bro," Seiko says from the backseat, arms spread dramatically across the leather, "this is actually disgusting. Why does your car feel richer than my entire bloodline? And that’s saying something because I am part of your bloodline."

Satoru just shrugs, flashing a cocky grin as he taps the steering wheel. "Ask Dad. Mid-life crisis purchase. Shit happens when you graduate at the top of your class, Sei." You huff out a laugh, dragging your fingers across the touchscreen console, which looks like it could operate a small spaceship. You don’t even want to think about how many zeros were in the price tag. The city buzzes by outside the tinted windows, everything sharp and golden under the late afternoon sun. You watch familiar streets blur past, a little knot of excitement tightening in your chest.

Soon, you think. Soon no more nightmare flatmates. No more coming home to overflowing sinks and strangers passed out on the couch. No more psychotic flatmates who think doing the dishes once a week is a favor to humanity. No more passive-aggressive notes stuck to the bathroom mirror. No more coming home to blaring music and weird smells you don't want to investigate. Just you, your own space, peace. You can almost taste it. Seiko leans forward between the seats, tapping your shoulder. "Dude, we're literally gonna cry when we see it. Manifesting washer-dryer units. Manifesting no mold in the bathroom."

You grin. "Manifesting no one stealing my milk." Satoru snorts. "Your standards are tragic."

"Let us dream, Satoru," Seiko says. He just chuckles, pulling smoothly into the parking lot of a nice-looking building not far from campus. It's clean, modern but not pretentious, with a little courtyard in the middle and wide, sunlit balconies. Way better than anything you’d expected. He swings into a visitor spot and kills the engine. "Alright, my buddy’s inside. He's leasing out the place." You all pile out. Seiko practically skips toward the entrance, phone already out to take pictures, while you hang back a little, taking in the quiet street, the trimmed hedges, the general non-crackhead vibe of the neighborhood. The apartment is on the third floor. When the door swings open, you swear you hear angels singing. It’s big. Really big. Real hardwood floors. Tall ceilings. Massive windows that flood the space with light. A kitchen that doesn't look like it was last updated during World War II. Three bedrooms, a big open living area, and even a tiny balcony perfect for pretending you’re a functional adult with plants.

You and Seiko spin in place, speechless. "This is...this is so nice," you whisper. Seiko’s already got her phone out, snapping pictures. "We’re gonna die here. In a good way." Satoru leans casually in the doorway. "Glad you approve." You trail behind Seiko as she bounces around, peeking into bedrooms, mentally decorating hers already. Then, inevitably, the real conversation starts. "So, about rent," Satoru says, scratching the back of his neck. You and Seiko both turn to him warily, like two cats expecting a spray bottle. He names the number.

You feel your stomach lurch. It’s...more than you were hoping. Not impossible, but definitely more than ramen-once-a-day money. More like maybe-don’t-eat-at-all money. Seiko glances at you, and you can see the panic flicker across her face too. But before either of you can spiral, she speaks up quickly:

"It's fine! My parents said they'd cover my share for the first three months," Seiko says, waving her hand like it's no big deal. "Graduation-slash-moving-out present, apparently."

You blink at her. "Seriously?" She nods. "Yeah. They said it’s, like, a 'head start' thing. They’re even willing to pitch in a little extra for the whole place while we get settled—you know, just until we find better jobs and stuff." You stare at her for a second, like she’s speaking another language. "Wait, so... they’re covering you, and kind of helping me too?" Seiko shrugs like it’s obvious. "Just a little. Like a safety net. They trust us to take over fully after a couple months." You let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Three months. That’s enough time. Enough time to fix your mess of a resume, beg for more shifts, find something—anything—that paid decently near campus. Maybe you could finally stop living off sad frozen dumplings and caffeine pills. Seiko grins, reading the relief on your face like it’s printed in bold. "We’ll survive," she declares proudly. "You and me. Broke, but beautiful." You laugh under your breath, some part of your chest unclenching just a little. For once, the future doesn’t seem like this endless, terrifying drop-off. Satoru watches the two of you like you're some strange species he's never encountered before. His sunglasses are pushed into his hair, and the way his mouth twitches makes it clear he’s fighting a smile.

"You two are so dramatic," he says, shaking his head. "You’re literally way worse. You threw a tantrum when you found out dad was only paying your rent for only six months," Seiko fires back immediately. "That wasn’t a tantrum, dad promised me two years of rent." Satoru corrects dryly, but the embarrassed glint in his eye makes you glance away to make him feel less embarrassed, smiling helplessly. Rich people and their problems. It’s stupid, really, how something as small as that—him standing there, joking like it’s normal, like you’re all still those dumb kids from the neighborhood—makes you feel a little lighter.

–

The day you move in feels half like the best day of your life, and half like you're dying of exhaustion. The morning is a mess of cardboard, duct tape, and terrible weather—hot, sticky, humid. Sweat drips down your back even though you’re barely halfway through loading the cars. Seiko’s parents showed up for a little bit to help, cooing over their baby girl finally moving out, but they eventually left after a teary goodbye (on Mrs. Gojo’s part) and about thirty different "don't forget to eat real food" speeches.

Now it’s just you, Seiko, and Satoru. Satoru, who pulled up in his shiny Lexus and practically leapt out in gym shorts and a loose black t-shirt, looking like an actual paid model for casual athleticism. You tell yourself you don’t notice.

(You absolutely do.)

Your crappy old car is packed to the brim, and the front yard is scattered with the overflow—boxes stacked on the grass, a battered mini fridge, a whole pile of miscellaneous IKEA furniture Seiko impulsively bought off Facebook Marketplace. You and Seiko buzz with nervous excitement, running on adrenaline and bad convenience store coffee, practically vibrating as you unload your lives onto the pavement. "This is so real," Seiko keeps saying every five minutes, grinning like she's won the lottery. "We’re actually doing it!"

You grin back, feeling it too—that breathless, giddy thrill of something new beginning. Something that’s yours. But then reality slaps you in the face in the form of a very heavy box. You crouch next to it, trying to psych yourself up. It’s your kitchen stuff—or, at least, you think it is. It’s all starting to blur together at this point. You steel yourself, grip the bottom—and immediately regret everything. The thing doesn’t budge. You grunt, trying to shift it with your knee, and that's when you hear it:

A low chuckle behind you. "Need a hand?" Satoru drawls, sounding far too entertained. You whip your head around, heat rushing to your face. "I'm fine," you lie, through gritted teeth, already feeling your muscles screaming in protest. Satoru doesn’t even argue. He just strolls over, leans down, and—

Lifts it. Like it’s nothing. Like it weighs less than your backpack. You stare, mouth slightly open, as he straightens up effortlessly, cradling the box under one toned arm like it’s a loaf of bread. Jesus Christ. You hate yourself, genuinely, for how visceral your reaction is. Your brain short-circuits for a good three seconds—because what the hell, why is seeing a man carry heavy things so biologically attractive? It’s purely instinct, you tell yourself fiercely. Caveman brain. Biology. Nothing more. You absolutely, categorically, do not have a crush on Satoru Gojo.

(Not anymore.)

You huff out a noise—maybe a laugh, maybe a noise of despair, you’re not even sure—and scramble to grab a lighter box to follow him up the driveway. Inside, the apartment smells like fresh paint and possibility. The living room is bright, sun streaming through the wide windows, casting everything in a gold glow. The walls are still a little bare, and the kitchen is empty except for a lonely-looking microwave on the counter, but it already feels like it’s waiting for you. You and Seiko move like hyperactive squirrels, flitting from room to room, deciding what goes where, squealing when you realize your rooms have actual closets, screaming a little when you realize there’s a working dishwasher. Satoru mostly hangs back, ferrying the heavier stuff inside with annoying ease. You catch him watching once or twice—an amused, almost fond look in his eye—but every time you glance over, he just rolls his eyes like he’s too cool to care.

"Where do you want this?" he asks at one point, gesturing with a huge box labeled MISC (HELP) in your handwriting. "Uh—living room," you say, already bent over digging through another box. You don’t even look up. You also don’t notice the way the pretty cerulean hues track over your bent over form.

"Say please."

You whip your head up, scandalized. Seiko cackles from somewhere inside her room. "You’re enabling him," she calls out. Satoru smirks. "Mm, I’ve been lifting heavy all morning. Some manners would be appreciated, sweets." You toss a crumpled piece of newspaper at him without thinking, and he bats it out of the air easily, laughing under his breath.

It’s easy, you realize, surprising yourself. Awkward in the way all transitions are, but... easy. You catch yourself smiling more than you mean to. Feeling lighter, younger, almost stupidly happy. Maybe it’s the air of fresh starts. Maybe it’s just the high of freedom. You sigh, dragging the back of your wrist across your forehead, feeling the sweat stick and smear there. For a second, you swear you’re starring in one of those hopecore reels you always save at 2AM—the ones with strangers helping each other move houses, saving stray cats, planting flowers in busted city sidewalks. Wow. What an awesome life. You almost want to cry out of pure cinematic triumph.

"Alright," Satoru says, clapping his hands together once. "You think you two can handle the rest by yourselves? I promised Suguru I’d try out this new steakhouse thing with him." Seiko pops her head out from whatever random corner of the apartment she was currently fussing over, a suspicious-looking candle in her hand. She pins him with a look so unimpressed you almost snort. "Satoru," she says, voice flat, "your baby sister is moving into her first apartment and you have Suguru on your mind? Seriously? Sometimes I think you might actually have a thing for him." She shakes her head dramatically, huffing as she plops the candle down onto the kitchen counter and grabs a small tote full of your combined toiletries, marching off toward the bathroom to arrange your skincare armies in synchronized little rows. Satoru snorts, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. "Suguru’s hot," he mumbles, like it's just a random fun fact, "but he’s really not my type." You and Seiko roll your eyes in almost perfect sync.

"You're so weird," Seiko calls from the bathroom. "Beyond weird," you agree dryly, hoisting another box onto the counter and stretching your sore arms out in front of you with a wince. "Whatever," Satoru says breezily, scrolling through his phone with one thumb. "You’re just jealous you don’t have a Suguru of your own." Seiko pokes her head out again, narrowing her eyes. "Fine, Mr. Expert. What even is your type, huh? You look like you’d go for anyone with a pulse." You snicker into your shoulder, pretending to busy yourself with unpacking a box of mismatched mugs. You don’t even have to look up to feel Satoru’s wounded gasp. "First of all," he says, all whiny indignation, "I have standards, thanks." You shoot Seiko a knowing look, mouthing do you? She fights to hold in a laugh.

"I’m not about to stand here and discuss my love life with my little sister," Satoru adds, dramatically tossing his phone onto the couch like this conversation personally victimized him. He straightens up then, stretching his arms over his head in that lazy, catlike way he always does, a flash of skin peeking between his shirt and shorts. You glance away instinctively—because you are a normal person who refuses to acknowledge how unfair genetics can be—and focus very hard on peeling the tape off a box. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch it—the smallest glance he flicks in your direction. Not obvious, not lingering. Barely there. A neutral, casual once-over, like he’s checking the room. And then, in a maddeningly even tone, he says, "Pretty people. That’s my type." Seiko groans, dropping a bottle of toner onto the counter with a thud. "You're so superficial," she accuses.

"Am not," Satoru says immediately, grinning like he’s proud of himself anyway. He scoops his phone back up, scrolling lazily, thumb flicking up the screen without real purpose. He glances over at you again—more obvious this time, flashing you a grin like you’re in on some joke with him. "Obviously personality matters too," he says, like it’s a casual afterthought. "I’m not trying to date a hot NPC." Seiko snorts. "Freak."

"Heh, best big brother in the world!," Satoru sing-songs. He grins wide enough for his cheeks to dimple, looking so pleased with himself it’s almost comical. Seiko tosses a roll of paper towels at his head. "Get outta here, loverboy. Go on your stupid steak date." "Steak is important to my wellbeing," Satoru says solemnly, catching the roll one-handed. "I’m a growing boy."

"You’re hitting thirty soon," Seiko says.

"After like– So many years. And I’m still growing," he insists, already backing toward the door with a shit-eating grin. You shake your head, laughing under your breath as he slips his slides back on and salutes you both lazily. "I’ll be back later to finish lifting all the heavy shit you two can’t handle," he calls over his shoulder. "Don't break anything while I'm gone." Seiko flips him off cheerily. "Break your face!" Satoru just laughs and slams the door behind him. The apartment falls into a kind of humming silence. You and Seiko exchange a look—and then both burst into helpless laughter.

–

So, it’s been three months. You stare into the fridge like it might magically grow a five-course meal if you just look pathetic enough. A lone carton of eggs, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, two apples that are definitely on their way out, and a single sad yogurt cup blink back at you. You sigh. Deeply. Existentially. Seiko appears beside you, yanking the fridge door wider open like that'll help. She lets out the most dramatic, heartbroken groan you've ever heard.

"Bro," she says, staring into the abyss. "We have nothing." You nudge the yogurt cup with a finger. It jiggles. Threateningly. "I think even the bacteria gave up," you say. Seiko closes the fridge with a thud and slumps dramatically against it. "I'm gonna combust. We had thirty-minute butter chicken twice this week."

"At least it was edible," you mutter.

"At least it was edible," she mocks you under her breath, whipping out her phone and scrolling angrily. After a second, she holds the screen out to you like she's presenting hard evidence. It's a Doordash receipt for forty dollars. For butter chicken. Again. You grimace. "I’m gonna be paying that off in my next life." Seiko growls under her breath and without another word, speed-dials her brother. You hear the faint ringtone buzzing and then—

"What now?" Satoru answers, sounding halfway amused, halfway put-upon. "If you're on your way back from campus, you need to stop by here first," Seiko says, cutting straight to the point. "Emergency." Satoru laughs, but it’s more out of habit than actual amusement. "What, you finally broke the toilet?" You lean closer to the phone. "Worse. We’re starving."

"Oh my god," he says, deadpan. "I'm serious," Seiko insists. "We have, like, apples and eggs. That’s it."

"Protein and fiber, sounds like a win to me."

"Satoru."

He sighs like you’re both his problem children. "Fine, fine. Text me what you want."

"Just food," Seiko says dramatically. "Literally anything. I'm not picky. I would eat wet cardboard right now." You yell, "Preferably not wet cardboard!" in the background. Satoru chuckles under his breath. "Alright, I’ll swing by. Try not to eat each other while I’m gone." He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. Seiko flops onto the couch with the weight of a war veteran. "He's our only hope." You slide down next to her, feeling your stomach physically gnawing at itself. "God help us." 

Twenty minutes later, the front door swings open and Satoru strolls in like he’s just returned from a victorious hunt, two giant plastic bags dangling from his hands. "You guys owe me," he says, kicking the door shut behind him. "We owe you our lives," Seiko says gravely, already diving for the bags. You help him unload: a greasy box of yakisoba, a pepperoni pizza, fried chicken skewers, random sushi rolls, and—because of course he would—a pack of Hi-Chew candies. "God bless you," you tell him, mouth watering as you tear into a box. "You're welcome," he chirps, dropping onto the couch and slinging an arm across the back like he owns the place. For a few blessed minutes, the apartment is filled with nothing but the sound of wrappers crinkling and food being demolished. Seiko leans back after her second slice of pizza, groaning like she just got hit by a bus. "Rent is killing us," she mumbles around a mouthful of yakisoba. You nod, wiping your fingers on a napkin. "Literally murdering us. I think my bank account cried blood this morning." Satoru raises an eyebrow. "You guys just hit month four, huh?"

"Yup," Seiko says, popping the "p." "Dear parents cut me off like they said they would. I'm officially a broke, independent woman now." You throw your hand up for a high five and she smacks it. "At least you're employed," Satoru says, pointing a fry at you. "Kinda."

"Gee, thanks," you deadpan. He shrugs, shameless. "I'm just saying. Adulting is rough, bro." Seiko pokes at her plate, looking more dramatic by the second. "I don't even have an adulty enough job yet. I just pick up whatever shifts I can. And our rent is like a guillotine over my neck."

"Same," you say. "Except the guillotine is made of student loan bills." Satoru laughs under his breath, head tipping back against the couch. He looks way too relaxed for someone still technically in the trenches of his honours year. You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't seem stressed at all." He shrugs again. "I'm moving soon, actually." You and Seiko both sit up straighter, suspicious. "Moving?" Seiko repeats. "Why?" Satoru rolls a fry between his fingers, like he's thinking about it. "My place sucks. No city view. I'm over it." You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "That’s fair." You deadpan, hoping his brain functions enough to realise that he sounds really out of touch with reality right now. "I want something higher up," he says, waving a hand vaguely. Of course the dumbass doesn’t pick up on it. "Somewhere with a view, maybe a balcony."

"Must be nice," Seiko grumbles. "Manifesting," Satoru says, flashing her a peace sign. There's a beat of silence, all three of you chewing or sipping sodas, and then Satoru looks up at you two, slow and casual. "You know," he says, tone maddeningly light, "you do have a third bedroom here." You and Seiko glance at each other. Then back at him. Then back at each other again. "You’re joking," Seiko says flatly. Satoru grins. "Dead serious."

"You wanna move in with us," you say, like you're trying to process it out loud. "I mean," he says, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, "cheaper rent for all of us. You two stop struggling. I get outta my hellhole. Win-win." Seiko puts her pizza down, brows furrowed. "You wouldn’t be, like... annoyed?"

"By what, living with you guys?" He smirks. "I've tolerated you for twenty years, Seiko. I think I can survive." You lean back, studying him. "You sure? It’s not just, like, random strangers across the hall. You’d actually have to live with us." Satoru lifts his arms, draping them across the back of the couch. "I’m fine with it. Long as I get dibs on one of the bigger bathrooms." Seiko narrows her eyes. "No way, I’m not sharing the tiny one."

"First come, first serve," Satoru sing-songs. "That’s not how the saying works, we were here before you regardless!" Seiko argues. You laugh, shaking your head. "He'll just barge into whatever bathroom he wants anyway."

"Exactly," Satoru says, grinning wide. "Might as well make it official." Another silence stretches—this one heavier, but not uncomfortable. You glance around at the cluttered, half-furnished apartment. The cheap couch. The stacked textbooks on the counter. The faint smell of fried chicken hanging in the air. The way Satoru looks sitting here, like he already belongs. You share a look with Seiko. You both nod, tiny and almost at the same time. "Alright," Seiko says, picking her pizza back up. "You’re in." Satoru cheers under his breath, pumping a fist like he just won something huge.  You barely even register the words leaving Seiko’s mouth — You’re in — before a weird, fluttery rush lights up in your chest.

Living with you.  Satoru. Living here. Sharing a space. A bathroom. A kitchen. A couch. Seeing him stomping around in sweats and a compression t-shirt. Probably leaving the fridge door open. Probably pumping weights in the living room (hopefully). Probably existing. Constantly. You could go into an extreme probability crisis right now.  Your brain scrambles, short-circuiting at the images it’s pulling out like some deranged PowerPoint presentation. You squash it down instantly, ruthlessly. No. Absolutely not. This is fine. You’re fine. You don’t care that he’s attractive. That’s just biology. It’s science. You're immune. Fortified. Bulletproof. You pick up a slice of pizza and chomp into it aggressively, as if you can physically chew through the ridiculousness in your own head. Across from you, Satoru just lounges back against the couch, already looking way too at home — laughing at something Seiko says, his stupidly pretty profile catching the light. Your stomach does a small, unnecessary somersault. You blame the hunger. And capitalism. And the universe. Anything but yourself.

–

It starts with the sound of his key jangling in the door like it’s always belonged there. You’re on the couch, legs tucked under you in the same pajama pants you’ve worn three nights in a row, when it clicks open and he steps in — arms full of shit. Like, actual shit. Not even boxes. Just random crap. A pair of beat-up Nikes dangling off two fingers, an expensive backpack that looks like it’s been dragged through five years of war, a stupid Luffy pillow slung under one arm, and a tote bag that says Hotter Than Your Ex, Better Than Your Next in neon pink font. Seiko barely blinks. “You couldn’t use a box like a normal person?” Satoru just kicks the door closed with his heel and grins. “Where’s the fun in that?” It’s… real. This is happening. Satoru Gojo — your best friend’s annoying, stupidly hot older brother — is now your roommate. A fact that has not yet fully sunk in despite your best efforts to emotionally detach. You glance toward the hallway where the third bedroom has been sitting empty. Clean. Neutral. Ready. It’s his now. That’s his room now. And of course, within thirty minutes, he’s already got his crap everywhere. There’s a half-unpacked duffel bag in the entryway. A pair of sunglasses you swear you’ve seen him wear inside nightclubs sitting on the kitchen counter. An open Red Bull can next to the sink. A hoodie draped over the back of one of the dining chairs like he owns the place. His smell — some ridiculous overpriced cologne mixed with his laundry detergent — is wafting through the apartment like he’s been here for days instead of forty-five minutes. He’s not even trying to be annoying. It’s just… him. Loud, effortless, omnipresent him. And when he finally dumps himself on the couch next to you, legs sprawled and hair a little tousled from hauling stuff upstairs, he sighs like he just clocked out of work.

“God,” he mutters, cracking open a soda. “My old apartment sucked. This place’s light is so much better. My plants are gonna lose their minds.” You blink. “You have plants?”

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I have a monstera named Dog. And this succulent Geto gave me but it’s like… almost dead, so we don’t talk about her.”

“…I didn’t know you were a plant guy.” He glances at you, smug. “I contain multitudes.” From the hallway, Seiko yells, “You contain trash. Come get your crap out of the entryway before I put it all in a black garbage bag and throw it off the balcony.”

“Love you too,” he calls back lazily, then looks at you and grins. “So. Roomies now.” God. Roomies. You don’t even know what to do with yourself. Because this isn’t some sitcom. It’s not all fun and awkward hijinks. It’s the reality of him being around all the time. Late night cereal runs. Passing each other in the kitchen in weird pajamas. Accidentally hearing him sing to himself in the shower. Seeing him shirtless. Probably way too often. And you tell yourself, very seriously, that it means nothing. It’s all cool. You’re an adult. You don’t care. You’re not fifteen and hopelessly in love with his dumb pretty face anymore. But when he reaches behind you to grab the remote, warm arm brushing yours, rings clinking against the plastic of the controller, his cologne curling into your brain like smoke—

Yeah. You’re not surviving this lease emotionally intact.

There are, undeniably, perks to living with Satoru Gojo. First off, the rent. You’re paying less now — which is everything. That extra couple hundred a month? That’s groceries. That’s less existential dread. That’s the occasional iced coffee without hating yourself for buying it. It’s not glamorous — you still have to split utilities and sometimes get a little too creative with how long groceries can stretch — but you’re no longer crying every time your bank app loads. Small victories. But then there’s also… him. Not in a weird way. Not like you’re in love with him again. You’ve made that very clear to yourself. It’s just that — he exists loudly. Satoru’s presence is hard to ignore. Even when he’s not saying anything, he’s still there. Shirtless half the time because he “runs hot” (which is just his excuse to wander around looking like a Calvin Klein ad), hair always messy, a faint smell of whatever stupid expensive aftershave he’s wearing that day lingering behind him. You do your best not to look. You don’t always succeed. It doesn’t help that he goes to the gym at ungodly hours of the morning and comes back looking like something out of a fitness TikTok thirst trap. Hoodie tied around his waist, shirt sticking to his chest, headphones around his neck and a bottle of neon blue liquid in his hand like he’s sponsored by Gatorade. Seiko never comments on it — mostly because she’s used to him. She grew up with the guy. You did too, technically, but there’s a big difference between being fifteen and being twenty-one and seeing him towel off sweat in the kitchen while asking if either of you finished the oat milk.

The second major perk? The car. You no longer have to stress about trains or getting soaked in surprise rain while walking to the bus stop. Satoru, as rich kid as ever, insists on driving all three of you to uni every morning. He’s not even annoying about it — it’s just what he does. One honk, and you and Seiko pile into the passenger and back seat respectively, the AUX already queued up. It’s stupidly convenient. You didn’t realize how much money public transport drained from your budget until you stopped using it. You still keep your bus pass topped up for emergencies, but it’s basically become a backup plan. Now, you just show up to class on time and dry, with Satoru occasionally handing you a leftover donut from his morning coffee run like he’s God’s gift to women. 

Which brings you to the third perk: the food. Satoru and Suguru have this thing where they eat out like every second night. You’re not sure if it’s because they can’t cook or if it’s just rich kid indulgence — but either way, you benefit. They always order too much. And they always bring back leftovers. So now, your fridge has a semi-permanent corner filled with half-eaten yakisoba, overpriced vegan cupcakes, gyoza from a food truck that Geto swears is life-changing, and once — a whole tub of cinnamon sugar popcorn from a rooftop cinema they randomly ended up at. It’s not the healthiest lifestyle, but you’re broke, tired, and too emotionally drained to cook half the time anyway, so you don’t complain. You and Seiko split it like war rations. Half a bao bun each. One cold gyoza that’s microwaved and devoured like it’s gourmet. A shared spoon of caramel pudding.

“Living the dream,” Seiko says one night, holding a lukewarm slice of truffle pizza like it’s holy communion. “You’re so dramatic,” Satoru says around a bite of strawberry mochi. You don’t answer, mostly because your mouth is full and also because you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with him in that damn grey tank top again. So yeah. Life with Satoru in the apartment is a little chaotic. A little loud. Full of dumb inside jokes and stolen food and last-minute Target runs. Sometimes he sings in the shower. Sometimes he talks to Seiko too loudly while she’s trying to nap. Sometimes he leaves his socks in the hallway or accidentally takes your phone charger. But he’s a familiar presence. He’s not unknown, which is the best part of having him in the apartment, and he’s always been a constant in both of your guys’ lives. So it makes everything worth it.

–

The physics wing feels different from the rest of campus—cleaner, somehow quieter, with that sharp antiseptic scent that clings to air-conditioned labs and too many equations floating in the air. You’ve never had much reason to be down here. The last time you stepped foot near this building was maybe during orientation week when you and Seiko were trying to figure out where the vending machines were. Now, a few months into the semester, you stand awkwardly at the glass doors of one of the labs, peering through to where a group of grad students crowd around a table. There’s buzzing—low voices, a light laugh, the sound of a wheely chair screeching slightly as someone scoots back. You spot him instantly. White hair disheveled like he’s been running his hand through it, sleeves rolled up, safety goggles hanging around his neck, leaning slightly over a notebook as he points something out to a guy beside him. God, he looks hot. But like, academically hot. Like the kind of guy you'd see in a random STEM girl’s Pinterest board titled "study aesthetic." You suddenly feel out of place in your hoodie and backpack, clutching your phone like a lifeline. Then someone notices you—of course it’s a girl. Tall, pretty, good skin, expensive earrings, and she’s nudging Satoru with her elbow and going, “Hey, I think one of your fangirls is here.” Your stomach drops. Fangirl?  Satoru looks up, squints a little through the glass, then when he sees it’s you, he snorts. “Nah,” he says loud enough for you to hear through the cracked-open door. “Sister’s best friend.” You offer a sheepish wave as the door opens a little more. He slides his notebook off the table and steps out into the hallway with you, all casual like he doesn’t notice the way you’re trying not to internally combust. “Shit,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I completely forgot I was supposed to take you two home today. Where’s Seiko?” 

“Group project,” you mumble. “They’re finishing something up in the studio.”

“Right. Studio kids. Always acting like the world will end if their poster isn’t trimmed perfectly.” He waves back toward the lab, calling out, “Tell Suguru I’ll text him about the readings. And tell Reina and them I’ll probably be at that party next week if I don’t crash out before then.” Someone inside laughs. “We’ll believe it when we see it!” 

Satoru rolls his eyes and then turns back to you. You’ve already started walking, and he falls into step beside you. The hallway is narrow, and when he shifts slightly to let a TA pass by, his hand grazes your lower back in that absentminded way—just a half-second of touch, but enough to send your brain short-circuiting. You pretend it didn’t happen. You’re fine. This is fine. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here, y’know,” he says as you both walk. “Could’ve just texted me again.”

“I did,” you say. He pulls out his phone, blinking at the screen. “...Oh. I have like thirty unread messages. Seiko’s been sending TikToks again.” You huff a laugh. “Yeah, you’re doomed.”

“I am,” he agrees, letting the door swing open for you as you step outside. The afternoon sun hits both of you, and it’s quieter out here, more open. A weird kind of silence falls between you for a second—not uncomfortable, but almost charged. You’re aware of everything. The distant chatter of students. The shift of your backpack against your shoulders. The way he’s walking just a little slower than you now, like he’s letting you lead the way. You can’t stop thinking about the fangirl comment. Is he that popular that he has a whole fanclub? Does that kinda shit even happen in universities? This feels too much like a shoujo anime. Or the way he so casually said sister’s best friend. Like that’s all you’ve ever been. Like it’s that simple. (And it is. You tell yourself it is.) Still, when he nudged you gently toward the passenger side of his car, casually tossing his bag into the backseat, you wonder if that half-second of contact had lingered for him at all. 

Probably not. You buckle in. He turns on the engine. The ride starts off quiet in the way late afternoons tend to be. The sky’s a mellow kind of gold, filtering in through the windshield, painting warm lines across the dashboard and your knees. The hum of the engine is low, steady, filling the silence with something that doesn’t need to be spoken over. Satoru drives like he does everything else—lazily confident. One hand on the wheel, the other resting against the door, fingers drumming to some rhythm only he hears. You’re scrolling through your phone half-heartedly, trying not to look obvious about sneaking glances at him. His profile in this lighting is unfair. Hair tousled like he’s been running it through his hands again, jaw a little sharp with the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek. And his arm, the one holding the wheel, flexes just enough with every turn and adjustment to make your brain short-circuit all over again. Not that it matters. Not that you’re thinking about it. Definitely not.

“So,” he says eventually, tone casual. “Did you end up getting paired with the group of doom or the semi-decent humans for that one communications elective you chose?” You blink, then groan dramatically. “Oh, the group of doom, hands down. I’ve basically become the parent. I write things in our doc and then go delete them hours later because no one else is contributing and I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

“That’s brutal,” he says, wincing in sympathy. “Honestly, the whole group work concept should be illegal. Like, I didn’t sign up to babysit strangers who forgot what Google Drive is.” You snort. “Preaching to the choir.” He taps his fingers along the wheel, turning the car down the side road toward your neighborhood. “We had this one guy last semester who literally submitted his part of our lab report as a picture of handwritten notes on lined paper. With a Dorito fingerprint on it. I swear to god.”

Your jaw drops. “No. You’re lying.”

“I wish I was. Suguru and I sat in a lab for three hours rewriting it while our TA walked around behind us like we were criminals.”

“You and Suguru sound like the worst combination,” you say, laughing. “Too much brain power. No accountability.”

Satoru smirks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when I’m struggling to remember what APA formatting is and you two are running a science empire.”

“I’m more of the face of the brand,” he says modestly. “Suguru does the actual work.” The car slips into silence again, this time a little softer. The kind that fills up with quiet comfort. You glance down at your phone again. No new messages from Seiko yet, just a screenshot she sent earlier of some random overpriced candle she found at the campus market, captioned smells good should i get? lmk.

“Still no update from her?” Satoru asks, glancing over.

“Nah,” you say. “I think her group’s holding her hostage.”

“She’ll claw her way out. Probably with a monologue about art and justice.” You giggle, and then you both fall quiet again, but this time it lingers. You glance sideways at him. He’s driving one-handed again, but he’s leaning a little more now, elbow resting on the window like he’s relaxed—like you being here isn’t strange or unexpected. You shift slightly in your seat, clearing your throat. “That girl earlier,” you say, not looking at him. “She called me one of your... fangirls.”

Satoru glances over, caught slightly off guard. “Yeah,” he says, then smiles. “She’s just being annoying. I don’t have fangirls.” You raise a brow. “Didn’t that one video of you go viral during university orientation and everyone on tiktok was asking which university this was so that they could come here?”

“Okay, correction. I don’t claim the fangirls.” You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “The Gojo name has power, huh?”

“I mean... I am tall, conventionally attractive, decent at physics, and have a sexy ass car,” he lists off, counting on his fingers with a smirk. “It’s a hard combo to resist.”

You scoff. “You forgot ‘humble.’”

“Oh, right, yeah. And humble,” he adds, laughing. Another beat passes. The street outside blurs with quiet houses and kids walking home from practice, and you almost forget what started this whole train of thought. But then, without thinking, you say it: “It didn’t bother me. The fangirl thing.” He glances at you again, more carefully this time. “Good,” he says after a second, voice softer. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m embarrassed of you hanging around me or anything.” You’re not sure what to do with that. So instead, you change the subject. “Do we have anything at home to eat?” you ask. “Or should I mentally prepare for a dinner of peanut butter straight out of the jar?”

“I think Seiko’s got some questionable microwave rice and like... a rogue banana,” he says thoughtfully. You groan. “We’re going to die.”

“I’ll stop by the corner place,” he offers. “Grab some katsu curry or yakisoba or something. You like those?” 

You nod quickly. “Love them. Bless you.” Satoru grins. “Told you I’m useful.” He pulls into the parking lot of the hole-in-the-wall place that’s somehow cheaper than anything on UberEats, and just before he gets out, he pauses and looks over at you again. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks. 

“With what?” You ask, looking thoroughly puzzled. He shrugs. “Me. Driving you. Being around. Existing in your apartment. I understand if it’s like weird with your best friend’s older brother just being around you all the time–”

You blink. “You live with us now, Satoru. It’s a little late to ask if it’s okay.” He laughs and opens the door, stepping out. “Fair enough.” You watch him disappear into the little restaurant, humming to yourself and feeling... weirdly calm. (But your chest feels warm anyway.)

–

The takeout bags rustle as Satoru unlocks the apartment door (somehow) with his elbow, a practiced motion at this point. You’ve each got one in your hands, plastic warming your palms through the handles, the smell of fried noodles and katsu curry already seeping through like sweet, spicy comfort. The elevator ride up had been quiet—at least in the way that being near him always hums with an odd undercurrent. Satoru had been scrolling on his phone, probably checking something stupid Suguru sent him, when his arm nudged against your shoulder. Not aggressive, just a bump. But it lingered for a second too long, a lazy sway of his weight into yours, like he forgot you were shorter, smaller—more affected by that kind of touch than he was. You hadn’t said anything. Just swallowed it and stared ahead at the doors like your reflection in the brushed steel held the answers. Now, stepping into the apartment, it’s dark except for the thin line of city light pouring through the blinds and cutting across the floor. You toe your shoes off while he moves to the counter and drops the food with a sigh.  “I swear this bag's leaking teriyaki oil all over my hand,” he mutters. You’re still standing there by the door, holding your bag like it’s something delicate, looking at the room a little longer than necessary. It’s quiet. Seiko’s still not back. The hum of the fridge is the only sound besides Satoru rustling through a drawer. And suddenly, for no reason at all, you think:

What if it was just us? The apartment feels different like this. Dim and soft. You can picture it so clearly—him coming home later than you do, shrugging out of his hoodie and tossing his keys on the counter, looking exhausted but smug from some lab win, shoes half on, hair wind-swept and eyes heavy with it. You imagine asking him how his day was, and he’d just lean back against the wall and say something dumb like “miss me?” before smirking and stealing food off your plate. You picture him walking past you in a towel after a shower—wet hair dripping onto his shoulders, water glistening down his chest, or maybe you both could shower together, or maybe he’d be the type to bend you over every piece of furniture in the house—and you have to blink, hard, because now you’ve accidentally spiraled into something bordering on indecent and you’re still holding katsu curry in a dim kitchen while he’s three feet away. Jesus Christ. You set the food down quickly, trying to physically shake the thought away as you move toward the cabinets. “Plates?” you ask, clearing your throat. “Top left,” he answers without looking up, still fiddling with sauce packets like they’re puzzle pieces. You reach up to the shelf, stretching on your toes a little. The cabinet is just barely out of reach, your fingers grazing the edge of a plate but not able to actually grab one. You mutter a quiet, annoyed “fuck’s sake” under your breath, just as the warmth of a body steps up behind you. You don’t even have time to turn.

There’s a snicker by your ear. “Need help, sweets?” You hate that your entire body reacts before your brain does. His chest brushes your back as he casually reaches around you, arm flexing as he grabs the stack of plates with ease. His hips press lightly—too lightly to be on purpose but too present to be ignored—into your ass as he leans in. Just a half-second of his weight against yours and your whole bloodstream short-circuits. He’s so close. So casually, blissfully unaware of how much you’re spiraling again. “Got it,” he says, voice smooth with amusement. “Thanks,” you manage to squeak, completely not like yourself. He places the plates down on the counter with one hand and then leans forward just slightly so he can look at you over your shoulder. “You good?” he asks, smiling a little too knowingly. “Fine,” you say quickly. “Totally fine.” You take one of the plates and focus very hard on opening the takeout boxes like your life depends on it, even though your pulse is doing jumping jacks and your head is screaming get it together. He just hums behind you, like he’s not noticing the complete inner meltdown happening a foot away, and grabs two chopsticks and a fork from the drawer. “Seiko said she’ll be home in like twenty,” he says casually, scrolling through his phone again and settling into one of the bar stools. “Group finally let her escape.”

You nod, handing him one of the boxes. He smiles and takes it, eyes on the screen, and says around a bite of yakisoba, “If you want more curry than rice just take mine. I like it drowned.” You stare at him for a second—just… stare. The stupid hair. The lazy voice. The soft lighting that makes the corners of his face look gentle. God. Living with him might actually kill you. 

–

It’s barely noon and the apartment is quiet in a way it rarely ever is. Seiko had texted something along the lines of “kill me I’m gonna be stuck in this library group hell all day,” and Satoru, as usual, was off somewhere—he mentioned errands, maybe gym, maybe campus, maybe both. You hadn’t really been listening when he said it over his coffee that morning, still half-asleep and trying not to drool on the kitchen counter. So now, for the first time in a while, you’re completely alone. No blasting TikToks from Seiko’s room, no loud slams of Satoru’s door because he still hasn’t figured out how to close it without shaking the whole apartment. Just you, the faint hum of the fridge, and the unmistakable theme song of Modern Family floating through the living room. You hadn’t really bothered with getting ready—weekends were lawless like that. Your hair’s a mess, there’s a scrunchie abandoned somewhere on the couch, and you’re wearing this soft, too-thin tank top you usually reserve for sleep and your most battered pair of lounge shorts that might as well be pajama bottoms. Honestly, you kind of forgot anyone else existed. You have a blanket pulled over your legs but it’s too hot to fully commit, so it’s half-on, half-off, like you’re being attacked by fabric indecision. You’re about two minutes into the episode when the front door swings open.

Satoru walks in, keys jingling, sneakers squeaking slightly on the wooden floor. He looks fresh from outside—hair tousled from the wind, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, plastic bag of snacks in one hand, phone in the other. “Oh,” he says, eyes scanning the room. “Didn’t think you’d be here.” You sit up straighter, immediately pulling the blanket tighter over your torso like it’s gonna save you from embarrassment. “Yeah. I thought you were out all day.” He tows off his shoes lazily, drops his keys on the counter without looking, then tosses the plastic bag down on the coffee table. “I was. Grocery store line was hell. Also—” he eyes the TV “—is that Modern Family?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“I love Modern Family.” You arch an eyebrow. “Seriously? I thought you didn’t like sitcoms.”

“Yeah, but this one’s special,” he says, flopping onto the couch next to you with no hesitation. “Cam and Mitch remind me of me and Suguru.” You snort, trying to subtly tug your tank top higher over your chest. “That’s unhinged. Which one are you?” He thinks for a second. “I think I’m Cam.”

You stare. “Satoru, Cam is like… dramatic. He cries a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you doing that.”

“I have feelings,” he says defensively, grabbing a snack from the bag and opening it one-handed. “You just don’t respect that.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, turning back to the TV. You can feel the body heat radiating from his side—he’s close, way closer than necessary on this big-ass couch. You’re acutely aware of every inch between you and him. Which is to say, not much. For a few minutes, it’s just the show playing. Comfortable silence. Except your heart is doing this stupid uneven thing because he’s right there. And it doesn’t help that at one point—just as Phil Dunphy is doing something ridiculous—you feel his eyes flicker to your side. And for the briefest second, maybe half a second, his gaze dips. You don’t move. You don’t say anything. His eyes are back on yours almost immediately, lazy grin still on his face like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just (maybe) looked at your chest. You’re not even sure it was a look. It could’ve been your imagination. It probably was. Right? You suddenly feel ten degrees hotter, curling your toes under the blanket like that’ll ground you. “You good?” you ask, trying to keep it casual.

“Yeah,” he says smoothly. “Why?” 

You shrug, eyes glued to the TV even though you’re not processing a single joke anymore. “You looked like you were spacing out.” He leans back on the couch like he owns the damn thing, all sprawled out with one arm tossed lazily over the backrest. His fingers dangle behind you, brushing the edge of your shoulder. Barely. But enough to make you hyper-aware of every exposed inch of your skin. You shift a little in your seat. It doesn’t help. His thigh is still resting near yours, solid and warm, his scent faint and maddeningly familiar—clean laundry, citrus shampoo, and that soft hit of spice from whatever cologne he throws on without thinking. The TV flickers, but you don’t see it. Not when you feel him like that. 

“Dunno,” he murmurs suddenly, voice lower than before. “Just thinking how wild it is that you’re Seiko’s best friend.” You blink out of your daze, glancing over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  He turns his head toward you, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. He just looks. His eyes flick down—so quick you might’ve missed it, but not really. A lazy sweep across your collarbone, down the slope of your tank top, the faint outline of your chest where the fabric clings too easily without a bra beneath it. And then his gaze flicks back up to meet yours like nothing happened. You’re suddenly burning. “You’re just… eh, you’re like different now,” he says finally, mouth tugging into something softer than a smirk, but still not safe.

Your throat goes dry. “You literally told me a few months ago I was like your annoying little sister.”  He huffs a laugh—low and amused, almost like he’s laughing at himself. “Yeah. People say dumb shit all the time. Obviously I didn’t mean it.” His voice is rough around the edges, like the words cost something. Like they meant something. And you—stupidly, helplessly—can’t tell if you want to shove him away or drag him closer just to find out what the hell he’s thinking. His knee knocks into yours, casual, but it lingers. You glance down at the spot where your legs touch. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you. You don’t want to. He leans in just a little, stretching his arm further along the back of the couch, fingers now brushing fully against your shoulder—his pinky grazing your bare skin. Not accidentally this time. You swear you feel the air shift between you. Charged. Tense. He smells even better up close. You can hear the faint scratch of his breath, the creak of the couch when he adjusts, the thump of your own pulse in your ears. The air in the room feels hotter than it should be. Maybe it’s the blanket, maybe it’s the body heat, or maybe it’s the fact that Gojo Satoru—Seiko’s brother, the guy who used to shove Cheeto crumbs in your face and call you gremlin—is now lounging beside you like he didn’t just casually imply he’s been thinking about you in a way that definitely isn’t brotherly. You try to laugh it off. Try to breathe normally. Try to keep your thoughts from careening off a cliff. But your skin is buzzing under the weight of what he said—what he meant—and it’s getting impossible to sit still. “I’m gonna—uh…” you start, voice a bit too breathy for your liking. “Grab snacks.” He hums, low and lazy. “Of course you are.” You don’t even look at him to know there’s a smirk playing on his lips. Smug. Fucking smug. You peel the blanket off your lap, heart already thudding in your chest like it knows something you don’t. As you rise to your feet, you catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye—subtle, fast.

Satoru’s gaze dips. Straight to your ass. You freeze for half a second, spine locking, suddenly very aware of your little lounge shorts, how they cling when you move, how thin the fabric is. Your skin prickles. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just glancing around the room. Maybe he— But you felt it. And when you dart a glance back at him, he’s already back to facing the TV. Arms sprawled out. Cool and unbothered. Except—his jaw’s clenched a little now. One hand is flexing faintly against the armrest, like he’s trying not to react. And you swear, if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s the one trying to calm himself down. You walk to the kitchen way too fast, needing the distance, needing to get air because your thoughts are spiraling again. Did he really look? Was that just your brain on horny autopilot? Are you imagining this whole thing because you’re bored and he’s attractive and close and smells like sin wrapped in cashmere? You yank open a cupboard. It takes you a second to even remember why you came in here.

Oh. Right. Snacks. Behind you, the sound of the TV fills the silence, but your ears are still ringing with what he said. “Obviously I didn’t mean it.” Those words echo in your chest like a struck bell. Over and over and over. You grab a random bag of chips and pop it open just to keep your hands busy. You nibble one. You’re not even hungry. You hear the couch creak. He’s shifting. “Sooo,” Satoru calls out, voice stretched and casual like this is nothing, like he didn’t just nuke your brain two minutes ago, “you bringing those back to share or am I supposed to sit here and starve?” You roll your eyes, half grateful he’s still being a dumbass, half annoyed he’s pretending like your body language wasn��t screaming confusion and want and maybe something more. You return to the couch, tossing the chips between you both as you sink down. This time, there’s a full cushion between you, but the tension doesn’t go anywhere. He grabs a handful of chips without looking away from the screen. “You good?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” He doesn’t push. He just leans forward, his long legs spreading slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. The new position pulls his shirt tighter across his back, and it’s ridiculous, the way you notice the flex in his shoulders. The way your gaze dips now. You're no better than him. Your throat dries again. “So,” he says after a moment, voice still easy, still pretending, “what episode are we even on?” You glance at the screen and realize you couldn’t name a single thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes. “Uh. The one where Phil gets stuck in the portable toilet.”

Satoru laughs. “Classic. That guy’s so fucking dumb.” You nod, distracted. You keep catching yourself staring. At his jaw. His hands. That little shadow of stubble growing in because it’s the weekend and he clearly didn’t care enough to shave. You wonder what it feels like. What he’d look like if those same hands were pushing your head down on his co—

No. Nope. Abort. You try to focus on the TV. You try not to think about how he looked at you. How you’re now almost certain you didn’t imagine it. But then you feel his thigh bump yours again. Well, as much as someone can with a fucking pillow in between you both. Deliberate this time. Just the lightest nudge. You glance at him, and his eyes are still on the TV—but his lips? They’re tilted in the faintest, most devilish smirk. You bite the inside of your cheek and sit there in silence, knees barely touching, heat coiled tight in your stomach like a secret. The tension is coiled tight between you and Satoru—like someone pulled a rubber band back and is holding it in place, fingers twitching on the edge of letting go. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes too loud. You’re still thinking about the brush of his thigh against yours, about the way he smirked without really smiling. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the blanket.

Then—

The front door creaks open. “HELLO?” Seiko’s voice echoes through the apartment like a goddamn fire drill. “This house is full of the rudest bitches, I swear.” You sit bolt upright, practically yanking the blanket up to your collarbones as if she’s about to catch you in something. Satoru casually reaches for another chip, cool as ever. Seiko rounds the corner into the living room, dropping her bag on the floor with a theatrical huff. “I called you,” she says, glaring at her brother. “Like five times. Five. You told me to let you know when I was done!” Satoru lifts a brow, lazy and unapologetic. “I was busy. You survived.”

“I had to take the bus,” she groans, flopping into the armchair like she’s just returned from war. “The bus, Satoru. You know how many coughs I heard in ten blocks? You might as well have sentenced me to death.” You snort, trying to play it cool, heart still racing beneath your tank top. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m chronically disrespected in this house,” she declares, and then her eyes flick to the TV. “Oh my god, is this the one where Cam tries to be a clown at Luke’s party?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It just started.”

“Perfect,” she says, curling up under the throw blanket and stealing the chips off the coffee table. “God, you and I are literally Cam and Mitch.” You blink. Her and Satoru were eerily alike. “I don’t know how to feel about that.”  She shrugs. “We just have a shared delusional flair and a healthy amount of judgment, and I think that’s beautiful.” Behind you, Satoru exhales a soft, amused sound and stands up, stretching in that obnoxious way that pulls his shirt up just enough to flash a sliver of his toned stomach. You avert your eyes fast. “Well,” he says, voice easy, almost bored, “I’ll let you ladies get back to doing… whatever this is.” He takes a slow step back toward the stairs, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder—but before he turns completely, his eyes flick back to you. Just for a second. It’s subtle. Barely a second too long. But he holds your gaze—and that same faint, almost imperceptible smirk ghosts across his lips. It’s not a full smile. It’s a knowing one. And then he’s gone, padding upstairs without another word, leaving you sitting there with a fake laugh stuck in your throat and your pulse suddenly much louder in your ears. “Ugh,” Seiko says, mouth full of chips. “He’s so annoying. I cannot wait until he gets his own place.” You hum, pretending to agree, but your eyes linger on the stairwell he disappeared into.

Yeah. Annoying. If only it were that simple.

—

You’ve been staring at your reflection so long your own face is starting to look unfamiliar. Two skirts are flung across your bed—one black and slinky, the other plaid and shorter than you remembered it being when you first bought it. You keep switching between them, holding them up against your hips, spinning a little in the mirror, frowning. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It’s just a frat party. But it’s one of the big ones. The kind that gets talked about weeks after. The kind where even the art students who pretend they hate frat culture show up and get drunk on jungle juice in someone’s bathtub. You want to look good. You want to look good. Eventually, fed up with your own indecision, you grab both skirts and swing open your bedroom door, calling, “Seiko, I need you for like two seconds, I swear—”

You barrel straight into something warm and solid and—

“Oof—fuck, sorry,” you mumble, skirts slipping in your grip. Your hands are full, so you bounce off and stumble a step back. Satoru catches your elbow before you can completely lose balance, steadying you with one lazy hand. “Hi to you too,” he says, his voice edged with amusement. You blink. “Hi. Uh—sorry. I was just—I thought Seiko was still here.”

“She left like ten minutes ago,” he says, stepping back and glancing over your shoulder, toward your bedroom. “Grocery run or something. You’ve been holed up in your room forever.” You glance down at the two skirts in your hands and shift them awkwardly against your chest, heat licking at the back of your neck. “Yeah, I—uh—was trying to figure out what to wear.” His gaze lingers. He doesn’t say anything right away. Then: “To the party?”

You nod. A beat of silence. “You sound stressed,” he says, voice dipping a little. “What happened? You sound like you’re about to cry over a skirt.” You roll your eyes. “I just wanted her help picking one.” There’s a softness to his expression now. A twitch of his lips that looks suspiciously close to a smirk. “Tragic.” You groan and hug the skirts tighter to your chest. “This is stupid. I’m being stupid.”

“Nah,” he says, casually leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed now. “It makes sense. Lot of people are gonna be there. First party of the semester everyone actually gives a shit about.”

“Exactly,” you mutter, more to yourself. His eyes drag lazily from your bare thighs to your slightly flushed face. You’re still in the tank top you’d thrown on earlier—one of those thin, soft ones with lace on the straps.  “So,” he says, head tilted, eyes unreadable but fixed on you, “what are the options?” You blink. “What?”

“The skirts,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Let me see. C’mon.”  You roll your eyes, but your voice still comes out embarrassed. “I just wanted Seiko’s opinion.” He grins. “And instead you got mine. Brutal.”

“Yeah, I’m regretting it already.” He pushes off the wall with a little amused hum and steps closer. “Lemme see.” You raise an eyebrow. “You? The fashion expert?” Satoru shrugs. “Hey, I’m good at judging outfits. From the outside and the inside.” Your face burns. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “You’re the one asking for my opinion while wearing a tank top that’s basically see-through.”  You make a sound of protest and clutch the skirts against you again. “Okay! Thank you, great, very helpful!” He doesn’t move. “I mean, either one would look good on you. You have—” He pauses, lips twitching, “—range.” You squint at him. “Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment?”

“Because you know me.”

You laugh, but it comes out breathier than you intend. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way guys at parties look. Not even like how he used to look at you months ago—distant, vaguely amused, older brother of your best friend. This look is different. Lazier. Focused. And then he just casually reaches out, like he’s done a hundred times before, but this time his knuckle grazes the bare skin of your arm when he adjusts the hem of the black skirt in your hand. “Go with this one,” he murmurs, suddenly closer than he was a second ago. “It’s a better choice.”

You swallow. “A better choice?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.” The air feels a little too charged now. A little too tight. You’re still, not sure what to say, barely sure what you’re breathing. And then, blessedly, he takes a step back, his expression shuttering into something light again. “Well,” he says, “I’ll leave you to your existential wardrobe crisis. Let me know if you need my expert fashion advice again.” You nod dumbly, skirts clutched tight. Inside, you drop the plaid skirt to the floor and stare at yourself in the mirror again. Somehow, the decision’s a lot easier now.

–

“What do you mean, Satoru can’t drive us to the party?” Seiko screeches, her voice echoing off the tile as she stalks around the apartment in a pair of clacking nude heels, aggressively tapping his contact on her phone. You lunge across the couch, snatching it from her before she rage-texts him something psychotic. “Seiko—calm down. It’s not because of the fight. Listen! He said he has a late lab or some shit, okay? He’s coming later.” She stares at you, lip curled in disbelief, before deflating with a dramatic sigh. “Oh.” There’s a beat. You watch her face as she recomposes herself—like she’s loading a new expression. A girl rebooting in real time. “So… is he sending us Uber money, or…?” You suppress a grin. “No need. Suguru’s driving us.” The shift in her demeanor is instant. You swear you catch a spark of actual electricity pass through her body. “Oh.” Now her voice is a full octave lower, soft, composed, perfectly pleasant. “That’s nice.” You snort, giving her a shove. “Nice try. But that fake ‘cool girl’ thing is not working. I know how long you’ve liked him, dumbass.” She squeals, spinning in a little circle like you just handed her a backstage pass to her dream concert. “Oh my god. You don’t understand—this is like the first time I get to hang out with him without Toru’s annoying ass being all over the place.” You roll your eyes. “You’re literally acting like a Shoujosei heroine right now. Tone it down before he thinks we’re taking you to the ER for heatstroke.”

But you’re grinning. She waves a hand, unfazed. “Whatever. This is my moment. I need it to be perfect.” You snort and smooth your hands over your outfit one more time. The black skirt he picked sits high on your waist, hugging you like a second skin. It’s short—dangerously so—but structured enough to look intentional. You’d paired it with a slinky backless top in that kind of soft fabric that feels cool against your skin, and lets just enough cleavage peek through to keep it casual.  You might’ve been dressing for yourself. But you’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn’t wondering what Satoru would think when he finally saw it. Seiko squeals again as she double-checks her lipstick. “Okay but wait. You said Suguru’s stared at me before. When? Tell me now. Don’t lie.” 

You shrug, all fake-casual. “Mmm. Like twice last week. When you wore that fitted top to the library. Also when you made that stupid joke and he actually laughed.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, hand flying to her chest like you just told her she’d been accepted into heaven. “I knew it. I thought I was delusional. But you just confirmed it.” You’re about to tease her again when a familiar honk cuts through the buzz of the apartment. “Speak of the devil,” you grin. Outside, Suguru’s car is parked by the curb, headlights casting long shadows through the blinds. You head out with Seiko, the cool evening air brushing against your legs as you slide into the backseat. Suguru, behind the wheel, turns slightly to look over his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you reply, amused as Seiko wordlessly climbs into the passenger seat like it’s her destiny. You swear she almost sits with a flourish. She twists toward him. “Thanks for picking us up. You look nice.” Suguru gives her a crooked smile. “You look nice, too.” You almost groan at the tension brewing already. You catch the subtle glance he gives her legs, the quiet, too-smooth “seatbelt” reminder as he reaches across to pull it out for her. She blushes, mumbling a thanks, and you just sink back into your seat, smiling to yourself like you’ve been let in on a joke no one else knows the punchline to. The ride to the frat house is filled with casual conversation—muted music humming from the car speakers, the windows cracked just enough to let in the city air. As Suguru pulls into a crowded residential street littered with double-parked cars and glowing red solo cups on curbs, Seiko leans forward to point out a spot. Typical frat party energy is already bleeding into the night—thudding bass in the distance, porch lights glowing warm, a guy doing a keg stand on someone’s lawn while someone else records with flash on. You smooth your skirt down instinctively as Suguru parallel parks like a pro, killing the engine with a low chuckle. You glance up at him just before stepping out, voice quieter than before. “Hey. Do you know when Satoru’s coming?” Suguru gives you a look—one of those slow, knowing, older-brother-type glances that feels like it sees more than it says. “Not too far away,” he replies, lips twitching. “You’ll see him soon.” He opens his door and gets out, and you follow, the air buzzing louder with the bass as you approach the house. It’s already full—bodies moving on the porch, music pounding out the windows, a mix of cheap perfume and sweat and smoke curling through the air. Inside, the light is dim, string lights casting a low amber haze over the crowd. People call greetings, red cups are pressed into hands, and the house is full of the usual noise—music, laughter, flirtation, chaos. You let Seiko tug you in by the hand, eyes scanning the room—not consciously, not desperately. Just… wondering. If he’d see you tonight. If he’d look.

Inside, the house is buzzing. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, someone’s dog is wearing a backwards cap for some reason, the music’s loud enough to rattle your ribs, and the air smells like a mix of weed, tequila, and Axe body spray. You and Seiko barely make it past the kitchen before you’re intercepted by a group of mutual friends from one of your guys’ shared elective class.

You’re nodding along, drink in hand, when you spot someone across the room—a guy you know from high school? Or maybe the library? The edges of memory are fuzzy from the noise, but you tilt your head and squint, trying to place him. “Wait—excuse me for a sec,” you say to Seiko, squeezing her wrist. You pivot, winding through the crowd, barely making it five steps before someone’s shoulder crashes into yours. You reel back instinctively, blinking up.

White hair. Too tall. Light eyes. Hoodie thrown lazily over a plain tee, but still looking like a full time model for Vogue. He smells like cologne and smoke and something faintly citrusy. “Wow,” you say automatically, blinking again. “You actually came.” Satoru smiles—lazy, tilted, boyish. Like he’s just been caught in something he enjoys too much to lie about. “Yeah,” he says. “Took an Uber. Not planning on being sober tonight.” You laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Same. But Seiko and Suguru are both staying sober, which is kind of impressive given the circumstances.” He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows exactly what circumstances you mean. “Ah. Right, right.” There’s a pause—just long enough for his eyes to drop to your legs. Then, casually, like he’s not saying anything crazy at all, he leans a little closer. “So… you wore the skirt.” You grin. “Yeah, I did. Is it nice?” He snorts under his breath like please, then runs a hand through his hair. “You know it is.” You roll your eyes. “You don’t even remember which one it was.” He pretends to be offended, placing a hand over his chest. “That’s actually insane of you to say. Of course I remember. It was this one. The black one. Little zipper on the side.”

You blink. “There was no zipper.” He squints. “Okay. True. I made that part up. But it looks like it could have a zipper.” You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your drink. You’re about to clap back when someone bumps into him from behind, sending him a half-step into you. His hand lands lightly on your arm to steady himself, just for a second—warm fingers, calloused from god knows what, brushing your bare skin. You both go still for half a beat.

Then he’s grinning again. “You having fun?” You nod. “Yeah. It’s actually a good party. Not too many freshmen. No one’s cried in the kitchen yet.” He laughs. “Give it an hour.” You don’t respond—just bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile at bay. His gaze lingers on your face for a second too long. Someone behind you pops a can of something and the fizzing sound makes you both blink.

“Well,” he says, standing a bit straighter, “should we find the others?” You nod, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the house. “Yeah. They’re by the pong table.” As you both start walking side by side through the house, you can’t help but glance sideways at him. He’s looking ahead, but there’s that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The same one from the apartment earlier. Knowing. Lazy. A little smug. A little dangerous. You finally make your way toward the makeshift beer pong table someone’s set up near the back of the frat house. It’s surrounded by half-drunken students, red solo cups, and a poor folding table that’s seen too many parties and not enough soap. You spot Ryomen Sukuna chatting to some girl—his chem lab partner? Odd, she was way too nice to talk to a guy like him— by the drinks table, his gaze unabashedly admiring her form. A cheer goes up as someone lands a shot, and you hear Seiko’s unmistakable laugh—shrill, excited—off to the left, where she’s clapping dramatically for Suguru, who’s currently in what looks like…? A competition to see who can stay in a handstand for the longest? Is that Toji Zenin with him?

“I was wondering where you ran off to,” Seiko says when she sees you. Her eyes briefly dart to Satoru, then back to you, and you give her a look that says: Don’t. Start. “Me and Satoru are gonna take a shot at this next game,” you say quickly, already setting your drink down and rolling your shoulders like a boxer entering the ring. Satoru raises a brow. “We are?”

“You scared?” He grins. “Nah, I’d win. I always win these.”

“You’re the one with freakishly long arms, so I guess I need to have more confidence in you,” you say, pointing at him. “You better land every cup.”

“I will. As long as you look pretty while doing the distractions.”

You blink. “That’s so sexist.”

“And yet, you smiled.” You try to smack his arm but he’s already ducking around you, grabbing a couple of ping pong balls from the table while the other team clears out. A small group starts to gather as you both step up to the table—probably because Satoru Gojo doing anything draws attention, but also because you’re not exactly subtle about whisper-arguing with him about technique. “Okay,” he says, tossing a ball up and down like it’s a warm-up. “We’re playing standard rules. Elbow behind the edge, reracks at 6 and 3, bounce shots count for two. You know how to play, right?” You make a face. “Sort of.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t come to college to learn about sports, Satoru.”

“It’s beer pong,” he groans. “It’s not a sport, it’s survival.” You flip him off, but you’re laughing. He lets you shoot first. Your ball clinks off the rim of a cup and bounces harmlessly to the floor. Satoru whistles low. “Strong start.”

“Shut up and make your freak arm useful.” He sinks the shot. Effortlessly. Doesn’t even blink. Of course he does. You sigh, already resigned to being carried. “Come here,” he says, waving you over like it’s no big deal. You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Your form’s all wrong. You’re like. Flicking it. This isn’t badminton.”

“I don’t flick—”

“Come here.” He’s behind you in a second. You feel his body brush against your back, the faint warmth of him just close enough to register without being obvious. His hand slides along your forearm, adjusting your grip on the ball.

“Relax your wrist,” he murmurs, and now his chin is practically over your shoulder. You swallow. “Like this,” he continues, his hand still guiding yours. “It’s more of a lob. Use your fingertips. Gentle. That’s it— ah, good girl. ” You try not to think about the way he says gentle. Or good girl. Or the way his breath is hitting your neck in warm puffs between words. “You realize you’re totally milking this under the guise of tutoring me,” you say, heart thudding faster. “Obviously.” His grin curls against your cheek. “You gonna shoot or what?”

You shoot. You land it. The group around the table erupts, laughing and shouting. You turn around, triumphant. “Holy shit—”

Satoru’s grinning, arms raised like he’s just coached a champion. “That’s my girl.” Your stomach does something very stupid at those words. You try to ignore it. The game continues like that—banter, shots, shoulder brushes, the occasional low “good job” from Satoru that lights up every neuron in your body. You’re not sure how much is the alcohol and how much is just him, but your face is warm and your hands shake a little more every time he reaches past you. At one point, someone makes a distracting joke and you miss horribly, groaning as the ball flies way off. Satoru leans close and mutters, “You need to take your revenge.”

“How?”

“Distraction tactics. Classic.” You eye him. “What, like flash a tit?” He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Jesus, no. I mean, you could, but maybe start smaller.” You giggle. “Like what?” He leans in again, voice lower. “Do that thing where you bend over to pick something up slow.” You look at him, deadpan. “Dude, what?” He shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m not blind.” You end up not bending over or doing whatever Satoru had been telling you to do, instead you just plainly smile at the guy on the opposing end of the table, hoping it does the job. And it does. Dramatically. And the frat guy across from you absolutely chokes on his shot. You land the next cup clean. What can be said? You’re extremely gorgeous. Satoru claps you on the back like a coach. “What’d I tell you? Iconic.” You’re both laughing too hard now. And a little too close. Eventually, the game ends—you win—and there’s a flurry of congratulations and another drink thrust into your hand. You feel light and flushed and way too aware of the guy still standing next to you like he belongs there. 

“You’re better at this than I expected,” Satoru says, sipping from his own drink now. “Yeah, I thrive under pressure.” You’re mid-sip of some questionably pink drink when Satoru leans down, tipping his head toward your ear so casually it makes your stomach do that stupid flutter thing again. “Yo,” he says, nodding toward a different room where you can see bodies shifting and crowding around a makeshift open circle. “What’s going on over there?” You blink. “Dunno. Is that… a dance circle?”

“Nah,” he grins. “No one’s moving that confidently.” 

You snort. “You wanna check it out?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says, and the way his voice dips just slightly makes it feel like he’s not just talking about the crowd. “Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. The two of you squeeze your way into the room, jostled on all sides by a sea of people shouting and laughing and pushing in toward the circle. The floor’s sticky, the air’s muggy, and someone bumps into your back hard enough that you stumble—and before you can find your footing, a flash of blue disappears ahead of you. “Satoru?” you call, but your voice is drowned out by a chant going up in the center. And just like that, he’s gone. You’re shoved toward the edge of the circle, almost tripping over a couch leg before managing to flop down beside some guy in a bucket hat holding a solo cup like it’s sacred. You glance around, heart racing, trying to spot that stupid head of white hair somewhere in the crowd. The guy next to you chuckles. “First time at one of these?” You glance over. “One of what?” He gestures with his cup. “Spin the bottle. Slash seven minutes in heaven. Slash drink whatever disgusting cocktail that bowl has if you bail. It’s a house rule.” You blink. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Don’t worry,” he shrugs. “You can decline. But then you gotta chug whatever’s in that punch bowl. And it’s, uh… unholy.” You look to the center where sure enough, there’s a half-filled bottle spinning on the floor like it’s trying to find a victim. A few people are already crowding behind it, sitting cross-legged like some cursed sleepover. And the punch bowl he’s talking about? It looks like someone dumped red Gatorade, vodka, pickle juice, and maybe NyQuil into the same pot and called it “edgy.” You whip your head around again—Satoru is, of course, lounging cross-legged on the other side of the circle now, chatting with some people you vaguely recognize from class. He looks like he belongs there, all sprawled limbs and lazy smirk, like this kind of chaos was built for him. When he catches your gaze, he waves. Waves. You shoot him a you left me to die glare. He mouths something back that looks suspiciously like, “Have fun.” Before you can get up and leave, someone shouts, “ALRIGHT! EVERYONE SHUT UP—RULES ARE THE SAME. SPIN LANDS ON YOU, EITHER GO IN THE CLOSET OR DRINK. NO BACKING OUT.” And just like that, the first spin hits a girl in a crop top and some guy who looks like he’s about to pass out. Laughter, whistles, cheers—then they’re stumbling off toward the dark little closet in the corner like lambs to the slaughter. You sit frozen, drink clutched to your chest like a life preserver. The bottle spins again.

Not you. Then again. Still not you. Then: you. You freeze, neck stiff as your name’s called. It’s some guy you’ve never seen in your life. He winks. You immediately reach for the punch bowl. The crowd yells as you choke down the mystery concoction. It burns like betrayal. Another few rounds go by. You watch people you know and people you don’t vanish into that cursed closet. You try not to count the minutes. Try not to watch Satoru each time he gets picked. And yet—you do. Twice the bottle lands on him. Both times he just laughs and reaches for the drink, wincing as he gulps it down. Your stomach does that thing again. You don’t want to care. Finally, the bottle spins, slower this time, teetering between two people. It seems to almost stop on the bucket hat guy next to you—until the neck slides a few inches more and lands squarely… on you. Your heart lurches. Then it spins again—and lands on him.

Satoru. It goes so quiet, you can hear the bass vibrating through the floorboards. Someone cackles. “Ohhhhhh shit—” 

You look at him. He’s already watching you, a crooked, loose-limbed smile stretching across his lips. “Alright, alright,” someone’s saying. “Or you can drink, but I’m warning you, the new mix is, like, fucking illegal.”

“Yeah,” someone else adds, “Toru, you already tapped out of two. You're out of lives.” Satoru throws his head back and groans. “Shit.” He locks eyes with you again. “Well?” you ask, voice a little smaller than you mean it to be. “You tell me,” he says, tone light but eyes dark. “Closet or cocktail?” You hesitate. You could back out. You should back out. But he’s standing already, towering in his black tee and the chain peeking out from under his collar, holding out a hand to you with that infuriating confidence. “Let’s go,” he says. “No way I’m drinking that pickle NyQuil bullshit. My kidneys are failing already.” A cheer erupts.

“SEVEN MINUTES STARTING NOW!” You feel someone gently shoving you forward, and then you’re walking—stumbling—toward the little coat closet with Satoru beside you, hand hovering behind your back like he’s making sure you don’t fall. Inside, it’s pitch black. You both tumble in, bumping into each other, the door slamming shut behind you with a click. It’s cramped. Shoulders touching. Knees knocking. You can hear him breathing. And somewhere outside, someone’s laughing like this is the funniest shit they’ve ever seen. You swallow. “Thank god Seiko’s not here,” you mutter under your breath. “Speak for yourself,” Satoru says casually. “I think this is character-building.”

“Character-building?” you repeat, incredulous. “Yeah.” His voice is low, amused. “We’re trapped. Small space. Zero distractions. Forced eye contact if there was any light.” You laugh, nervous. “This is not how I imagined dying.”

“If we die in a frat closet,” he says seriously, “I just want you to know it’s been an honor.” You laugh again, this time a little too loudly. You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until you shift and your knees knock again—his thigh against yours. Warm. Solid. “Is it hot in here?” you mumble.

“It’s definitely not cold.” You don’t respond right away. Neither does he. It’s suddenly too quiet. You can feel his gaze, even in the dark. And somehow, you know—you know—that whatever happens next will not be played off as just another party game. The silence wraps around the two of you, warm and humming and too dense to ignore. Your back hits the closet wall, and you swear you can hear your own heartbeat pounding louder than the music outside. Somewhere, someone yells about shotgunning a beer, and it sounds so far away compared to the stillness between you and him. Satoru shifts beside you, his voice low and careful. “Hey—just so you know, we don’t have to do anything in here.” He says it casually, like it’s no big deal. His shoulder brushes yours. “Oh,” you say. You try to sound neutral. Chill. Normal. You fail. “Um—no, it’s okay. We can do stuff.” He huffs out a laugh, and it’s so goddamn warm in the closet and so him that your cheeks burn on contact. “We can do stuff,” he repeats, teasing. “Wow. That’s seductive.” You groan and immediately bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean it like that, oh my god.” He laughs again, this time a little breathless. “Nah, I’m into it. Super smooth delivery.”

“I’m drunk,” you whine, still hiding. “I’m tipsy. I literally cannot be held accountable for anything I say.”

“Oh, now you’re pulling the legal disclaimer.”

“I’m gonna die in this closet. Like, emotionally.” He shifts again, and you feel it—his thigh pressing more into yours, his arm now behind your back along the wall like he’s boxing you in without even meaning to. Or maybe he is meaning to. Maybe this is the point. Maybe you’re just slow to realize it. He opens his mouth—probably to say something sarcastic and obnoxious, like always—but you don’t let him. You don’t know if it’s the cheap cocktails or the lingering electricity from that beer pong game or just how close he is in this tight little space, but your body moves before your brain can catch up. You lean forward and kiss him. You only mean to peck him once, test the waters, but the second your lips meet his, he responds. Hard. His hand finds your waist with immediate purpose, dragging you closer until your chest is pressed against his, the scent of his cologne and sweat and cheap beer swirling around your head like smoke. His other hand fists into the fabric of your top, knuckles brushing your ribs, and he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this, mouth hot and demanding and perfect. You gasp a little when his tongue brushes yours, and he swallows it greedily like he wants to hear that sound again. And again. And again. You’re vaguely aware that you’re making noises, little broken gasps against his lips, but you don’t care. You’re half in his lap now, one leg slung lazily over his as your back presses to the closet wall. His grip tightens at your hip like he’s trying to keep himself anchored, but it’s not working. He breaks the kiss just for a second—only long enough to breathe against your mouth. “Fuck,” he mumbles, voice ragged. “You taste like whatever’s in that drink. That horrifying punch. But you still taste good. What the fuck.”

You laugh a little, dazed. “You too.” Then he kisses you again—deeper this time, rougher—and it’s suddenly impossible to remember what the hell you were ever nervous about. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, palm flat and hot against your bare skin. You shiver, and he smirks against your mouth, like he felt it. “Cold?” he asks, voice muffled by the skin of your neck as he kisses along your jaw. “Shut up,” you whisper back, breathless. He doesn’t. His mouth is relentless. He kisses like he’s starving. His lips drag down the slope of your neck, his tongue wet and hot as it traces up the column of your throat. “God,” you breathe. “You’re so—”

“Yeah?” he grins against your skin. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Coward.”  You grin and push him back lightly, but it just makes him grin harder—until he catches your wrists and gently pins them beside your head, still smiling like a little shit. “You kissed me,” he says. 

“You let me kiss you.”

“Damn right I did.” And then he kisses you again, harder this time, like a promise. You forget where you are. You forget your name. You forget the stupid crowd outside or the timer ticking down. The only thing you know is his mouth, his hands, the heat that’s spiking through your body like wildfire. You moan into his mouth—and this time, he groans. Low. Rough. Dangerous. And you get the sudden, dizzying feeling that if someone doesn’t knock on this door in the next ten seconds, you might not make it out of this closet with your clothes still on. The closet is too dark to think straight. Too warm. His breath is hot against your skin, and your back’s pressing into the wall like it’s the only thing holding you up. Your legs are still half-draped over his, and his hand’s still under your shirt—his palm splayed wide across your waist like he forgot he put it there and now refuses to move. You’re kissing again before either of you says another word. It’s not careful anymore. Not testing the waters. This is all open mouths and low groans, tongue and teeth and the dizzying clash of teeth when one of you gets impatient. His grip shifts, and suddenly his hand is sliding further up, rough fingers grazing your ribs until his thumb just barely brushes under your bra. You freeze for half a second, the sharp spark of oh shit cutting through your haze. But then his mouth drags down your neck again, open and wet and hungry, and any coherent thought short-circuits in your brain.

“Satoru,” you breathe. You don’t mean to say it like that. You don’t mean to say it at all. It just falls out of you, broken and breathy and a little desperate. He groans.

“Say that again.”

“No.”

“Boo, party pooper.” You’re both smiling—giddy, a little drunk, a little overwhelmed—and he noses at your cheek before dragging you in for another kiss. This one’s slower. He licks into your mouth like he’s tasting you, savoring you, like you’re something he’s wanted for way too long and can’t get enough of now that he has you. His thigh shifts between yours and—god—your hips roll on instinct. You feel his breath catch in his throat. Your lips part against his, and that’s all it takes for him to move. His hands are on your hips, guiding you down onto his thigh again, and the friction makes your brain completely short-circuit. You bite back a sound, but it’s embarrassing how easily your body reacts to him. How natural it feels to rock against him like this—slow, messy, clothed, but blistering. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rasping low in your ear. “You’re really doing this, huh.”

“Don’t act surprised,” you mutter, head tipping back when his mouth finds that one spot under your ear. “I’m not,” he admits, voice rough. “I’m just—fuck—I’m so into it.” You’re both breathing hard now, the air between you sticky and thick with heat. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and that’s it. That’s the moment he slips both hands under your skirt, palms warm on your thighs. He squeezes lightly, like he’s checking—asking—and you nod, burying your face into his shoulder. “Touchy tonight, huh?” he murmurs into your skin. 

“Don’t be smug.”

“Impossible. I’m literally in a closet with you grinding on me. I win.” You shove at his shoulder, and he laughs, this quiet, messy sound that turns right into another kiss. His hands wander again, fingers sliding along the edges of your underwear with just enough pressure to tease but not enough to do anything. You whimper. Quietly. Against his mouth. He bites your lower lip. And that’s when there’s a knock at the closet door. You both freeze. The knock comes again—followed by a tipsy voice yelling, “TIME’S UP, CLOSET LOVERS. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT.”

You don’t even move at first. Just sit there. Half tugged up by him around his waist. Half undone. Breathing like you ran a mile. You blink at each other. He grins first. “That was like… two minutes,” he whispers.

“Swear to god, if Seiko’s out there—”

“We’ll lie,” he says, totally unbothered, smoothing down your skirt and grinning lazily. “You fell. I helped you up. We kissed a little. No laws were broken.” You snort, cheeks still on fire. But you can’t help it—you lean forward, just once more, and kiss him. Softly. Just one little press. He hums into it. Hands still on your hips like he’s not letting go the second the door opens. “You okay?” he asks, quietly this time. No teasing. No jokes. You nod. “Yeah.” And then you add, with a shaky laugh, “But next time we do something like this… please not in a literal party closet.” His grin is smug. “Next time?” You shove him again. He opens the door. And the second it does, a wave of music, noise, and light crashes in like you’ve broken the seal on a private, heated little world. You both step out—your hair tousled, lips kiss-swollen, heart racing—and pretend like nothing happened.

“Wanna make another bad decision?” 

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Bathroom’s unlocked.” You stare at him. He stares right back. You give a small nod, imperceptible almost, and then he’s grabbing your wrist, dragging you down the hall. You don’t even check if someone’s watching. You just move, fast, stumbling a little behind him as he shoves open the bathroom door and pulls you in behind him. Click. The lock slides into place. Silence. Your back hits the bathroom door. And Satoru’s right there—crowding into your space, bracing a hand beside your head like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he’s giving you that split-second window to change your mind. You don’t take it. Satoru spins you around and backs you up against the counter like he’s done this before—like he’s been thinking about it since the first time you argued over the last chocolate bar or something. His mouth finds yours in seconds, and this time it’s not playful. It’s hungry. Hot. Desperate. You tug on his shirt, dragging him closer, and he laughs into your mouth, breathless and boyish and so into it. His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms on bare skin, fingers playing with the hem of your black skirt like he can’t help himself. “You know, this skirt that you’re wearing? The one I picked out?” he mutters, mouth moving down to your jaw, then under your ear.

You nod, dizzy. “Uh-huh.”

“Good choice,” he grins, hands squeezing your ass over the fabric. “It’s fucking hot.” You whimper. Actually whimper. And he groans, like you’ve just undone him. “You’re killin’ me,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re actually—”

Your skirt rides up. Your thighs part. And his body slots right between them. “You sure?” he pants, nipping at your lip. “We don’t have to—”

You grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer. “I know we don’t have to.”

Pause.

“But I want to.” That does it. His mouth is back on yours before you finish breathing the sentence, and now his hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, under your top. Your hands tangle in his stupid white hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss and grind into you, hard enough to make you gasp. “Shit,” he mumbles against your mouth. “We should be careful.” You bite your lip. “Why?”

“Because if we keep going, I’m not gonna stop.” Your breath catches. You kiss him. Slow and deep. “Someone’s gonna notice we’re gone,” you whisper, even though you make no move to stop touching him. He nips your neck. “Let them.”

“Satoru—”

You don’t have time to laugh before he lifts you—just like that, hands under your thighs, and sits you on the cold marble counter. Your skirt hikes up to your waist, and his eyes drag down your thighs with an audible breath, eyes glancing over on the wet spot forming on the front of your pink panties, fingers already slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear like he can’t wait. You’re kissing again—hot and messy and open-mouthed—while his hand works fast, dragging the fabric to the side and letting out the dirtiest fucking sound when he feels how soaked you are.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead to yours. “All this for me?” You glare. “No, for Suguru. Obviously for you.” 

That grin—that goddamn smug Satoru Gojo grin—flicks across his face. “Should’ve known,” he says, fingers sliding over you now, teasing but desperate. “I really get you going, huh?” You moan, hips stuttering, hands fumbling with his belt now. “Toru—please.” That does it. The second you breathe his name like that, he’s moving—shoving down his jeans and boxers just enough, grabbing a condom from his back pocket like the cocky frat boy you know he is. “I swear,” he mutters, tearing it open, “I was not expecting to use this tonight.”

You give him a look. “Bullshit.” He laughs low. “Okay, maybe I hoped. Come on, haven’t been laid in ages.” Then? Then he’s right there, dragging your hips to the edge, rubbing himself against you slowly, teasing. Too slowly. “Satoru,” you whisper, grabbing his shirt, pulling. “Now.” He groans—and then pushes in, slow at first, filling you in a way that makes your whole body arch off the counter. “Fuck,” he pants, gripping your hips like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t anchor himself. “You feel—Jesus.”

Your breath stutters out. “Move—please.” And he does. He fucks you like the party doesn’t exist. Like the music isn’t thumping just outside the door. Like someone won’t knock at any second. Hard, deep thrusts—his hand muffling your moans when they get too loud, your nails clawing down his back under his shirt. He kisses you through it, open-mouthed and filthy, murmuring curses against your lips like he’s losing it, too. “Didn’t think this would happen tonight,” he says between thrusts, voice ragged. You’re gasping. “Me either—oh my God—but don’t stop.” He doesn’t. If anything, he fucks into you harder, like your words lit him up, hips snapping forward, making you see stars. You cling to him, head falling to his shoulder, trying so hard not to moan too loud when he shifts his angle and hits just right.

“Satoru—”

“I know,” he grits out, kissing your shoulder, your neck. “You’re so fucking tight—shit.” The counter creaks beneath you. His hands are gripping your thighs, and you’re clinging to his shirt, and when you finally come—clenching around him, eyes fluttering—he groans like you just knocked the breath out of him. He follows fast. Gasping your name, forehead buried in your neck, hips stuttering as he finishes with a shudder and a string of muttered curses. The room falls quiet except for your heavy breathing. You’re still panting when he finally lifts his head, face flushed, hair messy, looking more fucked-out than you’ve ever seen him.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded. “Pussy is too good.” You smack his chest, still catching your breath. “Way to ruin a moment.” He laughs, arms wrapping around your waist, forehead resting against yours. Outside, the bass drops again. Inside, he kisses you—sweet, slow now. Like he wants this again. And again. You're still half-breathless when you peel yourself off the bathroom counter, shaky legs dangling before you touch the floor. Satoru leans back, hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised and glistening, grinning like he just won a game he wasn’t even supposed to be playing. You glance at yourself in the mirror and immediately groan. “God,” you mutter, fixing your hair with trembling fingers. “I look like I just got railed in a frat bathroom.”

“You did just get railed in a frat bathroom,” Satoru offers, obnoxiously proud. He’s zipping his jeans, running a hand through his tousled white hair, utterly unfazed. “Shut up.” You swat his chest as he snickers. “Fix yourself. Your hair looks like you’re Goku from Dragon Ball Z right now.”

He checks. “Oh. Shit.” You both burst into quiet, breathy laughter, like two kids caught in the middle of something reckless and brilliant. The bathroom still smells faintly like the citrusy hand soap, alcohol, and you—God, you—clinging to Satoru’s skin like perfume. You tug your skirt down. It’s wrinkled. Your thigh is slightly sticky. You don’t even want to think about it right now. “Wait,” you whisper, holding your arms out like a human barricade. “Are we going out together?” Satoru looks at you, then toward the door, considering. “Nah,” he says finally, lips twitching. “I’ll give you a 60 second head start. Real secret agent vibes.” He pulls you in before you can leave, pressing one last kiss to your mouth, slower this time, his hand cradling your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. When you pull back, you're flushed again. “Go,” he says, voice low. “Before I forget we’re trying to be subtle.” You open the door and slip out fast, stepping into the dim hallway. It takes you a second to adjust to the bass again, the flood of people, the bright overhead lights that make everything feel too real. You make a beeline toward the kitchen like you haven’t just been completely wrecked in the bathroom, grabbing the nearest cup you can find and pretending to drink something even though it’s mostly just melted ice and backwash.

Then—

“Yo!” Someone calls your name from across the room. Not Satoru. Just a classmate. You wave, hoping they don’t notice how warm your cheeks are. You’re mid-conversation when, exactly one minute later, Satoru wanders in from the other side of the room. Cool as ever. You both lock eyes for the briefest second—and he winks at you like an absolute menace before joining some people near the pong table. You swear your knees go weak all over again. As you’re sipping from your cup and attempting to regulate your heart rate, your phone buzzes.

Torustill taste u on my tongue lol

You immediately lock the screen and shove it into your pocket like it just caught fire. Across the room, he catches your expression. Smiles. Smug. Lazy. Like he owns the whole fucking house. You shake your head, lips twitching as you pretend not to look at him again. But you do. A few times. And each time, he’s already looking back. 

The car ride home is a blur of motion, low music, and the afterglow of too many drinks and too little inhibition. You’re squished in the backseat of Suguru’s car, shoulder-to-shoulder with Satoru as Seiko loudly insists on shotgunning—“I called it like thirty minutes ago, Satoru, don’t even try me”—and Suguru just raises a brow like why did I agree to this? You're half pressed against the window, the cold glass seeping into your flushed skin. Satoru’s thigh is warm beside yours. Too warm. Or maybe you’re just hyperaware—of him, of yourself, of the fact that less than an hour ago he had his hands under your skirt and his mouth on your neck. “Ugh,” Seiko moans from the passenger seat. “Suguru, drive slower. I’m gonna puke.”

“You said faster two minutes ago.”

“Well now I say slower. Unless you want vomit on your dashboard.”

Suguru sighs and taps the brakes. Beside you, Satoru chuckles low in his throat. It’s not even directed at you, but it ripples down your spine like a dropped match. He shifts, resting his arm casually along the backseat behind you, not quite touching—but close. So close. You try not to look at him. You fail. His hair is still tousled. There’s a mark—barely-there—on the edge of his jawline. You wonder if he noticed it in the mirror at the party. You wonder if he knows it’s from you. You blink away the thought and stare hard out the window as Suguru pulls up to your apartment. The car slows to a stop, and suddenly all of you are groaning and tumbling out, drunk and exhausted. “Everyone drink water before bed,” Suguru calls after you and Seiko, who are giggling as you shuffle toward the door. “Don’t be dumbasses tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mom,” Satoru mutters. You all collapse into the apartment like a pile of overripe fruit—sweet, bruised, and sticky with the night. No words. Just Seiko drifting into her room with a loud yawn, mumbling something about being glad she didn’t drink tonight. Satoru disappearing into his own with an unreadable look over his shoulder, and you stumbling into yours with your head spinning. The moment your door shuts behind you, you exhale hard. And then you feel it. The ache between your legs. The ghost of his mouth on yours. Your lips are swollen. Your hair’s a mess. And there’s a bite mark—not aggressive, but definitely there—on your collarbone. You don’t even change clothes. You just fall face-first into your bed and let the haze swallow you whole.

The morning hits like a truck. You wake up with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth and your thoughts screaming. What did I do? Your brain floods with flashes: the kiss in the closet. The way he’d looked at you in the bathroom mirror. His laugh, low and cocky. The stretch of his hand around your thigh. His voice against your neck—

You sit up way too fast and groan. Okay. Okay. Think. Was it just the alcohol? A one-time thing? He is a flirt. He does sleep around. But he didn’t flirt with anyone else that night. And he didn’t go into the closet with anyone else. And he kissed you like he meant it. You press your hands to your face. You don’t even know what you want. Do you want it to have been a one-time thing? Or are you hoping he’ll bring it up again? Are you hoping he’ll come knock on your door right now? You stare at your bedroom door. It’s way too quiet outside. No Seiko, no Satoru. You check the time—past noon. They’re probably both still dead asleep. But what if he’s not? What if he’s in the kitchen? What if you walk out there and it’s awkward as hell and he doesn’t even look at you the same? Your heart starts pounding. You’re suddenly, intensely aware that you’re still wearing that damn black skirt. It’s wrinkled and rides up your thighs in your bed like a cruel joke. You pull your blanket over your head and groan. Nope. You’re not going out there. Not yet. Not until you know what the hell to say to the boy who fucked you over a sink last night and then waved at you across the room like he hadn’t just ruined your entire life. You eventually force yourself out of bed. It takes a long, boiling shower, half a bottle of ibuprofen, and several internal pep talks, but you finally open your bedroom door and step into the hallway—blank expression, huge hoodie, and an unholy craving for caffeine.

The apartment is quiet. No Seiko. No Suguru. But you hear faint kitchen sounds—running water, a mug clinking against the counter. Your stomach drops. You turn the corner. Satoru’s there. Leaning over the counter with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, looking very not hungover. His hair is damp—he’s clearly already showered—and he’s in a pair of loose sweats, shirtless, like he doesn’t even know what modesty is. You almost turn around. But he glances up. And you’re already seen. “Oh,” he says, like you’ve bumped into him at the fucking supermarket, not—well. Not after last night. “Morning.”

You blink. “Hey.” He sets his phone down. You make a beeline for the coffee machine, not looking at him. You feel him watching you, though. And not in a last night way. Not in a “you looked so good riding me against the bathroom sink” way. More like… a confused “are we just pretending that never happened?” kind of way. You clear your throat. “You sleep okay?” He pauses a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says finally. “You?” You nod. Pour yourself coffee. “Fine.” Silence. You sip. He sips. The room is so quiet you can hear the tick of the old wall clock. “So…” you say, and instantly regret it. You don’t even know what you were going to follow that up with. There’s no “so.” There’s no normal segue into hey remember when you pushed my panties to the side and said I was making too much noise? You don’t even finish the thought. He scratches the back of his neck. “So,” he echoes with a crooked smile, “that was a party, huh?” You huff out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Yeah. Yeah, it… was.” Silence again. You glance over at him—and he’s looking at you. Not in a teasing way. Not flirty, not smug. Just… like he’s trying to read you. Gauge your reaction. His voice is careful when he says, “I didn’t think we were doing spin the bottle last night.”

“Oh yeah,” you say lightly, hoping your smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “That was a… surprise.” He hums. Sips again. Neither of you brings up the closet. Or the bathroom. You both stand there, drinking bad coffee in your shared silence, pretending like nothing did. And somehow that’s worse. You suddenly can’t stand it—the way your heart keeps jumping every time he shifts, like you’re waiting for him to say something. Clarify something. But he doesn’t. And you don’t. So instead, you mutter, “I’m gonna go back to my room.” He looks at you for half a second too long. Nods. “Yeah. Okay.” You carry your coffee out, heart beating stupidly fast. You shut your door behind you and lean against it like you just escaped something dangerous. Because you did. You escaped the conversation where he might’ve said it was a mistake. But now you don’t know if he wanted to say the opposite, either. And the not-knowing might just kill you first. You hear the shuffle of his feet in the hallway—his bedroom door creaking open, the sigh he lets out when he realizes the apartment is still quiet. But you’re already locked inside your room, sitting in bed in one of your oversized hoodies, a brutal hangover kicking at your temples. You don't even check your phone. You just stare at the ceiling, mouth dry, heart pounding. God. What the hell did you do?

–

By Monday, it’s not just a one-day silence. It turns into a pattern. You start rehearsing escape routes—routes that avoid the kitchen, the couch, his side of campus. You’re back to taking the bus instead of the ride he always used to offer, lying to Seiko with dumb excuses like “I left early” or “I had to drop by the post office.” When he passes you in the hallway of your apartment, you duck into your room before he can speak. He notices. You can feel it.

On Tuesday, you hear the jangle of his keys, the creak of the front door, and his heavy, dragging steps like he’s tired. You hold your breath when his steps pause in front of your door for just a second too long. Then they continue—out to the living room. You exhale only after the TV starts playing. You don’t know why you’re avoiding him so hard. Maybe it’s the embarrassment. The fact that you kissed him first. That you dragged him into the bathroom like a fucking hormonal maniac. That you wanted him. That he let you want him. You replay the way he looked at you in the mirror. The way he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. But maybe that’s just how he kisses. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. You feel sick. And then there’s the other thing. The gnawing guilt of knowing this isn’t just some random guy. This is Seiko’s older brother. You practically grew up knowing him, teasing him, getting teased back. She’s known about your stupid little high school crush—but she never knew it’d turn into this. And even though she’d never be mad, a part of you feels like you broke a silent code. Like you crossed something.

So now you smile extra wide when you’re with her. Laugh too loud. Ask too many questions about Suguru, just to keep her focused on anything else. You don’t mention Satoru. You never do. And she doesn’t bring him up either, like maybe she senses something’s off. Satoru, on the other hand? He’s not playing pretend. By Wednesday, he’s straight-up glaring at you in the kitchen. You enter to grab a water bottle and find him already there, shirtless, hair tousled from sleep. He glances up from his mug of coffee, and his jaw tics when you avoid eye contact, grab the bottle, and turn around with barely a “Morning.”

“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t ask what he means. You just shut your bedroom door behind you again and let your back make contact with your bed, heart racing in your ribs. Thursday at campus, he walks straight past you outside the lecture hall, pretending to text. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say hi. You’d feel relieved, but instead you feel… a little sick.

By Friday, you start catching him staring. Not the playful stares he used to throw when you were snarking at him on the couch, or the amused glances during group study when you used to roast Seiko. These are different. Sharper. Tight-lipped. Like he’s trying to understand what the fuck your problem is and fighting the urge to demand answers. In the library, he walks in with two friends and pauses when he sees you sitting alone. For a second, your eyes lock. Your heart jumps. You go cold. He raises his brows just a little—like a challenge. Like he’s asking, So this is how it is now?

You immediately lower your gaze to your textbook.

You don’t look up again until you hear him walk away.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You know the creak of every floorboard by now. You time your kitchen runs for when he's in the shower. You fake calls on the walk home if he’s in the distance across campus. You’ve perfected the art of silence—of vanishing just before your name could leave his mouth.

You’re not proud of it. But you're not ready to talk either. Every time you see him—or almost see him—your stomach knots. It’s not just the fact that you had sex with your best friend’s older brother. It’s the fact that it meant something. At least to you. And now you don’t know if it did to him.

You don’t know what he thinks. You don’t know if he regrets it. You don’t know if he wants to do it again or pretend it never happened. You don’t know anything, and not knowing feels safer than asking. You avoid the kitchen unless Seiko’s there. You don’t ride in Suguru’s car anymore. You take the campus loop bus—even if it’s late, even if it’s raining, even if the seats are soaked and the heater doesn’t work. At least it keeps you away from him.

Every day, you pretend like you're fine.

“Why do you always look like you’re about to throw up when I mention Satoru?” Seiko teases lightly one afternoon when you’re curled up on the couch scrolling on your phone. You blink too quickly. “I do not,” you lie. “Yeah, you do,” she laughs, “like, every time. Are you two fighting or something?” You force a smile, heart thumping. “I just find him annoying. You know that.” She shrugs, unconvinced. “Okay, but you used to like him annoying. Now you look like you’re allergic to him.”

By Saturday, the tension is visible. Even Seiko’s starting to pick up on it—on how quiet Satoru’s become, how he doesn’t crack jokes like he used to, how the apartment suddenly feels like it has an emotional landmine buried under the carpet. And he’s not being subtle either. He slams more drawers. Leaves the fridge open longer than needed. One morning, you hear him mutter, “She’s literally acting like I murdered her family,” through the wall after you ducked out of the bathroom the second he walked in.

You curl into yourself. Guilt swarms you. Guilt for sleeping with him. Guilt for liking it. Guilt for making it weird. Guilt for hiding it. Guilt for lying to Seiko. Guilt for how you can’t look either of them in the eye anymore.

And the worst part?

You miss him. You miss the sound of his dumb laugh from the couch. The way he stole your fries off your plate. The smug smirk he gave when he caught you staring. You miss him when he's in the same room, and you miss him when he's not. But you're too afraid to fix it.

Too afraid of what it could become. Or worse—what it won’t.

It’s Sunday evening when it finally happens. You’d just gotten out of the shower, damp hair sticking to your neck, hoodie slipping too far off one shoulder. You’re halfway through towel-drying it in your room when you hear the unmistakable sound of the front door swinging shut and keys being dumped into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.

And your stomach sinks. You know who it is.

You freeze, listening. It’s late—Seiko’s staying at a friend’s dorm tonight, which means it’s just you. And him. In the apartment. Your heart starts to thump like a speaker at a frat house—deep, rhythmic, inescapable. You think maybe if you stay quiet, if you keep your lights off, if you just wait it out, he’ll go straight to his room.

But then—

Knock. Knock. Knock. Three sharp, deliberate knocks against your door. Not frantic. Not tentative. Just controlled. Frustrated. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Open the door,” he says through it. Calm. But not neutral. There’s heat simmering just beneath it. You don’t move. Another knock.

“I know you’re in there.”

A pause.

“And I know you’re avoiding me.”

You grit your teeth, lips parting. For a second, you contemplate telling him to fuck off. But you can’t bring yourself to say it—not when your whole body still remembers his touch, his voice in your ear, the way he’d held your hips like he couldn’t get enough of you. “I’m not,” you lie weakly, and it sounds like you’re underwater. A dry laugh.

“Right. You’re not.”

You stand frozen for a moment longer before your body acts for you. Fingers wrapping around the doorknob, turning it slowly until the latch clicks. You pull it open just enough to see him—his hoodie slung low over his head, eyes darker than usual, like the week of silence has worn down even his confidence. There’s a long silence. You shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

“Look, I—I don’t think we should talk about it, okay?” you mumble, eyes flicking away. “It was a party. We were drunk. It happened. Let’s just… not make it a big deal.”

His jaw flexes.

“You think I’m making it a big deal?”

You flinch. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” he says, stepping forward, his voice dipping lower. “You’re the one pretending it didn’t happen. You’re the one who’s been acting like I don’t fucking exist.”

You glance back toward the darkened hallway, heart pounding.

“I’ve just been busy, Satoru.”

“Cut the shit.”

His voice is low but harsh now, the syllables snapping through the space between you.

“I text you, you leave me to read. You see me on campus, and you bolt like I’m some fucking stalker. You won’t even look at me. What the hell did I do that was so wrong?”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s not—it’s not about what you did,” you say quickly, voice cracking.

He stares at you like he doesn’t believe you.

“I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know what that was, okay? I don’t know what it meant.”

His eyes narrow. “Why does it have to mean something?”

You blink. “Because it does.”

The words come out louder than you meant.

And then it’s quiet. Heavy.

You suddenly feel very, very tired.

“I just…” You swallow. “It’s hard. You’re Seiko’s brother. And you’re you. You’re, like, Satoru fucking Gojo. And I’m just—me. And I don’t want to be some… joke you tell your frat friends later.”

His face tightens.

“Is that what you think this is?”

You flinch. He takes a step forward.

“You think I’d fuck you in a bathroom at a party and then just go brag about it to Suguru or some shit?”

“I don’t know!” you snap, voice cracking. “I don’t know what the fuck to think!”

You feel it bubbling up now—hot, sharp, impossible to contain. A week’s worth of bottled-up emotion, self-doubt, mortification, and frustration bleeding into your voice.

“I’ve liked you since I was seventeen and you used to sneak Red Bulls during our tutoring breaks at your guys’ house—I didn’t even like Red Bull, by the way—and now we’re living in the same fucking apartment, and you’ve seen me in my pajamas and kissed me like you were starving for it and then we had sex, and then I had to wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t make my whole world tilt sideways!”

Your breath comes out shaky, chest heaving now.

“And you—God,” you choke out, eyes stinging, “you said nothing the next morning. Not even, like, a normal-person ‘are you okay’ or ‘hey, about last night.’ No. You made some dumbass joke about not knowing they’d have spin the bottle at the party—like that was the most significant thing that happened!”

You throw your hands up, exasperated and hurt all over again.

“And I just stood there like an idiot, laughing it off, because I didn’t know if it was casual for you or if I meant nothing, and meanwhile I spent the whole week overanalyzing every single second while you probably just carried on like it was any other night!” Satoru is silent. Frozen. Jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on you like he can’t believe you’ve been holding all of this inside. That you’ve been carrying it around like this pain belonged only to you.

“I felt like a fucking joke, Satoru,” you say quieter now, voice trembling. “And I didn’t know if I was allowed to be hurt. I didn’t know if I was overreacting. So I did the only thing I could do—I avoided you. Because if I didn’t, I think I would’ve cried or worse—told you I still wanted you, even if you didn’t feel the same.” The air between you two is thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. He takes a slow step forward, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse—real. “I didn’t know what the fuck to say,” he admits. “I woke up and I panicked. I thought if I made it casual, you’d feel like you had an easy out. Like it wouldn’t be weird for you.” You look up at him, throat tight. “Yeah?” you say bitterly. “Well, it was.”

“I know,” he says, wincing. “I know. And I’m sorry.” A pause. You don’t move. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he adds quietly. “I was trying to be cool about it, and I ended up being a complete fucking idiot.” You say nothing. He sighs.

“I should’ve just said I liked kissing you,” he says simply. “Because I did. I liked it too much, and it freaked me out.” You blink hard. Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He takes another step closer. “You weren’t a one-night thing,” he says, voice low. “You’re not a joke. You never have been.” A breathless silence. Your heart is pounding again—but for a different reason now. “So, we’re good now?,” he asks lightly. You manage a small smile. “Yeah.”

Another beat passes, and then his voice drops again—quiet, careful. “Can we stop pretending it didn’t happen?” You take a breath. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie. Your skin feels hot. You nod. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

He smiles—slow, crooked, a little relieved.

“Cool,” he murmurs, stepping past you with a brush of his fingers at your hip. “Now come out and eat. You’ve been emo all week.”

“Don’t call me emo,” you groan.

“Don’t ghost me, then.” You pause in the doorway, watching as he disappears into the kitchen. And despite the pounding in your chest, for the first time in days, something eases in your shoulders.

–

It starts off subtle. A shoulder bump in the kitchen. His fingers brushing yours when he passes the remote. You stealing sips from his drink even though you said you didn’t want one. But over the last few weeks, it’s become undeniable. You and Satoru have gotten so close. Not in the subtle, barely-speaking, ‘are-they-even-on-good-terms’ way you were for that agonizing, slow, emotionally repressed stretch of time—but in the obnoxiously familiar, joyfully flirty, constantly-hovering-near-each-other way that screams something happened, and they’re definitely doing it again. There’s no dramatic sit-down. No DTR talk. But it’s in everything you do. It’s the way he stretches out across the couch just so his legs rest over your lap when Seiko’s watching TV next to you, unfazed. The way you lean into him during group hangouts, like he’s a magnetic pull you don’t even fight anymore. Today, it’s the three of you again—Seiko, you, and Satoru—on a sunny late afternoon, draped across the living room in varying states of half-productivity and snack-crunching. He has his head dangerously close to your thigh on the couch, while he himself is sprawled across on it, flipping through something on his phone, one hand absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. You’re seated with your legs crossed, scrolling through TikTok and trying not to smile every time his ivory hair glints in the afternoon sunlight. 

Seiko’s half-watching a show but keeps glancing, suspicious.

“Okay,” she says suddenly, pointing her spoon at the both of you, “I swear to God you two were being emo little freaks like two weeks ago.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You literally wouldn’t even look at each other at breakfast, and now you’re basically spooning on the couch like that’s normal.” Satoru doesn’t look up. “I am a very cuddly person,” he says, flipping to the next Instagram story. You nudge him in the side with your foot. “He is not,” you tell Seiko, grinning. “I was gaslit,” she says. “You both made me think I was imagining the tension.”

“You were,” you and Satoru say at the same time. Then you both glance at each other and immediately start cracking up. “Unbelievable,” Seiko mutters, digging her spoon back into her cereal. “I should’ve known when he voluntarily washed a dish that something was up.” Satoru reaches up and steals a spoonful of cereal straight out of her bowl. “Hey!” she swats at him, “Get your own! Don’t touch my food, you asshole.” The rest of the day is just like that—subtle teasing, casual touches, too-long eye contact that gives everything away. When he gets up to grab snacks, he asks if you want anything with this easy, domestic sort of confidence. When you hand him your phone to look at a meme, his fingers graze yours on purpose. And when you walk back from the kitchen later, he slides over on the couch without a word, making space for you in that casual, of course you’ll sit here next to me kind of way. At one point, you’re both squished together, sharing the same blanket, knees knocking under it—and Seiko just stares.

She mutters, “I’m living in hell.” You and Satoru both just grin. 

–

You had the apartment to yourself.

Lectures had moved online because of some water damage in the psych building, so you were living the absolute dream: cozy hoodie, panties, blanket burrito, Modern Family playing at low volume, and a warm mug of tea in your hands. It was gray outside—light drizzle tapping at the windows—and you had zero plans to leave the couch bed you made in your room. That was, until you hear the apartment door slam shut. You freeze. It’s too early for Seiko to be back. And she would’ve yelled something dumb the second she walked in. Which means—

“Yo,” Satoru calls out, voice echoing down the hallway.

Shit.

You panic for half a second, adjusting your blanket like you’ve been caught watching porn instead of a sitcom. “I’m in my room!” you shout back, hoping he takes the hint. He doesn’t. Your door creaks open without hesitation, and you barely sit up before he’s leaning against the frame, one brow cocked, his stupidly gorgeous face framed by the light behind him. 

“Seriously?” you groan. “Ever heard of knocking? What if I was changing and I was naked?” He just grins, blue eyes flickering over you—messy hair, oversized hoodie, bare thighs, popcorn-stained blanket and all. “I've already been inside you,” he shrugs casually, stepping in like it’s his room. “What’s the difference, really?” Your mouth drops open. “Satoru—!”He plops down beside you before you can finish, laughing to himself as you bury your face in the blanket in mortified silence. “You’re unbelievable,” you mumble, trying to will away the heat crawling up your neck. He nudges your leg with his knee under the blanket. “So what’re we watching, sweetheart?”

You hesitate, because saying Modern Family out loud just feels embarrassing now. “...Modern Family.” Satoru squints at you, unimpressed. “Again? You’ve seen every episode like twelve times.”

You turn to face him, making a point of shoving popcorn in your mouth like it’ll shut him up. “And? It’s comfort TV. Sue me.” But he doesn’t argue. He just shifts lower, stealing a handful of popcorn and tossing a few pieces into his mouth while kicking his shoes off. You watch him stretch out beside you, long limbs taking up all the space, thigh pressing up against yours under the blanket. He doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do you. Not until his hand slips under the blanket—just resting on your bare thigh this time, warm and casual, but very much intentional. You shoot him a look. “Seriously?”

“What?” he murmurs, not even glancing over. “It’s cold. You’re warm. Let me live.”

“Your hand is on my skin.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Oh, is that what that is?” You elbow him lightly, but it doesn’t make him move. If anything, he just sinks further into your side, his knuckles brushing slow, lazy circles against your thigh like he knows exactly what he's doing. Which—of course he does. “You’re the worst,” you mutter.

“I’m your worst,” he says, soft and teasing. You swallow. The blanket suddenly feels a little too warm. A long moment passes with the two of you just… lying there. Watching Cam and Mitch bumble through fatherhood while Satoru’s fingers trace delicate lines higher and higher on your leg, never quite crossing the line, but dancing at the edge of it. He’s so casual about it—like this is normal now. Like it’s his right to touch you, to be here, stretched out in your bed and smirking at you like you’re already his. But this time, he leans in and kisses your jaw—soft, slow, and maddeningly smug—you don’t pull away. You’re kind of surprised, you didn’t think he’d just… do that. Your face is still warm from his jaw kiss, but you try—try—to keep your attention on the TV. It’s useless. You can feel him watching you now, feel the soft trail of his fingers inching up your thigh again beneath the blanket. Barely touching. Barely even real. “You’re nervous,” he says quietly, amused. “Don’t like me touching you?” He hums playfully, squeezing your thigh.

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, not meeting his eyes.

“You are,” he insists, voice dropping. “You’re so twitchy. What, am I distracting?” You glare at him, but he just grins.

“God, you’re annoying.” 

He leans closer, chin resting on your shoulder, lips right by your ear. “You didn’t think I was annoying when you were moaning my name in that bathroom.” You freeze, body going still all at once. Then you punch him weakly in the arm, because what the fuck is he even trying to do right now. “That was so unnecessary.”

“Was it?” he hums. “’Cause you sound a little breathless right now.” You hate him. You do. Especially when his hand starts tracing the hem of your oversized hoodie, pushing it up so slowly your brain short-circuits. It’s featherlight, like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Instead, you clutch the blanket tighter as his fingers drag higher up your thigh, brushing over the edge of your underwear like he’s not doing anything at all. “Satoru,” you whisper, a warning—or a plea, you’re not sure. His mouth is back at your ear. “Mm, I love when you say it like that.” Then, casually, he lifts the blanket and looks. You panic. “Hey—!” But he’s smirking now, pupils darker, lips parted a little as he eyes your bare legs, the little black cotton panties with a small lace trim that were not meant for an audience today. “Cute,” he murmurs, like he’s impressed, like you planned this. “Didn’t take you for a lace girl.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary.” you whisper-shout, trying to tug the blanket back down—but he catches your wrist. His other hand slides fully under your hoodie now, across your stomach, warm and flat, and you whimper when his thumb brushes just under the band of your underwear. You shouldn’t let him. You really shouldn’t. But his voice is so low, so goddamn casual, as he says: “Want me to help you relax?” Your breath stutters. He shifts closer, practically between your legs now, his face inches from yours, and that cocky smirk is gone—replaced by something slower. Hungrier. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face toward him, and your eyes flutter shut because this is so bad, but you don’t want him to stop.

And then—

You feel his fingers press down through the fabric, right against your core. You gasp, one hand flying to his chest like you could push him away—but you don’t. You curl your fingers into his hoodie instead. 

“Still watching Modern Family?” he whispers, like it’s a joke, like he’s not circling you over your underwear with unbearable gentleness. “You’re the worst person alive,” you hiss. “Mm, maybe,” he murmurs, lips grazing your cheek. “But I’m making you feel so good right now, aren’t I?” You don’t answer. You can’t—not when he’s pressing a little harder, rubbing small, unhurried circles into your clit above your panties, and watching your face like he wants to memorize it. And then—then—he moves down. You squeak, trying to grab at him, but he pins your hips with both hands and laughs into your stomach, breath hot against your skin as he pulls your underwear to the side.

“Relax,” he says again, and this time it’s softer. “Let me take care of you.” You suck in a breath, the kind that gets trapped in your throat and goes nowhere. He has your thighs spread, his palms anchoring them down to the mattress as he looks at you—really looks at you—with that ravenous kind of amusement. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your hipbone, lips brushing it like an afterthought. “No, I’m not,” you breathe, even though you definitely are. One slow kiss, then another, lower now, until you’re arching just a little, just enough. You try to close your legs, try to pull the hoodie back down, try anything to regain a sliver of control—but his hands just tighten around your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you. “Settle down,” he says again, voice dropped to something filthy. 

“God, you're always so wound up. Gonna eat that pussy so good you’ll become nice ‘n easy f’me.” And then you feel him lick a stripe up your inner thigh. Your whole body jolts like it’s been electrocuted.

“Satoru—”

“Shh,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like he’s focused. Like he’s thinking about what he’s going to do to you and not much else. His fingers trail back up, slow, pushing your hoodie higher, letting his knuckles brush your ribs. He mouths at your skin the whole way up—your stomach, your side, your breasts, paying extra attention to your hardened nipples—before dragging himself back down again with that same dizzying patience. "You're not stopping me," he murmurs, breath ghosting over your soaked underwear. “So either you really want me to behave badly or you're just shy about asking.” You cover your face with one hand. “Oh my god.”

 He chuckles, dragging his tongue over your inner thigh again. “That’s not a no.” And then he finally—finally—slips your underwear to the side and drags a single, long finger through your folds. You gasp—loudly this time—and his grip on your thigh tightens.

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost reverent. “You’re so wet.”

You can’t respond. You can’t even think. He takes his time, thumb pressing against your clit as his fingers prod at your entrance gently, teasing, but not thrusting them in. And then his mouth replaces his fingers. You cry out—like, actually cry out—as he licks you, slow and indulgent, like he's tasting dessert. One of his hands stays on your thigh, firm and possessive, and the other slips up to squeeze your waist, your breast, anything he can reach. And his mouth—god, his mouth moves in unhurried circles, like he’s savoring it, like he missed this. He drags his tongue up, swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, giving it a little suck, before dragging his tongue down to circle against your entrance torturously. You’re squirming again. But this time, he lets you. “Yeah,” he murmurs between licks, “that’s more like it. You sound so sweet when you stop pretending you don’t want me.” You bite your knuckle to keep quiet, but he catches your hand and pulls it away. “Let me hear you,” he says, more serious now. “I want you to be loud for me.”And then—he uses his fingers too. He slips one inside, knuckle deep as he pumps it in and out, adding a second one when he hears you whine his name. 

“That’s it, baby.” 

You writhe, head falling back into the pillows, one arm flung over your eyes as he builds you up with an obscene kind of precision—his tongue, his fingers, the soft praise he keeps murmuring in between. “You’re doing so good for me.” He harshly sucks at your clit again, all while his fingers are pistoning in and out of you, causing you to clamp down. “Feel how hard you’re clenching?” You're dripping. You’re trembling. You're seconds away from falling apart, and he knows it. But he slows down. You whine, hips rocking. “Satoru—”

He pulls back just a little, breath warm against your thigh. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you want.” You blink at him, dazed. "You're literally—inside me—"

He grins. “Still. Say it.” Your face burns, but your voice is desperate now. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Satoru,” you choke, “please don’t stop eating me out.” And he doesn’t. He keeps going until you fall apart for him, loud and shaking and so far gone that the only word on your lips is his name. You come, his name falling off your lips like a mantra while he continues licking and slurping until you quite literally yank his head off from between your thighs. And even then—he doesn’t move. He kisses you once, soft and slow, like he’s easing you back into your body. Then again, higher up this time, then again, like he can’t quite stop. Your hoodie is bunched under your arms. Your thighs are limp. Your body’s still trembling—soft and flushed and pliant—when he presses a kiss just below your navel and murmurs, “Told you I’d take care of you.” You barely manage to lift your head. “I hate you.” He grins against your skin. “Liar.” You want to respond. You do. But then he’s kissing his way up, slow and lazy, nudging your hoodie higher until it bunches just above your tits. You whimper into his mouth as he moves up to kiss you again, deeper this time, and while you’re distracted—dazed and gasping—he grabs your thighs and pulls them apart, slotting himself between them like it’s his god-given right. His hands palm at your breasts lazily, grinning when he feels you buck your hips against the bulge in his sweats, canines out on display as he grins down at you.  “Satoru,” you breathe, but he just smiles.

“Round two, baby.” 

You’re still in your hoodie and panties—just tugged out of place—and he doesn’t bother taking them off. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the band and pushes them aside again like it’s easy, like it’s familiar now. And then he’s grinding down against you, hard and slow, through his sweats, and you moan so loudly he laughs. “You that sensitive already?” he teases, rolling his hips again. “Shit—look at you. Still twitching.” 

“Shut up.”

“No,” he purrs, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw. “Not when you’re soaking through your panties like that. You think I’m gonna shut up now?” You try to glare at him. It fails. He grabs your hand, his plush bottom lip between his teeth, white lashes fluttering when you take the hint and squeeze him through his sweats.

“Mmf– Not that I’m pressuring you or anything, but sweets I need you–”

“You are not pressuring me, so please, hurry up before I genuinely explode.”

“Wow, so eager for me. Having my tongue in you wasn’t enough?”

“Just put it in already before I punch you—”

“Fine! But I don’t have condoms on me right now, used the last one up to fuck you on that sink, remember?”

“I don’t care, I’m on birth control anyways—”

Then he’s pushing his sweats down just enough, lining himself up—and you gasp, grabbing his shoulders as he slides in so slowly you think you might cry.  He hisses through his teeth. “Fuck—still so tight. Like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“Maybe I am.”

He laughs again, shaky and breathless. “Too bad. I’m not going anywhere. Other than this pussy.” He sets a rhythm—slow at first, deep and dragging, rocking into you like he wants to take his time—but the moment your nails dig into his back and your breath hitches, he growls and picks up pace. His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your collarbone, your lips—and all the while he’s muttering filth against your skin:

“You feel that? How good I fill you up?”

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all week, huh?”

“Say my name again. C’mon, baby. Say it while I fuck you.” You do. Over and over. At some point, he shifts—sits back on his heels and pulls you with him, dragging your hips into his lap. The new angle makes your vision blur. “Oh my god—Satoru—” “There she is,” he groans, watching where your bodies meet, sweat-slick hair falling over his forehead. “So fucking pretty like this. Gonna come again for me?” You nod helplessly. He just grins and thrusts harder. And when you fall apart a second time—loud and breathless and clinging to him like you’ll never let go—he follows with a broken moan, burying his face in your neck as he shudders and pulses inside you, the warmth seeping from his cock making you shudder. For a long moment, there’s only your breathing. Then, finally, he flops onto the bed beside you, tugs you into his chest, and says, “So… no head?” You groan. He laughs. And somewhere beneath the covers, his hand is already sliding down your thigh again.

“Round three?” he says, hopeful.

You smack him with a pillow.

He still ends up getting round three.

And then round four.

And then round five, until you both are so exhausted and sweaty that he almost falls asleep instead of getting up to wipe the copious amounts of him trickling out onto your thighs. Once you’re cleaned up, he flops next to you dramatically, limbs sprawled across the bed like a starfish, chest rising and falling. “I’m the love of your life,” he murmurs, trailing a lazy hand across your stomach. “You just don’t wanna admit it yet.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not filing a restraining order first thing tomorrow.” He fake gasps, curling into you like you mortally wounded him. “You’re evil.” 

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. “And you’re much more evil than me.”

“And yet.” He kisses your shoulder. “You let me hit five rounds.” You shove him again, but it’s gentle this time. Less of a shove, more of a pat. He takes it as an invitation to climb on top of you, settling there like a smug human blanket. “You’re heavy,” you complain, breath catching when his nose brushes yours. “You’re soft,” he says, grinning. You smack his arm again, and he laughs like this is the happiest he’s ever been—like lying half-naked on you, sweaty and spent, is the best part of his day. 

“Hey,” he says after a moment, quieter now, eyes still a little mischievous but softer at the edges. “I meant it, y’know. Earlier.”

“Meant what?”

“That I wanna take care of you.” 

Your breath hitches. He kisses your forehead like he’s sealing a promise. “Not just when I’m being disgusting.” You look up at him—this boy with starlight in his eyes and trouble in his grin—and your chest does a weird little flip. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay,” he echoes, and grins so wide it hurts. “But just to clarify, I am still gonna be disgusting.” He’s tracing shapes on your back with lazy fingers. Random squiggles, probably. Or maybe dicks. It’s Satoru—you can never be sure. But then he pauses. And says, softly, “I’m serious though.” 

You blink against his skin. “About being disgusting? Yeah, we all know.” He chuckles, but it’s a breath short of his usual dramatics. “No,” he says, thumb brushing the curve of your waist. “About you. About this.” Your heart stutters, because the air suddenly shifts—goes tender and quiet and a little fragile. You pull back just enough to see his face. He’s looking at you. Not in the way he usually does—like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve, or a joke he’s waiting for you to get. He’s just looking. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.

“Satoru…”

“I like you,” he says, simple as anything. “Like, actually. Not just because you’re hot and I’ve seen your underwear drawer, totally on accident, I came to drop your take out in your room—although, bonus.” 

You huff a laugh. “Wow. You’re really bad at this.”

“I’m being vulnerable, asshole.” You grin despite yourself, heart pounding. “Sorry. Continue.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you, messy hair falling into his eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he says, voice lower now. “Didn’t think I’d end up catching feelings for my little sister’s best friend who constantly calls me a freak.”

“You are a freak,” you murmur.

“Right, but now I’m your freak.” You stare at him. 

“Satoru.” 

He snorts. “Okay, fair. But I’ve been gone for three years, and then I come back and suddenly you’re all grown up and hot and stomping around the apartment like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are burning. “And then,” he continues, brushing his fingers along your cheek, “we actually start talking again and you’re smart and annoying and make me laugh, and you’re just so perfect… Like, I genuinely cannot express it in words, and I was stupid to think that you were like a sister to me. Because you're really not. You're so, so far from that assumption of mine that I wanna write it out in an essay just to prove to you how badly I want you in the most romantic way possible and in the least sisterly way possible.” You blink. He looks down, lips twitching faintly. “And now I’m totally fucked, because I don’t not want you anymore. I just want this. You. Always.” 

You swallow, heart in your throat. “You mean that?”

“Dead serious.” He grins, but it’s gentler now. “Unless you’re about to reject me, in which case I was absolutely joking and this never happened.” You laugh, a real one this time, and you kiss him before he can keep talking—soft and lingering, your fingers curling in his hair. When you pull back, he’s staring at you with stars in his eyes. “Okay,” you whisper. “You win. I like you too. A lot. But for clarification I always liked you in a very non brotherly way.” He raises an eyebrow. “So… you’re saying I’m your freak now?” You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Regret.” 

But his arms are already around you, holding you tight. “Too late,” he murmurs into your hair, smiling like he just got everything he’s ever wanted. “You’re stuck with me.” You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep, dickhead.”

“I will,” he says, pulling the blanket down to kiss you. “Right after I cuddle the love of my life.”

“Gross.”

“You like me.”

“I do not.”

“You let me do unspeakable things to you thirty minutes ago.”

“…Shut up.”

“Love of my liiiiiife.”

“Seiko’s gonna murder me.”

“She’ll have to kill me first.” You roll your eyes, but when he finally lays down properly, arm slung around your waist, legs tangled with yours, you realize you're smiling again. Like an idiot. A very, very satisfied idiot.

You wake up the next morning, tangled in Satoru’s arms and covered in way too many bite marks to explain away, when—

“HEY—have you seen Satoru—”

The door bursts open. You jolt upright. Seiko stands frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, her mouth dropping open in real-time. You barely get out a squeaky “Wait—!” before—

“OH MY GOD!” She SCREAMS, turns on her heel, and is sprinting down the hallway. You immediately start panicking. “Satoru. Satoru. Wake up. She saw—she SAW—oh my god, we’re so done, she’s gonna KILL ME—”

He groans and pulls the blanket back over his head like a child. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, I fucked your sister’s brother! Wait—I am your sister’s—whatever! It’s over! It’s—”

“Relax,” he says, tugging you back down to the bed effortlessly. “C’mere. If I’m going to die today, I want to die cuddling.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums, nosing into your hair. “Good morning, girlfriend.”

“You’re gonna make me throw up.”

“Speaking of,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, “any interest in morning sex? I feel like I didn’t fully appreciate round four last night. Too much of my blood was in my ears.” You slap his chest. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious—”

The door SLAMS open again. 

“MY CHILDREN!” Suguru’s voice rings out, loud and unrepentant. “I WIN!” 

You both sit up in bed, tangled in sheets, wide-eyed. There stands Suguru, holding up a phone like a camcorder. Seiko is beside him, arms crossed and pouting like you just ruined her birthday. 

“Suguru what the fuck—”

“Say hi to the camera!” he beams. “I bet Seiko fifty bucks you two would be together by the start of the month. Thank you for not making me lose money, I really needed this win.”

“SUGURU,” you yell, diving under the blanket like you can hide from your sins. “DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW.”

Seiko flops dramatically onto your bed like it’s her dignity that’s been compromised. “Couldn’t you have waited one more week to bang my brother? You had no self-control?” Satoru is laughing. Fully laughing, his head tipped back like this is the best morning of his life.

“Why are you mad at her?” he asks Seiko. “I’m the one who did all the—”

“NOPE!” Seiko shouts, throwing a pillow at his face. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving with the footage,” Suguru smirks, zooming in. You lunge at him with a second pillow. “SUGURU I SWEAR TO GOD—” Satoru just sighs contentedly, dragging you back into bed. “Honestly? This is better than morning sex.”

“You’re the worst person alive.” He kisses your cheek. “Love you too, sweets.”

–

Dating Gojo Satoru is somehow exactly what you expected and also nothing like it at all.

Because yes—he’s still cocky. Still dramatic. Still flirts with you like it’s a sport and throws your shared laundry onto the fan when he’s bored. But he also brings you coffee before your 9AMs, lets you wear his hoodies even though he grumbles about you “stretching them out with your cute little shoulders,” and texts you things like “missing u like crazy. come home and bully me 😞” when you’re gone for more than three hours. Seiko, naturally, has not let you live. “I literally can’t believe you,” she sighs one morning over brunch, watching you and Gojo bicker over who gets the last pancake like it’s her personal sitcom. “I brought him into this house and you betrayed me by falling for him.” You blink at her innocently. “Technically I was in love with him before I moved in.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“She’s gonna be your sister-in-law one day,” Satoru says with a grin, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “You should be happy.”

“I’m going to be sick,” she deadpans, sipping her coffee. “I don’t know who disgusts me more—you for dating her, or her for dating you.” You and Satoru just exchange a look. Then you make out across the table.

Loudly. Seiko drops her fork. 

“I’m leaving the country.”

Later That Week — Somewhere in His Car, 11:42 PM

It’s a warm night. The kind that clings to your skin and makes the windows fog up, even though all you’re doing is eating ice cream in the backseat of Satoru’s ridiculous Lexus like teenagers who just discovered kissing. You're wearing one of his shirts. He’s got his arm lazily around your shoulder, legs stretched out, cone half-melted in his hand. Music hums softly from the speakers—some dreamy indie song he said reminded him of you once.

“I used to wear bras that were too big just because I thought you liked girls with big tits,” you say, out of nowhere.

He chokes.

“What?”

You shrug, licking your spoon. “Yup. Used to stuff socks in them sometimes too. And I tried wearing eyeliner in like… freshman year. I looked like a raccoon. But I was like, ‘he likes girls with winged liner.’ So.”

Gojo is crying. Literal tears are in his eyes as he wheezes, “You wore sock boobs for me?!”

“I was thirteen and stupidly in love with your furby looking ass,” you grumble, face burning. “Nooo,” he says through laughter, clutching his stomach. “No way. You were cosplaying as a B-cup for me??”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“I’m honored. I feel chosen.” You roll your eyes, fake sulking. “And you didn’t even notice. Wow.” He wipes his eyes, still smiling like a menace. “Okay but to be fair, I was like… what, seventeen? If I had noticed, it would’ve been a little criminal.”

You groan. “Fine, I guess you’re right.” He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “But I notice everything now.” You narrow your eyes. “Smooth.”

“Did it work?” You nod, slow. “Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sit in silence for a second, ice cream long forgotten. His thumb grazes the side of your jaw as he looks at you like he already knows every version of you—the teenage one with stuffed bras, the sarcastic college version who screamed at him in group projects, the current one who’s still a little awkward when she’s vulnerable but learning to let him in anyway. “You’re my favorite person,” he says suddenly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And you can’t even pretend to be cool about it.

“God,” you whisper, burying your face in his hoodie. “Don’t make me cry while I’m holding a fudge sundae.” He laughs, pulling you closer, arms wrapping fully around your waist. “No promises,” he mumbles into your hair. “But I’ve got napkins.” You kiss him, soft and unhurried. He tastes like vanilla. The windows fog up a little more. Somewhere in the distance, your phone buzzes. Probably Seiko texting a third reminder that you “better not be defiling her brother in public.” But you ignore it. Because for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. Just you, him, and a car that smells like waffle cones and warm cotton and a hundred what-ifs that have all finally, finally become yeses.

–

Bonus cause I’m the world’s best author or whatever

Five Years Later

It’s a warm spring afternoon. The kind of day where the sky’s cloudless, the flowers look fake because they’re so stupidly perfect, and everyone you love is slightly too drunk and happy. You’re in white. Obviously. Satoru’s in a custom tux, sunglasses perched in his snow-white hair like he thinks he’s a celebrity—which, okay, fine, he kind of is, judging by the way your cousin nearly fainted when he winked at her. Your fingers are still linked as you sit at the wedding table, watching the crowd buzz with post-dinner energy. The string lights are glowing. There’s champagne in your glass. He keeps leaning over to kiss your shoulder because he “can’t help himself,” and you keep swatting him away because the photographer is still here, but you’re smiling like a fool.

And then—

“Alright, alright, everyone, shut up—” comes Seiko’s voice from the speakers. You both freeze. Satoru immediately grins. “Oh god.” 

“She’s giving her speech,” you whisper, gripping his knee.

“I should be scared,” he whispers back. “She’s your best friend and my sister.” 

Up at the mic, Seiko clears her throat. She looks gorgeous, by the way—an elegant dress, her ivory hair so similar to her brothers glinting underneath the lights, champagne in hand, and a very pointed expression on her face. “So,” she says. “Hi. I’m Seiko. I’m the bride’s best friend… and unfortunately, the groom’s younger sister.”

Laughter. 

“I just wanna say—when I was little, I always dreamed of giving a speech at my best friend’s wedding. But I definitely didn’t think it would be this one.” More laughter. You bury your face in your hands. “Let me paint a picture,” she continues dramatically, starting to pace the stage like a stand-up comic. “It’s a regular Tuesday morning. I come out of my room, ready to microwave my sad breakfast. I’m on my way to the kitchen, when I suddenly spot my brother’s shoes and think, ‘Huh, why are Satoru’s shoes here, in front of (your name)’s room?’ Because my brother wasn’t supposed to be home. He had told me he was gonna be out with friends until the next morning. And his shoes sure as hell had never been outside my best friend’s room.”

Gojo groans next to you, forehead hitting the table. 

“And I think, ‘Oh no. Oh no no no.’ So I walk down the hallway. I open her bedroom door. And what do I see?”

Seiko pauses. The crowd leans in. She lifts her glass. “My brother,” she says, tone flat, “in my best friend’s bed.”

The room erupts.

Satoru’s face is in his hands. You’re laughing so hard your shoulders shake. “I screamed,” Seiko says dramatically, over the noise. “She screamed. He didn’t scream, because the bastard was asleep. And then I lost fifty goddamn dollars to Suguru, who bet me they’d get together before the end of the month.” Camera pans to Suguru in the crowd, smug as hell, arm around Seiko’s waist, raising his glass. “ And now,” Seiko says, grinning, “I’m standing here giving this speech, engaged to the man who profited off their hookup, and forced to admit that... I guess love wins. Or whatever.” Laughter. Cheers. Satoru clutches your hand and kisses your knuckles. Seiko softens. Just a little. “But in all seriousness,” she says, voice a bit shakier now, “you two are it. The real thing. And I’m so happy that my best friend is now officially my sister-in-law—even if I had to walk in on her mid afterglow to get here.”

Groans. Cheers. Chants of “SISTER-IN-LAW! SISTER-IN-LAW!”  You’re laughing through tears now, forehead pressed against Gojo’s. “I love you guys,” Seiko finishes, raising her glass high. “Now go make out or whatever. It’s your wedding.”  You blow your best friend a kiss, before leaning into your husband, his arm snaking around you to pull you to his chest. 

“She really brought up the bed thing,” you mumble against his chest. “She absolutely did,” he murmurs, nose in your hair.

 “And the socks in the bra thing didn’t get a shoutout? Unfair.” He laughs, holding you tighter. “Maybe we’ll save that one for the ten-year vow renewal.” You tilt your head up. “Think we’ll make it to ten years?”

 He smiles, wide and stupid and glowing.  “We’ll make it to forever.” 

 You kiss him, slow and full of everything. And the lights twinkle above like they’re cheering you on.

authors note: hi everyone! i hope u liked it LOL i sacrificed my sleep for this i hope it was worth it! i can finally prepare for my exams without the looming anxiety of posting this ^.^

[imaginespazzi]

Everything Changes (They Stay the Same)

A series of stolen moments of peace in between a chaotic week

(In which an unreliable writer is really trying to beat the retirement allegations)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: 30 google-doc pages of pure fluff with hints of angst and hurt/comfort if you squint really hard

Words: 14.5K (we're soooo back)

TW: Swearing, drinking, alludes to sexual content.

A/N: Hi my lovelies :) Two fics in less than 48 hours? Who woulda ever thunk it? I can't lie this is so all over the place and we are all gonna ignore that I was trying to do a moment a day, and then fully forgot a day and I'm not abouta go back a month (because it's been a month since natty and the draft which is what this fic is technically about) to figure out which two days I accidentally blended into one. But this is fiction! So it doesn't really matter! Anyways, I got bored editing about 80% of the way in but I will eventually go back and fix the typos so feel free to make me aware of them. As always, live reactions are much appreciated so let me know what you liked, what you didn't and what you'd like to see in the future. Have a lovely rest of your week my loves <3

April 6th 11:26 p.m.

Azzi will never admit it out loud -will never let it become the recipient of her teammates’ jovial teasing or something her girlfriend can flash that cocky smirk of hers about- but she’s kind of a little bit obsessed with staring at Paige. 

She always has been. 

Since she was fourteen and she’d spotted this lanky white girl getting up shots before the official tryouts for the U16 USA basketball team started. And Azzi had been mesmerized by the effortless concentration that had been present of Paige’s face, never deterred by when the ball would occasionally rim out. She’d stood by the doorway, watching -staring- much longer than necessary until one of the other girls had rushed past her, accidentally bumping her shoulder and shaking her out of her reverie. That’s the first time Paige had caught her gaze and she hadn’t made much of it then but Azzi’s slowly realized since, that there’s just something about the blond that draws her eyes towards her like a magnet, like everything else surrounding her is just a hazy blur and Paige is the only thing in focus. 

And tonight, it feels almost impossible to tear her eyes away from Paige. 

Because tonight Paige looks radiant, like the reason it’s dark outside is only because the sun itself is in the middle of this room, laughing her heart out with one arm casually slung around KK’s shoulder, bottle of champagne nursed in her left hand and that goddamn net still hung around her neck. She’s basked in the glow that comes from finally being unshackled from the chains of pressure and expectations and that dreaded fear of being the  greatest UConn player without a title that Paige had only ever voiced out loud with her head burrowed in the crevice between Azzi’s neck and shoulder. 

Tonight, all of that -all of the tired dark circles underneath her beautiful blue eyes and the frown lines that had once been present right under where her new national champion hat covers her forehead- is gone. 

Because tonight, Paige Bueckers is finally a national champion. 

And god, does the happiness that comes with that look so fucking great on her. 

“You’re staring,” Kaitlyn whispers from where she’s sitting next to Azzi on the couch, the two of them and Caroline perched on a loveseat that has the perfect view of their other more rambunctious teammates. 

And maybe it’s the alcohol coursing through her veins, or that stupid all-consuming feeling of love for her girlfriend that’s been overwhelming Azzi since the buzzer rang out at the end of the national championship game, but she doesn’t deny it. 

“That damn net looks ridiculous on her,” Azzi quips, trying to maintain some sort of dignity but there’s an underlying fondness to her tone that she can’t quite seem to mask; she isn’t really trying to hide it either.  

“She’s never taking it off,” Caroline says with a slight shake of her head, “she’s gonna wear it forever. It’s gonna be the third wheel in your relationship.”

“She deserves it,” Azzi's eyes soften, her gaze still locked on her girlfriend who’s now posing for the most ridiculous pictures with KK, Aubrey and their practice players, “she’s earned the right to never take it off.”

Kaitlyn lets out a teasing low whistle, nudging Azzi’s shoulder, “can’t believe Paige is the only one who gets the simp allegations when this is how you behave.”

“They’re as bad as each other,” Caroline supplies helpfully, holding up her red solo cup as she winks at Azzi, “I swear it’s gotten worse over time too.”

“It has not,” Azzi protests. 

Caroline snorts, “see Az, that would be more believable if you could at least look at me while saying it instead of being too busy ogling your girlfriend.”

A rose-colored blush begins to spread across Azzi’s cheeks as both Kaitlyn and Caroline cackle with laughter at what the latter had just pointed out. Because it’s true. She still hasn’t looked away. 

She can’t. 

And as if on cue, Paige turns around at that exact moment, just in time to catch the color fully seeping into Azzi’s cheeks. The blonde’s smirk is gradual, first just a quirk at the edge of her lips before stretching across the entirety of her face as she raises her eyebrow in question at Azzi. The younger girl bites her lip, her stomach swooping when she notices the way Paige’s eyes linger on the small action. She watches keenly as the blonde begins to saunter towards her -long, confident strides that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as they are- and her body seems to lean forward in anticipation on its own accord. 

Azzi feels her breath hitch when Paige finally reaches her, one hand clutching the armrest as she towers over Azzi, leaning down just enough so their faces are levelled.

“You staring at me?” she asks with a lazy smile, her speech coming out slightly slurred. 

“You’re imagining things,” Azzi whispers, sporting her own half-grin as she blinks coquettishly up at the older girl. 

“Oh yeah?” Paige drawls out slowly before she’s tugging Azzi off the sofa, a pleased expression on her face when the brunette comes into her arms easily. Her hands settle on either side of Azzi’s hips as the younger girl interlocks her own hand behind Paige’s neck, her fingers playing with the net, “coulda sworn I felt your eyes on me.”

Azzi shrugs impishly, “must’ve been someone else.”

“Nah, can’t have been,” Paige shakes her head, “I know when it’s you looking at me. No one else looks at me like that.”

“And how do I look at you?” Azzi breathes out, stepping closer to her girlfriend so their chests are pressed against each other and they can feel the warmth radiating off of each other's bodies. 

“Like you love me,” Paige says softly, “I look at you the exact same way.”

Azzi’s heart flutters, the sincerity in the blonde’s voice quelling any chance of a smart retort as she reaches up to brush her lips lightly against Paige’s, “I do love you. Like a lot, a lot.’

Paige’s arms tighten around her waist as she presses their foreheads together, “I love you more. Like more than a lot, a lot.”

They stay like that for a moment, cocooned in each other's arms. The constantly moving world seems to still for a second, like it’s pausing just for the two of them to be able to catch their breaths before everything changes. 

But Azzi isn’t quite ready to think about that -about how today is the end of something and next week will be the beginning of something different- not yet. 

She just wants to think about now, about the girl in her arms and the dream that they’d once dreamed of together -laying side by side in a bed that was too small for two people while feeling emotions that were too big for how young they’d been- and how after years and years, plagued by uncertainty and adversity, they’d finally made that dream come true.

“I like your new necklace,” Azzi says finally, her voice low, just for the two of them to hear as she twists her fingers through the net draped around the older girl’s neck. 

Paige grins like a toddler who’s just been given their favorite candy, “yeah well, my favorite person won it for me.”

“It was a team effort,” Azzi says bashfully, quickly catching onto the meaning behind the older girl's words.

“Yeah but you were MOP baby,” Paige nudges their noses together, “my outstanding player.”

Azzi chuckles, “pretty sure the M stands for most actually.”

“Don’t care,” Paige shrugs cavalierly, “you’re still mine. There’s no one else I would’ve rather done this with- no one else I could’ve done this with, you know that right?”

“Yeah baby, yeah I do,” Azzi whispers, looping her arms back around Paige’s neck as it all seems to come rushing back to her, the gravity of what they’d achieved making her feel almost weightless in her girlfriend’s embrace, “we really did it Paige. We won. We fucking won the damn thing.”

Paige laughs breathlessly as she steals a kiss from Azzi’s lips, “yeah we did baby. Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd, national fucking champions. Together. Just like it was always meant to be.” 

April 7th 10:31 a.m.

Everything is too fucking loud. 

Paige clutches her head in her hands as the sound of her teammates screaming reverberates around the plane cabin. Normally, she’d be joining into the cacophony, if not at the forefront of it, but clearly she’s all cacophony-ed out after last night. Honestly, she’d known that the last two shots of vodka were pushing it a little but it had been four in the morning and when Diana Taurasi was encouraging you to throw back a shot, you didn’t really have the option to say no. And so Paige hadn’t said no. 

Now, as the world around her spins and her headache feels like it’s threatening to send her to an early grave, Paige wishes she’d said no, wishes she’d followed her sensible, responsible girlfriend to bed at a much more reasonable time like two a.m. instead of getting carried away in the still ongoing celebration and drinking herself into a killer hangover. 

Speaking of her girlfriend, Paige frowns as she glances at the seats next to her. The middle seat is occupied by the national championship trophy and don’t get her wrong, Paige loves that trophy and everything it stands for very much but it has to be said that it’s neither as soft nor as cuddly as Azzi and it definitely doesn’t smell as nice or feel as warm. 

She pouts harder when Kaitlyn slips into the aisle seat, feeling even more nauseous when she notices the bottle of champagne in the other girl's hand. Normally Paige is a very polite and kind person; normally she doesn’t just let those clingy intrusive thoughts of hers slip through her lips when she’s feeling just a little bit too needy for her girlfriend. But clearly today isn’t normal and before she can stop herself, Paige finds herself practically glaring at her innocent teammate. 

“Why are you sitting there?” she asks grumpily, “where’s Azzi?”

“Sheesh Bueckers, you’re rude when you’re hungover,” Kaitlyn gives her an unamused look. 

“I’m not hungover,” Paige lies adamantly, earning her an expected eyeroll. 

“And I’m not the smartest person on this team,” Kaitlyn says sarcastically, before tilting her head towards the girl walking up the aisle, “and relax Bueckers, I’m not stealing your girlfriend’s seat. Just wanted to have a little fun first.”

She continues to speak, something about taking a swig of champagne on live but Paige isn’t listening anymore, too entranced by the sight of her girlfriend as if it’s been years instead of minutes since she’d last seen Azzi. The younger girl is dressed in her typical UConn tracksuit, still sporting gameday braids that are getting a little loose under the blue cap on her head. Her eyes droop a little with residual tiredness but her smile -god that fucking smile, Paige thinks she’s not much of a writer but she could write sonnets about that smile- more than makes up for it as she flashes it too teammates and staff alike while making her way towards Paige and Kaitlyn. 

“Hi,” Azzi says softly, coming to a halt right in front of their seat, her eyes twinkling at Paige. 

“Hey baby,” Paige replies with a dopey grin, her head already feeling that much lighter at having her girlfriend near her. 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Kaitlyn groans, looking rather disgusted -although there’s that typical underlying fondness to it that all of Paige and Azzi’s teammates seem to have around them- at the heart eyes her two friends are making at each other, “can y’all do that after I’ve gotten my championship video please?”

Azzi tears away her gaze first, holding her palm out for Kaitlyn to place her phone in, “alright, alright, how do you wanna do this Kait?”

Paige zones out for the rest of the conversation, bringing her cup of coffee closer to her face, inhaling the scent of it as she watches Azzi film Kaitlyn. There’s that goofy little smile on her girlfriend’s face as she videos their friend on live, her eyes sparkling with joy. It makes Paige’s heart ache in the best way possible because this -after everything she’s been through, everything they’ve been through- is what Azzi deserves. 

There aren’t enough words on this planet to describe just how incredibly proud of her girlfriend, Paige is. She knows that, last week in Spokane had been hard on Azzi, that she’d retreated too far into her own head after missed shot, after missed shot, even though she’d been impactful in other ways. But Azzi -true to the resilience bracelet dangling on her wrist- had pulled herself out of it. And it had been thrilling for Paige to be on the court with her this weekend as she’d risen like a phoenix from the ashes of her own self-doubt, to win them -to win Paige- the most important game of their season.

“And cut,” Azzi says dramatically as she ends the live and Paige re-focuses to see Kaitlyn’s face all scrunched up from the fact that the rather expensive champagne hadn’t gone down quite as smoothly this morning as it had last night. 

“You good?” Paige snickers snarkily as Kaitlyn glares at her, coughing to regain her composure. 

“Watch it Bueckers or maybe I won’t move for Azzi to sit here,” the transfer student says with a pointed look. 

“You wouldn’t because then I’d just whine your ear off about how much I miss her,” Paige smirks, pleased when it elicits that little laugh out of Azzi that she’s so in love with. 

Kaitlyn shakes her head in mock irritation as she slowly pulls herself out of the seat.

“You’re right, that does sound like torture. Be good kids,” she pats Azzi on the shoulder as she starts to make her way to a different seat, “keep your hands to yourself, don’t forget there’s other people on the plane.”

“No promises,” Paige calls out after her, a triumphant grin on her face as Azzi takes her rightful place in the seat next to the trophy. 

Azzi giggles as she buckles her seatbelt, leaning over the armrest so she can rub her thumb against her girlfriend’s cheek, “how’s your head doing? Better from this morning?”

Paige sighs dramatically, melting into the soft touch, “I still feel like I’m fucking dying,” she admits, “I’m never drinking again.”

“Oh of course not,” Azzi snorts, “not like you’ve ever said that before.”

“Hey you never know, I might actually mean it this time,” Paige defends herself half-heartedly but they both know it’s not true, not when there’s already a plan in motion for the team to party at Teds tonight after the championship rally at Gampel. 

“Whatever you say baby,” Azzi concedes gently, before she reaches down to her bag, unclipping her unicorn neck pillow to hand over to Paige, “here, it’ll make it more comfortable for you to get a nap in.”

The older girl frowns as she takes it, “I wanted to use your shoulder.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed babe, but there’s kinda something in between us,” Azzi says amusedly as she points at the national championship trophy that’s occupying the middle seat in between them. 

“Can’t believe I worked so hard for this, just for it to cockblock me,” Paige grumbles under her breath as she fastens the neck pillows around her shoulder, before holding her hand out to Azzi, “can you at least hold my hand?”

Azzi hesitates, “I was hoping to get some work done.”

“Baby please,” Paige whines, jutting her lower lip out at her girlfriend as she grabs Azzi’s hand and intertwines their fingers together, “just till I fall asleep? You know I can’t fall asleep without holding you.”

A little spark of sadness flashes in Azzi’s eyes -something like you’ll have to learn to fall asleep without me soon that Paige isn’t quite ready to acknowledge yet- but it’s gone as quick as it came and instead the younger girl squeezes her hand. 

“Okay, fine,” she relents, “go to sleep baby. I’m right here.”

And everything is still really fucking loud, but as she drifts off into a much-needed nap, Paige thinks that having Azzi next to her -her presence as steady and solid as it was when they’d first been on a plane together almost eight years ago- feels a lot like a moment of quiet in the chaos. 

April 8th 8:24 p.m.

Azzi isn’t sure if her skin is prickling from the vibration of the music echoing around the area, the tipsiness -elicited from a mix of alcohol and general elation- that hasn’t fully left her body in the last 48 hours, or simply the warmth of Paige’s fingers tapping to the beat against her exposed waist. The heat radiating from her girlfriend’s chest, pressed firmly against her back as they alternate between actually dancing and half-heartedly swaying to the songs, encompasses her entire body in the kind of comfort that Azzi has only ever really felt from being wrapped in Paige’s arms. 

“You having fun baby?” Paige’s breath is hot against her ear and Azzi shivers involuntarily, as she hums contentedly in response. 

“This is nice,” she says after a beat, shrinking further back into the safe haven of her girlfriend’s embrace, “I’ve missed this.”

Paige rests her chin against Azzi’s shoulder, taking advantage of the fact that they’re shrouded in only the dim glow reflecting off of the stage lights, as she nods in agreement, “me too. It’s been a while huh?”

“Yeah, it has,” Azzi concedes, letting her eyes close as she enjoys the serenity of good music and even better company. 

It really has been a rather long time since the two of them had gotten to simply exist like this, carefree and unburdened. The last few weeks -really ever since Christmas- their entire focus had been on basketball and winning the National Championship. And as much as the pressure to do so, had been the kind that had ultimately created a diamond, it had still come with it’s challenges. They’d been so immersed in the game -all of their time spent on the basketball court alone, together or with the team- that it feels like it’s been years since they’ve had a moment like this, a moment where, instead of being Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd, UConn superstars, they could just be Paige and Azzi, two twenty-something year olds who were truly, deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with each other. 

And then the thought hits Azzi. 

That she doesn’t quite know when they’ll get a moment like this again. 

Tomorrow, the championship media tour would start and then the draft and then- 

Well Azzi isn’t quite ready to confront what comes after the draft. Not yet. 

For now all she knows is that their schedules for the next couple of days are both filled to the brim with the expected TV appearances and brand and sponsorship photoshoots woven in between those commitments. She knows that they’ll be in the same city, together for a lot of it and she knows that in all the awaiting chaos, they’ll still find a way to steal a second of peace to be with each other. Just like they always have. But Azzi also knows that it still won’t be quite the same as this moment right here. Because this moment still feels like the before. 

The before, where Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd are still teammates separated by a mere staircase and all they have to do is say the word, for the other to come running. 

Tomorrow, they’ll start the inbetween. 

And then the after-

Azzi shakes her head -not wanting to dwell on that before she absolutely has to- as she shifts in Paige’s arms to turn her body around to face her girlfriend, hands instinctively locking around the older girl’s neck. She lets her gaze trickle down Paige’s face, taking in the way the older girl’s cerulean blue eyes sparkle with a ferocity stronger than the stars as she observes Azzi right back, the way even in the dark she can tell that Paige’s cheeks are flushed with that slight bashful pink color they only ever become when it’s the brunette who’s making her blush, the way the edges of the blonde’s lips are upturned sightly, like they’re just waiting for her to give them a reason to burst into that beautiful, dazzling, larger-than-life just for you smile of Paige’s that Azzi has been in love with longer than she’ll ever admit it. 

“You’re staring,” Paige teases, her voice loud enough only for Azzi to hear as her thumbs rub circles against either side of the brunette’s bare waist. 

“I’m observing,” Azzi corrects, “memorizing.”

Paige curls an eyebrow at that, “you scared you’re gonna forget me?”

It’s a joke, but there’s a hint of insecurity hidden in her tone, in the way her hands instinctively grip Azzi’s waist a little tighter, like she’s trying to anchor them together before the winds of change can blow either of them away.

“I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” Azzi admits, her vulnerability accidentally slipping through the cracks before she can glue them shut, “not when you’re a part of me.”

And there it is. That smile. It blooms like a beautiful flower on Paige’s lips, the vines of it growing through her entire face until you can see them in the crinkles of her eyes. Even in the obsidian of the concert lighting, Paige glows like a shooting star that's headed straight for Azzi’s heart. And Azzi, welcomes the crash, welcomes the way it makes her chest hurt, makes it hard to breath in the best way possible. 

“Damn Fudd,” Paige whistles lowly, “you got lines.”

Azzi laughs, throwing her head back the way she only ever really does when it’s elicited by Paige, “I mean I gotta keep up with the ultimate rizzler somehow don’t I?”

They giggle quietly into each other’s space, the two of them lost in their own world, blissfully unaware of what's happening on stage or the quiet eye-rolls they've definitely been getting from their teammates around them. 

“You’re the biggest part of me,” Paige says after a beat, whispering it like it’s a secret confession only meant for Azzi’s ears, “you always have been, you always will be.”

Azzi doesn't say anything, she doesn’t need to. Instead she takes advantage of the dark and presses her lips against Paige’s. It’s chaste and delicate but it’s everything. 

It always is. It always will be. 

April 9th 1:47 p.m. 

The text lights up her phone screen when Paige needs it the most. 

She’s currently being fitted for her Jimmy Fallon appearance, waves of exhaustion radiating off her body even though it’s barely afternoon as she fights the urge to fall asleep while the makeup artist retouches up her face. Hectic days are no stranger to Paige, and she’s learned the importance of napping in cars between shoots, but that doesn’t mean the tiredness just magically goes away. Especially when she knows the next couple of days ahead of her are going to be filled with the same frantic rush. And it’s not that Paige isn’t thankful for it -not like she doesn’t know that, all of this is a privilege is a reward for all her hard work- but sometimes it all just feels too fast, like the pages are being turned in a frenzy before she can even finish reading them. 

She just wants it all to slow down, just for a second, just so she can catch the raindrops of her life before they fall and fade as they hit the ground. 

And somehow, as Paige unlocks her phone to look at the mirror selfie of Azzi in Cane’s uniform -tongue out, fingers thrown up in a peace sign- it almost -almost- feels like it does. 

They’ve been texting back and forth pretty much all day, and by all day, she really does mean since 4 a.m. which is when -after getting back close to midnight last night- Paige had, had to begrudgingly leave the warmth of her girlfriend snuggled into her chest, to get to New York in time for her way, way, too early morning interview. And of course Azzi, despite being just as tired, had woken up with her, had groggily gone through the checklist of things Paige needed to take with her, had given her a freshly brushed minty kiss right before she’d gotten on the car, and had been on facetime -although she had nearly dozed off a couple of times- almost the entire car ride, just to keep the blonde company until she reached Manhattan when they’d switch back to texting. 

But then there had been a slight lull in conversation, Paige becoming busy in the rush of her day and Azzi slowly beginning her own. And now, as if she’d sensed her girlfriend’s restlessness, could feel her spiraling into that trepid sense of overwhelmedness, Azzi had resumed it, just when Paige needed it the most, needed her anchor, the most. 

A: would you still love me if i said i was deciding to quite basketball to work at cane’s?

P: depends

would you give me free tenders?

Az: wow

so you’re saying your love is conditional?

P: i’m saying i’d love you just a little bit more if you gave me free chicken tenders 

i mean cane’s and my hot ass girlfriend, that’s the dream right?

A: that’s the dream? 

P: that’s the dream!

A: you’re a weirdo bueckers 

P: and yet you love me (don’t say debatable) 

so who’s really the weird one here? 

A: still you babe, still, definitely you 

P: oof definitely

that hurt baby 

A: you’ll survive 

P: only if you kiss it better 

i miss you by the way

if you even care 

A: it’s been like six hours 

P: oh so you don’t miss me?

cool cool cool cool COOL 

A: you’re so dramatic jfc 

P: oh OKAY 

a girl can’t even be sad about the fact that her girlfriend 

THE WOMAN SHE LOVES 

doesn’t even give a fuck that she’s DYING without her 

A: like i said 

so dramatic 

P: right right right so you hate me

got it.

A: oooooh fullstop and everything damn 

P: i’m not talking to you anymore BYE 

A: wait no

P: yes 

A: babyyyyyy

come backkkkk 

PAIGEEEEEEEEEEE

i��m sorryyyyy

you’re not dramatic 

you’re very not dramatic 

you’re very undramatic 

like the least dramatic person ever actually

and i miss you too

AND I LOVE YOU 

P: wow fudd

you’re like desperate for my attention or something huh? 

A: OH FUCK YOU 

P: i know YOU want to baby

Paige is grinning like a fool as she waits for Azzi to reply to that, a smile so bright she thinks there’s probably astronauts in space who are being blinded by it right now. She can’t help it. The knots of tension in her body are beginning to unravel, replaced by threads of a serene calmness that seems to have stitched itself to her skin just by talking to her girlfriend. Her person. Her happy place. 

A: skipping over that…

you doing okay? 

It’s in text form, but there’s still an underlying tone to it -a i know you’re not quite fine- that’s an acknowledgement of Azzi being in tune with Paige’s feelings and both an opening for her to talk about it now or a promise to be there to listen to her later. That’s the thing about having been with someone for years; Azzi knows Paige, she can read her -even from miles and miles away- like she’s the top line of a snellen chart at the optometrist’s office. And even years later, the knowledge of that simple fact makes Paige’s heart flutter with the feeling of being loved. 

P: i will be when you get here tonight 

A: i’ll be there soon baby

gonna set out for nyc as soon as my shift is over lol

can’t wait to see you 

P: work hard baby!

can’t wait for you to bring me tenders!

A: ....oh okay! 

i see what’s really important to you 

P: hey you know i love cane’s 

A: and here i thought you loved ME

P: i do 

just maybe a little less than my chicken tendies

A: fine 

then maybe i love you a little less than crinkle cut fries

P: aww you love me?

A: occasionally…

P: good enough for me! 

Paige catches herself smiling in the mirror, that enamored, goofy, grin that stretches her whole face, wiping away the traces of a frown that had once inhabited the same space. It’s still all a little -maybe even a lot- overwhelming, but she has a lifejacket now. Azzi won’t let her drown. 

P: hey az

A: yeah? 

P: thanks for checking in baby 

A: always baby 

P: i love you 

more than chicken tenders 

A: i love you too 

more than crinkle-cut fries 

April 10th 5:37 p.m.

The door to the hotel room creaks open and that familiar scent of Valentino whafts through the air, settling like the comfort of a worn out binkie against Azzi’s senses. She smushes her dorky grin into the pillow her face is already buried in, suddenly feeling a little more awake than she had just a couple seconds ago. After a multitude of media appearances, Azzi had returned back to their shared hotel room, only about twenty or so minutes ago, with a drained social battery and the cardinal urge to be nestled in her girlfriend’s strong arms. Considering said girlfriend hadn’t been back yet then, she’d settled for a hoodie that smelled like her and pillows that, while not as sturdy as Paige’s biceps, were soft enough to band-aid the ache for a little while. 

But now Paige is back. 

And Azzi doesn’t have to settle. 

She lifts her head to say as much, when -before the words can leave her mouth- the bed dips and suddenly there’s a warm weight being pressed against her back, slightly calloused hands finding their way under her body and then under her hoodie till they’re sprawled against her stomach. 

“Hi,” Paige whispers softly, her breath ticking against Azzi’s skin as she leaves a lingering kiss against the nape of the brunette’s neck, before burying her face in her shoulder as they let out matching contented sighs. 

“Hey,” the brunette whispers back, turning her face slightly just so she can give Paige a quick peck on her cheek. 

Azzi’s eyes close involuntarily as she lets herself be consumed by all things Paige, the essence of her girlfriend’s existence seeping into her veins and being pumped into her heart, like it’s the only thing keeping the most important organ in body alive. It used to terrify Azzi sometimes, this all-consuming love she knows she has only for Paige. She’d been so young when she’d first realized it, realized that missing and wanting and needing her best friend that fucking much couldn’t possibly be platonic. And god had that scared her. 

Because loving someone meant living with the fear of losing them too. 

But that doesn’t scare Azzi anymore. Not when she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that this -the two of them and this little life their slowly beginning to build brick by brick- isn’t something she’ll ever lose.

This, the two of them, it’s a forever kind of thing.

“How was your day?” Paige murmurs against Azzi’s ear, fingers tracing delicate patterns against her taut stomach. 

“Exhausting,” Azzi replies, eyes still closed, “but nice. It’s a victory tour. Can’t really complain. How about you? How was your shoot?”

“Same ol’ same ol’. Nothing new. The camera loved me as always,” Paige’s cocky smirk prickles against Azzi’s skin and the younger girl shakes her head even though she’s just as confident that the pictures would in fact turn out perfect and that, Azzi would likely have to hide them in that secret little folder in her phone that’s filled to the brim with her favorite Paige photoshoot shots (and that she occasionally flicks through when she misses her girlfriend just a tad bit too much). 

“Or maybe it’s the hangover still making you delusional,” Azzi teases. 

Paige groans, pushing herself even further into her girlfriend if that’s even possible, clearly being bombarded with memories of the cruel headache she’d had to endure this morning, “please don’t remind me. Why’d you even let me drink last night?”

Azzi snorts into her pillow, “let you? Babe, since when have I ever been able to stop you from drinking? In fact, I’m pretty sure I did try last night after your third one and what did you do? You said, nah baby it’s just one more drink i’ll be fine,” she mocks, her mind flashing to her tipsy girlfriend last night who’d flashed that dopey grin at her while downing another shot she swore wouldn’t affect her the next morning. Azzi knew better. She always did. 

“What was I supposed to say when Alicia fucking Keys was handing me another drink Az?” Paige defends, “you don’t say no to Alicia fucking Keys.”

“I said no to Alicia fucking Keys just fine,” Azzi points out. 

“Yeah that’s cause you’re Azzi goddamn Fudd,” Paige presses a smile into the brunette’s shoulder, “you’re like the princess. The princess can say no to anyone.”

“Shut up,” Azzi grumbles, but her cheeks are stained red as she bites back her own grin at the pet name. 

They drift into a comfortable silence, their hearts beating in sync as their breathing starts to slow down a little, both of them on the precipice of sleep. It’s been nonstop since the championship -a different grind to what they’d been doing in-season but a grind nonetheless- and exhaustion rolls off of both of their bodies in waves. But right now, wrapped up in each other with every part of their bodies touching, it feels a little bit like they’re recharging, feeding off of each other’s strength before they go back out into the real world. 

“What if I skip this dinner thing and we order takeout and watch Frozen while we cuddle in bed?” Paige says after a beat, her tone wistful as Azzi lets out a soft laugh, her mind fluttering with memories of countless nights spent doing exactly that, 

She twists her body underneath Paige, so that they’re chest to chest and she can finally see her girlfriend’s face. And god, it’s been eight years she’s known Paige, almost eight years she’s been in love with her, but Azzi swears the blonde -with that fully toothed smile she claims as her own and sky blue eyes that look at her like they can see into her soul- still takes her breath away every single time she looks at her. She feels tongue-tied, this syrupy sweet feeling congesting her chest as she loops her arms around Paige’s neck, tugging her girlfriend closer so she can meld their lips together, lazy and slow and perfect. 

“So is that yes?” Paige mumbles against Azzi’s mouth, “I’ll even have room service bring us an ice-cream sundae.”

The brunette chuckles, her thumb caressing the older girl’s cheek as she shakes her head, “the ice-cream almost convinced me but unfortunately not baby. I have plans.”

Paige pouts, raising an eyebrow in mock offense, as she lifts herself off of Azzi just enough to be able to see her properly, “you have plans? With who?”

“Oh you know, just this cute girl who’s really funny,” Azzi teases, her eyes gleaming with mirth as Paige narrows her own. 

“What girl?” she asks, the possessive glint in her irises sparkling like sun rays hitting the surface of a tranquil blue ocean. 

“Just this girl,” Azzi says cavalierly, “but she’s amazing. Think I’m gonna wear that pink tank top-”

“Like hell you are,” Paige cuts her off, her voice gruff as she scowls down at Azzi, “pick something else. That’s my favorite top on you. No one else needs to see you out in it.”

“I know it is,” Azzi smirks, and then, deciding she’s done enough to elicit that jealous side of her girlfriend -who's still glaring at nothing in particular- that she finds rather insanely attractive, she figures she probably should put Paige out of her misery, “but KK said pink looks good on me so…”

Paige stares at her, mouth opening and closing as she processes Azzi’s world before she lets out a loud groan and buries her face in her girlfriend’s chest. 

“Oh fuck you,” she curses as Azzi trembles with laughter, her hands rubbing up and down the blonde’s back. 

“KK’s gonna die when I tell her about this.”

“Azzi no! Don’t you dare,” Paige whines, “don’t you care about your girlfriend’s dignity at all?”

“What dignity- OW did you just fucking bite me?” Azzi’s joking tone turns shrill as she feels her girlfriend nip sharply at her collarbone. 

Paige smirks lazily into her girlfriend’s skin, tongue darting out to soothe the patch of red forming on it like an artist putting on the finishing touches to their craft, “you’ve never seemed to mind that before.”

Azzi’s breath hitches, irritation melting into something completely different as Paige continues to press open-mouthed kisses to her neck. 

“Paige,” she breathes out and it’s meant to be a warning -a plea for her to stop- but it sounds like anything but. 

“My offer still stands baby,” Paige murmurs, “I don’t gotta go and you don’t gotta leave. We can just stay here. Together. Doing this.”

It takes all of Azzi’s willpower to not succumb to the sultry lilt in her girlfriend’s voice, to not let their bodies tangle into the sheets and let the night pass them by. She places her hands firmly on either side of Paige’s head, coaxing the blonde’s face away from her skin -both of them sighing in disappointment at the loss of contact- so they’re face to face agan. 

“You gotta go baby,” she says softly, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Paige’s ear, “it’s part of taking the next step, part of entering your new world.”

“I know,” Paige bites her lip, hesitating as she looks down at Azzi with a newfound vulnerability, a hidden crack in her confident exterior that only the brunette has ever been privy to, “I’m scared,” she confesses, “it’s gonna feel too real once I’m in there with all the vets and draftees.”

“Oh Paige,” Azzi whispers, her touch gentle and soothing as she runs index finger down Paige’s face, “it is real. This is real. Your dreams are coming true baby.”

“I know, I just-” Paige pauses as she leans her face into Azzi’s hand, melting into the familiarity of it, “it’s all gonna be different soon. That’s scary as fuck.”

Azzi nods in understanding, “yeah it is. But you’ve got this Paige. I know you do. And,” she nuzzles her nose against her girlfriends, “you’ve got me. That’s not gonna be different. Not now, not ever.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

April 12th 11:32 p.m.

Horsebarn hill smells like newly mowed grass and fresh spring flowers that have just started to bloom. The  gentle April breeze -like whispers of all the stories that have been told here- curdles around Paige as she sits criss-cross on a checkered pink blanket, one arm wrapped firmly around Azzi’s shoulder, the other nursing a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Her teammates are scattered across the grass on their own blankets, some with matching drinks, others with a late night snack. Their chatter mingles with the distant chirping of cicadas creating a soothing lullaby that almost threatens to put Paige -with the frantic rush of her past few days- to sleep. 

But she doesn’t dare let her eyes close, wanting to savor every single second before nightfall turns into daybreak and a moment turns into a memory. 

This is her team. Her family. 

And tonight is the last night that they will get like this, to be in this place -a familar space they’ve visited countless times, a space where they’ve woven threads of themselves into the grass that grows here- as individual pieces who belong together in the same puzzle before three of them -her, Aubrey and Kaitlyn- scatter to fit into a different jigsaw. 

A new start. 

Instinctively, Paige pulls Azzi closer to her, breathing in that familiar soft scent of the brunette’s lavender deodorant mixed with the coconut-y aroma of her body wash, that settles her nerves like a peace serum. Azzi doesn’t say anything -still laughing at KK and Ice who are doing some sort of dramatic reenactment of Aubrey and her new cheerleader girlfriend’s first date- but she shifts just enough to press her temple against Paige’s chin, a simple reminder that she’s here, ready to be whatever the blonde needs her to be. 

“That is not what happened,” Aubrey’s indignant voice carries out through the hill, much to the amusement of her teammates who all burst out into laughter, the sound like wind chimes ringing throughout a mountain, “y’all weren’t even there.”

“We didn’t have to be,” KK defends, her eyes shining with her patented mirth, “we know you Aubs.”

“It does sound like something you’d do Aubrey,” Carol says contemplatively, barely able to conceal her own smirk as she pats her friend comfortingly on the back

“CAROL,” Aubrey shrieks in betrayal, scooching away with a dramatic hand on her heart, “I cannot believe YOU would do this to me?”

“I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Caroline says solemnly, inciting another round of giggles from the group of girls as Aubrey shakes her head in exasperation. 

Paige thinks she’s a little bit in love with this moment, in the mundaneness of it that feels like any other night spent with her teammates and yet there’s still something about it -about these people that have loved her just as much through the losses as they have thought the big wins- that feels inexplicably special. Perhaps that’s just the bond forged by working towards and winning a championship together. Because it's certain that all of them will win more than just this -that’s who they are, winners at their core- but not like this, not this group, not all together, not as comets in the same once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower.

“Alright, alright enough bickering,” Paige’s voice sweeps over her team, still as commanding as over, their leader, “even though let’s be real Aubs, that definitely sounds like something you’d do.”

“I hate all of you,” Aubrey grunts. 

“Yeah, yeah we love you too,” Paige sends her oldest teammate a quick wink before turning her focus to the rest of them, “y’all we should do something. Something fun.”

Ice raises a skeptical eyebrow, “we are doing something. We’re eating and drinking and pissing Aubrey off. Sounds like hell of a fun night to me.”

Paige rolls her eyes, “no Isuneh, I mean like something special. We’re fucking National Champions we guys. We should do something to celebrate.”

“We did celebrate. Or were you so drunk that you don’t even remember that?” Sarah deadpans much to the amusement of their teammates and this time Paige finds herself the victim of the group’s shrill laughter as her youngest teammate goes on to mimic her intoxicated antics from the night they’d won the championship. 

“Baby,” the blonde whines like she’s been backstabbed when she feels Azzi’s body -still securely plush against her own- shake with her girlfriend’s own giggles, “you laughing at me too?”

“No, no, of course not. I would never,” Azzi says soothingly, turning her head slightly so she can kiss away the pout on Paige’s lips. 

“Oh my god get a fucking room,” Jana yells when the kiss inevitably goes from chaste to something deeper and the two of them break away reluctantly, still grinning at each other like the cheesy lovesick idiots they’ve never shied away from admitting they are. 

“We have one,” Azzi replies, shrugging as she settles back into Paige’s chest, a coy smirk on her face directed towards Paige’s roomates, “and you should know I plan to use it tonight, so either get headphones or get the fuck out of the apartment. Just saying.”

Paige snorts into her girlfriend’s hair as Jana scrunches her nose in disgust, pretending to puke into the grass and Allie lets out a dramatic sigh, rubbing her temples like a teenager who’s tired of their parent’s high jinks. 

“Why is it always us?” Jana complains, “why don’t you ever traumatize your roommates instead.”

“Absolutely not,” Ice puts her hands up in surrender, “I already lived through that last year,” she shudders at the memory, “they owe me compensation for that shit not a replay.”

“Oh please,” Aubrey says cavalierly, sitting with her hands splayed on the ground behind her back, “y’all think this is bad? Y’all don’t even know what we had to live through when Azzi first got here and these two were still being absolute dumbasses. I don’t remember what was louder. The fighting or the fucking.”

“And the fighting always lead to fucking,” Caroline commiserates before a contemplative expression overtakes her features, “or was it the other way round?”

“Shut up,” Paige grumbles, a red blush forming from the base of her neck to the tip of her ears as she hides her face against Azzi’s curls, “we were not that bad.”

“No we definitely were,” Azzi’s voice is steady, despite her own face being the same embarrassed shade as her girlfriend’s, as she gives Paige’s hand -wrapped around her waist- a gentle squeeze, “but we figured it out,” her eyes are soft as she turns around in the older girl’s arms to look at the blonde, “we always do.”

Paige brushes their lips together before pressing her forehead against the brunette’s, “always.”

And she’s dimly aware of her teammate’s making gagging sounds in the background, can practically feel the eye-rolls and thoughts of the two of you are sickening vibrating off of them but Paige doesn’t care. Because underneath it all is a fondness -perhaps even admiration- that none of the girls can really hide because no one is a bigger supporter of the Paige and Azzi story than the teammates that had lived through every chapter of it with them. 

“Alright enough,” it’s KK who eventually pulls them apart, her hand curling around Paige’s bicep to pull her back, eyes almost rolling to the back of her head when she notices the frown on the blonde’s face, “oh my lord, y’all don’t get tired of each other?”

“Nope,” Paige and Azzi replying in sync, glancing dopily at each other because, it’s been seven years of their lives being intertwined, four years of living in each other’s skin -so interwoven that it was hard to tell where Azzi began and where Paige ended- and yet, Paige thinks if there were more hours in the day, she’d still spend every single extra second as a chance to fall a little bit more in love Azzi. 

“Y’all are hopeless,” KK informs them (they don’t deny it) before she looks expectantly at Paige, “anyways P-boogs, you were saying something about celebrating?”

“Isn’t that what the parade tomorrow is for?” Ashlynn asks quizzically. 

“Yeah but that- that’s for everybody. The fans, the local media, all of them,” Paige replies earnestly, “we should do something for us- something just us. One last time.”

“Do your fangirls know their ultimate rizzler is such a sap P?” Ayanna teases but there’s wistfulness to her tone, one that reflects in the eyes of all of the girls as that last bittersweet phrase settles in the air, “what did you have in mind?”

Paige grins, “y’all see that tree over there,” she points to the large willow tree a couple meters away, one that looks out over the school like a protector; it’s the team somehow always ends up close to whenever they make their way up to Horsebarn hill, “I wanna carve our names into it. Something that’ll last forever.”

Ice lets out an amused snort, “trust you to come up with the most clichéd idea ever Bueckers. What are we in some feel-good 90’s teenage comedy movie?”

“Oooh I’d be the funny one,” KK supplies proudly, “like that one supporting character everyone remembers more than the main ones.”

“I think that’s the annoying one,” Ice mutters under her breath causing KK to glare at her. 

"You’d be a forgettable extra Isuneh,” the shorter girl hisses, “not even one of the ones with lines. Matter of fact, your name wouldn’t even be on the goddamn tree.”

“And someone would scratch your name off. So guess we’d both be off the fucking tree Kamorea,” Ice retorts immediately, crossing her arms over her chest as the two of them revert to their default of being in a state of constant bickering. 

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Caroline says, her voice as authoritative as ever as she fixes Ice and KK with her best warning motherly gaze before rising to her feet, “okay everyone go find yourself a sharp stick so we can carry out Paige’s clichéd idea.”

“Hey,” Paige pouts, “it’s not that cliché.”

“It definitely is,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes like it pains her to have to go along with this but the way she lights up when she finds a little twig with whetted edges -perfect for etching her mark into a tree- tells a different story. 

“I think it's a sweet baby,” Azzi whispers softly as she gently stands up, reaching out a hand to pull Paige up with her, “very cute, very you.”

“Yeah?” Paige nudges her girlfriend’s shoulder, their intertwined hands swinging between them as the two of them make their way towards the tree, picking up their own sticks along the way, “so sweet that you’ll carve your name next to mine?”

Azzi laughs, the sound of it pure and uninhibited  as it echoes through the night, “where else would my name go?”

Paige practically beams at her girlfriend’s answer as the two of them join the rest of their teammates by the tree, the group of girls gathering under the willows as they each take turns etching their signatures into the bark. They have their phones out as flashlights, illuminating the area just enough for whoever’s turn it is to be able to see what they’re marking out. And Paige thinks that if at this moment, anyone were to look up at the hill from the path at the bottom, it would look a little bit like the stars had fallen from the night sky so that a constellation could congregate on top of the hill. 

She’s the last person to carve her name onto the tree and Paige sucks in a sharp breath, eyes glossing over the names of the rest of her teammates -her found family- before she inches forward, finding Azzi’s name amidst the rest and with a smile -one filled with the memories of everything she’s achieved and the building excitement of everything else she will- Paige signs her name right next to her girlfriend’s, right underneath the National Champions 2025 - we fucking did it!

April 13th 9:47 p.m.

Azzi’s sitting on the bed, head perched against the headboard, legs criss-crossed as she types away at her phone, texting Mackenzie about the photoshoot she has tomorrow morning. Her eyebrows are knitted in concentration, tongue poking out of her lips occasionally as she goes over the details with a friend, meticulous planning how the rest of the day would go. She’s so caught up in her focus that it takes her a while to realize she's being stared at. 

And when she does finally look up, there’s Paige -standing in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail as she leans against the door to their en-suite bathroom- staring at her like Azzi’s the moon and Paige has scoured the entire night sky just to find that luminescence again. It’s how Paige has always looked at her, with an intensity that feels all-consuming -like the blonde is memorizing every single inch of her and hiding the snapshot of it away in a treasure chest, locked by a key that only she has. Azzi feels her breath catch in her throat as Paige’s gaze stays locked on her -unwavering and steady- with that patented just for Azzi smile curling against the corner of her lips. 

“I missed you,” Paige says finally, after a moment of them just staring at each other. 

Azzi lets out a quiet chuckle, “you were in the bathroom for a solid ten minutes. How could you have possibly missed me?”

“I miss you every second you’re not with me,” it’s one of those corny lines Paige has used on her a million times -one she’d normally roll her eyes at and make a quip at about her girlfriend being clingy-  but there’s an underlying tone to it tonight that makes Azzi sit up just a little bit straighter. 

“Paige,” Azzi says softly, shifting her body slightly, ready to reach out for her girlfriend, but the blonde shakes her head 

“I miss you every time you leave, every time we’re apart. Doesn’t matter if it’s for a couple seconds or minutes or hours or days or-” Paige swallows as she cuts herself off, her breathing uneven as she continues as Azzi feels her heart start to ache at where this is going, “it started when you left Minnesota that first summer we met. And I remember- I remember after I’d left you at the airport- it felt- it felt like something was missing. And all I could think about the entire car ride home is when you’d land and when I could facetime you again. Just so I could hear your voice and see your face, even if it was through a screen that time.”

“I didn’t even wait till I got home,” Azzi reminisces, letting out a watery giggle as flashback of a much younger version of her -an antsy fourteen year old who didn’t quite understand why she was already so desperate to call her new friend that she’d just seen a mere few hours ago- invades her mind, “I called you as soon as we got in the taxi. God I almost hung up when you didn’t pick up on the first ring.”

“I thought I was dreaming,” Paige admits, “I’d been staring at my phone the whole time waiting for you to call and then when you did, I fucking dropped it.”

“You were a dork,” Azzi teases, “still are.”

“You love it,” Paige smirks cockily before her expression softens, her throat scratchy as she continues, “I don’t know how we did it sometimes. All that distance. Seeing each other for a couple weeks here and there and then being apart for months. It killed me, you know that? Every single time we had to say goodbye? I fucking hated it.”

“I missed you as soon as you walked away each time,” Azzi confesses in a whisper, looking down at the mattress so Paige won’t see her eyes threatening to overflow with the tears that are brimming at her water line

And she can feel it -all of those emotions she’d kept at bay over the last few weeks, all of those realizations she’d refused to let herself have just yet, all of those fears and worries that she’d pushed away to deal with after- everything rushing up all at once, banging at the barricades of their cages as they yell to be let out, to be dealt with. Because there isn’t much time left. After tomorrow, after the draft, everything would start changing. And Azzi can’t change that. 

The silence around them is thick with tension, Paige’s eyes on Azzi and Azzi still staring down at the linen, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the comforter. She almost feels selfish for feeling this way; for not being stronger for Paige, for her girlfriend whose life would change a lot more than Azzi’s would. It’s Paige who’s going to have to move to a new city and leave this old life of hers behind, Paige who’s going to have to integrate into a different team in a much harder league, Paige who’s going to have all eyes on her as she embarks on a new journey. 

And Azzi knows, despite the façade of complete confidence that Paige puts up, that her girlfriend is still human and that humans get scared. She wants to be Paige’s anchor, her shield and she has been -has let herself burn in her own trepidation so she can protect her girlfriend from the fire of doubt- but tonight, everything feels too fucking hot. Azzi can feel her resolve crumbling and when she finally looks up, when she finally lets Paige catch a glimpse of her face -red with tears free-falling- she knows her girlfriend can feel it too. 

“I’m scared Paige,” Azzi whispers and they both know what she means, “everything’s gonna change.”

“Oh baby,” Paige’s tone is gentle yet wrecked as she almost trips over her own face to get to Azzi, immediately cupping the brunette’s face in between her hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Azzi’s voice comes out trembling -barely above a whisper- as she lets herself melt into her girlfriend’s touch. 

“God baby no,” Paige soothes, her thumbs brushing away the fast-falling drops rolling down the brunette’s cheeks, “why are you apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean- I didn’t want- fuck Paige- baby it’s the night before the best day of your life and I’m ruining it,” Azzi sobs; now that she’s let the tears out, it’s like they refuse to stop. 

“No you’re not,” Paige corrects her immediately, her tone leaving no room for argument, “you could never ruin anything for me baby. Just you being here, it makes it-,” she gives Azzi a wobbly smirk, “it makes tonight un-ruin-able or something.”

And in spite of the heaviness pinching at her ribs, Azzi finds herself letting out a watery chuckle, “I don’t think that’s a word.”

“It so is,” Paige says assertively, pulling Azzi onto her lap so that the younger girl is straddling her hips, her head instinctively burrowing itself into the safe space in the crevice between the blonde’s neck and shoulder as they breathe together in synch with each other’s heartbeat

A beat passes before Azzi speaks again, the vulnerability leaking through her voice despite it being muffled by Paige’s skin, “this is gonna be really fucking hard isn’t it?”

Paige’s arms instinctively tighten around the brunette, her hands that had been playing with her curls stilling as her body goes rigid under Azzi. It’s a thought that both of them have had -their eyes have even said it each other in the moments where the inevitability of their future had been to hard to ignore- but neither of them had, had the courage to actually say it out loud yet, to give that thought the wing to fly into the air and hang between them like a sword of reality waiting to cut through their mirage of wilful ignorance. 

But the sword has been unsheathed now. And the mirage has disappeared. 

“Yeah it is,” Paige says finally, her fingers slipping under Azzi’s shirt to caress her back, like she’s trying to soothe her girlfriend and keep herself sane just by being able to touch her, “it is scary and it is- it’s gonna be really fucking hard.”

Azzi whimpers, trying to push herself further into her girlfriend’s embrace, almost like she’s trying to sew them together by their skin with a thread that no force in the world could unbind. 

“But baby listen,” Paige coaxes Azzi’s face out of her chest, her thumbs resting on the younger girl’s jawling as she looks at her with that gentle gaze she reserves solely for her girlfriend, “no matter what- no matter how scary or hard it is- we’re gonna get through this. I know we are. Because you and me Az? We’re unbreakable- we’re un-ruin-able.”

Azzi lets out a wobbly laugh as she presses her forehead against the blonde’s, eyes closing instinctively as she breathes in the clean, calming, scent of Paige’s lavender body wash, “just cause you keep using it, doesn’t mean it’s suddenly gonna become a word, you know that right?”

“Yeah but it got you to smile twice so I’mma keep using it over and over again,” Paige shrugs, her nose nuzzling against Azzi’s. 

“You’re such a cornball Bueckers,” Azzi announces with a somewhat dramatic eye roll before she’s falling back into the pillows, tugging her girlfriend with her so she’s lying on her back, with Paige hovering right over her, cerulean blue eyes gleaming with love and promise as she smiles down at Azzi. 

“But here you are anyways,” Paige whispers as she presses her lips languidly to Azzi’s forehead, before moving down to her cheeks, then to her lips, “loving me,” she bites the lower one softly before moving onto Azzi’s neck and her collarbone, “wanting me,” her lips drift lower, gently lifting her shirt so she can leave a trail of delicate kisses starting at rib cage and then continuing down, a teasing smirk on her face, “needing me.”

“Paige,” Azzi moans, her fingers curling against the sheet as Paige settles between her legs, hands toying with the waistband of her sleep shorts as she looks expectantly up at the brunette. 

“What do you want, baby?” Paige asks, looking at Azzi like she’s already drunk off of her. 

“I want it slow,” Azzi says quietly, reaching a hand down to brush away a strand of unruly blonde hair, “I want you to make it last.”

“Whatever you want Az,” Paige promises, rising back up so she can pull Azzi into a searing hot kiss, “I’ll give you whatever you want baby.”

And she does. 

It’s slow and steady and perfect. They make love like they could make it last forever, like they have all the time in the world, like tonight won’t change into tomorrow unless they want it to. And when they finally fall apart, wrapped so tightly in each other arms, grounded by the feeling of being each other’s anchor, it feels like a vow; a vow to be un-ruin-able. 

April 14th 3:47 p.m.

Paige’s knee hasn’t stopped bouncing since she’d taken her seat on the hair and make-up chair. She’s acutely away of everything going on around her, of Haley’s curling iron putting the finishing touches on her hair, of Brittany making sure all of the pieces for her outfit change later on in the night are ready to be transported, of teammates -past and present- walking in and out of the room with praises of how good she looks and how proud they are of her. And Paige is thankful for all of them -is almost a little overwhelmed with how her village has come out to support her- but she can’t pretend that she’s not counting down the moments till her hair and make-up are done, till she can jump out of this chair and run down the hallway to her girlfriend. 

Beyond the quiet moment they’d shared when they’d woken up -at a far too early hour- this morning and a quick glimpse of each other before they’d been whisked away to get ready for the night, she hasn’t seen Azzi nearly enough today. They’d texted of course, like they always did when they were apart for longer than a minute. But no amount of messages back and forth could replace the exhilaration that came with actually being together, that came with being able to see her and touch her and feel her. 

God Paige is so fucking gone, has been since she was fifteen and she’d walked into the gym to see the most perfect arc on a three-point shot that she’d ever seen. And then her gaze had landed on the girl who’d taken the jumpshot. 

That was it. 

The moment Paige’s life had been permanently altered. 

And now that girl, the girl with the perfect jump shot but an even more perfect soul, was going to be by her side on the biggest night of her life so far, just like she had been for every milestone -every moment, big or small, happy or sad- since they’d met. 

Paige remembers when they’d first talked about being drafted and playing the W. Back then, it had felt like a dream, attainable but something that was still years and years away. But still, she’d been adamant, if not cocky, that she’d be a high first-round pick and Azzi -even though she’d started with a sarcastic quip and a teasing joke about you? nah Bueckers, you’d be lucky if you go late second round-had said with absolute certainty, her eyes sparkling with an emotion Paige couldn't quite decipher, that she was going to go number one overall.

And it had caught Paige off-guard, that fluttering in her stomach as her chest had expanded with pride. It wasn’t the first time someone had complimented her, wasn’t even the first time someone had said she’d go number one but there was a certain conviction in Azzi's voice that made Paige feel like she really believed it, believed in her. 

That belief was going to pay off tonight.

And Azzi -just like she’d promised, when they were just two girls lying on a blanket under the stars, pinkies brushing together as they’d talked about their future- would be right there to watch it happen. 

“Are we done yet?” Paige asks impatiently, looking imploringly at her entourage through the mirror. 

“Why?” Hayley’s eyes twinkle with mirth as she spritzes copious amounts setting spray against Paige’s hair, making the blond wheeze, “you have somewhere you need to be Bueckers?”

“Me? No. I got nothing to do,” Paige denies, “but Brittany has another client she has to go see I think and like you know, we shouldn’t keep her from doing that right Britt?”

Her stylist raises an amused eyebrow, “no one’s keeping me from seeing my other client Paige. In fact, you’re basically done and I’ve got your second look read to go, so I think I’m gonna go over and see her I think,” Brittany smirks as she walks towards the makeup chair, winking at Hayley, “but since you have nowhere to be yet, how about we do a little-”

“NO,” Paige shrinks back, a crimson blush creeping up her neck and overriding the artificial one at how loud her protest had come out, “I mean um- I already look great I think and you guys uh- you guys have worked so hard. We wouldn’t wanna ruin that by adding more and um- doing too much or something.”

Brittany laughs at her client’s rambling, shaking her head fondly at Paige’s familiar antiques as she comes to stand in front of the girl, “you’re a horrible liar.”

“I know,” Paige admits with a slight pout, “I just- I wanna see her.”

“She wants to see you too,” Brittany whispers like it’s a secret as she hands over her phone and Paige’s eyes light up when she sees her girlfriend’s name above a series of texts. 

Azzi: heyyyyyyy auntie B 

          just wondering how everything’s going over there?

          if you’re almost done?

          are you coming over soon? 

Paige laughs, a warm sensation wrapping itself around her heart at the desperation that mirrors her own, reflected in the texts. She can practically picture her girlfriend, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip as she’d likely overthought what to send to their stylist. 

“Y’all are just as bad as each other,” Brittany says, “but come on lovebird, let’s reunite you with your other half and put us all out of our misery.”

Paige grins like a child who’s just been told they’re being taken to disney world, standing up from her make-up chair so quickly that it makes her stumble a little bit, much to the entertainment of all the people around her. She catches a glance of herself, the finished product, in the mirror and can’t help the slightly arrogant smirk that crosses her face. 

She looks good. 

Fashion hadn’t initially been one of Paige’s passions but perhaps that was more because she wasn’t aware of what fashion could be for her before. She’d never understood the hype of the overly feminine dresses and jewelry her mother seemed to want her to wear but she’d done it with a smile until dressing herself like that had started to feel more like a punishment than an indulgence. And it hadn’t been until she’d started venturing into the more ambiguous style, into something that felt more her, that Paige had really begun to understand just how much she enjoyed dabbling in fashion, just how much she could use it as a venture to express herself, as a way to fall back in love with herself for who she is. 

By the time they make the short walk to Azzi’s dressing room, Paige’s palms are sweating. She feels like a highschooler who’s waiting to see their prom date. Ironic, because Paige hated every second of the day leading up to Azzi’s prom night, annoyed at the idea of someone else taking her girl as their date. Still, she’d played her part as a dutiful best friend, driving Azzi around to get her nails done, laughing with her as she'd gotten her hair and make-up done, taking candid pictures of her when she wasn’t looking and a couple more when she was. But every second had felt like torture, like a ticking timebomb waiting to explode the moment Azzi’d date had shown up at the Fudd’s doorstep. It wasn’t until Azzi had stepped into  his car -turning around to wave up at Paige with an uncertain smile- and the blonde had watched it drive away from the window of the guestroom, that she’d finally broken down. 

But then Azzi had come back early, a thousand and one excuses on her lips of why she’d skipped out on the after party, none of which really made sense but neither of her parents, and definitely not Paige herself, had called her out on it. And she hadn’t said the truth out loud that night -just gotten out of her dress and curled into bed next to Paige, putting on Love and Basketball for the hundredth time- but it had been enough, enough for Paige to know that it wasn’t all in her head, that Azzi felt the electricity that hummed between them too. 

The sweet scent of a citrus-y perfume engulfs her sense as Paige pushes open the door to her girlfriend’s room. She doesn’t quite recognize it, isn’t the one that Azzi normally uses, but something about it matches the brunette’s aura. Paige’s eyes scan the room, throwing the peace sign up at Amari who’s perched lazily on the bed and giving polite nods to the glam squad who are bustling around the space. She scrunches her face at not immediately catching sight of her girlfriend, her impatience catching up to her, until she hears it. 

Azzi’s voice. 

Coming from the direction of the bathroom; her tone carefree and light as she talks to who Paige assumes is Mackenzie. She hears the shutter of a camera, a quick work it girl, followed by her girlfriend’s familiar giggles and Paige feels her heart beat start to slow down, that calm she only feels when Azzi’s near her starting to seep through her skin like a the perfect hit of indica settling her frazzled nerves. 

“Baby,” she calls out, blushing at the fact that she can hear the sappy smile in her own voice, “c’mere. I wanna see you.”

On the bed Amari pretends to gag, “still as gross as ever I see.”

Paige flips her off, shifting her weight from side to side as she waits for Azzi to come out of the bathroom, desperate feeling like too mild a term to describe how badly she wants to see the brunette. 

And when she does- 

Fuck. 

It’s like they forget how to breathe at the same time, the world fading away as the two of them stare at each other, eyes wide, mouth parted, that same how did I get so fucking lucky expression written over both of their faces. And the thing is, Paige swears Azzi is the most gorgeous thing she’s laid her eyes on every day, thinks she’s the prettiest girl in the world even when she’s in nothing but that one old Georgetown shirt and her shorts covered in red hearts, with no makeup on. But tonight? 

God, tonight, Azzi is ethereal. 

Like nothing Paige has ever seen before. 

Like an angel fallen from heaven that was so gorgeous, she’d been banished by Aphrodite herself. 

Paige had seen the black dress on Azzi during her fittings, had already been enamored by the low cut neckline and the way the material went sheer at the bottom. But still, nothing could have prepared her for this final look. For the hair, wavy in a way Paige has never seen it before, the makeup that makes Azzi’s doe eyes pop and enunciates the plumpness of her lips, the minimal jewelry that enhances the entire outfit and makes Azzi look expensive. 

And Paige can’t tell if she’s floating or flying or falling, but she knows the ground has been snatched from underneath her in the best way possible. 

“Paige,” Azzi recovers first and Paige blinks -still dumbfounded- as her girlfriend glides across the room towards her and she’s struck with the fact that Azzi looks just as mesmerized as she does. 

“You look-” the brunette swallows, her hands moving like she doesn’t know where she wants to put them before they finally settle on the lapels of the older girl’s blazer, “fuck baby you look beautiful.”

“Me?” Paige finally finds her voice, her own hand moving to wrap around Azzi’s waist as she pulls her girlfriend closer, eyes still roaming all over her body, “baby have you fucking seen yourself.”

Azzi lowers her eyes bashfully, a soft pink color gracing her cheeks, “you like it?”

“No,” Paige says without hesitation, causing her girlfriend to look back up at her in confusion, “I hate it. I hate that you’re wearing it tonight. I hate that everyone else is gonna get to see you like this,” she continues possessively, eliciting a laugh from Azzi, “you look so fucking perfect baby, everyone’s gonna fall in love with you. I’m gonna end up in jail or something by the end of the night.”

“How do you think I feel,” Azzi bites back, pressing herself closer to Paige, “they’re already in love with you and then you’re gonna show up like that? I’ll be right there in jail with you at that point.”

“So what I’m hearing is that we should just stay here for the rest of the night? Just you and me and nobody else,” Paige smirks crookedly, “I mean I’mma get drafted even if I don't show up right?” 

Azzi shakes her head, tangling her fingers in the black cross chain dangling down the valley of her girlfriend’s chest, “tempting but no,” her eyes shine with pride, “I wanna watch your dreams come true tonight. I wanna hear your name called. I wanna see you walk on that stage and get handed that jersey. And I- I wanna be the one clapping the loudest when it all happens.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be anybody else,” Paige whispers, her voice trembling as she tightens her grip around Azzi’s waist, “you know that right baby? That I wouldn’t wanna live out any of my dreams with anybody else but you?”

“I know, me too,” Azzi nods, gently tapping their foreheads together, “I’m so proud of you P. So proud. And I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you more,” Paige says, somehow managing to press their bodies even closer together, “thank you for being here. Not just tonight. For all of it. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“Always,” Azzi breathes out, “I’m always gonna be here. No matter what.”

It’s a promise Azzi intends to keep and a promise Paige plans on holding her to, forever. 

April 15th 5:35 a.m. 

Their hotel room is quiet now, the last of their friends having drunkenly departed to their respective rooms. The high of the night still lingers in the air, echoes of the cacophony that had surrounded them since they’d woken up this morning still ringing in their ears. The room is a mess to say the least, remnants of drunk shenanigans woven into the couch and carpet. It’s the scene of the after-after party that had only involved the people closest to them, a not-so-quiet affair that had happened rather spontaneously after the Nike event had ended and their little circle -none of them particular sober- had agreed to reconvene in Paige and Azzi’s room instead. Champagne had flowed, the music had been loud and the chatter had been practically incoherent. 

But God, had it been fun. 

The perfect celebration of a monumentally perfect night. 

And now it was just the two of them, tired, aching bodies lying side by side -Paige, with her eyes closed, on her back, one arm wrapped around Azzi’s who’s curled against her chest, the other propped under her head- as they finally get a moment to themselves. Neither of them have changed, but at some point Paige’s white shirt had ended up wrapped around Azzi’s body, leaving the blonde in nothing but her white camisole now. Azzi doesn’t remember how exactly that had happened but she’s not complaining, not when she’s now engulfed by the scent of all things Paige and she has a first-class view of her girlfriend’s toned arms. 

“So,” she begins quietly, her voice scratchy and hoarse from the occurrences of the night, “when are we going shopping for a cowboy hat and cowboy boots?”

Paige laughs, a deep belly rumble that Azzi’s can feel from where her fingers are splayed over the blonde’s stomach, “as soon as we get to Dallas baby.”

We. 

Azzi hides a smile into Paige’s chest at that. She likes when her girlfriend speaks about them like that, like the package deal they have been since they were fifteen years old. Her eyes flicker across the room to the Dallas Wings hat that’s perched on the mirror, a relic of what’s to come and the thrill of what had happened tonight. Everyone had known this was what was going to happen since December, a foregone conclusion but that hadn’t made the moment any less special. Not when Azzi has been waiting for it -praying on it even before she’d truly discovered her faith- since the first time Paige had confided in her -with uncharacteristic quiet vulnerability- that she hoped one day she’d go number one in the draft. 

And tonight, that had finally come to fruition. 

There aren’t enough words in the English dictionary to describe how proud of Paige, Azzi is. She’s never doubted this moment would come, never doubted that this would be another mountain her girlfriend would conquer, but she knows -better than anyone- that the climb to the top had been riddled with obstacles. Hurdle after hurdle, Azzi had watched Paige jump over them all, maintaining a smile for the crowds but letting herself crumble in the brunette’s arms behind the scenes. And Azzi had held her, whispered reassurances into her ears until the blonde was fast asleep with tear-tracked cheeks and her own arms had hurt from holding Paige. But the idea of letting go had never once crossed Azzi’s mind. Instead she’d held her girlfriend a little tighter, had made herself stronger, so that whatever burden Paige was carrying, Azzi would always be there to make it lighter. 

Now here Paige is, a national champion, the #1 draft pick, a person who’d dared to dream despite it all, and the dreams had finally become a reality. 

And as she observes her girlfriend, eyes closed in peace with the smile of someone who’s really and truly happy, Azzi thinks no one deserved this more. 

“You’re staring,” Paige teases, eyelids still pressed shut as she brushes her hand up and down Azzi’s arm. 

The brunette bites her lip, only a little embarrassed at having been caught out, “I’m allowed to. You’re mine.”

“Oh?” Paige cracks open one eye, her lips stretching into that familiar arrogant smirk, “feeling a little possessive are we Az?”

“It’s the alcohol,” Azzi justifies with a grin, reaching up to steal a quick kiss from her girlfriend’s lips, “it makes me say the craziest things.”

Paige hums cavalierly before pulling Azzi fully on top of her, both eyes now open as she grins lazily up at the girl in her arms and it’s uncertain if the intoxication gleaming in them is from the ample amount of liquor coursing through her bloodstream or just the sheer amount of love she feels for her girlfriend.

“I like when you say crazy things,” she says softly, her thumb caressing the brunette’s cheeks, “especially things like that.”

“Like what?” Azzi breathes out. 

Paige’s tongue traces her bottom lip and Azzi finds herself following every movement, “like when you call me yours.”

“You are mine,” Azzi repeats, “and I’m yours.”

“I know,” Paige whispers as she brushes away a loose strand that had slipped out of the dark-haired girl’s bun, “and now the world knows it too.”

“You think so?” Azzi asks softly, a thrill inching up her spine at the idea of them officially being an open secret. 

“They should,” Paige snorts, “at least anybody with brain cells. I bet you, when I scroll through social media tomorrow morning, we’re gonna be all over it.”

Tonight hadn’t been a planned coming-out or anything; it wasn’t like they were trying to announce their relationship to the world. But they’d known what it would look like, what assumptions would be drawn from Azzi sitting pretty at Paige’s table, from her being the first person Paige hugged. They’d been acutely aware that this would firmly cross them over the threshold of being primarily known as best friends to people -as in the general public and not just a certain subsection of the internet who had already caught on long ago- questioning if there was more there. 

But that hadn’t been why they’d done this, albeit Azzi will admit that she likes the idea of being less hidden and the slightly possessive part of her enjoys the idea of people knowing, or at least speculating, that Paige is taken.  They’d done this because they deserved this moment together. They deserved to love each other out loud in the biggest of moment of Paige’s life, without fear, without inhibition, without giving a flying fuck about what anybody else would say. 

“Tonight was pretty amazing huh?” Paige says after a second, awe and tired blending into one smooth, low, cadence. 

Azzi doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches the girl underneath her, memorizing the marvel in her eyes, the joy that outlines every inch of her face. She presses a hand against Paige’s chest, exactly over where she knows her heart is, letting herself feel the rhythmic vibration of her pulse, like it’s the beat to her favorite song that she could listen to over and over again. 

“Was it everything you’d ever hoped for?” she asks finally. 

Paige chortles, “it was better.”

“I’m glad. You deserved it baby,” Azzi smiles, pressing her lips to Paige’s, letting it deepen for a second before she pulls away and rests her head against the older girl’s chest. 

“I can’t wait to do this again next year,” Paige says slowly, her hands rubbing up and down Azzi’s back as her words come out slightly slurred,“my turn to clap the loudest when you get picked number one.”

Azzi lets out a sleepy giggle, “alright hold on babe, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Nah,” Paige shakes her head, arms tightening their hold on the girl in her arms, “I already know.”

“Okay baby,” Azzi whispers, her eyes beginning to droop, powerless to the exhaustion shrouding every inch of her body, “can’t wait,” she yawns, burrowing herself further into her girlfriend’s warm embrace, “I love you. Good night P.”

“Good night Azzi,” Paige echoes back, reaching over the younger girl’s to turn the lights over, "love you more baby."

And as she slowly begins to succumb to the wiles of sleep, Azzi can’t help but think about how everything had changed tonight. They were going to spend a couple more days in New York, then a few more in Connecticut -maximizing their time together- before Paige would head off to Dallas, off to her new life. Azzi would follow her eventually, of course she would. But not forever, not to stay. 

Summers have always belonged to them. Since they’d met that fateful summer, they’d spend every single one together, attached at the hip. In the beginning, when they were still kids and less aware of how they felt, they’d still been apart for a few weeks but the last few summers? They’d barely been apart for a few days. But this summer would be different. Paige will be playing, traveling, learning the ropes of her new life and Azzi knows she needs to use this summer to get her prepared to do the same next year. Everything has changed. 

“Hey Az,” Paige whispers in the dark, her voice hesitant like she’s not sure if she say the next part, “next year when you get drafted, do you think- do you think maybe I could kiss you?”

Azzi hides her smile in the older girl’s chest. And she thinks everything has changed, but perhaps nothing has. 

Because she’s still Azzi, and Paige is still Paige, and the two of them are still the same, still them, still just two girls, desperately in love with each other, dreaming of their future together. 

“Yeah,” she answers finally, pressing a quick kiss against the side of Paige’s neck, “I think I’d like that.”

[harryspet]

ribbons & rage | b.barnes

[warnings] dark!gray!congressman!bucky barnes x feral!hybrid!reader, daddy!bucky, power imbalance, possessive bucky, pet play elements, dollification, political manipulation, age regression tones (dd/lg dynamics), dom/sub dynamic, stockholm syndrome, forced domestication, DUBCON

summary: After a diplomatic mission turns into an extraction, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes brings home a prize no one knows about. She’s impulsive. Dirty. Disobedient. But under his eye, with enough ribbons, praise, and correction, he’ll turn the wild thing into something beautiful. Something his.

word count: 5.8k

bucky barnes masterlist

Sam warned him not to get involved in Project LUPUS. He was only a year into his congressional term and he’d managed to fully rid the public of the image of the Winter Soldier. For the first time in the century he’d been alive, he was just James “Bucky” Barnes. Some of his colleagues had even begun to take him seriously. Despite this, Bucky knew Sam didn’t fully understand. He’d never fully understand the destruction that Hydra had caused to his mind. Bucky was the only one who could understand the minds behind the deep-state project. Modern American scientists influenced by Hydra’s science. 

Project LUPUS was Hydra’s legacy. The experimentations, the genetic manipulations, the violence. They hadn’t been erased. They were buried, waiting for someone to dig them up. It was his responsibility to make sure everything tied to it was destroyed. 

The classified file came across his desk because one of his colleagues recognized he would be the best person for the job. He was granted limited access under the purpose of an oversight audit and a bioethics violation review. 

According to the document, everyone involved had been terminated and all the experiment subjects had been exeterminated. His colleague believed otherwise. Bucky read the documents even closer during his private flight to Outpost-25 A, and undisclosed location in Alaskan territory. A snowstorm had grounded most flights but he’d been given “special clearance”.

The scientists, under the direction of a network embedded within the Department of Defense, were intending to create self-healing, biologically engineered hybrids with enhanced aggression, sharp senses, and fast reflexes. They’d be able to detect and eliminate threats, control public unrest, recover key asessets, and could even be deployed during warfare operations. 

They’d learned nothing from the past. 

The very last document in the pile of fifty pages peaked Bucky’s interest the most. It was a scanned intake form, faded, stained and partially redacted. This one had many notes written in the margins. A different tone than the documents describing the purpose of the project, the different subjects and how they’d been exterminated. 

Subject 109. LUPUS-F. Status: Unconfirmed termination. Last seen on Sublevel 3. 

Ah, the real reason he was here. You were nineteen at the time that the project had been terminated. Many of the notes were similar to the other subjects. Rapid healing. Strong territorial response. Pre-verbal communication. A few others, including you, had been listed as non-compliant. 

He stared at the paper longer than he should have, becoming unsettled as he read further. 

There were so many incident reports related to you. Reports on the use of deadly force. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. The accidental death of a Lt. Carney. Another accidental death of a Lt. Wynn. Destruction of two containment doors during transport. The standard dose of sedation being ineffective due to rapid metabolism.

Avoid eye contact. 

Will only accept food from [REDACTED] 

Your termination order was prior to the termination of the project. The justification included unmanageable behavorial volatility and emotional instability. It stated your body had been incinerated but there were no autopsy photos included. 

Double dose required for sedation. 

Rejection of mating partner 103-M. 

Rejection of mating partner 98-M.

Rejection of mating partner 115-M. 

Bucky searched for anything that gone right during your captivity and didn’t find anything. Bucky finally tore his eyes away when the plane dipped from turbulence. The storm was building. As the jet began its descent into a snow-covered valley, Bucky caught sight of the outpost. It was buried under permafrost in a decommissioned missile silo.

The pilot warned him not to stay long before he finally stepped off the transport. It was a thirty-foot walk through snow, reaching up to his mid-calf, to the entrance. The tall steel doors of the entrance had been sealed off. He used his clearance code, courtesy of his colleague on the oversight committe, and the steel doors groaned open. 

Lights flickered weakly above. He passed through long corridors and security checkpoints until he reached the main lab. It didn’t look abandoned. Only frozen in time. Notes were still scrawled across whiteboards, papers stacked on desks, and metal trays with half-used syringes. A shattered, glass, containment chamber sat nearby, clawmarks across the glass. 

But there were no bodies, or bones, or even any bullet casing. 

Carefully and methodically, Bucky cleared the first two floors of the outpost. He found each cage door open and and empty. When he finally reached Sublevel 3, he noticed something in the air had shifted. The air cooled even further and lights dimmed. That’s where he found the bones. Animal bones. 

He checked each cage for a sign of life. Though there was a pistol on his hip and a shotgun strapped to his back, he didn’t ever reach for them. He paused at cell 12-C and stepped inside. There was bedding, sheets created from lab coats, chair cushions and even shredded documents. Muddy foot prints. Small and barefoot. 

You weren’t in a cell. You were loose. Surviving. 

He stepped back into the hallway. And then he saw you. No chains. Just … standing at the end of the hall. Watching him. 

Despite the the lack of sunlight and coldness of your home, your skin was rich and radiant. Your curls, though some were matted, defied gravity. Your frame was slender, most likely from being trapped here with dwindling resources, but the curves of your body remained. Gunshot to the abdomen. He saw the scar above your hip bone. He also saw another one on your right thigh and an even larger one on your collarbone. 

It wasn’t just the scars or the angles of your body that made you unlike anything Bucky had ever seen. Unnaturaly wide pupils that he could see even in the dim light. Slightly pointed ears. You looked him over, scanned him, and Bucky noted the faint twitch of your nostrils – scenting him. Though you were physically much smaller than him, you did not cower. You were not prey. 

Your lips parted and Bucky could see your canines, just slightly too long. 

He remembered your file. 

Hybrid Type: Homo sapiens/Canis lupus (Genome Series III)

Ancestral Donor: [REDACTED] 

You were made this way. Selfishly, inappropriately, Bucky wondered how something made by evil minds could be so … beautiful. Something switched in his mind then. He couldn’t ensure the full termination of Project LUPUS. 

You were like him. A monster of another’s creation. He had to save you. Someone decided to give him a second chance, he could do that from you. 

Perhaps they had evolved. Maybe he was here to get rid of you like the others. He was armed. There was no reason to trust him. 

You didn’t speak. Just stared. Assessed. 

Until you did move. 

Part of you expected to easily pierce his skin. To be so much faster and stronger that the shear force of pushing your body against his would easily knock him down. You hadn’t met a worthy opponent yet. Until now. 

He caught you. 

He moved but barely. You let out a scream of anguish as his arms wrapped around your torso, pulling your body against his. You thrashed wildly, trying to pull your knees into his groin, before you decided to go for his throat. Bearing your teeth, you lunged for him, but the wind was almost knocked out of you when you suddenly found yourself slammed against the concrete wall. 

Now you were mad. Blindingly furious. 

What was he? He didn’t smell like a hybrid. He smelled chemical, metallic, and synthetic. His arm, across your chest, pinned you against the wall. You looked up at his face now, long dark hair shielding half his face. 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” His first words to you weren’t a threat. You knew that much although you couldn’t decipher the full meaning. He was surprised. Not scared of you. Not the least bit scared of his own safety. It made you even more furious, “You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t stop.”

Dead. Hurt. You knew those words. Those were bad words. But he almost seemed worried. He looked … conflicted. 

You couldn’t breathe, your chest was tightening under the pressure, and it felt like your bones might crack at any minute. Your eyes burned from the rage and frustration. No one had ever made you feel like this. You wanted his heart in your hands. You wanted his head off his shoulders. But you forced your body to still. Not in submission but to allow yourself time to think. 

A growling whine left your throat, the pain finally fully registering. His grip loosened and something changed in his face. He managed to keep you pinned but the pressure lessened, “I don’t want to hurt you,” He spoke and you hung onto every word. You needed to think. To try to understand him, “You won’t be able to hurt me. Not in the way you want to.” 

Your nostrils flared. You didn’t believe him. You also didn’t move. Clearly, you would have to take a different approach.

He talked like a human. Carried weapons like the humans. You weren’t sure why. It wasn’t like he needed them. You could take another bullet, you’d done it before. You wished that the food hadn’t started running out a few weeks ago. You would be stronger. But there was still fight left in you. 

He didn’t notice the switch flip in your mind. He was already pulling away, giving you space, but you quickly struck again. Dropped your weight, slammed your forehead against his jaw as hard as possible. Nails slashed against his throat when you successfully caught him off guard. You drew blood and smiled. 

“Fuck,” He growled, actually growled, and your smile grew bigger. 

So he bleeds. What was he? 

A metal arm wrapped around your throat before he shoved you to the ground. You scrambled and kicked as he got on top of you, straddling your torso. When he reached into his pocket, you thought he was reaching for his gun. 

“You don’t get it,”  He said. You screamed as best as you could. Your chest heaved, “I’m not your enemy.”

You didn’t see the syringe until it was already pressed against your arm. The sting was nothing. You’d felt much worse. You didn’t flinch. Despite the way his face softened, you showed him your rage. You pushed at him until you couldn’t feel anything anymore. 

Bucky didn’t realize he’d taken on too much responsibility until it was too late. 

“You’re safe here,” He’d say over and over, “This isn’t a cage.”

Now you were here in his Brooklyn home, barefoot, feral, and you were close to destroying every valuable item in his home. His first mistake was trying to make sure you didn’t feel caged. He realized quickly that he couldn’t be nice with you. The only things you responded to were pain and control. 

This would be a journey. A long one. It would be a slow, brutal fight to drag you out of whatever darkness they left you in.

And Bucky wasn’t sure yet who would survive it.

For the first two weeks, he kept a bit gag in your mouth to stop you from biting, and padded gloves on your hands, leather on the outside, soft inside, to keep you from scratching him. He had to sedate you everytime he deemed you needed a bath or your teeth brushed because you’d fight him until your body went limp from exhaustion. You completely refused any clothing, leaving Bucky to draw every curtain in the home. 

He hadn’t found a way to make a click. To help you understand. Until he’d prepared you a breakfast one morning and you’d thanked him by flipping the table. He lifted you by your waist and dragged you kicking and screaming to the living room. He bent you over the couch, vibranium arm pressed against your upper back, and spanked you until your growling turned to whimpers. 

He hadn’t seen you cry yet. Not until then. His heart panged, realizing he’d let his anger make him lose control. He hand’t wanted to hurt you. Not really. But the spanking had done more then bruise your ass. It embarassed you. Made you truly realize how much stronger he was. You were deadly but Bucky had an extra eighty years to perfect his craft. 

Bucky could tell in the way your posture softened. How you leaned into the fabric of the couch for comfort. You weren’t broken but you were beginning to understand. He was the one in control. He could keep you here no matter how much you fought it. 

You allowed him to lift you, to place you softly on the material of the expensive sofa. As he rounded the piece of furniture and sat close to you, he watched how you pulled your knees into your chest. And then quickly sat up and tucked your knees under yourself instead, bottom sore.  Hesitantly, he rested a hand on your thigh. You looked up at him, eyes sad and confused. 

“I know,” He said quietly, voice rough but steady, “But there are rules to follow. You were being a bad girl–”

You pointed to your chest and spoke to him for the first time, “B-ad girl.”

Bucky was taken aback by your tone of voice. Gritty from misuse but he heard so much softness underneath. A delicateness he had not expected. Bucky nodded after a long pause, “Yes, you were being a bad girl. But I know you can be a good girl.”

Your brows furrowed and Bucky saw the way that you momentarily grew frustrated before you pushed it away. For the first time, you pushed away your gut instinct to fight him. You pointed to him next, “Good girl?” You asked, confused. It didn’t sound right and Bucky could see your mind working.

Bucky grinned, “No, I’m Bucky.”

“Boy,” You corrected yourself, “Good boy?”

Bucky’s lips parted. He honestly hadn’t thought he’d get to this point with you so he hadn’t spent enough time considering how he would explain all of this you, “No,” He said after clearing his throat, “That one’s for you. You get to be the good girl.”

You tilted your head again, “You … Alpha?”

Bucky shook his head, “No, not exactly. I want to be your …” He thought carefully about his next words. He pointed to you, “You … good girl. Baby. Doll. Pet.”

He pointed to himself next, “Me …. I’m Daddy.”

“Hmm,” You made a noise as you looked him over. You reached out next, your fingers wandering curiously over the fabric of his white button up. You felt his chest, hard and thick before you gripped the metal wrist of his left arm, “Daddy arm … this … you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Still me,” Bucky spoke a little breathlessly, not realizing how much that word on your lips would make his heart race. You studied his face and then subsequently his heart rate. You placed a hand over his heart and felt the beating. It fascinated you. Your heart rate was so much slower, so much more controlled.

You made another noise and your hands wandered back to your own lap. It would be a strange sight to anyone looking in. You were completely naked and Bucky had, somewhat, grown used to looking at your figure. Sometimes his eyes lingered a little too long on the perks of your nipples or the plumpness of your bottom. And your legs were slightly parted, he could clearly see your slit. You didn’t mind it. It bothered you more when he wanted you to wear clothes. 

“No baby,” You interrupted his thoughts and Bucky realized his hand was traveling closer to the gap between your thighs. 

You were so soft. 

“What?” he asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“No … not baby,” You pointed to yourself then and gestured to a lower height, palm facing downward, emphasizing how small an actual baby would be, “This baby.”

You wanted to be understood, “Not a real baby, no,” Bucky said, “But I want you to be my baby,” When you went quiet, he continued, “I want to take care of you. I will take care of you.”

You shook your head, “No need.”

“I know,” Bucky agreed, “You’re right. You’re strong. But I know you don’t want to be alone again. All by yourself. No family. No friends. No love. It’s bad for you.”

“Bad for me. No love,” You said after awhile, mimicking him. Trying to understand. 

Bucky nodded, “It’s good to have someone. Stay with me. I won’t hurt–”

“You hit,” You retorted, some of that fury returning. Your palm touched the skin of your bruised bottom, “See, you hit! No like. I … don’t like.”

You raised a hand and Bucky quickly caught it. His eyes grew sharper and he sent you a warning. 

“Hey, you’re not supposed to like it. I hit, yes. But it’s different than this,” Bucky emphasized the scars on your skin, the bullet wounds, the scars from where knives had sliced you open, “Sometimes it hurts more here.” He pointed to you heart. 

“I don’t like,” You said again, softer this time. 

Slowly, Bucky’s tight grip turned gently and he took your hand into his. One hand on your thigh, his metal hand on your soft one. 

“Then you won’t be a bad girl, okay? No fighting. No hurting Daddy. If you want something, you have to tell me. You can’t just throw a tantrum. There are rules to follow.”

You sighed, considering. Your lips parted again, uncertain. That was good enough for Bucky. 

Bucky leaned in, his voice gentle, “Do you know your name? I’m Bucky. You are …”

“109-F,” You answered easily and flashed him a look of boredom, like your name didn’t matter. 

“That was your name. We’ll think of something better, okay?”

Another week passed and Bucky found he had little use for the bit gag and leather gloves. The tantrums remained but Bucky noticed your intentions had changed. You didn’t get riled up and try to hurt him anymore. You pushed at him and knocked things over but mostly only when you wanted to communicate something and Bucky couldn’t understand you. 

As the spankings increased, the good behavior increased as well. He started new routines with you. 

Your room was currently only a twin bed and soft carpet despite the size of the room. It allowed for less things to be destroyed. You didn’t sleep in the bed anyways. Bucky started to notice that his couch cushions, blankets, old newspapers, and even clothes from his closet were starting to go missing. He found them later in the small closet connected to your room. 

A nest.

You had created a soft, safe space for yourself inside. At first, you bared your teeth at him when he tried to step inside. Instead, Bucky sat right by the entrance of the closet door. He brought you breakfast, a simple bowl of oatmeal. He’d take a spoonful into his mouth and exaggerate an, “Mmmm,” as he ate. Then he would hold the spoon out to you and wait for you to take it, “Your turn, baby.”

You refused the first few times. Then eventually you took the spoon in your hand and catapulted it at the wall. Not out of anger, mostly out of curiosity. And then you clumsily dipped the spoon inside the oatmeal, brought it to your nose, smearing some on your nose. “See, it’s not so bad. Try it.”

You looked at him like he was from another planet. 

Eventually, you took the spoon into your mouth and had a few bites, “Good girl, baby.” That’s how he knew you were warming to him. 

His work in Washington continued even as he continued to help you settle into a routine. There were still meetings and late-night calls. Stacks of policy briefs piled high on the living room table and his phone buzzed constantly. Soon, he would have to return but he hoped by then you would be more house broken. Easier to manage. Easier to leave on your own. 

You responded well to the corporal punishments. To make even bigger changes, Bucky tried to workout a system of rewards for you. It started with the stuffed animals. Soft and cute. He knew you’d never seen or held one before. He sat outside the closet, further than he usually did, one evening holding a stuffed, brown bear, “Look, he’s soft. Do you want to hold him?”

“ … hold him?” You made you way to the edge of door and reached for it.

Bucky pulled back, “You may hold him. You’ve been such a good girl, eating your food, and not throwing things. Come here,” He patted his lap. 

For a long moment, you mentally debated whether or not you would leave the closet. When you finally decided the risk was worth it, you hesitantly crawled forward, sitting your bare bottom on the worn fabric of his jeans. Bucky let you take the bear into your hands and he saw something your face soften immediately. You brushed your hands over the fur methodically, over and over. Bucky counted fifty brushes of your hand over it’s head. 

“You can hug him,” Bucky demonstrated for you, realizing then that you wouldn’t know what a hug was. He pressed the bear to your chest and then guided your arms around the plush toy, “See, sweet girl. Do you like him?”

“I like bear,” Your voice came out muffled as you pressed the bear against your face, “Soft.”

You were mesmerized for a solid fourty-five minutes. You didn’t mind when Bucky shifted you in his lap so that you were fully straddling him, the bear between the two of you. His hands caressed your back, the sides of your waist and eventually he fully grasped your bottom in his hands, “Fuck,” He cursed under his breath.

“Hurt?” You asked though it was clear your mind was elsewhere.

“No, baby,” Bucky said although he was painfully hard.

“I keep bear?”

Bucky placed a soft kiss against your shoulder blade and was surprised when your face remained soft, almost happy, “It’s yours. For you, my good girl.”

“I’m good girl,” You smiled a real smile. It was the first time he fully saw your teeth and you weren’t thirty seconds from trying to rip out his jugular, “Good bear for me.” 

He nodded, brushing your curls back with his metal fingers. He’d have to tackle another deep detangling another night, “That’s right. But when someone gives you something special, there’s something else you say, too.” He touched your cheek. “Can you say thank you, baby?”

You blinked at him.

“Thannnk—” he started, slow and patient. 

You studied his mouth. “Than...”

“Good,” he coaxed, smiling now. “Now say thank you, Daddy.”

You continued, “Thank you… Daddy.”

“There you go. So polite. So sweet.”

You just stayed there, safe in his lap, hugging the bear a little tighter.

You followed Mr. Bear around the house. Wherever Bucky placed him, you were there. The kitchen table at breakfast, the space beneath Bucky’s desk while he was working, beside the bathtub when Bucky decided you couldn’t go any longer without a bath, your bed that you had initially abandoned. You’d even spent a full night in Bucky’s large bed, letting Bucky hold your waist as you slept using Mr. Bear as your pillow. It wasn’t conscious at first. You fell in love with the small toy quickly. You looked in his eyes and squished his belly to help calm yourself, to even help yourself sleep. It was an attachment that was foreign to you. You liked that Mr. Bear was yours and that Bucky had given him to you. 

It was comfort and regulation. It was all new. 

You spent a full two weeks with that sense of peace. Until you woke from a long nap on the living room couch and Mr. Bear was missing. You’d learn to breathe, to slow down and to not let your anger rise to point of seeing red. You breathed deeply as you turned over every cushion and looked threw drawers. You couldn’t even smell him anymore. 

He was gone. Forever. Stolen from you. Had you been a bad girl? You’d grown attached and now you’d been abandoned. You started looking under any item you could find, letting items fall to the ground with a thud. You emptied an entire bookshelf of all it’s books and spread the contents of one of Bucky’s manila folders all over the floor. 

Cold, dense paper. Nothing soft. You didn’t register the sound of Bucky’s voice in the other room. You fell to your knees, cheeks wet with tears, and started to shred the papers with your nails. 

“....Then tell them to hold off until I’m back D.C. I won’t sign off on anything blind …. Yeah, he knows this. Email him again. Then call. Whatever you have to do. That’s your job …”

A second later, the footsteps came. Fast, heavy but controlled. 

“Give me a second,” Bucky said. Then louder, “Just pause the call.”

Your eyes found his when he finally walked into the living room from his office. He looked over everything quickly. You couldn’t control your breathing. 

Before he could ask you what was wrong, you yelled, “You took bear! Not here! Where?!”

“He’s not gone,” Bucky crouched next to you, eyes dark and fixed sharply on you, “I was in the other room. You need to ask when you have a question. You can’t do … this.” 

“Need bear, Daddy,” You crawled closer on your knees, “Need. Baby is sad.”

“Thank you for telling Daddy how you feel but this is not what you do when you’re sad. You didn’t ask Daddy for help,” Before he continued his lecture, he realized you weren’t the least bit sorry. Your focus was on your toy, “Daddy put Mr. Bear in the washing machine. He was dirty. He’s in the dryer now.” 

“You took bear,” You croaked and Bucky sighed, “Not dirty. Give back.”

“I’ll give him back after you clean up your mess.” 

“No, Daddy!”

“Do you want a spanking too?” You blinked, eyes wide. You shook your head slowly. It had been so long since Bucky had bent you over and done that to you, “Clean, all this needs to go in the trash. The books go back on the bookshelf. And you can put the couch back together. I will wait.”

You scowled then. You had to clean when all of this was his fault. He took Mr. Bear. 

He kept his word. He waited. You put the couch cushions back where they belonged before you stacked the books back on the shelf. He stepped in to show you exactly where the books needed to go and held a trash bag open for you to place all the destroyed papers in.

“Good girl,�� He said though the way his jaw clicked made you believe he might be just as mad as you. 

He took your hand a moment later and led you into the small room with two white machines. One was loud, rumbling and as Bucky opened it’s door, the shaking came to a cease. And then Mr. Bear appeared. Before you could lunge for him, Bucky’s metal arm shot out, holding you at a distance, “My bear,” Your voice trailed off as you eyed the toy. He looked cleaner but he’d lost the smell you’d grown to like, “Bucky no more clean. Not dirty.”

“Mr. Bear does get dirty just like Baby does. He has to have a bath sometimes. Do you understand?”

You were reluctant but you nodded. “Yes,” As soon as the plus toy was in your arms, you curled up on the ground, and held him tightly. As Bucky turned to return to his call in the other room, you let out a small, “.... Sorry, Bucky.”

He paused in the doorway, glanced back.

“I know, baby,” he said gently. 

Bucky decided the perfect gateway into you finally wearing clothes around the house was yet another toy. This one was a soft rag doll that looked just slightly like you. The same skin tone and dark curly hair pinned up by two lavender colored bows. She also wore a lavender dress and matching ballet flats. She looked sweet, safe, familiar. 

His usual spiel had failed. He explained that clothes were a good thing. They were soft and kept you warm. He also teased the possibility of one day going outside with him, “The people outside always wear clothes,” He’d say, “You want to go on a trip with Daddy one day, don’t you?”

You just ignored him and let your eyes wander towards the window, “This is Mr. Bear’s good friend,” He presented the doll to you, placing her on your bed, next to the loose-fitting, pink t-shirt dress that was laid out on the bed. He chose something completely unrestrictive on purpose. You perked up then. You gave him a hungry look, as if he was presenting you with a medium-rare steak instead of a doll, “She’s a ballerina. Uh, like a dancer. To music. Her name is … Rina.”

“Rina,” You tried, your eyes locked on her, “Soft?”

“She’s very soft,” Bucky assured you, “She loves hugs too.”

“Rina mine?” You asked next, face soft, looking up expectantly, “Like Bear?”

“She could be. She wants a new friend. But she has a rule.”

Your arms crossed at that. You leaned forward to study the doll, brows furrowed, “She has rule?”

“She doesn’t want to be held unless you’re dressed, like people are supposed to be. Even cute hybrid girls have to wear clothes.  She feels the most comfortable that way.”

You pouted adorably, “Bad rule.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, “That’s what she told me. Rina’s rules. She might let you hold her if you’re a good girl.”

“Don’t like,” You started to whine, pressing your body against Bucky’s body, forehead pressing against his chest, “Please … don’t like.”

Bucky placed gentle on your shoulders, lifting your body from him. He pressed a finger under your chin, lifting it until you were looking at him, “I’m sorry, I would help you but it’s not my rule.”

He turned away from you. Not far, only a few steps. He gave you space. Pretended to check his email on his phone. He heard you stomp your feet. Once. Twice. Then a whine. Then there was silence. The tiniest ruffle of fabric. When Bucky turned around, you were wearing the dress. He smiled wide, impressed. 

He doubted he could get you in pair of underwear or a bra today but there was time for that. 

He came closer again, running his fingers over your hair before he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “Did it. See, Bucky.” You declared, eyes wide and expecting, “Mine now?”

“She’s yours.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” You bounced on your toes excitedly before you happily scooped up the doll. Bucky picked you up next, and you wrapped your legs around his torso. You let out a soft laugh, a real one, and it was music to Bucky’s ears. One arm looping around his neck, the other squeezing Rina to your body, you looked Bucky in his eyes deeply. Like he’d placed gentle kisses on your forehead, your shoulder, and cheeks, you placed a soft peck on his lips. 

He stilled for a second. Then smiled, full and proud, “Thank you, babygirl.”

There was one week left until Bucky had to return to Washington. He was more than happy with the progress you’d made. You’d started wearing underwear and you’d even been open to trying different kinds of clothes. Pants were still a nonstarter. You didn’t mind the skirts. You didn’t love the tight-fitting t-shirts but Bucky often left you no options. You tugged at them and pouted. Selfishly, he liked the way they looked on you. 

There were still many gaps in your social etiquette. It took him a full three days to explain that you couldn’t lift up your skirt whenever you wanted. You had a habit of wanting to stare at the different patterns on your underwear and often would flip up your skirt in the middle of a conversation or activity or anything to look. He corrected gently, not because he didn’t like the view but because ideally one day you’d accompany him to dinners and go on outings with him. He didn’t need you putting your body on display. 

He convinced you Rina liked it when wore different hairstyles. Ribbons and bows were her absolute favorite. He’d started getting really good at braiding it into neat rows, and tying bows to the ends. During his morning meetings, you often sat between his legs at his desk, Rina in your lap, as he fixed your hairstyle for the day. 

Bucky was settling into a sense of peacefulness. A feeling he had longed for. Therapy helped. His new job fulfilled him in some aspects but also made him realize how slow change really happened at the same time. This life, the pocket of innocence he was building around you, was starting to help most of all. This life was the opposite of everything he and you were ever used to. 

He didn’t want you exposed to the real world. He would shield you from reality for as long as possible. He would give you something he never had for himself. He’d also had enough of following orders for ten lifetimes. With you, in his own house, he made the rules. 

He had to address his mission. Debrief the committee on all of his findings. He had to give his colleagues enough information to satisfy them but couldn’t risk them getting their hands on you. You were the survivicing data to a program that never should’ve been created. He decided to lie. The site was clear of any sources of life. The facility was sealed, records wiped away, and he submitted a report that suggested Project LUPUS be permanently blacklisted from funding due to “gross ethical violations”. 

He’d have to spin another story eventually. Explain your presence in his life. Mel, his assistant, was already working on using the story for political advantage. You were a rescued civilian during a humanitarian negotiation. You’d suffered severe trauma and Congressman Barnes, recognizing the complexity of the situation and understanding the importance of mental rehabilitation, he’s personally arranged for you to receive trauma-informed rehabilitative care under his sponsorship. He’d be even more of the hero than the public saw him as. 

Colleagues would raise questions but no one would push to hard. He was a war hero. His word was gospel. 

Pls reblog w/ your thoughts if you enjoyed! This will be a 2 part series with the second chapter focused on Bucky + Baby’s time in Washington! Hope you enjoyed :)

[3liza]

after meaning to get around to it for years i finally listened to almost the entirety of Sold a Story and it is as groundbreaking as everyone says it is. it's also the most confusing, to me, single event in American culture in my lifetime and my reasons for thinking that are pretty complex so im not sure theyre fully formed yet. there's a list of shit in this podcast that made me feel like i was going insane

i KNEW something was going on at a population level, i've been noticing it for years, people kept telling me i was imagining things, but i was RIGHT, two generations of kids have been reduced to barely-literate levels of language function because of this shit and you CAN see it and hear it while talking to people in the world!

the entire adoption of the Calkins programs in the first place were based on the majority of people responsible for American child education deciding basically overnight that "children don't need to learn phonics in order to become strong readers" which is literally and not figuratively equivalent to saying "children can learn algebra without learning what numbers are". it is so self-evidently false i dont even know how to respond to such an assertion. you have to be fundamentally devoid of common sense to think this is true. language is comprised of sounds (phonemes), sounds are represented by letters, letters make up the alphabet, the alphabet makes up words, and words make up sentences. you cant just skip over the parts of this you dont like, it's the basis of our entire civilization. "i dont need to learn individual notes i just want to play to saxophone" okay well. too bad? you cant

american primary education apparently has no communication whatsoever with the scientific fields of human behaviorism, pediatrics, neurology, linguistics, the science of learning generally, and there is next to zero communication between teachers who are actively responsible for educating children and the entire research field of educating children. they just dont talk to each other, at least in huge swaths of the country. in retrospect this is obvious, i just have been assuming incorrectly this entire time that maybe, surely, some aspect of how our public schools are administered is in some way being guided by scientific evidence and research. this has apparently not been the case for 20+ years. Lucy Calkins herself claims she "didn't know" that the research on how children acquire language had been essentially settled by the 1990s, she just wrote her stupid book based on her own self-assurance that what she THOUGHT children were doing when they learned language was correct. she ddin't check, she didnt ask about research or studies, she didn't test her hypothesis, she just told everyone she had figured out how to teach kids to read based on nothing but her own untested assumptions. and everyone was like "okay sounds good". every single person involved in this process is or was in a position of responsibility for educating american children. and almost none of them thought to ask "okay, but have you tested it? does it work?" because they didn't test it, and it doesnt work, and for some reason that was never even brought up

teachers kept being interviewed on this podcast who kept saying things like: "they never taught us how to teach children to read" and "they didn't teach us how children learn so i had no idea how it worked" and then explaining this was why they were so easily hoodwinked by the Calkins program. i don't understand this. what is actually taught during the two year degree programs at teaching colleges? if it's not child psychology, pedagogy, neurology, and actual techniques for teaching children, what are they teaching you to do there? one of my friends who went to a teaching college told me they mostly provided classes on lesson planning.

individual teachers apparently are not reading books or articles or papers on any of these subjects either. so having graduated from a teaching college knowing nothing about children, teaching, or even basic english literacy ("i didn't know how to teach phonics and no one told me" is another thing actual teachers kept saying on the podcast. girl, SESAME STREET can teach basic english phonics, and it does), almost none of them actually do any investigation on their own. they just show up to their workplace (the school) and "teach" whatever admin hands them. ?????????????? how is this possible?

i realized last night in a fugue of post-exertional malaise that the three-cueing method of teaching reading is training children to approach language very similarly to how a large language model does it. they laboriously instruct the children to guess what the next word in a sentence will be, often by actually covering the word with a post-it note and then cajoling and badgering the child until he guesses the word under the post-it, based on the vibes on the sentence he's reading. this doesnt teach you to read, it teaches you to act like youre reading

this isnt directly addressed in the podcast but we used to just teach everyone english like it was an actual system that has parts and rules and structures, because that's what a language is. everyone would start with phonics and the alphabet, then later do stuff like sentence diagramming and grammar, neither of which have been taught in primary schools in decades. i think i was probably the very last generation of kids to get ANY of that stuff unless they went to an exceptional school, and it was only because my 8th grade teacher knew it was important and went against school admin's instructions in order to teach it. the couple days of sentence diagramming and grammar he gave us, out of SPITE, have been more useful to me in reading and writing than the entire rest of primary english education i received in public school, and i didn't even go to a school that had adopted three-cueing stuff yet.

[rosierin]

just a kiss (it wasn’t) | suna rintarou

synopsis; (y/n) and suna share the story of their first and only kiss. they don’t talk about it much but that doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten

warning; NSFW, mature content, explicit content‼️

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

It was a rainy Saturday evening—which, in this household, meant one thing:

The perfect excuse for a movie night.

The pitter-patter of rain filled the living room, the sound rousing the sort of mood that made you want to burrow under a blanket and never crawl out. The scent of burnt popcorn (courtesy of Atsumu) still lingered in the air, barely masked by a candle someone had lit a few minutes earlier. On the TV, a romcom played, casting lights across a couch that had seen better days.

They were all tangled somewhere on and around it.

Suna was slouched in his armchair, one hand tucked behind his head, the other loosely holding the remote. The couch, meanwhile, was a mess of limbs. (Y/n) was wedged between the twins, blanket pulled over her legs, comfortable enough not to apologise when her thighs accidentally bumped one of theirs. It was cramped, a little too warm, but somehow still perfect in that lazy, lived-in way.

The movie was halfway through.

Some soft-hearted childhood-sweethearts plotline—filled with lots of longing glances, a slow dance in the kitchen, and a romantic first kiss on New Year’s Eve under fairy lights.

It was sweet and frankly a little bit sappy. But to (y/n), nostalgic in a way that made the room feel warmer than it was.

‘Course Atsumu had to go and ruin it.

“Okay but like,” he gestured towards the screen, “it’d be so weird kissin’ someone you’ve known since you were, like, six. Right? Isn’t that basically incest?”

(Y/n) sighed and pressed her eyes shut. “That’s… not how incest works.”

“No, but you get what I mean,” Atsumu rambled. (Y/n) didn’t grace him with a response. “You’ve watched ‘em eat glue and pick their nose yer whole life. How d’you go from that to makin’ out?”

Osamu made a thoughtful noise. “I mean, I get it. It’s weird if they feel like family.”

“Exactly!” Atsumu said. “Just feels wrong.”

Suna, who had diligently said nothing for the last fifteen minutes, shifted in his chair.

(Y/n) glanced at him, saw the barely perceptible twitch of his mouth, and cleared her throat.

And for whatever reason—maybe it was the sensual kissing scene playing on screen, maybe it was the quiet thrum of mischief in the air—she spoke without thinking.

“I’ve kissed Rin before.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. The rain drummed steadily against the windows.

She could practically hear the gears turning in the twins’ heads, the words ricocheting around their skulls before slotting into place.

Atsumu’s frown was pure instinct. “…Huh?"

Osamu turned his head, eyes widening a fraction. “You what? Seriously?”

Suna gave a lazy shrug. Then, with a quiet hum—like it wasn’t worth making a fuss over—he responded, “Yeah.”

“Wait. Hold on.” Osamu pointed between them, a grin tugging at his lips. “You two. Kissed. Like—on the mouth?”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “Is there another way?”

Atsumu’s eyebrows pulled together, not quite a glare, but close. “Wait—when?” His tone sounded as though he didn't know whether to be be confused, angry, or both.

She hesitated.

That was the thing. It had been years ago. Just once. A long, blurry night tucked behind them like a folded photograph they never took back out. But even now, her face grew warm.

“It was… a while ago. We were… eighteen, I think. Funnily enough it was on New Year's too." She pointed to the movie.

Atsumu turned toward her fully, one leg folded beneath him, the other dangling off the couch. His brows were drawn tight, mouth parted. “And yer just tellin’ us now?!”

(Y/n) offered a weak shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Oh, it was.

It definitely was.

But she wasn’t about to give the twins the full retelling.

The whole time, her attention was drawn to Suna—trying to get a read on him, even though he wasn’t giving her much to work with. Still, she had a feeling he was more invested than he let on.

“Was it, like... a dare?” Osamu asked.

Suna shook his head. “Nah.”

“So... a practice thing?”

He popped a kernel into his mouth. Smirked just a little. “Ask, (y/n).”

Bastard.

At once, both twins turned to look at her.

Atsumu was the image of impatience. Leaning in, eyes narrowed like he was half expecting her to admit she was joking.

Meanwhile Osamu, calmer but no less curious, raised one brow in silent question.

She shrank back against the couch cushions, suddenly hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between them.

Two sets of expectant eyes on her.

Two completely different expressions.

One identical intensity.

She swallowed.

She could still remember it—the quiet pop of fireworks outside Suna’s window. The way his eyes looked that night, different somehow. Older.

The memory made her pause, words caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride.

She glanced at Suna and their eyes met.

He didn’t say anything outright, but his shoulder lifted slightly. A silent go on. And if she hadn’t known him for so long, she might’ve missed the faint flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. The quiet, smug little challenge that said:

Go on. Tell them. Let’s see what version you pick.

She cleared her throat and chose her words carefully, eyes darting between Atsumu and Osamu.

“So… we were alone. Remember? We’d gone to his parents' house over the holidays. You guys had gone back to Hyōgo to spend Christmas with your family.”

The twins nodded. Let her continue.

“Anyway, at first we were just talking...” Her fingers toyed with a loose thread in the blanket over her lap.

“Then he looked at me,” she went on, gaze drifting towards Suna. She paused, unsure how much he was willing to let her to share—if he wanted her to tell the rest.

He didn’t look her way. Just let the silence stretch, eyes fixed on the credits like none of this concerned him.

Right. Point taken.

“And he just… I don’t know—you know how guys have that specific look when you wanna kiss someone?”

Osamu snorted. Atsumu shook his head. "No?"

(Y/n) rolled her eyes. "Okay, well—you do. Anyway. He gave me that look and..."

“And?” Atsumu clicked his tongue. “Jesus woman, how long ya gonna keep edgin’ us for?”

Her fingers curled into the couch cushion as she shot him a weak glare. “Well… after that, he kissed me. So… I kissed him back.”

Her tone was even, but a flicker of a smile tugged at her lips—because no matter how nonchalant she tried to sound, the memory still lit something warm in her chest.

Osamu let out a low whistle.

Atsumu gawked—shocked, maybe a little relieved. “That’s it?”

She risked a glance at Suna.

It was faint, but she could tell he was biting back a grin. That quiet glint was there again. Something so typically Suna—aloof, amused, and just a little bit smug. Like he was remembering it too.

“She’s leaving out the good part."

(Y/n)’s heart jumped. “Rin—”

Suna either missed the flicker of panic on her face, or ignored it. He just sat up with a slow stretch, sweatshirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin. A sound slipped from him—half sigh, half yawn.

“It wasn’t just a kiss,” he stated—flat, but a little too suggestive. Probably on purpose.

Osamu’s eyebrows shot up, eyes locked on Suna now. “You guys…?”

“No,” Suna said before anyone could finish the thought. “We didn't get that far."

That earned him a full double take from both twins.

“Go on," Atsumu demanded.

(Y/n) was at a loss for words. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the twins. It’s not like they’d go around repeating the story—why would they? But even so. Nobody knew about her past… lore with Suna. Not a soul.

And while she didn’t mind mentioning the kiss, the rest—well. The rest was, for lack of a better term, not safe for work.

Not safe for her dignity, either.

That night had been a lot of things.

Spontaneous, yes. Heated. But also more complicated than she'd ever admit out loud.

She’d known the twins for years—ever since they were teenagers. And yet, she’d never told them about her crush on her best friend. Never told them about one of the most pivotal nights of her love life.

And perhaps tonight wasn't the night for that.

Instead, she shook her head, cheeks burning as the memories began rushing in. “I dunno what to say! We were just… stupid and curious and just being your typical horny teenagers, that’s all.”

That earned a quiet snort from Osamu, who looked more amused than surprised at this new piece of backstory.

Atsumu, on the other hand, didn’t laugh. He just stared, like he was trying to figure out what to say but didn’t quite know how to frame it. His lips parted, then pressed shut again.

As for Suna... He simply kept quiet. Knowing him, he was probably just as torn about sharing the details. If anyone valued their privacy, it was Suna.

And (y/n)—despite herself—felt her gaze drop to her hands in her lap, fingers twisting in the sleeves of her hoodie Her skin prickled—not quite from embarrassment, but from the heat of the memory... and the leftover tension hanging in the air.

Mercifully, neither twin pressed any further. Even Atsumu, surprisingly.

(Y/n) exhaled a little breath as Osamu pulled his brother and Suna into a brainstorm about which movie to watch next.

Hopefully not another romance.

She wasn't sure if he'd done it out of sympathy, or if it just happened to be good timing. Either way, she was grateful for the distraction.

They never brought it up again.

But that didn’t mean her mind didn't.

Every now and then, she’d glance over at Suna. He looked relaxed—detached, even—but she couldn’t help but wonder if his mind was buzzing too. If his hands had gotten clammy. If his heart had even skipped a beat.

She was too caught up in her thoughts to notice him pull out his phone.

Her phone buzzed seconds later.

Blinking herself out of the haze, she looked down at her screen and gawked.

From: Rin tell your brain to be quiet can hear it from here

She ignored his message.

And glared at him instead.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was right after graduation. In winter, on New Year’s Eve.

A night with no romance, no candles, no feelings—just the quiet kind of chaos that only happens when trust, timing, and tension mix in the worst possible way.

They’d known each other since they were nine.

Back then, it was simple. He was the quiet kid who liked video games and hated group work. She was the chatty one who always finished her lunch first and dragged him out of the house. They just… clicked. Simple as that. A friendship built on years of inside jokes, late-night calls, and knowing each other like the backs of their hand.

It wasn’t until middle school that her feelings began to change.

Not overnight. Far from it. But somewhere between study calls and the first time he pulled off his hoodie in front of her, something settled in her chest. It crept up on her like a slow burn. A feeling you don’t notice until it’s already been there a while and planted its roots.

She started caring more. Laughing harder at his jokes. Noticing when his replies came slower, when his voice sounded a bit more tired than usual. Being around him just felt... better than being around anyone else. There was comfort. Trust. And the type of closeness that made her heart ache for all the right reasons.

Love, probably. But the shy, unspoken kind. The kind you don’t confess because you're afraid it might ruin everything.

And then, of course, they both had a glow-up—that was just the truth. He got taller. His voice dropped. His jaw sharpened. And she noticed.

The same way he noticed her legs that summer she started wearing shorts more often. The same way his eyes lingered a little too long when she bent over to grab something. The way his teasing lost a bit of its brotherly edge and got a bit more... biting.

She wasn’t stupid. He found her attractive. She knew that.

But she also knew that’s where it stopped. It was purely surface-level. Because Suna wasn’t the type to fall easily. And if he ever saw her as anything more, it never lasted long enough to mean something.

Not like hers had.

She’d been in love with him for years. Secretly. Hopelessly. Love you don’t act on because it’s easier to carry in silence than risk putting it down and never getting it back.

So no—

They weren’t a thing. They weren’t anything.

Except... aware.

Almost as if something sat between them, constantly humming just beneath the surface. A quiet almost that only one of them seemed to feel.

Until that particular New Year’s night, when the hum turned into something louder.

His house was quiet. His parents and little sister were off celebrating with friends, and he’d bailed last minute with the most Suna excuse ever:

“Too many people. Too much noise. Don’t feel like pretending to care about countdowns.”

(Y/n) had agreed without thinking. Like always. By now, saying yes to him felt like second nature, so when he suggested she stay the night, it didn’t even feel like a choice.

Now they were in his room—lights off, movie playing in the background, the faint sound of fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance. Her legs were curled up on his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Suna sat beside her, phone face-down, arm draped loosely across the back of the mattress.

They weren’t saying much. Just watching. Existing.

Until the scene changed.

And—what the fuck?

Where the hell did this come from?

Out of nowhere, the couple on screen were now tangled up on a couch—shirts half-off, lips clashing. Moans slipped out between kisses, fingers clawing at fabric like they couldn’t get close enough.

The scene wasn't explicit by any means, but showed enough to make (y/n) cringe. Flushed skin. Bare thighs. The unmistakable rhythm of two people getting lost in each other.

Her spine straightened on instinct.

She cleared her throat and looked away, shifting in her seat under the guise of getting comfortable.

She could feel Suna's eyes on her.

“Do scenes like this make you uncomfortable?” he asked, voice laced with amusement.

She stiffened. “No. I mean—maybe a bit.”

He hummed, glancing sideways. Her eyes flicked between the couple on screen and Suna, trying very hard not to combust at the explicit sounds that now filled his moderate sized bedroom.

“…Do they not make you uncomfortable?” she countered.

He shrugged, gaze slipping back to the TV with that usual calm. “Nah. Not really.”

Typical.

She narrowed her eyes. "What does make you uncomfortable, then?"

His response came far too fast. “Kita.”

She fought back a grin. “Seriously?”

“Correct." He gave a curt nod. “Kita Shinsuke freaks me out.”

Out of all the things. His stoic volleyball captain from high school is what got him?

She snorted, shaking her head a little. “How come? I think he’s nice!”

Suna’s face stayed neutral, but she could've sworn she saw him shudder.

“Try having him breathe down your neck for a day,” he mumbled. “That guy’s terrifying.”

“Kita’s not scary,” she argued. “He only picked on you ’cause he knew you were a major slacker.”

His lip twitched. “Only one who got scouted to Inarizaki though.”

(Y/n) nodded, conceding with a half-smile. “That you were.”

Thankfully, by the time she turned her attention back to the TV, the sex scene had ended.

Thank God.

Unfortunately, it was only then that she noticed how close they were sitting. She blamed the way she’d shifted earlier, trying to act normal. That was on her. And maybe it was the scene that had just played out on screen, but now the space between them felt… tight.

Suddenly, the movie wasn’t the only thing messing with her focus.

She looked over at him once. Then again.

Their thighs brushed every now and then. Not fully touching, but enough for the heat of him to bleed into her side. Every shift he made—the way his hoodie rustled, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing—felt loud in her ears.

She tried to focus on the movie. Really, she did.

But her eyes kept drifting.

Just for a second. Then another.

He looked good. Effortless like always with his hoodie half-pulled over his messy hair, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, eyes half-lidded like he could fall asleep any second.

But he wore his tired well. Even the faint shadows beneath his eyes didn’t make him look worn—they made him look soft. Still strangely handsome.

Her gaze slipped to his jaw. Then the sliver of collarbone visible beneath his hoodie, the way the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders.

Then lower—to where his hands rested in his lap, fingers loose and half-curled, adorned with a silver ring on each pointer finger. She didn’t remember when he started wearing them.

Her throat tightened slightly. They suited him. She’d always thought his hands were pretty. Usually, it was just a fleeting thought. A simple observation.

But tonight—tonight, she found herself wondering what those hands could do. What they’d feel like against her skin.

Her cheeks flushed. She looked away. Cleared her throat.

Get a grip, (y/n).

It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. She was over him. Had been, for a while now. This was the movie's fault. Or maybe some leftover curiosity—that’s all.

“Hm?”

Suna's voice drifted over, pulling her from her daze.

She straightened a bit too fast, hating how guilty she sounded when she replied, “What?”

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth when he glanced over. “Were you checking me out?”

Her response was like a bad reflex. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I was just—” Her eyes dropped to his lap, and she could've cursed at the mindless action.

Why'd I do that?

He's probably gonna think I was looking at—

She caught the way his brows lifted as she looked back up, his smirk broadening into something almost boyish.

Of course.

"Your hands,” she clarified, louder than intended.

“My hands?” He echoed, almost innocently. But something in his voice sounded suspiciously pleased.

She could’ve brushed it off. Could’ve left it at that. But her mouth had already run ahead of her.

"Mhmm. I was just thinking how nice they are."

If her words weren't enough to make her cringe, then Suna's reaction was. He didn't bother hiding his amusement this time, not as he slowly lifted a hand in front of him and flexed his fingers a few times.

She hated how her gaze lingered on the movement, on the glint of silver on his fingers, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin, pronounced with each curl.

Lazy, controlled—like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Thanks," he drawled.

She swallowed.

God.

Her mind went somewhere it absolutely should not have gone.

Her thighs squeezed together under the blanket.

He dropped his hands back into his lap without a word and looked at her.

She daren't meet his gaze.

She shouldn’t be having these thoughts. Not about him. Not now. They’d sat like this before���shoulder to shoulder, legs touching, even sharing a bed more times she can count. But it had never felt like this. Never made her pulse quicken or her mind wander the way it was tonight.

So why now?

Maybe it was the quiet. The late hour. Maybe even the stupid movie.

Or maybe it was the fact that it was just the two of them—alone in his room with nowhere to be, nothing to do, and too much unsaid sitting between them.

Because something about being here with him like this always brought old feelings to the surface.

“Do you think we’ll be different this year?”

The words slipped out before she could stop them—quiet, barely a whisper.

Suna’s eyes flicked to her face. “You mean like… emotionally evolved?”

She tried not to fidget too much and nodded once, lips pressed together, already regretting her question.

But Suna didn't make her feel guilty. Didn't tease. Didn't overreact. Just held her gaze and asked, “Did you want it to be different?”

The question made her stomach twist, eyes drifting to the way her hands fiddled with the sleeve of her hoodie. She could feel it, that pulse of awareness between them. The one that made the hairs on her arms prick up. The one she used to feel and thought she’d finally outgrown—until now.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Probably not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. But it certainly wasn't the kind she was used to.

She swallowed the lump in her throat as Suna turned to her fully. The slight shift in position was negligible, probably nothing but a few centimetres. But she felt it enough to make her heart stutter.

It took her a great amount of effort not to shrink beneath his gaze.

Suna and his damn eye contact.

"Something's on your mind."

It wasn't a question. More like an observation that landed straight in her gut.

Her breathing shallowed. "How can you tell...?"

“You’re acting weird tonight,” he murmured. Not an insult, but something almost like curiosity.

“So are you,” she shot back, voice mirroring his hushed tone.

A ghost of a smirk. “Yeah?”

“You’re sitting closer than usual.”

“Am I?”

“You’re looking at me different.”

Indeed. He didn’t deny it.

His eyes were half-lidded. Hazy. Fixed on her like he was seeing something he hadn’t let himself look at before.

She recognized that look.

She’d seen it in other guys before—guys at parties, in passing glances, in moments that felt fleeting and charged.

But never from him. Not Suna.

And now that it was him—looking at her like that—her stomach twisted with something half-forgotten. Old and perhaps unfinished.

Something she thought had burned out long ago.

Her voice came out smaller than she intended, tight in her throat. "...What’re you doing?"

He didn’t answer right away, but the dip in atmosphere was palpable.

“Tell me to stop.”

Her heart lurched—at the words, at the tone. Silken, but brazen. Familiar, but suddenly foreign.

The feeling in her chest felt like reopening a book she’d shelved a long time ago.

A chapter she never thought she’d revisit.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just sat there, heart hammering as he leaned in—close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne. For her eyes to flick to his mouth—once, then back up.

"...What?"

Usually she'd deflect. Change the subject. Look away. But she couldn't this time. Or rather... she wouldn't.

“I said,” he murmured, gaze dropping to her lips, “tell me to stop.”

Her mouth parted, but no words came out.

Not as he tilted his head, lips brushing hers in the faintest whisper of contact.

Not when his nose bumped hers and her breath hitched.

She barely had time to register what was happening.

Next thing she knew—

He was kissing her.

No rush. No pressure. Just the feeling of his mouth on hers, tentative and warm, slow enough to give her time to pull away, soft enough to make her brain fog.

And in her head, all the years came rushing in.

The laughter. The teasing. How she used to look for him in every room like it was second nature. The late-night calls. The company that had always felt like safety.

She thought she was past this. She really did.

But now, with Suna kissing her like that—like she was something precious and just barely his—she wasn’t so sure.

His mouth moved against hers with a kind of lazy confidence, lips parting just enough to make her dizzy. Her body tensed beneath the softness, thighs pressing together, fingers twitching where they rested in her lap, aching to reach for something. Him.

And just when she thought she might actually lose her balance, he pulled away. Not far. Just enough to look at her.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stared. Eyes locked on hers like he was watching her process the moment in real time—studying every twitch, every breath. Waiting to see if she’d move first.

But (y/n) was in a daze, her lips still parted. Eyes bleary and blinking as if she was seeing a different reality entirely.

She had kissed Suna.

Suna.

Her best friend Suna.

The one she had pining over for years.

And better yet—he had made the first move.

"Earth to (y/n)..."

His voice reeled her back in. Soft and teasing.

"I..."

Suna’s brows lifted just slightly as she searched for words.

He didn't press. Didn't joke. But there was something playful in his gaze, and maybe just a little bit restrained. Like he was holding back on purpose. Not just out of respect, but to test her. To see what she’d do next.

A quiet dare.

Her nerves flared. She tried to fight it—tried to keep still. Tried to fight the urge to do something truly and utterly reckless. But failed.

Because for a moment, her nerves didn’t matter.

The second-guessing, the what-ifs—gone.

Fuck it.

She reached for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie—and crashed her lips onto his.

Harder this time. No hesitation.

He groaned low in his throat—surprised for half a second before melting into it, as if that was all the permission he needed.

His hand came up fast, fingers sliding along her cheek, then down to the hinge of her jaw, guiding her into him with an impatience that felt so unlike him.

(Y/n)'s body lit up at the contact—something involuntary slipping past her lips, a soft, needy sound she didn’t mean to make.

Suna was on her in an instant, tongue slipping past her lips without hesitation—slow, coaxing, claiming, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to break her open.

A shiver rolled down her spine.

She fisted the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer, anchoring herself to him. The kiss felt good. Intoxicatingly good—like finally getting something you stopped wishing for.

She wasn’t sure what it meant. But right now, she didn’t want it to stop.

His hand moved almost carefully, brushing her jaw, then dropping down to her thigh. Warm. Grounding. Asking without asking.

Her body responded before her mind could make sense of it all.

Buzzing. Yearning. A little afraid.

She broke the kiss for half a second, lips brushing his as she whispered, “Rin”—barely more than a plea.

“Still with me?” he asked smoothly.

She nodded.

He leaned in again. This time his mouth found her neck.

Her breath caught.

Then his hand slipped under the hem of her hoodie, fingers dragging along her waist, slow and tailored to make her shiver.

She let out a shaky breath. “This is insane.”

“Yeah,” he rasped. Then, with a tinge of humour, “Don't worry, I locked the door.”

She almost laughed, but then his hand slipped higher beneath her shirt, and all she could do was gasp.

His fingers traced her ribs. His mouth brushed the spot just beneath her ear, where her pulse fluttered.

She was trembling, and yet he didn't stop.

But he did pause. Looked up at her again. “Still okay?”

She nodded.

She didn’t know what started it—maybe the silence. Maybe the look in his eyes when he was about to kiss her. Maybe the way she didn’t stop him when he leaned in.

Whatever the reason, she didn't have it in her to pull away. And clearly, neither did he.

Not when his mouth claimed hers again—slow, heated, open.

Not when his hand slid up the back of her hoodie and skimmed her bare spine as though he’d been holding himself back.

Not when he pulled her onto his lap, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs, bodies flushed, hearts thudding in sync.

The kiss deepened. Got messy. Hot. A mixture of pants and breathy sighs.

They barely parted for air before their mouths collided again, each kiss more desperate than the next, breaking only when their lungs forced them to.

Every kiss said, Don’t stop. Every inhale said, More.

Her hands slid into his hair, threading through the soft strands at his nape—pulling, guiding. He groaned softly into her mouth as his tongue brushed hers, slow and filthy. And when she let out a soft, helpless sound against his mouth, he gripped her tighter.

She felt it then—him—hard beneath her, pressing up where she was aching, and her body reacted in the most hopelessly honest way.

She rocked against him once.

He sucked in a breath.

The reaction must've snapped something in him, because in a blink, he was kissing down the column of her throat—eager hands roaming her flushed curves. His mouth working its way along her skin, teasing, but never quite giving her what she wanted.

He pulled her hoodie up in one fluid motion, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank it over her head. Her top followed, peeled away with the same quiet urgency, until she was left in nothing but her bra.

His gaze dipped once and everything soft about him disappeared.

She barely noticed the cold.

She noticed his mouth.

On her collarbones. On her chest. Open, warm, teeth dragging lightly just to make her gasp. She tilted her head back, lips parting around a little sigh, hips unconsciously rolling into his lap again and again like her body was trying to chase something it didn’t fully understand.

His hands found her hips, head hitting the headboard with a quiet thud.

Suna made a noise, low and hoarse—like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. His jaw went slightly slack. His hands tightened.

“Do that again.”

The authority in his voice was mind-numbing. She could’ve sworn goosebumps rose along her arms at the command alone.

Her cheeks flushed, heat prickling across her skin. But her hips moved again, experimentally and obediently. The drag of her clothed core against him made them both stutter a breath.

Something curled in her chest. Not quite pride. Not quite shock. Just a quiet thrill—sparked by the way he looked at her, like she’d just undone something in him.

His eyes were half-lidded, dark and heavy. Every shift of her hips made his lips part a little more. His breathing became ragged, jaw tightening when her movements grew bolder. His fingers dug into the dip of her waist like he was trying to keep her steady, or to keep his own hips from bucking up.

She ground down again—this time with more pressure.

His head fell back. “God, (y/n)—”

She kept going.

Grinding in slow, shallow rolls. The heat between her legs was blinding, the friction building in waves. She could feel the outline of him beneath her, hard and twitching through thin layers of clothes. His hoodie had ridden up his abdomen, her thighs trembling against his joggers.

Yet, Suna—despite the state he was in—was somehow still completely focused on her, like he physically needed to watch her fall apart in his lap.

His hands slid up under her bare stomach, raking over her waist, ribs, then cupping her clothed breasts. His thumbs brushed over her nipples and she gasped, hips jerking at the sudden contact.

“You like this,” he muttered darkly, “You’re getting off on the thought of riding me."

She bit her lip, but couldn't bring herself to deny it.

For a moment, she wondered what that non-verbal confession had done to him. If she’d imagined the glint in his eye. The way his muscles tensed beneath her.

She got her answer soon enough.

With one rough, fluid shift, he flipped them—her back hitting the mattress with a soft thump. Suna hovered over her, one knee pressing between her thighs, caging her in.

She looked up at him with wide, glazed eyes as he bent low, hooked a finger under her shorts, and gave them a slight tug.

“Next time we do that,” he murmured, “I’m taking these off.”

She didn’t answer—just whined as heat coiled tight in her abdomen.

His hand slid between them.

Inside her shorts.

Then inside her underwear.

Her whole body seized up.

His fingers found her—hot, slick, already aching—and he hissed like the feel of her actually hurt him.

“Shit,” he muttered, jaw flexing as his eyes dropped. “Already?”

He looked up again, lips curling slow. Confident and just a little bit smug. “I barely even touched you.”

Disbelief flickered across her flushed face, her eyebrows pinching above her lidded eyes. “You’re joking, right?” she whispered, a little breathless.

Suna just smirked.

His fingers moved again—confident, unfairly skilled, trailing through her slowly without slipping inside. Testing. Mapping her with long, maddening strokes.

She could feel the way her body clenched around nothing, the unmistakable warmth pooling between her thighs. Every nerve ending lit up, impossible to hide.

Her face burned.

He didn’t rush.

It was almost cruel, how calm he was. He didn’t need to ask what felt good. He could read it in her breath, every soft gasp that slipped from her lips, every poorly concealed moan as he deliberately avoided the places that would’ve undone her too quickly.

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, his name slipping past her lips in a quiet whimper.

He worked her open with soft, torturous rhythm. One finger, then two. The stretch wasn’t new, but it still made her gasp—tight, full, a pulse-deep pressure that had her legs falling open wider, heels digging into the sheets.

His fingers curled deep, knuckles pressing just right against that tender spot inside her, and then he started moving—slow, sinful, obscenely precise—each thrust dragging just enough to make her clench around him, like her body couldn’t bear the emptiness he kept leaving behind.

Her head fell back. A broken sound slipped past her lips.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Don't stop—”

She didn’t care how her voice sounded—needier and more desperate than she’d ever heard, her fingers clutching at Suna’s arm. Her best friend's arm.

Her hips pressed into him, seeking that pressure, riding the curl of his fingers like her body couldn’t help it. Her movements weren’t shy or composed anymore. She was writhing, desperate for more—chasing every thrust of his hand with a helpless pace.

Suna watched her like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

His mouth was slightly open. Eyes cloudy, fixed to the point where their bodies met.

“Look at you," he breathed.

She barely heard his voice.

She just kept moving, breath hitching every time his thumb caught the right spot. The pressure inside her was building too fast, overwhelming, but she didn't stop. Couldn't.

“Usually so sweet,” he crooned. “So polite. So proper.”

His smirk was lazy, laced with awe. “And now you’re fucking yourself on my fingers."

A shaky, flustered sound escaped her throat. “Rin—please—”

“Didn’t know you could be this filthy,” he teased, lips brushing her temple. “You were holding out on me.”

She whined, hips stuttering for a second—mostly from pleasure, partly from shame.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he muttered. “About me doing this to you. Making a mess of you."

She bit her lip, eyes squeezing shut. Her body was moving on instinct now—hips rolling into his hand like she didn’t care how it looked, how desperate it felt. And maybe she should’ve cared. Maybe she should’ve been mortified by how easily she came apart for him. But right now, with his fingers buried inside her, and that voice in her ear—

She couldn’t bring herself to stop.

“Oh, fuck, you do,” he groaned. “That’s why you’re squeezing me like that.”

She was close. So close. Her body burned, curling toward his hand, her movements frantic now, messy—rocking hard against him like she couldn’t hold out any longer.

Her stomach tensed. Her entire body locked up.

“I’m—Rin—”

“I know,” he murmured. “That's it—just like that."

One more stroke. One more definitive grind of his palm against her and the tension inside her belly snapped.

Her whole body arched into him. Her hands clutched his shoulders, lips parting in a silent cry as she came on his fingers—thighs trembling, chest heaving, whimpers spilling out between broken sobs of his name.

Suna didn't ease up yet, working her through it, his fingers slowing just enough to guide her through the last wave of it.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered, watching as she fell apart. “Good fucking girl."

She twitched, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as he finally relented. He eased his fingers out, gliding them slowly through the mess between her thighs.

(Y/n) was limp against the sheets—dazed, flushed, and thoroughly exhausted.

And yet, amid the wreckage of her orgasm, one stupid thought surfaced like a stray balloon floating into the mess of her mind.

Has Rin always had such a potty mouth?

Something must’ve shown on her face—maybe the pinch of her brows, the slight narrowing of her eyes, or the way her lips parted in quiet confusion—because Suna glanced down at her with a bemused expression.

“You okay?”

He had the audacity to look as casual as ever, hovering over her with one arm braced beside her head. She tried not to shudder as his other hand slowly traced the length of her bare thigh, and instead met his gaze with an almost sceptical stare.

“…Since when are you so chatty?”

He stared. And then, to her delight—he actually laughed.

It wasn’t his usual dry, sarcastic snort either. No—this was one of his rare laughs. Breathy, warm and genuine. The sound made her chest feel funny. The sight even more so: the slight crinkle of his nose, the way his sharp eyes softened like the moment meant something.

“That’s what’s on your mind right now?” he asked, half laughing as he said it.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes but her cheeks flushed anyway, one hand coming up to brush her hair back from her face.

“Well—yeah,” she huffed. “It was just—you know, a lot.”

His smirk lingered, followed with a slight tilt of his chin, brows raised in quiet expectation. If he was waiting for her to elaborate on that statement, he was sorely mistaken.

She groaned and covered her face with her arm. “Don’t make me say it," she grumbled. "You clearly had a lot to say. You never talk that much, even during volleyball.”

He chuckled, quiet but no less smug. “Guess we’re both full of surprises tonight.”

That line landed like a spark on open flame.

She dropped her arm just in time to catch the pointed look he gave her. Like he hadn’t forgotten the way she’d been squirming under him moments ago, how she’d clutched at the sheets and rolled her hips into his hand like a woman possessed.

Her face burned as she averted her gaze.

“Don't,” she warned weakly.

“C'mon, I thought we were past the shy part.”

She kicked weakly at his thigh, but her heart was thudding all over again. That look in his eyes—it wasn’t gone. If anything, it had simmered. Softer, but no less heated. Like he was watching her come back down just to see if he could wind her up again.

And then he just… looked at her.

Not in the lustful, primal way from earlier. This was quieter. His gaze flicked over her face in that typical, unreadable Suna fashion.

She shifted beneath it, suddenly aware of her appearance—her smudged makeup, her flushed skin, the way her hair was probably a mess against the pillow. Something about the way he stared made her feel more exposed than before.

She wondered what was going on in that indecipherable mind of his. What he was seeing. The flaws. The cracks. All the little imperfections she’d spent years picking at in the mirror.

Then his hand lifted, thumb brushing her cheekbone with a tenderness that sent butterflies loose in her stomach.

“Pretty girl,” he murmured.

That was it. Just two words. And yet they hit her square in the chest. Her breath caught, the corners of her eyes prickling with the irrational urge to cry.

His gaze lingered on her, searching or admiring.

“You look surprised,” he mused softly.

She blinked at him, stunned. For a second, it felt like they were fifteen again—a time when her words jumbled and her mind raced. A time when everything felt awkward, flustered, and a little too much like love.

“You’ve never called me that before,” she whispered.

His thumb kept moving in slow, reverent strokes across her cheek. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought it,” he said. “You’ve always been beautiful."

Something swelled in her chest, something old and warm. And when he traced his hand lower to run his thumb over her bottom lip—slowly, like he wanted to memorize it, brand it into memory—her heart cracked a little.

Still, her mouth parted for him.

And he stared, stared at the way she wrapped her lips around the pad of his thumb, at what she was allowing him to do. She caught the subtle clench of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes—the exact moment his restraint gave out.

His kiss wasn't soft.

His body pressed flush to hers, and she could feel him now, fully. Hard. Hot. Nestled right where she was still sensitive.

His hips ground against her, slow and firm, swallowing the tiny gasp she let out. She arched up, and he groaned low. His breath was hot against her ear when he spoke.

“You gonna take me for real this time?”

He shifted again, one hand gripping her thigh, spreading her legs just enough. He slotted between them, the thick heat of him pressing right against her core, only the thin layers of her shorts and his sweats between them.

He rocked once. Harder.

A moan slipped past her lips, more drawn-out than the rest.

“Yeah?” he crooned, almost breathless. His hips rolled again, the length of him dragging slow and heavy right against her clothed core. She felt how hard he was. How ready. How badly he wanted in. "You want it? Just say the word."

“Okay,” she whispered. Her hands were already in his hair. Her hips lifted.

He reached down, hooking his fingers into her shorts and underwear in one motion. She lifted her hips without needing to be asked, then raised her legs so he could pull them all the way off.

Then she felt him.

Skin to skin.

Hot, flushed, heavy against her entrance.

He didn’t push in—yet. Just lined himself up. Let her feel it. Bare and hot and right there, rubbing slowly against her—back and forth, teasing, testing her breath.

The pressure. The stretch. The way it would be.

And it hit her.

Each inhale came shakier than the last. Her body tensed, but not like it had before.

She wanted to want it. God, she really did.

But something cracked inside her chest. Like a wave of uncertainty slamming into a brick wall.

Her mind felt loud all of a sudden.

This wasn’t just a hook-up. Not with him. It couldn’t be.

Not after everything.

Not when her feelings had just barely begun to quiet down.

Not when she still didn’t know what this meant. Or what it didn’t.

Her body buzzed, but her heart tripped over itself. And it was like her mind finally caught up to what was happening.

This is Suna.

Her best friend.

The boy she’d loved.

The boy she was supposed to be over.

And she wasn’t ready for what would come after this.

The weight. The shift. The maybe.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers stilled in his hair.

He noticed instantly.

He didn’t push in. Just stayed right there, wary, his breath stalling as he searched her face.

“(Y/n)?” he asked, voice softer now. Cautious.

He hovered. Silent. His fingers flexed where they were gripping her thigh, like he was holding himself back from giving in completely.

She could feel him twitch against her. Feel how close they were to crossing that line.

She bit her lip, and the world narrowed to nothing but heat and heartbeat.

She couldn’t do this. Not like this.

“I…”

She stared up at him—at the flushed cheeks, the blown pupils, the lips that had been all over her skin. At her best friend. She felt the pressure of him, still right there. Felt the heat in her cheeks, the racing of her heart, the way her thighs clenched tight without meaning to.

“I can’t,” she rasped, throat tight.

He nodded. Instantly. Pulled his hips back. “Okay.”

“I want to, but—I just…”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, face burning.

“Don’t be.”

“I thought I could but—”

“Hey.” His voice was soft now. Calming. “It's okay. I get it.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

And what hit her hardest wasn’t disappointment or frustration—it was the absence of it. He wasn’t angry. Didn't look bitter or impatient. He just remained still, like he was giving her space to breathe, letting the moment settle without putting more weight on it.

Maybe that’s what made the guilt feel worse.

Her skin still tingled from the way he touched her. Her body was still wound tight from the high he gave her, and he hadn’t gotten anything in return. He’d given her so much—his hands, his patience, his restraint—and she’d unraveled completely under him, only to stop short. She felt raw. Vulnerable. Embarrassed. And above all, selfish.

He kissed her forehead, slow and lingering, and pulled the covers over her exposed body.

The act was so gentle it nearly broke her.

“Thanks for stopping,” she murmured, barely a whisper.

“Hey,” he started. But his voice, although mostly gentle, was laced with something serious. “Don’t ever thank anyone for that. Promise?"

Her throat tightened. She forced a nod.

He laid back beside her, one arm slipping beneath her shoulders, tugging her gently into the space beside him. No questions. No pressure. Just his steady presence.

She didn’t know what she expected—to cry, maybe. Or for him to roll over and distance himself. But instead, he did the opposite. He held her in silence like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t just flipped the entire dynamic between them on its head.

She curled into him, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, too ashamed to look him in the eye. His scent was still on her skin. Her pulse was still racing, her body still warm—and yet her chest felt hollow.

His hand rested on her back, moving slowly in comforting strokes that made her feel fragile. Not in a bad way. Just… a bit vulnerable.

The room was quiet for a long while.

Then, his voice—

“Did I scare you?”

Her eyes, drooping slightly like she might fall asleep, immediately shot open.

She debated moving so she could look at him. But Suna didn't move. Just stayed where he was, breathing steadily, his thumb still brushing small circles against her spine. But it was his voice that gave him away. Quiet. Careful. Laced with something unspoken. Guilt, maybe. Or doubt.

Her chest ached.

“No,” she said softly. “You’d never scare me.”

And she meant it.

But she didn’t know how to explain the rest—that it wasn’t fear holding her back, but the opposite. That it was the feelings she had buried, the ones she had never voiced that made her back down. The ones that had clawed their way back to the surface the moment he touched her tonight.

She swallowed, choosing her words wisely.

“It just… felt like a lot, all at once.”

A pause.

Then a quiet hum from him. Not disbelieving, not dismissive—just thoughtful. Like he’d been hoping for more, but wouldn’t ask.

Instead, he just pulled her closer.

His hand settled again on her back, firm and grounding. Like he was telling her, wordlessly, that he was still here. That nothing had changed.

She let herself believe it.

[dawngyu]

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

He stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. His shaking hands hold your wrists. Droplets slide from his hair, tracing the sharp angles of his face, mixing with the storm clinging to his skin as he stares at your face. You feel it before you hear it. You see it before he speaks. "Marry me." It's his last attempt to keep you from walking away.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: chaebol au, strangers to lovers, angst, family issues, toxic societal norms, yearning, longing.

𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍-𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: MDNI, multiple-smut scene, heavy make-out, body-worship, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving.

𝗐𝖼: 17.5k — playlist.

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: hi hello!! to clear things up, this is a spin-off of the main story but each txt male lead gets their own reader! (aka you, heh). other female leads might show up for the plot, but they’ll stay nameless.

(definitely read the first part if you haven’t — but you can read this as a standalone!) see the event 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

If there is one truth that time cannot taint in your life, it is your love for flowers. They bloom unburdened, much like the love you cradle for things that ask for nothing in return.

Perhaps you were a flower in your previous life — maybe that’s why people have always likened you to one. A flower is something delicate, something beautiful, something that marks in memory with its scent and colour. Yet if you were to tell the real reason why they call you that, it wouldn’t be for any of those things. It wouldn’t be because you were particularly graceful or charming.

It would be because you see the world through the eyes of a dreamer, a romantic, someone who clings to the smallest joys as if they were... lifelines.

You cherish the minuscule things, not out of whimsy but out of habit, because you grew up knowing that gratitude was not just a virtue but a necessity. You learned to say thank you for everything placed into your hands, whether it was something you longed for or simply something to fill the space on your plate. Even at nine years old, a meal was never just a meal... it was a gift.

You don’t blame your parents for leaving. People say you should be grateful — they gave you life, after all. And they did. But not even a year into your existence, they chose their own paths, carving out futures that no longer had room for you. And you never resented them for it, not really.

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t lonely.

No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, it’s hard so, so hard to grow up in a house that never truly felt like home. Hard to wake up each morning knowing there’s no mother to greet you, no father’s voice to remind you you’re safe. Hard to fall asleep at night, knowing that if a nightmare came, there would be no one there to hold you.

No one at all.

They're happy, somewhere out there. Twin sisters from your father’s side, three brothers from your mother’s. And you were happy for them, truly. They had their lives, their homes, their own worlds to tend to. They checked in when they could — once, maybe twice a month, just enough to remind you they were still out there. Just enough to keep you from forgetting... while you stayed with your grandmother.

And that was enough. Or at least, it had to be.

“Nana,” you sigh, “You just watched that yesterday. Are you sure you want to go again?”

“Yes. Mom.”

You continued to scrub the plate she ate from, forcing a smile. She’s called you Mom again. It happens often now. Some days, you’re her daughter. Other days, her niece, a friend. But most days, you’re her mother.

And that’s fine. It has to be fine. As long as there are still days when she calls you anything at all. Because the worst days, the ones that keep you up at night, are the ones when she just looks at you with empty eyes, searching your face like you’re a stranger.

You swallow hard and turn back to her. “Did you take your meds, Nana?”

"Yes."

You wipe your hands on the kitchen towel, glancing toward the small pillbox on the counter. Walking over, you flip open the lid, scanning the compartments. She took them. A quiet breath of relief escapes you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, closing the box. “After this, we’ll head to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

You sink onto the couch beside her, adjusting the hem of your floral home dress—the one you tailored yourself, stitching distractions into the fabric on nights when the weight of it all felt unbearable.

Mama Mia plays on the screen, the familiar melodies filling the small space between you. It’s always been her favourite movie. Even after the diagnosis, even as the world around her blurred at the edges, she kept coming back to it.

As if, somehow, it was something she could still hold onto.

You glance at her, watching the way her lips move with the lyrics, her hands tapping against the armrest in time with the music. She remembers this.

“Can I hold your hand while we watch?” you ask softly.

Your grandmother turns to you with a soft smile, her eyes whispering at the corners. She’s seventy-five now, her hair thinner, her hands frail, but to you, she’s still the same. Still beautiful. Still her.

People told you to put her in a nursing home. Said it would be easier, that it was the practical choice. But how could you? How could you leave the one person who never left you? The person who held your hand through every scraped knee, every heartbreak. The only real family you have.

Her frail fingers squeeze yours gently. Then, just as you turn back to the movie, you hear it.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Your breath halts. You tear your gaze from the screen, eyes wide, heart pounding. It’s been months — months of her calling you by the wrong names, or worse, not calling you anything at all. But now, she’s looking right at you, remembering you. A lump sits in your throat as tears sting your eyes. You grip her hand tighter.

“I love you too, Nana,” you whisper, voice shaking.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

You slide the key into the lock, your right shoulder weighed down by the new pots you picked up earlier. As the door swings open, the soft chime of the bell echoes through the quiet shop. Stepping inside, you nudge the door shut behind you and flip the sign to OPEN with a satisfied smile.

It’s 10 a.m., and the morning light spills in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the flowers on display. Running your fingers gently over delicate petals, you inhale their fresh scent, the fragrance mixing with the faint traces of paint lingering on the walls — your own handiwork, soft strokes of color bringing the shop to life.

You set your bag down behind the counter and power on the computer, scrolling through the day’s orders. Five minutes pass in a comfortable rhythm before the familiar chime rings again. The door swings open.

Someone’s here.

"Good morning!" You greet with a warm smile, but your voice falters just slightly as you take him in. He’s not the usual type to wander into a flower shop. Dressed in a sharp, black tailored suit, he carries himself with an air of quiet confidence. The glasses perched on the bridge of his nose add to his composed demeanor, but it’s his presence — towering in the doorway, making the shop feel smaller somehow, catches you off guard.

Still, you keep your smile, smoothing the surprise on your chest. "Are you looking for any particular flowers?"

He glances at you and gives a small nod — a quick acknowledgment that he’s heard you. It’s familiar. You’ve dealt with customers like this before, the ones who prefer to browse in silence before saying what they need.

You nod back slightly, a polite gesture, then shift your gaze back to your computer, trying to shake off the strange unease prickling at you. He hasn’t even spoken yet, and still, something about him makes your pulse tick faster.

Why?

“I'm looking to have a funeral arrangement made.” he says suddenly, making you blink and look up.

His eyes meet yours.

You cleared your throat, "I'm sorry for your loss." You try to follow the routine speech that you have. "Let me get my book and I'll assist you. Please, take a seat."

You point towards the table, a round wooden structure with three matching chairs, a small white vase holding a fresh boquet decorated the center. He quickly followed your instructions, pulling the chair as it scraped on along the wooden floorboards before they sit with a sigh.

You took a quick glance at him again, watching as he fishes out his phone, one of the brands that is you think the latest release, and you see a unique looking rolex in his wrists. You avert your eyes as soon as you did, and your eyes catch the black car parked in front of your store.

Your store.

Your small humble store that is stark comparison compared to everything this man have.

You cleared your thoughts as to why he chose this place to buy flowers. You turned around to gather your book filled with arrangements.

"Do you run this place by yourself?" As you reach for the leather spine of the book, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes already on yours.

He didn’t respond, even as you took a seat across from him. Still, you could feel his gaze following you. You pushed the roses aside, their petals bruised from restless handling, and replaced them with the open book. Its pages, worn thin, exhaled the faint, bitter-sweet scent of aged paper — a comfort you almost resented tonight.

He stayed silent, his arms draped over the table, eyes steady. His presence bled into the air, heavy and warm, as though the room itself bent around him. You swore you could see it — something low and smoldering radiating off of him, a slow burn that clawed past the polished edges he wore so well.

You tore your gaze away before it could swallow you whole.

You tighten your grip on the pen. “May I have the full name of the deceased?” Your hand drifts across the top of the page, hovering over the empty space waiting to be filled, just as you wait for his answer.

When it comes, it lands harder than you expect.

“It… doesn’t have a full name,” he says quietly. Your eyes lift to meet his. “But we call him Moon.”

Your breath catches. There’s only one meaning behind words like that. A child. Your mind pulls back into dim memories; the parents who’d come to your shop before, searching for flowers with little else to offer but love for someone whose life never had the chance to unfold. Your lips part, but no sound comes. You drop your gaze, forcing it back down to the blank page. You’ve done this before — too many times — but it still finds a way to shake you.

Pushing through the heaviness in your chest, you press the pen to paper and write the name.

Moon.

“And what are you looking for in this arrangement?” The words burn as they leave you, bitter and dry, clinging to the back of your throat. You wait, feeling the seconds stretch thin between you.

“What do you think?”

You should know. This is what you do — what you’ve poured years into. Flowers have been your language longer than words ever have. But it’s always this question that unravels you. It pulls at the seams of whatever certainty you pretend to hold. Of course you have ideas. They come in flashes,but what are they worth?

What if it’s wrong? What if it’s not enough?

The thoughts spiral fast, like they always do. Familiar and merciless, burrowing deep where you can’t shake them loose. They weigh heavy in your chest, anchoring themselves into the cracks of a confidence too fragile to stand against them. You sit there, hollowed out and grasping for something to offer this man, something that won’t disappoint him, or worse, dishonor what he’s lost.

A baby. A mother greiving. And now this man, carrying his own mourning, offering no guidance to make the task easier. Your fingers twitch, restless and unsure. You have to give him something. Anything.

“Well, for funerals, people usually gravitate toward chrysanthemums,” you say, lifting your free hand toward the cluster of blooms sitting in their vases to the right. His gaze follows where you gesture. “Lilies are another favorite,” you add, motioning to the soft petals hanging to the left. “And people often ask for—”

“But what do you think?” His voice cuts through yours, making your words falter. Slowly, your eyes meet his, and he holds your gaze across the table. “What do you gravitate toward?”

“White roses,” you murmur, your gaze flicking away from him and toward the blooms resting quietly in the front window of the shop. “They symbolize… eternal love, and remembrance.” Your voice softens. “If it were me… someday… I think it would make me happiest to be remembered that way. To be loved like that, even after.”

When you finish, your eyes drift back to his, uncertain, before you quickly lower them to the blank page in front of you. “Sorry,” you whisper, flinching at your own rambling.

“No.” His voice is firmer this time, “Don’t be sorry. Tell me more.”

You swallow hard. Your heartbeat stirs faster in your chest, a throb blooming from the tender cut on your fingertip. You breathe through it.

“Forget-me-nots,” you say. “I suppose… I’d start with a base of hyacinths, then layer in forget-me-nots and foliage as filler. And maybe top it off with white roses.”

“Think you can have it ready in two days?” he asks, his gaze shifting toward the rosebuds waiting to be trimmed on the table. “That’s when the memorial service will be.”

You nod before the words even catch up to you. “Yes, yes. That’s no problem.” You lower your head and start to write, sketching out the arrangement you’d described, even as your hand strains to keep steady against the shake running deep in your chest.

“Here.” He sets a small black bag on the table. You don’t have to open it to know — from the weight, the way it sits — it’s easily a week’s worth of your shop’s earnings.

“That’s too much. It’ll only be —”

“It’s the least I can do,”His voice is gentle but leaves no room to argue.“I doubt many would have come up with something as thoughtful as yours.”

“Please… I can’t let you overpay.” Your hand rests on the bag, fingers curling around the edge as you begin to slide it back toward him but his hand meets yours, halting you. His fingertips graze against your skin.

His eyes catch yours, and the words die between your parted lips, caught somewhere too deep to reach. Slowly, he stands from his chair, his hand slipping away from the pouch. You watch him smooth out the front of his coat, before stepping toward the center of the table. His fingers reach for the rose in front of you. The stem just one thorn away from being trimmed. The same thorn that had cut you earlier. “I’ll take this too, then,” he says. “Is that alright with you?”

The nervousness clawing at your chest tightens, cinching your breath and locking the words in your throat. It burns — sharp and hot, like a brand searing them shut. You can only nod, managing the smallest smile before your eyes drop, trailing back down to the thorn that had drawn your blood.

You reach for your shears and rise from your chair, stepping toward him.

“I’d just started working on this one when you came in,” you murmur, lifting the sharp edge to the base of the stem. His fingers shift aside, careful and slow, as you steady the blades around the thorn. His eyes stay on you, not on the flower, not on your hands, but on the furrow of your brow as you focus.

You sense the moment he holds his breath.

With one clean motion, you clip the thorn away. “Thank you,” you say, your voice soft and thinner than you meant it to be.

“Thank you,” he echoes. His tone mirrors yours, but heavier somehow. “I look forward to seeing what you create.” He turns toward the door, tall frame gliding in that unhurried way of his, but he doesn’t touch the handle yet. His body shifts just enough to glance back. “By the way… I should get your name.”

“Y/N,” you answer. The name comes easy, but your breath feels uneven behind it. “And yours?”

You’ve never been like this before. Never so openly invested in someone you’d barely exchanged a few scattered words with. Never so quick to give away your curiosity. But here you stand; unmoving, staring, studying him more openly than you’d dare with anyone else.

He smiles. Barely. So faint you might have missed it entirely… if you weren’t so completely, foolishly locked on him. Enough of a curve to tug at the corner of his mouth. And there, a small hollow moves in his cheek. Does it get deeper when he really smiles? Does his smile reach his eyes?

Your throat tightens at the thought, inexplicable.

“Soobin,”

He came back two days later. Right when he said he would. When you handed him the arrangement, his eyes lingered on it longer than you expected. His face didn’t shift much, but you caught it, a flicker of surprise, as though he hadn’t entirely expected it to look the way it did. As though he hadn’t expected you to remember it so well.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low, steady. And before you could step back or fold the moment away, he spoke again. Another request. The same one. For next week.

And that’s how it started.

It became a pattern before you realized you’d memorized it. Every week, almost the same day, he returned. Always asking for the same thing. And it took so little, for you to start waiting for him. You didn’t need to admit you were. It was clear enough in the way your hands moved faster on the mornings you thought he might show up. The way you found yourself glancing at the clock more often. The way your breath shifted, when the bell over the door chimed and you hoped it would be him.

The weeks folded into months before you realized how quickly the time had passed.

“Your wife must be having a hard time,” you say quietly, watching him from behind the counter as his fingers brush along the edges of the newest arrangement vases you’d set out last week. Your voice tries to sound casual, light enough not to pry. “But she’s lucky to have you.”

It’s the only explanation that ever made sense. The one you’d quietly settled on back when he first asked for those mourning flowers. That was how you’d made sense of it. How you’d made peace with why the arrangements always felt so heavy.

He stops. “Wife?” His brow lifts, faint confusion softening the lines around his eyes.

Your throat pulls tight. “Uh… yeah,” you fumble, heat creeping up the back of your neck. “… How is she recovering?”

There’s a pause. His stare doesn’t waver. His jaw sets, just enough that you can tell he’s measuring something inside before letting the words go.

“It’s for my sister.”

Sister. All this time, you thought you understood. The flowers, the endless varieties he carefully chose week after week — they were for his sister. That’s what you told yourself. It made sense. She must be the one who lost a child. A grief so cavernous that even the brightest blooms could barely soften its edges. You could understand it. the tenderness of a brother trying to tether her to something gentle. The quiet, steady ritual of bringing beauty to someone drowning.

But one year have passed. One year, and still, he comes.

You watch Soobin now, and something inside you twists sharp and deep. Your throat pulls tight, a burn clawing up the back of your eyes, your heart thrashing in your chest like it’s frantic to be let loose. His fingers move across the petals with reverence, the kind of touch meant for something breakable, sacred. As though each flower is an apology too heavy to speak aloud. A brother so devoted, so relentless in his quiet offerings — and surely he has a life beyond this. A job. Responsibilities. People waiting for him. And yet here he is. Always here. Always returning, as though caught in some private penance only he can feel, rooted in your little shop like he doesn’t know where else to go. Every week, standing in the hush of your little shop like a man trying to repent for a sin he never committed.

The flowers… you’ve always loved them. They’re stitched with meanings you’ve memorized like scripture; hope, solace, rebirth. They ask for nothing in return, and still, they give so much. The burn behind your eyes sharpens as you watch him, your mind comparing him to one, your chest aching in places you thought you’d long since sealed shut.

You wrap the arrangement slowly, careful with each fold and knot. Your heart thuds against your ribs like it’s trying to outrun the thoughts crowding your chest. The ones you don’t say out loud. The thought unsettles you more than it should. It coils tight in your gut, sharp and sickening. Because part of you already knows — one day, the door won’t open. One day, he won’t come anymore. You hear his footsteps before you see him. He’s seen that you’re nearly done ,the bouquet he asked for, the one you’ve handled like it’s something sacred. You feel his presence before you meet his eyes.

You don’t know why. You can’t name it, not exactly. Maybe it’s the dread that coils in your stomach that there will be a day you wake on a day he’s supposed to come, only to find the hours slipping by, the bell above the door never ringing. And before you can stop yourself, before your good sense can catch up to your mouth, the words tumble out. “Would you want to go out sometime?”

You instantly regret it, the way your voice cracked, the way you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, fumbling. “That was, I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position. If it’s invasive or —”

“Yes.” You blink. His expression is steady, unshaken. “Yes,” he says again, softer this time. “I was going to ask you, too.”

Your breath stumbles in your chest. You nod, unsure of what to say, heart hammering loud enough to drown out everything else, but he goes on, “Next week. Same day, same time. Let’s do that.”

You nod again, this time slower. Something settles in your chest, light but anchoring. “And,” he adds, as he picks up the bouquet, “make another arrangement.” You glance at him, brows lifting in question. “Anything you want,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what it costs. Just… make something for me.”

You swallow the rush in your throat, the spark behind your ribs. You can already feel the stems in your hands, the petals under your fingers. You don’t know what you’ll make yet but you know it will say everything you can’t.

“Okay.”

You stare at the bouquet as it slumps at the edge of the table. The one you arranged so carefully, over and over again for days.

Dawn had already cracked the sky.

Now, the gloss on your lips is gone, long since faded like the sun. The coat you pressed at sunrise feels stiff, resentful, like it's been waiting just as long. Your spine aches from sitting too straight for too many hours, and your breath trembles in your throat, thin and cold.

He said he’d be here before lunch. He said he’d take you out.

He never came.

Maybe he got held up. Maybe it slipped his mind. Maybe something urgent came up. You tell yourself these things because it’s easier than the alternative. Still, the silence wraps around you too tightly. It hums in your ears, thick and heavy, until the only thing left is the dull thud of your heartbeat, knocking against your ribs like it’s looking for a way out.

Your eyes sting. Are you even allowed to cry over this?

“Well,” you murmur, voice thinner than you’d like, “let’s get you to a vase.” Carefully, you gather the arrangement, fingertips grazing the petals. You breathe in — soft, floral, faintly sweet — and hold it there.

Your movements felt slow. Deliberate, almost. Strange, when these steps had always come easy to you, and yet, you lingered. As if dragging out every motion might somehow buy him time to show. Your gaze settles on the bouquet now resting in the vase. You exhale, slow and shallow, but no words rise to meet the breath. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing worth breaking the quiet for. Turning to the door, your steps this time are steady, unhesitant. No more stalling. You did what you could. You waited. You hoped.

And now, it’s clear; he’s not coming.

You were just about to lower the blinds when a familiar car slid to a stop out front. Your breath caught, frozen tight in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, as the driver’s door flung open before the engine had even settled into idle. There he was, the tall figure who’d haunted your thoughts for months, carved into every restless night. Disheveled, frantic, a deep frown cutting across his face.

When his eyes found yours, he ran.

The air slammed back into your lungs so fast it almost hurt. The fog, the static that had smothered you for hours, gone. Blown clean away in one look on his face.

He's here.

“Why did you wait for me?” The words tumbled out the moment he pushed the door open, his gaze locking onto yours. His face, guilt etched into every line. “You waited for me,” he said again, quieter this time. The guilt cracked, crumbled at the edges, and in its place came something softer. His eyes didn’t waver. It was awe, unmistakable and unguarded.

It was as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

The car ride was quiet. His coat rested over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as the streetlights blurred past. Since it was already late, Soobin had offered his place. You didn’t argue.

“We’re here,” he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. You’d somehow already undone yours without realizing it, stepping out into the cool air just as he rounded the front of the car to meet you. His hand hovered near the door, but you’d beaten him to it. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, offering a small smile. Your eyes drifted past him, brows pinching slightly as you took in the skyline ahead —towering buildings stretching into the night. Your confusion flickered across your face before you could hide it. “You said your apartment, right?”

He hummed, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. He nodded toward the buildings ahead. “Come on.”

You walked, still puzzled, trailing a step behind him. Your eyes wandered, curious and cautious, as you neared the towering building. Inside, staff seemed to scatter and straighten the moment they caught sight of Soobin. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Postures snapped upright. The door swung open before either of you reached it.

“Late evening, Mr. Choi,” the security guard greeted, bowing deeply. The others followed suit, dipping their heads in swift, practiced motions. It felt surreal. Like you’d stumbled into the middle of a K-drama you used to watch. Like you were seeing something you weren’t meant to. Soobin didn’t slow. He didn’t pause at the front desk like everyone else did. He just kept walking, glancing back once to make sure you were still with him. When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button without hesitation. The panel lit up, and you caught the word just above it; Penthouse.

Your breath caught, but you masked it quickly, dropping your gaze. That’s when you noticed his hands, resting at his sides, relaxed. The silence wrapped around you again. You shifted your hand, hesitant, pinky inching toward his. You just wanted to hold it — just once. Who knew if you’d get another chance like this? Maybe tomorrow he’d decide you weren’t someone he wanted to see anymore. Maybe you’d bore him. Maybe he’d drift away like people sometimes do.

So just once. Just to know what it felt like.

Your fingers moved closer, careful, unhurried. Barely an inch away — Ding. The elevator chimed, breaking your focus. Your hand froze mid-reach. Soobin turned, catching you dead-on. His gaze flicked down, just fast enough to see the way you yanked your hand back, swatting it away like you’d touched something too hot. “Uh—” you blurted.

His brows lifted slightly, softening — not in mockery, but in surprise. “Stop acting so cute, will you?” he murmured, and his words only deepened the flush on your cheeks. “You’re making it harder for me.”

Before you could even piece together what he meant, his hand reached out. His fingers found yours, threading between them with an ease that made your breath catch. The touch was warm, grounding, and when he gently tugged, you startled just a little. He didn’t say anything about it. He only pulled you softly toward him and guided you into the elevator. The elevator closes, but everything feels distant.

And all the while, his fingers stay laced with yours, anchoring you gently as the world rose around.

“Do you drink?” he asks, his voice low as he approaches the couch where you sit. The bottle in his hands glints under the warm lights, dark glass wrapped in crinkled gold foil, the wine inside a deep, velvet red that swirls languidly as he moves. One glance, and you already know: it’s expensive.

His penthouse is sprawling, though you suppose all penthouses are. “On special occasions,” you admit, watching as he reaches for two crystal glasses.

“Would you call this a special occasion?” He sinks into the couch beside you, his back meeting the cushions.

“I’d say so.” Your answer draws a small smile from him as he leans closer. Carefully, he cradles a glass in each hand and offers one to you. You accept it, fingertips brushing the cool surface as you balance the bowl of the glass in your palm, the slender stem threading between your knuckles. You lift it gently, only needing the faintest tilt toward your nose to catch the aroma. Your intuition was right, this would be the finest drink you’ve ever touched.

You take a sip. The wine blooms sharp on your tongue, threading warmth down your throat.

“Tell me,” he says, lifting the glass to his lips. His bangs fall loose over his eyes, soft and unbothered, and you fight the quiet urge to reach over and sweep them aside. “How did you start your business?”

“Like most things in this world,” you reply, taking another small sip, the pungent taste stinging your palate. “A bit of luck and a bit of misfortune.”

Soobin shifts, turning more fully toward you. One arm drapes along the back of the couch, as though he’s subconsciously reaching closer. His glass rests loosely against his thigh, “What was your luck?”

“I received money. Enough to build the business.”

“And the misfortune?”

Your throat tightens slightly. You swallow. “It was because my grandmother… wouldn’t be able to take care of it anymore.” Your voice softens. “Or herself anymore.”

The quiet smile at the corner of his lips falters, folding into something more solemn. A flat line. His eyes don’t leave you, they track every flicker of your expression: the slight furrow of your brow, the quick blinks you can’t quite suppress, the faint, compulsive bite to the inside of your cheek. But he doesn’t press.

“Why flowers?”

You know the answer. It unfurls easily in your mind, sprawling and layered. But a flicker of doubt tugs at you. If I ramble, will he grow tired of me?

“I liked their meanings,” you say instead, choosing your words slowly. “How each plant holds its own importance, just by existing. It’s fulfilling. And it’s a beautiful thing… seeing the way even simple arrangements can affect people.” You glance down, your thumb brushing the base of your glass. The words settle in the air between you.

He doesn’t fill the silence or shift in his seat. His eyes stay fixed on you. The glass in his hand remains perfectly still. His gaze lingers like he’s reading something delicate between your lines, like you’re a puzzle he’s in no rush to solve. He watches without pressing, without judgment. You feel the heat creep into your cheeks despite yourself, and you lower your gaze, hoping it hides the way your pulse trips over itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a pause, his voice lower, gentler. “I feel like I’m bombarding you with all these questions. Would you like to ask me something instead?”

A dozen questions flicker through your mind, each vying for space. Yet one floats to the surface, steady and clear, eclipsing the rest. “Why did you ask me to make you that bouquet?” The words leave you smoother than you expected.

For a breath longer, he says nothing. And then — a soft, breathy laugh escapes him. His eyes crinkle at the corners, something warm spilling over his features, and you swear you feel your heart tighten in your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh. It’s the first time you’ve seen the hollows of his cheeks deepen, the dimples ghost into view.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat gently, He leans forward slightly, setting his glass on the table with a clink. “I do have an answer. But it’s a long one… if you’ll bear with me.” You nod, something soft and weightless settling in your chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. “Every time I come to see you… you’re even more beautiful. And you take my breath away.” That ache—the one you’d fought to swallow down minutes ago—surges back with a quiet ferocity. Your bottom lip parts, breath hitching in surprise.

Soobin’s voice dips, even softer now, like he’s confessing something he’s carried for far too long. “I asked you to make me that bouquet because I knew you’d pour yourself into it. You’d try your best to make it perfect for me. And when I saw it… I knew you’d done exactly that.” He pauses, gaze never wavering from you. “I never planned to take it with me. That bouquet—it was always meant for you.”

He shifts closer, just a few inches, slow and unintrusive. You don’t look at him; your eyes drop away, blurred with the tears threatening to spill over. You hold them back with every ounce of restraint, blinking fast against the shimmer at your waterline.

“I could’ve gone to any florist,” he continues, his voice barely above a murmur, “bought flowers and handed them to you. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you to make them… for yourself.”

Your chest pulls tight, your breath shallow and quick.

“I wanted you to create something as beautiful as you are. That’s why I asked for the bouquet.” His words land soft, final. “Because you’re beautiful.”

You try to fight it. Your head lifts slightly, your gaze tipping upward as if looking higher might will the tears back in. But the moment you blink, they slip free, tracing a slow, unbidden path down the curve of your cheek. There’s no hiding it. Not from him. Soobin’s eyes track the tear’s descent, his expression open and unreadable.

“I…” You falter, biting down gently on your tongue as your throat burns, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately, “Tell me.”

Your breath shudders out, thin and shaky. “It’s just… earlier, I thought you wouldn’t come back.” The fracture in your voice is clear, woven into every syllable. Soobin hears it as easily as if you’d shouted it. His focus sharpens, tender and intent, even as another tear slips down your cheek.

Without a word, he lifts his hand. His touch is featherlight, the side of his index finger brushes just beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall farther. The contact startles you; your breath catches, your eyes widening at the gentle weight of his skin on yours. Though he’d caught your tear, his hand lingers on your cheek. His skin is cooler than yours, a contrast that sends a ripple down your spine. Then his finger glides down the curve of your face, tracing a path to your chin. His touch is careful, as if he’s afraid you might shatter under anything less. His fingers cradle your chin gently, coaxing, as he tilts your face toward him. Your breath catches as your gaze is guided back to his.

He’s looking at you.

Your nerves spark like a live wire under your skin, a delicate ache blooming in your chest. You swear you’ll come apart if you move too quickly, if you breathe too hard. Your heartbeat drums mercilessly in your ears loud enough, to fill the silence between you.

He leans closer. Slowly, gingerly, he edges forward like he’s stepping through every invisible barrier you’d built, slipping past every wall you thought you’d carefully kept intact. You watch as his eyes trace the line of your lips. Is he feeling the same tremor, the same breathless ache threatening to consume you whole?

Your eyes mirror his, drifting down until they rest on his lips. You feel his breath first, warm and shallow against your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipation blooming low in your belly — an ache, a flutter, a trembling promise. The thought alone sends shivers down your spine.

His lips meet yours. It's soft.

You don’t dare move. His fingers remain at your chinr. And for the first time, you let yourself surrender completely, allowing someone else full, irrevocable control. You let him lead. You let yourself fall. Then, subtly, Soobin shifts. His lips part just slightly against yours, enough to press a second kiss, lighter than air, softer than thought. The faintest sound of it rings in your ears, delicate and clear, as if it’s the only sound left in the world. There is no one else. Nothing else. Only you and him.

When he pulls away, it’s slow. He creates space between you, his gaze dropping—gentle, searching. “I apologize,” he says softly, his voice drawing your eyes open again. His pupils are dark, downcast, uncertainty clouding their depths as his fingers slip away from your skin. “If I made you uncomfortable… if I overstepped — I’m sorry.”

Without a word, with your tears now stilled, you reach for him. Your fingers wrap gently around his wrist, the same hand that had so carefully traced your skin. You hold him. With a pull, you guide his hand back to your face. When his fingertips meet your skin again, a wordless relief unfurls in your chest.

He’s watching you. His eyes are locked to yours, dark and unwavering, tracking every small shift in your expression as if deciphering the meaning behind your touch. Your hand stays clasped at his wrist as you draw your lips inward, wetting them with a soft sweep of your tongue, a silent permission offered without a single breath of speech.

You see it instantly, the way his brow knits downward, a soft furrow of longing. His lips part slightly, a breath escaping that he doesn’t bother to rein in. The expression across his face is raw, unguarded, needy in a way that makes your stomach swoop, a sweet ache pulling low in your core. His gaze flickers downward, fixated on the subtle shift of your mouth.

Before you even can take your next breath, his lips are on yours again. His mouth meets yours with more urgency, yet still achingly soft. His free hand ghosts up your jaw, fingers threading into the hinge of your neck, You’re taken aback, quite literally as his mouth parts against yours, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your breath falter. Your head tips backward instinctively, but before you can drift too far, his hand is there to catch. His fingers tangle into the soft strands at the nape of your neck, cradling you.

You clutch tighter to his wrist, as if that alone could tether you. The moment dissolves into something weightless, and the sensation of Soobin’s kiss begins to eclipse everything else — until the world narrows to nothing but his lips, his breath, his touch.

Your lungs tighten. Your head spins just as you feel the graze of his tongue against your lower lip. With a soft gasp, you break away.

Cool air rushes between your lips as you pull back, your breath coming quick and shallow. Your fingers, once gripping tight at his wrist loosen, falling limp against his skin. His hand slides gently from the back of your head, fingertips gliding down the column of your neck before settling against the delicate curve of your throat. His thumb traces there idly, barely a whisper of contact.

His voice, when it comes, is hushed. “Are you alright?”

All your life, you had been pursued. Suitors with bright eyes and polished words circled like moths, eager to capture your hand, to fasten their futures to yours. They came with promises that echoed hollow against your ribs. They smiled too easily, spoke too sweetly and though you tried, how you tried to meet them halfway, something inside you always stayed untouched.

You had forced smiles you didn’t mean. Laughed at jokes that never reached your eyes. You wrapped yourself in false emotions like gossamer, hoping the weight of them would feel like belonging. But after every encounter, you only felt emptier. You never understood why.

Until now.

With Soobin’s kiss still lingering on your lips, with his hand resting against the tender line of your throat as though you were something precious, and easily breakable. The truth settles in you, your heart had never been wandering.

It had been waiting. Waiting for him.

It wasn’t that no one wanted you. It was that your soul had already made its choice long before your body could catch up. And after all the quiet, lonely years of not knowing what you were longing for, he had finally found you.

You are home.

"I…" Your voice is thin, threadbare with wonder. You search for words, but none seem big enough to hold what you’re feeling. "I’ve never… been kissed like that before."

He smile slowly, a laugh tumbles from him and the thumb resting against your neck drifts upward, grazing the curve of your cheek with such careful reverence it makes your breath catch. You don’t have time to react. He leans in before you can even think, brushing a kiss against your lips, so brief it’s almost weightless. Too fleeting, too quick, and when he pulls away, you instinctively lean forward, chasing the fading warmth.

"Is that better?" he murmurs, mischief softening the edges of his gaze.

You swallow thickly, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch. "I didn’t…" Your voice falters, a smile tugging unbidden at the corner of your lips. "…say that I didn’t like it."

It was as if your words had unspooled something inside him, like you'd spoken a secret incantation only he could hear. The moment your words left your lips, he was on you — his mouth capturing yours with a hunger. His hands slid down at your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms pressing against your skin as if he needed to feel every inch of you. His lips broke from yours only to travel lower, grazing the delicate line of your jaw before finding the curve of your neck. The first brush of his mouth there drew a sound from you, a soft moan. You felt him smile against your skin, a low, pleased hum from his throat as if your every sigh was a gift.

Without thinking, your arms wrapped tighter around him. You shifted, lifting your legs to curl around his waist, pulling him flush against you. The soft, unrestrained groan that escaped him at the motion sent a spark racing straight through you.

You had never felt so wanted as hands slid down, tracing the shape of your thigh before they dipped to the bend of your knee. You had never felt so treasured as he slowly, began to gather the fabric of your skirt, dragging it higher along your leg with unhurried care, revealing skin he touched as though memorizing you with each pass.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire. His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat, grazing you with teeth soft enough to make you shiver, as if he wanted to consume you completely yet worship every part of you. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently as you guided him back to your lips. He met you eagerly, melting into the kiss as though he’d waited lifetimes for it.

“If you want me to stop… tell me,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough and tender all at once.

You nodded unafraid, and in that quiet, unspoken agreement, you watched something flicker in his eyes. As if he was vowing to worship you fully but never without your permission. His hands moved, deft and gentle, helping you ease out of the thin barrier of fabric that separated you, his gaze never leaving yours as if even in this unraveling, your comfort was his compass.

His smile curves against the delicate line of your neck, breath fanning across your skin as his words slip through, velvet-soft and low, “You’re already so wet for me.” His tone is laced with adoration. “I didn’t know you’d be such a good girl for me.”

The world dissolves.

It shrinks and softens until all that’s left is him — Soobin and the press of his body against yours, Soobin and the way his voice drips honey and reverence into your ear, Soobin and the hands that worship every part of you like he’s learning a language spoken only through touch.

Every piece of clothing that falls away is marked by his mouth, kisses dragged slow across your lips, your jaw, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your collarbones. His lips move like he’s tracing constellations on your skin, as though, somehow, you hold the entire night sky within you.

His hands, large and steady, move over you with a duality that makes you ache. Greedy and gentle. Certain but tender. He touches you as though he’s starved for you, but terrified you might slip away if he’s too careless. His fingers map your curves, glide down your sides, ghost along the backs of your thighs, curling possessively.

The room is thick with something heavier than air. It’s breath; yours and his, tangled in rhythm. It’s the soft rustle of fabric sliding over skin, the quiet catch of a moan swallowed between kisses, the faint sighs that spill when his hands find somewhere new to caress. Everything slows because he slows it. He takes his time, like he refuses to let any detail slip by unnoticed.

It doesn’t feel like he’s simply undressing you.

It feels like he’s unveiling something sacred. Like every inch of you laid bare is a gift he’s longed for, and now that he has it, he won’t squander a second. His gaze drinks you in between every kiss, full of a softness that cradles the sharp edge of desire. His pupils blown wide, his lips pink and kiss-bitten, his breath shaky though he tries to steady it.

You’re cherished.

“Soobin,” you gasp, breath hitching as he pulls you effortlessly into his lap. His lips find the swell of your breast, as his hands caress you with tender precision — teasing. The soft drag of his tongue against your nipples pulls a shiver from deep within you.

“I’ll take you to bed, sweetheart,” — “Yes, please,”

His mouth meets yours again, slow and consuming, while his arms curl around you. Without breaking the kiss, he rises, lifting you as though you weigh nothing, as though carrying you is the most natural thing in the world. You don’t open your eyes. You don’t need to. Your hands stay laced behind his neck, your fingers threading through the soft hair at his nape. You surrender wholly, letting yourself be cradled in his care. His footsteps echo and then you feel it, the plush give of the mattress beneath you as he lowers you gently into the center of the bed. The sheets are cool against your back, but his gaze is molten, grounding you in a warmth no fabric could match.

“Soobin…” Your voice trembles, “I haven’t done this before.”

For a moment, his expression stills. Something softens even further in his eyes. His lips tilt into the faintest, sweetest smile before he leans down, planting a slow kiss on your lips.

“I’ll be gentle with you then,” he promises, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you apart. His forehead rests against yours as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his touch light as silk. “You don’t have to fear anything with me. We’ll go slow. You just tell me everything you want… everything you don’t.”

You gave him a smile, you reached up and kissed him. A simple peck. His eyes is open mid-kiss, like he couldn’t bear to miss a second of it. As though the feeling of your lips wasn’t enough, he wanted to see it too. “I trust you,” you whispered against his lips, “I do.”

You had never been blinded because of a smile before.

His lips press against your sternum, inching his way with slow pecks towards the plump skin of your breasts. And the second he finds your nipple, a sharp gasp leaves your throat as you feel his warm tongue caress the sensitive flesh. His hand moves to your navel, his palm lying flush to your abdomen as he holds you down to the mattress; continuing to glide his tongue over you. As Soobin lifts his lips from you momentarily, the chill of his saliva lingers on your breast, makes you softly squirm in his grasp.

He move to the other side of your body, slowly slowly repeating the process as he suckle at your hardened bud ever so gently. But this time, he use his teeth to bite the softest mark onto your nipple; the careful sting pulls your back into an arch. You whimper at the roughness, though it only lasts for a second, and as you process their actions, Soobin begins to trail down from your breasts, moving to the other one. His hands work, reaching down to caress your core which pulse between your thighs.

You try to control yourself as he went lower, to control your body, control the moans begging for release but the moment he place a kiss to your clit, the little control you have begins to slip. He starts gently, a kiss, a soft lick up your entrance, and gets back to give the most careful suckle at your clit. His gentle licks turn into passionate laps as he palce his tongue flat to your clit and allow the pressure of his muscle alone to spark up your spine.

You gasp at the feeling, your hands grip desperately onto the sheets by your sides.

With his hand still placed on your lower belly, Soobin outstretches his fingers towards his mouth latched onto your cunt. His thumb finds its place just above the hood of your clit, as he begin to add to the simulation causing your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. He swirl the wet skin, sucking, intervals of tender kisses in between as he feel you between his lips; as the squelching of his tongue against your soaked entracne takes over the silence of the night.

"You're being such a good girl for me," Soobin kisses the words onto you, "So fucking good." He use his freehand to pull your leg up and over his shoulder, your body willingly at his control. He lift his mouth from you only to place his lips inside of your thight, his fingers still simulating you even with the pause.

You can feel it brewing. The band threathening to snap at any moment. Your pleasure pleading for release as he return to lap at your cunt.

"S-Soobin," you gasp, "Wait, I-" your please turn into tight cries of desperation as they retrieve a smile from Soobin, who listens intently to you moaning his name.

"I know baby," he kisses your clit, his thumb giving you an experimental amount of pressure, "I know baby, you can cum on my tongue. I don't mind."

If it weren't for your orgasm now unleashing inside of you, you possibly would have laughed, but the only thing that comes out of you, among the essence leaking into Soobin's mouth, is the lewd noises breaching the shores of your pleasure. Your hips instinctively push into his mouth as it explodes.

Your legs twitch, faint tremors echoing long after the euphoria crests and slowly ebbs away. Your breath is uneven, your chest rising and falling in shallow pulls as your mind tries to fix itself again. The world feels distant, softened at the edges, but you feel him. You feel Soobin everywhere. You hardly register the trail of his lips scaling their way back up your body, delicate kisses pressed along your stomach, the hollow between your ribs, the curve of your collarbone; until his face hovers just above yours. His breath fans against your lips, warm and even, as though he’s been composed the entire time, despite the flush that paints the high of his cheekbones. And when you meet his eyes —

Adoration. That’s all there is. As though you hung the stars in his sky.

Your fingers, still faintly trembling, reach down to the waistband of his pants, a silent plea building in your chest to return the worship he’s lavished on you. But before you can so much as graze the fabric, his hand wraps gently around your wrist, and moves it away.

“Tonight is about you,” Soobin murmurs, voice low, coaxing you back into ease. A smile, soft and disarming, tugs at the corners of his lips as he dips forward to nuzzle the tip of his nose against yours. “Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.” His fingers, those long, graceful ones you’ve become so attuned to, sweep gently through your hair, combing it back from your damp forehead as though you were something priceless. His thumb brushes the line of your temple before trailing down the curve of your jaw, feather-light.

You stare back at him, your gaze tender and unwavering, the reflection of your own adoration open across your features. Whatever he sees in your eyes makes something in his expression soften even further.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice dropping as he nestles closer to your side. Instinctively, you open your arms for him, and he slides into the space as though it were carved just for him, his head resting gently against your chest.

“Nothing,” you whisper truthfully, your fingers threading into his soft hair as you tilt your head to study him. Wonder flickers within you like the soft flicker of candlelight, igniting gently as you take in the way the dim glow plays in his irises — deep brown kissed with honey, shadows and softness blending as if the universe itself tried to paint the richest portrait inside his gaze. “You’re beautiful,”

The smile that spreads across his face is breathtaking. His lips curve in that boyish, gentle way that squeezes your heart painfully tight, and then he laughs. Your own smile spills out in response, and soon both your laughs mingle, weaving together in the space between you like spun gold, before your lips find each other’s once more.

You woke with the sunlight brushing gently across your skin, the warmth pooling on the sheets.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling. His arm is still draped over your waist, fingers laced together just under your ribs as if even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go. Every time you shift, even slightly, his hold tightens; subconscious, instinctive. As though his body has decided on its own that you belong nowhere but here. You feel the ghost of his lips at the back of your head again, a soft, unthinking kiss pressed into your hair. And then that murmur that drifted from him throughout the night, something wordless and sweet, as though he was dreaming of you and couldn’t help but let it slip into the waking world.

You are exactly where you’re meant to be.

You blink slowly, everything is softened by the white sheets. Warmth surrounds you, not just from the sun filtering through the windows, but from the comforting weight draped over your back. You shift slowly, turning in his embrace until you’re met with the sight that makes your heart swell.

Choi Soobin.

Your fingertips ghost along the curve of his cheek, feather-light, afraid you might wake him if you touched him too boldly. His skin is soft beneath your hand, still asleep. His lashes rest delicately against his cheekbones, his lips parted slightly, breath deep and even.

“Sleepy Soobin,” you whisper, your thumb brushes along the slope of his cheekbone and, instinctively, he leans into your palm, nuzzling against your touch. The simple action sends a tender ache spiraling through your chest. Your mind drifts back, to the way his hands gripped you with both hunger and patience. To the way his lips worshiped every inch of you. To the way he had cradled you afterward, not letting a single shiver escape him unnoticed, whispering soft words against your skin.

Your eyes drink him in, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tousled strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses on the corner of his mouth. You linger there, breathing him in, letting your lips stay against him like a silent thank-you whispered straight from your heart.

“I don’t think,” you murmur softly against his skin, your lips curving in a smile, “I’ve ever been this happy before.” And as if he heard you even in sleep, his arm around your waist tightens, pulling you closer.

Your phone buzzes. You move quickly, fingers curling around the device as you move yourself out of Soobin’s arms. You sit on the edge of the bed, the cool air brushing against your skin. His shirt hangs loosely off your frame, the fabric soft and saturated with the faint scent of him. You tuck a hand into the hem absentmindedly as you answer. “Hello?” Your voice is hushed.

“Oh, hi. I just wanted to check in about your grandmother. She took her meds.” Hana’s voice comes softly from the other end, the caregiver you’d called last minute yesterday when you weren’t sure you’d make it home in time.

Relief unfurls gently in your chest. “Thank you, Hana,” you murmur, a small smile touching your lips. “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

There’s a few more exchanged words, small reassurances and thank-yous, before you end the call. The screen dims in your hand, but you don’t move just yet. You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t stirred, not really, but his brows are slightly furrowed now, as if he noticed the loss of you in his sleep. The sheets dip where you’d been moments ago, and one hand rests, palm open, where your body had once been.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You want to crawl back to him already. But you know you can't.

Setting the phone down, your gaze drifted toward the bedside table. You remembered Soobin opening the drawer last night, tucking away both of your things. You needed your ponytail. You pulled the drawer open.

Your fingers falter for the the first thing you see. You hadn’t meant to intrude. Two large bottles, their labels slightly worn, tucked neatly in the corner of the drawer as if he’d kept them close, yet out of sight.

Sleeping pills.

Your lips press into a thin line as thoughts flicker behind your eyes — how gentle he’d been with you, how steady and warm his gaze had felt, how easily sleep had taken him last night in your arms. And yet… these. Did he take them every day? Your hand brushes over the edge, and finally, you spot your ponytail nestled beside his wristwatch.

You swallow gently, pushing the drawer close.

You hummed softly as you slid the fried eggs onto a white plate, the gentle sizzle fading as you set them down. This place is a wide, unfamiliar kitchen, but somehow your hands had found their routine effortlessly. Turning, you arranged the plate beside the crisp bacon and the golden slices of toasted, buttered bread.

Out of the corner of your eye, the bedroom door creaked open. "Good morning," you called, your voice laced with a smile that turned fully when you saw Soobin, no confusion in his sleepy gaze, no hesitation in his steps. He made a beeline straight to you.

Before you could even set down the last plate, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest with a soft exhale of relief. His lips found your hairline in a series of slow, affectionate kisses, "You didn’t have to make breakfast, baby. I could’ve called someone."

"I didn’t mind it," you replied, breathless with laughter as you tried halfheartedly to nudge him away. But he only shook his head, clutching you tighter, "Come on," you coaxed gently, tilting your head to meet his soft gaze. "Let’s eat."

At just those simple words, he loosened his hold, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours.

“What is it?” Soobin asks softly, voice in curiosity as he chews his food. His eyes catching the question behind your gaze. “I did tell you… you can ask me anything, remember?”

You nod, your fork slowly tracing circles on the edge of your plate. “Yes…” You swallow, “I don’t mean to pry, I really don’t. I just… I just wanted to ask if you take those pills every day?”

He nods slowly. “I do,” he admits. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping.” Your lips part to speak, but before you can, he sets his fork down and leans in, elbows resting on the table as his hand slides gently over yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “But last night…” A faint smile curls the corner of his lips,“Last night, I didn’t even think about them. I didn’t need them.” His voice drops, “You were here.”

Sitting at that table, sharing breakfast, you felt like you were learning him in layers, like pages of a book gently unfolding for you. You already had your suspicions the moment you first met Soobin. The cut of his clothes, the sleek car he drove; they all whispered of a life far from ordinary. But hearing it from his lips, hearing him confess that he was set to inherit and run an entire empire, sent a quiet shiver up your spine. A chaebol. How had someone like you managed to cross paths, let alone hearts, with someone like him?

He spoke openly, though gently, about the burden he had carried since he was just a teenager. How sleep had long been a stranger to him. How those pills had been his quiet crutch in the endless swirl of expectations, decisions, and responsibilities that clouded his nights. You tried your best to absorb every word. Soobin told you how he had found you captivating from the very first moment he saw you — how, despite that, he never had the courage to approach you.

“All my life,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the untouched food on his plate, “I watched my sister become trapped in a marriage. Watching her lose herself made me believe I shouldn’t chase anyone… or anything. But then, I saw you.”

It was unclear why he trusted you so deeply, why he felt safe enough to share such memories about his sister’s pain and the misplaced guilt he carried on his shoulders. But he did. He let you in. The shadows in his expression melted the moment you leaned in, your lips pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his and your arms curling gently around him. Maybe that was why. Maybe you were his perfect match. You were the one brave enough to ask him out first; unknowing then, but somehow sensing what held him back.

You learned more little things about him that morning too. How he often misplaced his watch because he’d take it off absentmindedly and forget where he’d set it. How he liked his coffee with an extra spoon of sugar and a generous pour of creamer, because despite everything, Soobin had a sweet tooth.

And somehow, every one of these small pieces only made you fall for him more.

“I can’t wait to get back and see you,” his voice comes gently through the phone, smooth and warm like a whisper against your ear. “Just three more days, and I’ll be back. Okay?”.

“Okay,” you breathe, your voice softer than you intend. “Just make sure you’re eating well, alright?” You swallow gently, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

His laugh drifts back to you, honey-sweet and effortless. You miss him already. “Okay, baby.”

And just like that, the line clicks silent.

You move quietly around your shop, fingers trailing along the shelves, straightening small displays here and there. You smile to yourself, a small, private thing, as memories of the past few days float to the surface. His touch. His laugh. Everything lately had felt… right. Almost effortlessly so.

The soft chime of the doorbell rings out, pulling you back to the present.

“Welcome,” you call, your gaze lifts and locks instantly with a pair of sharp, assessing eyes. A woman stands there, immaculately dressed, her age maybe in her fifties, though the confidence she wears makes her seem ageless somehow.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

“Pack your things up,” she says crisply, her gaze drifting coolly over the small, carefully curated space of your shop. Her lips twitch, close enough to make your stomach twist. “Come have lunch with me.”

You blink, thrown off balance, your heartbeat picking up beneath your ribs. This… wasn’t what you’d expected today. “Uh—yes, ma’am,” you say, trying to gather yourself.

Her head tilts, something sharp glinting behind her expression. “Why did you stutter?” The question is too sharp for someone who doesn't know you. Before you can even try to answer, she lifts her hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Go on. Change your clothes. Make it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

Your fingers twitch on your lap as you lower your gaze, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks. The seat beneath you feels too plush, too stiff all at once, as if you don’t quite belong in it. You’re somewhere deep inside this towering glass building — a restaurant so vast and pristine it feels like even your breath is too loud for the space. You try to inhale quietly, chest tight, as Soobin’s mother sits across from you, commanding the room with a presence that doesn’t falter.

You watched, silent, as she spoke crisply to the waiter. Her tone left no room for correction, no cracks for uncertainty to slip through. She didn’t ask what you’d like. She didn’t ask if salad was to your taste. She simply ordered it for you without sparing you a glance — as though she already knew what you should eat, or perhaps decided it didn’t matter.

The clink of glassware is sharp, and you jump slightly when she clears her throat. Slowly, reluctantly, you lift your eyes to meet hers. Her gaze is steady, dark and searching, the sort that makes you feel like you’re being turned inside out with just a look.

“What do you want—”

"Mother," a new voice drifts into the space; light, melodic. You turn instinctively, and there she stands: a woman so strikingly beautiful it’s impossible to mistake the relation. The soft curve of her jaw, the familiar gentle slope of her nose, she carries pieces of Soobin effortlessly in her features.

She moves toward the table with a grace that makes the heavy atmosphere ease, as though her very presence carries warmth where there was only frost before. Soobin’s mother’s stern face softens, her posture loosening subtly for the first time since you sat down and it’s clear this new woman holds sway over her in ways no one else has managed thus far.

The young woman settles beside her mother, her gaze drifting to you with a kindness that wraps around you like a soft blanket. No scrutiny, no sharp edges, it's curiosity. “I’m Soobin’s sister,” she says her name gently, her lips pulling into a smile that reaches her eyes. “You look even more beautiful than what he says.”

The sincerity in her voice disarms you. It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, like finding a familiar light in a room full of shadows. Warm. Genuine.

“Th-thank you,” you murmur, voice small as your gaze drops shyly to your lap. The elegance she carries so effortlessly makes you acutely aware of every inch of yourself; of your softness, your simplicity. You steal a glance upward as she turns away, leaning toward her mother, her voice soft and fluid as she starts to recount her day.

Their hair, not a strand out of place, styled with a polish that speaks of salons you’ve never stepped foot in. The fine lines of their blouses, their tailored cuts, fabrics that drape as if stitched to their skin. Even their nails is perfectly shaped, coated in shades that gleam soft and subtle, unchipped. Their handbags resting beside them glint of understated luxury, the kind of leather that never creases, the kind of detail you notice only when you’ve never had it.

Your gaze falls to your skirt — the one you had sewn with patient hands from fabric you bargained for at the market’s edge. You’d chosen the material carefully, pieced it together with love, made it yours. But here… it feels smaller somehow. Less. You smooth your palms over your knees.

How long will you have to sit in moments like this? How long will you have to feel the weight of difference settle like a stone in your chest? The gap between their world and yours feels so wide it burns.

You don’t belong here.

You hadn’t even managed to lift your fork, “How old are you?” Soobin’s mother asked.

“Twenty-three,” you murmured, your tongue thick in your mouth. The number sounded too small as soon as it left you.

Her lips tugged downward. “Five years younger than him. Too young.” A pause, heavy. “Education status? What of your family?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m living with my grandmother.”

Her brow arched, unimpressed. “Since when?” — “Since I was a child.”

The air felt thinner now. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the trembling tips of your fingers that curled tighter under the table. “Then how would you run a family if you don’t even have one?”

The sting behind your eyes burned fast. You blinked hard, but it did nothing to wash it away. You felt small, smaller than you ever thought you could shrink.

“Mother,” Soobin’s sister snapped, her voice tight with disbelief. You lifted your gaze to her, grateful and ashamed all at once. Her expression was shocked that her mother had gone that far.

But then the next blow landed. “Do you even know there’s a girl who’s supposed to marry him?” Her tone dropped, dripping with disdain as if she wanted to watch you crumble beneath it.

“Mom, stop it. Now.” Soobin’s sister, again. Firmer this time.

Your lips parted to answer — to say something, anything — but all that came out was fragile and thin. “We… we haven’t talked about it.” It was all you could manage. Your voice cracked just enough to make the shame crawl higher up your throat. Your chair scraped against the floor softly as you rose, every inch of your body stiff and burning. You forced a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. “Excuse me… I’ll just take the bathroom.”

Your legs carried you away before the first tear slipped free.

You gripped the sink’s edge so hard your knuckles ached, head bowed as silent sobs racked through your chest. You couldn’t catch your breath. Couldn’t hold it together long enough to even pretend you belonged here. Your reflection in the mirror blurred behind the sheen of tears; eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips trembling. Small. Out of place. A girl trying to fit in.

Of course she was right. You’d always known it, hadn’t you? You were someone born from absence. A child left behind by two people who couldn’t even stay for you, much less for each other. You’d spent so long tucking that truth away, convincing yourself. His mother didn’t have to scream to shatter you.

You wiped at your face uselessly, but the tears kept slipping, warm and bitter down your jaw. You didn’t want to ruin what Soobin had left with his mother, thin and cracked as it might be. You’d seen the strain in his eyes before when he spoke of her. You’d heard the weight when he talked about duty, legacy, responsibility; but you wouldn’t be the reason he chose sides. Maybe everything really had just been a dream. And maybe now…maybe it was time to wake up.

The door creaks open, and you flinch too late to hide the tears streaking your cheeks.

Soobin’s sister.

Her expression crumbles the second she sees you. “Oh, honey.” Her voice is soft, almost breaking, and before you can turn away or gather yourself, she’s already crossing the room. You shake your head, a weak protest caught in your throat, but it falls apart the second her arms wrap around you. You don’t mean to collapse, but you do. Your body folds into hers, trembling, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her coat.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes against your temple, her voice rawer now, as if she can feel even a fraction of what’s tearing through you.

Your chest hurts. You can’t speak. You don’t trust your own voice not to shatter the second you try. So you just stand there, breathing uneven, tears soaking the front of her blouse.

“Don’t cry,” she whispers finally, pulling back, her palms warm against your damp cheeks. Her eyes search yours. Slowly, she slides a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she lets go. “My mother… she’s always been like this. I won’t tell you not to feel hurt, you should feel hurt. She doesn’t know how to soften her words, even when she should.”

“I came here because I heard she’d come after you the moment Soobin flew out for his trip,” she continues, “And about that woman… or whatever arrangement that was, Soobin never met her. Not even once. That was all our mother’s doing. If you want the truth, it’s best you hear it straight from him, hm?” Your fingers curl tighter around the handkerchief.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice frayed at the edges, the apology slipping out even though you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for— being here, being too small for this world, for falling for someone you were never supposed to have?

“Don’t be,” she says softly, her lips tugging into a smile. "You’ve done nothing wrong."

She reaches to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “You can go home. I’ll handle her,” she promises. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t come near you again, not until Soobin gets back and sorts all of this out himself.”

Your throat tightens again, “Why?” The word falls out of you in a whisper. “Why are you doing all of this?”

“Soobin deserves to be happy,” she says, there's a glisten in her eyes. “And you… you make him happy.”

You sit still, hands folded tightly in your lap, nails pressing crescents into your skin as the hum of the engine vibrates beneath you. Through the window’s glass, blurred by your uneven breaths, you see them, Soobin’s sister and her husband.

Choi Beomgyu.

Even from here, even without sound, it’s clear. The way his eyes search hers, soft and intent. The way his hand brushes her cheek, tender and unhurried. And then, his palm drifts lower, resting on the curve of her stomach.

Your breath catches, an involuntary gasp escaping from your lips. You hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because you’d been too wrapped in your own thoughts, but there it is now; the small, rounded swell of her belly beneath her dress.

She’s pregnant.

Your eyes dart away. It sinks in heavier than you expect—the contrast of it. The weight of what you felt in that restaurant still gnawing at your ribs. You swallow hard, blinking fast. You shouldn’t be jealous. Not of them, not of their certainty, not of the way they fit together. You curl your fingers tighter.

Beomgyu slides into the driver’s seat, his eyes flicker to you in the rearview mirror, not invasive. “You okay?” His voice is gentle, low.

You swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. “Yes.”

He doesn’t press. He just nods once, slow, and leans back in his seat. His hands rest on the wheel but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, his eyes shift toward the building. You follow his line of sight and see her— his wife, walking toward the entrance.

Beomgyu stays still, waiting. His jaw flexes slightly, not out of impatience, but out of habit, you can tell. He doesn’t move, not until she disappears inside the building safely, not until the glass doors close behind her and she’s no longer in sight.

Only then does he release a small breath and turn the key in the ignition. The car starts.

You've never seen a love so whole.

You’d finally made peace with it all, to speak to Soobin when he returned. His sister’s promise had held true; his mother hadn’t darkened your doorstep again. For once, the silence felt like safety.

Only one more day. Just one, and he’d be back.

The sharp chime of the door snapped through the quiet. You turned instinctively, forcing a smile onto your lips out of habit.

Standing there was a woman. “Good morning,” you greeted softly, stepping behind the counter, trying to keep your hands steady.

“You’re Y/N, right?” Your stomach flipped, hands instantly cold. What is it this time?

“Yes,” you answered carefully, guarded. “How can I help you?”

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Your breath stuttered. The smile fell clean from your lips. “I’m sorry… what—”

“His mother told me about you.” The words barely registered before the woman dropped to her knees in front of you. The motion was so sudden, so desperate, your breath caught in your throat and your eyes went wide.

“Please…” her voice cracked as she folded her hands together, her head bowed low in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone like her; pristine, polished, composed. But here she was. Crumbling. “Please tell him to accept the proposal.”

Your chest constricted painfully. “No, no, stand up, you don’t have to,”

But she shook her head sharply, her shoulders trembling. Tears clung to her lashes, heavy and raw. “I’ll let you have everything you want. You can still be with him .I don’t care. I’ll just marry him in name. I’ll stay in a different room. A different house, even. I won’t touch him. Our family… we need his. Please, I’m begging you.” Her voice broke entirely on that last word.

Even she knew. Even she understood what his mother refused to admit; his heart was already in your hands.

You walk to the building, each step echoing in your chest. The elevator hums softly as you press the button, your reflection in the mirrored doors a stranger to you. When it finally dings open, you step out into the hallway.

Your hand hovers over the doorbell of his home. You take a breath and press the button. And then you wait.

You run over the speeches you carved into your heart all day, I’m sorry, but we need to break up. I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. But the moment the door opens, it all disintegrates.

He stands there, and for a split second, it’s as if everything stills. His eyes meet yours, rimmed with exhaustion so deep it settles into the lines of his face. “I’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart.” His voice is soft. Almost fragile.

And before you can think, before you can remember the careful goodbye you rehearsed a thousand times, he reaches for you.His fingers curl around your arms, and he pulls you into him. Into the chest that has always felt like home.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“Soobin, I—” Your voice barely breaks through the air before it’s swallowed by the heat of him; his lips finding the curve of your neck, hot and hurried, like a man starved. His body crowds yours effortlessly, the breadth of him making you feel small. His hands, large, trembling with restraint digs firmly on your waist.

“I fucking missed your voice,” he breathes against your skin, “I fucking missed you… I couldn’t even sleep.”

Your throat tightens, a lump clawing higher and higher as your heart caves in on itself. Coward. That’s what it feels like. Your heart, shrinking, curling away from what you came here to say. Because how could you speak of endings when he’s here, clinging to you like this? When he holds you like you were his last hope?

“I need you, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers slide to your blouse, undoing the buttons one by one, slower than his breath, slower than the pounding of your pulse against your ribs. His knuckles brush against your skin, “Did you miss me?”

You open your mouth. The truth swells painfully, desperate to tear out. I did. I missed you more than you’ll ever know. But all you manage is a breathless, broken, “I—”

His hot mouth sucks your nipple. “…Yes.”

It’s all a blur — his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered your name. You don’t remember how the clothes came off, how the sheets tangled beneath your bodies. You only remember the weight of him, the heat of his skin, and the soft drag of his lips along your body that made your breath catch.

The sharp stretch, the slow push of him sinking into you. Tears spill before you even realize they’re falling. It isn’t the pain that makes you cry. It’s the ache in your chest, the way your heart splits in two at the sight of him — Soobin, tired and unraveling, still so gentle. You were too scared to say no. Not because you didn’t want him, but because you did. Too much. You craved to erase the exhaustion from his eyes, even if it was only for one night.

Maybe you were fooling yourself into thinking you were giving something to him, when really, you were trying to steal one last piece of him for yourself.

His brow furrows as he stills inside you, the concern written all over his face. His thumbs swipe at your damp cheeks, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, frantic kisses. “Did that hurt? What’s wrong?”

You force a breath through the tightness in your throat, eyes locking on his, “No,” you manage to choke out, your voice cracking. Your hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve of his under-eye, tracing the shadows you wish you could take away. You swallow the sob clawing at your chest, and say it. You have to say it. Even if it’s the last time.

“I— I just love you.” His lips part slightly at your confession. His breath stutters, and something raw flickers behind his gaze; wonder, disbelief. His whole body goes still as if those words rooted him to the earth. “I love you, Soobin.”

"I love you. I fucking love you."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then warm, featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

You exhale a soft huff, but there’s no real protest in it. Just the lazy stretch of your arm as you roll toward him, pressing your face into the curve of his neck where he smells like him. Your voice comes out muffled. “Let’s stay like this for five more minutes.”

A smile ghosts against your temple. His hand slides to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Okay,”

You finally peeled yourself from the bed, soft sheets still warm with sleep and the weight of him. He trailed after you, tall and shadowing your every move around the kitchen as the morning light spilled in. You couldn’t help it, your fingers found his constantly. On his wrist as he buttered toast, laced with his as you poured coffee, curled around his as you sat across from him at the table. And for the first time, you saw it clearly: the way Soobin’s cheeks flushed pink under the weight of your affection, his gaze flickering down, shy and boyish, every time you touched him like you couldn’t stop.

Now, he stands by the mirror, freshly showered, crisp shirt hugging broad shoulders, hair damp and curling just a little at the edges. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. He wanted you to stay here, in his penthouse. Wanted you here waiting when he came home.

You rise when you see him fumble with his tie, long fingers struggling with the knot. “Let me,” you say softly. Your fingertips brush against his as you take over, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin. He watches you, head tilted down, eyes steady and soft, drinking in every precise movement as you fold and tug the silk into place.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs. He leans in, scattering kisses across your face — your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your lips — each one light and full of that unshakable, boyish smile of his.

You walk him to the elevator, bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. He steps inside, glances back at you, and lifts his hand in a wave; a grin stretching wide, something childlike and unguarded lighting up his whole face.

All while everything was breaking your heart.

You moved quietly through his home. The morning hush wrapped around you like something delicate and suffocating all at once. You folded his clothes with shaking hands, smoothing out every crease, tucking each piece into its rightful place as if order could somehow soften what you were about to break.

His watch. You found it lying carelessly on the counter where he always forgot it. You fixed it gently onto the shelf beside his cufflinks and rings, aligning everything just so, because you knew he liked it neat, even if he never said it out loud. It was small, but you wanted to leave it perfect for him.

The kitchen was next. Your movements felt numb now, mechanical. You prepared everything the way he loved it: coffee beans ground just right, the sugar jar filled, the creamer where it belonged. You wrote it all down on a small scrap of paper; the exact way you made it for him, step by step and pressed the note beside the kettle. Your handwriting blurred through your tears, but you forced yourself to keep writing.

By the time you found a clean sheet of paper and sat at the dining table, your whole body trembled with the weight of it. The pen felt too heavy in your hand. Your tears hit the page before your words did.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

"Nana, this is your new room, okay?" Your voice is soft, careful not to crack as you push the door open, guiding her slowly inside. "It’s a little different, but we’ll figure it out. I’ll make sure we’re alright."

You smile, or something close to it, when she nods faintly, her eyes drifting over the unfamiliar space. The pale walls, the narrow window, the worn bed frame. None of it felt like home yet, but it had to be. You’d make it be.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the dresser as she turned to you. "Why did we move so suddenly?"

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. "Oh," you answered lightly, "because we had to."

Your chest tightened when her gaze lingered on you a beat longer, as if peeling back layers you didn’t want exposed. And then, almost absently, she asked, "How about your man?"

You froze. The air seemed thinner, sharper. You weren’t even sure she remembered him clearly — just a distant echo of the day Soobin had shown up with that gentle smile, introducing himself with careful politeness.

"I… I broke up with him," you whispered. She didn’t react at first. Just nodded quietly, turning to sit on the edge of her bed. Her small frame curved gently as she smoothed the blanket beneath her hands, her movements slow and methodical.

You took a step back toward the doorway, trying to breathe steady. Trying not to crumble in front of her. But then, just as she rose again to cross the room, her voice drifted back to you. "Love will not fail," she murmured. "If it fails… it’s not love."

It was as if you’d just torn your own heart out with your bare hands.

Love will not fail. If it fails, it’s not love.

It had been days since you moved.

And still, no matter how many boxes you unpacked, no matter how carefully you folded your grandmother’s cardigans into drawers or wiped down every surface, this place didn’t breathe like the home you left behind.

The sky hadn't lightened once since you arrived. It hung heavy and bruised from dawn to dusk, a slate-colored weight pressing down on everything. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw sunlight crack through.

And then, the rain came.

You noticed it first in the shift of the wind. A few drops scattered across the concrete, and then it broke open all at once. Panic seized you as your mind jumped to the laundry. The sheets you’d washed them early this morning and hung them in the front of your lawn, hoping they'd dry before nightfall.

You bolted outside, breath shallow, feet slipping slightly against the wet pavement. Cold droplets clung to your hair, running down the line of your neck, soaking through your shoulders. Your fingers fumbled over the clothesline as you yanked the white sheets down frantically, heart racing as you tried to save what little you had.

And then — Your body stilled. Your hands slackened on the fabric as your gaze caught on a figure standing just past the fence.

For a moment, the rain softened around you, every sound falling away except the ragged beat of your own heart breaking all over again.

Choi Soobin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim wash of the dashboard lights. His eyes flicked from one worn street sign to the next, cataloguing every turn, every corner, like a man tracing the edges of an old wound. Every so often, he let the car slow to a crawl. Stared a little too long at places that meant nothing to him, but might have meant everything to you.

It’s the town, the one his investigator pointed him to. The small, quiet town where the woman who tore through his world had disappeared into without a trace but with every piece of him still in her hands.

He’d already gone over everything twice. No. Three times. He couldn’t remember anymore. His chest felt tight, like something was sitting on it and daring him to breathe around the weight. He wondered if he should start all over tomorrow. Sweep the streets again. Retrace the steps he didn’t even know you'd taken.

Without meaning to, Soobin’s hands turned the wheel, guiding him down a road he’d circled too many times to count. Muscle memory, maybe. He didn’t know why he kept coming back.

The first drops of rain tapped against the windshield, soft and uncertain, like the sky hadn’t made up its mind yet. He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face. He glanced right, thinking to turn back, to call it for the night. But then he saw it.

A figure cutting through the field, darting between rows of white laundry sheets billowing in the wind like ghosts.

He didn’t think. His door was open before he could catch the impulse, the car engine still on behind him as he bolted forward. He didn’t even shut the door. His feet hit the wet grass hard, slipping a little, but he kept running. Fast. Desperate. Like if he blinked, even for a heartbeat, you might vanish.

The way you vanished from his life when he turned his back.

If he’d stayed that day. If he’d ignored the meeting, called in sick, shut the world out, would you still be here now?

He saw you stumble back. Your shoulders tensed, then you turned to escape. And just like that, the breath punched out of his lungs. His heart cracked against his ribs, like thunder rolling too close to the ground. Panic clawed at his throat. His feet wouldn’t move fast enough. So he did the only thing left.

He called your name. Louder than he meant to. He shouted it. Frantic. You didn’t move at first. Just stared at him across the field, rain threading through your hair, clinging to your skin. When you spoke, your voice was sharp.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Your voice cut clean but your hands betrayed you. They shook at your sides, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure whether to reach for him or push him away. The ache in your throat frayed the edge of every word. And Soobin saw it. He saw all of it.

Choi Soobin stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. He's now infront of you, eyes sweeping your face.

The storm isn’t just around him; it’s inside him, bleeding into the tremble of his hands as he reach and clutch your wrists, desperate. Rain seeps through his clothes, slides down his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you.

Because you're the only thing keeping him standing.

"Marry me." It’s his last attempt to keep you from walking away. “Marry me, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t—” His throat closed up, and for a second, it sounded like he forgot how to breathe. “Don’t walk away again.”

“I said—”

“Don’t lie to me!” The words snapped harder than he wanted, frustration cracking wide open in his chest. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not in anger but in helplessness. “Don’t make me feel crazy. Don’t make me feel stupid. My sister told me everything, Y/N. I know. I know everything.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your shoulders caved, the last of your defenses buckling under the weight of it all.

“I’m not fit for your world,” you choked, voice splintering as tears blurred your vision. Your hands fell limp at your sides, fingers tangled in the thin fabric of the laundry you’d long forgotten.

“I don’t have anything. I hardly even have myself,” you whispered, your face crumpling like it hurt to say the truth out loud. “And you — you deserve the world. You deserve more than someone who can’t even keep her life straight.”

Soobin’s chest hollowed at the sight of you crumbling in front of him. He didn’t care about the rain, or the mud soaking through his shoes, or the ache in his lungs. There was only one thing left he wanted to do. Fall to his knees if he had to. Beg, if that’s what it took. Beg for you. Beg for everything.

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

His breath shuddered out, shaky, as if saying it hurt and healed him all at once. “I want to live with you. To grow old with you. To have your children. To wake up next to you for the rest of my life.” His words stumbled, his throat thick with the burn of unshed tears, but he didn’t stop.

Before you could slip farther away, Soobin reached for you, his arms wrapped tight around you, pulling you into his chest. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair with a gentleness that almost broke you on the spot. His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracking on the plea. “Please, baby. Not when I finally found you. Not when all I want… is to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He felt you shift in his hold, felt your hands press against his chest like you were about to push him away. His stomach dropped but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

“I love you.” The words came out hoarse, frayed at the edges. Honest in a way that stripped him bare. He felt you still. The tension in your shoulders faltered. Slowly, slowly, you softened against him, all the walls you’d been gripping so tightly started to crumble in his arms.

You stopped pulling away this time.

“I love you,” he breathed again. His lips brushed against your temple, “I’ll fix everything for us. I swear it. You just have to trust me, baby. Please. Just trust me.”

He felt your arms loosen, the fight in them dissolving. Softening, giving your surrender — just as the rain itself began to ease, falling gentler, as though the sky had finally tired too. A breath punched out of his chest, relief so fierce it almost dropped him to his knees. His arms closed tighter around you, cradling you against him like he could tuck you safely inside his ribs, where nothing could ever reach you again.

When would he ever get a moment like this again?

A chance like this? To meet his soulmate. To meet the one person who could read the shadows behind his smile before he even noticed they were there. Who knew him better than he had ever dared to know himself.

What were the odds? If he hadn’t driven down that street that day. If he hadn’t wandered into your little flower shop with its peeling paint and sunlight pooling across wooden counters. If he hadn’t looked up and seen you and not known, right then, that he’d nearly lived his life without finding his missing half. And what were the chances you would’ve seen him?

He shuddered, blinking hard against the burn behind his eyes. His throat tightened as he breathed you in, the faint trace of wildflowers still clinging to your skin like memory. His heart clenched.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

taglist: ily @heesmiles , @lovingbeomgyudayone , @virtaideen , @hyukascampfire , @fancypeacepersona , @bamgeutori , @lilbrorufr , @beomieeeeeeeeeeees , @xylatox , @yunverie , @imlonelydontsendhelp , @moagyuu , @immelissaaa , @readinmidnight , @pagelets , @wonderstrucktae , @boba-beom , @seodami , @izzyy-stuff , @gyudollies , @i-am-not-dal , @page-isa , @tyunarisu , @s0urcherry , @prettypeachprincesz @zaynspidey @sxmmerberries @immelissaaa @definitelynotherr @fics-lovebot @missychief1404 @irishspringing @lovesickchoi @beomgyusluver @sumzysworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @soo-blue @younbeanz @storminacloud @bamgeutori @soobinieswife @prized-jules @soobmeongie @lostgirlysstuff @hoseocakes @fancypeacepersona @ke4s @lvlyhiyyih @aerangi @suneonu @ryuhannaworld @soheeunderthesun @luvleyylina @georgeweasleys-gf @marissariveraaaa

[mushyposts]

OKAY I HAVE A STORY TO TELL.

MY BEST FRIEND FUCKING HATES THIS HANSTER. Or more specifically, she hates ME and this hamster happens to be in the crossfire.

I sent this to her for the first time at LEAST three years ago. I don’t even remember the original context, I was having a phase of sending unrelated images as reaction photos and that last one in the thread got me so bad. I spammed her saying it was important, and then sent the hamster. She got so mad at it that I made it a point to send it whenever I could just because I couldn’t understand WHY she had such a deep hatred for this lil guy who’s just cheeked up!!

Her hatred for this image has led to her having to go on actual, honest to god walks because I’d just send it for NO reason. It’s a sticker on my iPhone, it’s saved to my phone and my laptop in a special folder for easy access, I have it open on a tab at all times. I am always ready, and the rage this mad her feel was unmatched.

Now. Important thing about me. I am VERY good at the long-con. Sort of ridiculously good, actually. I have “hamstered” her three times since the time I got temporarily blocked for it. It’s important to also note that aside from me sending it nonsensically, she has 0 reason to be so knee-jerk aggressive around the hamster. Anyway. Onto the three times I’ve hamstered her in the most BRILLIANT ways.

1- I did not use the hamster for over a year. I had moments I could have, but I didn’t. She even pointed this out!! Saying “I expected hamster ass.” But I did not rise to the bait, for I knew if I waited, the result would be oh so sweet.

I travelled HOURS to meet her, I took a plane, I used a train for the first time, I LABOURED!! And finally the moment was upon us. We met for the first time in person, we hugged, we exchanged thoughtful gifts, we went back to her house so I could force her to watch the hunger games, and then my time to strike came. I said “oh I have an edit to show you!” And I brought up an edit I had made using a capcut template, the “say yes to heaven, say yes to me. I’ve got my eye on you.” And then at the “you”, hamster ass flew across the screen.

The betrayal. The rage. The horror. It was cinematic. It was BEAUTIFUL. It was beyond anything I had ever seen before in my life. I played the long con, and it paid off. “In my own house?? Under my roof??” Yes, Soap. In your home. Under your roof. My hubris is unmatched and you consistently let it go unchecked. This is a saw trap you designed, enjoy the hamster.

2- I had just gotten back into contact with a mutual friend of ours who I hadn’t spoken to in years! It had been around eight months since the amazing first-meet-hamster-ass, and I once again hadn’t used it since then. I saw my opportunity, and I took it.

I sent a photo of the hamster ass to our friend and asked him to use it when he felt the time was right, and I wish I could have seen it when the time was right. Out on the beach, I think, and he goes “hey, look at this!” And shows her the hamster ass. The confusion, the betrayal, the shock. I would give my afterlife to be a fly on a rock observing that interaction. The rage in the message she sent me was beautiful.

At some point it becomes something she brings unto herself. I don’t gain anything from the hamster but her reaction, and yet even though she fully understands this, her rage for the hamster out matches her understanding that if she stopped reacting, I’d stop hamstering.

3- now. This one took prep, and I can’t take all the credit. I got my friends sibling in on this one and we planned it for MANY weeks before. I sent a document with ten hamster asses on it, and they cut each one out, numbering them 1-10, with little witty remarks on the back of them to keep things interesting.

I distracted my friend with our homestuck re-read, such perfect planning, and her sibling hid the hamster asses around their home. Coming to the end of the call while we discussed how wild everything was, and how we always forget the crazy little details, sibling walks in.

“I got some chocolate!” “Oh! Thank you-“ the pause. The silence. THE ERUPTION OF CHAOS AND RAGE. “THERE IS SOMETHING SICK AND WRONG WITH YOU!!” The HORROR!! Shakespeare could only ever HOPE to get to the level of drama and chaos exhibited in that discord call.

Nothing, however, could match when I went, “enjoy the hamsters!” And she goes “… hamsters? Plural?” And realises that yes, indeed, the hamsters are numbered. One to ten. She had number one handed to her, and yet nine more await her, hidden in her own home.

Has she found them all, you ask?? No. No she has not. How do I know for a fact that she hasn’t? Because if she had found number 10, I would know within on second of her realising, because the shock and horror when she finds it will be completely unmatched to any horror film identity reveal. No plot twist will ever compare to how she will react to number ten.

Anyway, that’s the very brief story of cheeked up hamster. I could add some screenshots of her reactions to being hamstered but it’s also late at night and I can’t be bothered. Just wanted to share with the world that sometimes the most fun pranks are the completely harmless ones.

Breaking your friends shit is out, sending them a cheeked up hamster is in.

[topherwrites]

𝘈 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘛 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘌

jack abbot x fem!reader — you have a shared understanding of each other, it's the worst sort of relation. warnings: mutual pining, angst, burn out, grief, terminal illness of parent, attending x resident, hr hates to see them coming. a/n: wrote this while sick and sleep deprived, so it's in third person for some reason. let me know if ya'll like this!

Jack has seen burnout, the way this job chips away at even the soundest of doctors. He’s used to tired eyes and cracked hands and sore backs. But this is different. It’s like watching a ghost move through the hospital.

She's crumbling under the weight of grief. She’s always clocked in; there’s no escape from it. No air to come up for. There’s just a void, deep and dark, that she pulls with her through every day.

And she doesn't sleep well anymore—or at all—terrified every time she closes her eyes that she won't be there when it—the horrible thing rapidly approaching—finally happens, that her mother will be alone. That she’ll have failed in the simplest of tasks.

She doesn’t feel human now, not really. She’s a candle burning at both ends—wick nearly gone. 

He sees it, the barely hidden exhaustion, the forced smiles, the vacant stare when she doesn't know anyone’s looking. But he is—always, watching her for a reason he can’t face, knows is wrong.

And so he’s there to witness her collapse, a full breakaway. They lose a patient—young. Stupid young. One of those ones who should’ve made it. Who would’ve made it, if the universe cared for things like fairness.

His eyes stay on her as he calls it, as she slowly stops compressions, discards her gloves silently, and slips from the room like if she’s quiet enough, she can just disappear. He knows that look. He follows her at a distance, checking in with Dana, the other residents, keeps his eye on her the entire time. A ticking time bomb. He sees the tremble in her hands, the measured way she’s taking in every breath. 

And then she bolts—not truly, but in her professional way, she does. Sets the chart in her hand down and goes straight for the stairwell.

Dana catches him watching her and tells him to go.

He pushes the door open, stands in the doorway as he watches her fold into herself on the cold, concrete stairway floor—knees pulled to her chest, shoulders shaking in that awful, silent way. The dam has broken. 

She sees him then, her breath hitching, and a sob, uncontrollable, leaves her throat—because now there’s a witness to her failure. She’s failing her patients and her mother and him. The door shuts behind him with a click, the sound of her breaking echoing around them. 

He moves, kneeling in front of her, as well as he can, every old part of him protesting all the while. He tries not to crowd, just be there. 

“Hey,” he says, voice firm, “Look at me.”

He knows what she needs, her Type-A constitution: someone to tell her what to do, give her permission to stop brute forcing her way through this.

She tries to swallow her emotions back down, regulate her breathing, get back to it. Her eyes raise from the ground, but she doesn't quite look at him. That's fine.

“You’re off.” She opens her mouth. “Don’t argue.”

“I can’t, I just,” her throat clogs, she imagines going home, to that house that shouldn't be as quiet as it is, just dead air and the sounds of machines. 

He sighs a long breath out of his nose, thumbing it as he offers something up to her. A piece of his own grief. 

Death, the great equalizer. 

He husks out, “If you stop for even a second, it’ll all go to shit, right?” 

He waits to see her eyes. 

He knows some of how she’s feeling, not the same, but close. She was there one day, gone the next. No in between, dead in everything but name. He imagines her version is worse. The long goodbye. The drawn-out cruelty of it.

His hand, large and calloused, cups her knee, thumb rubbing gently at the tendon there, grounding. She swallows down hard. Finally, her focus returns to him, and the look in his eye—understanding—draws her out of her spiral, if only for a moment.

“It won’t," he takes a breath, waits to see if she's really listening, “Not unless you don’t take a moment for yourself.”

She wants to believe him. But the thought of having to go back—to that house, to the hospice nurse, to her mother’s living death—makes her stomach churn. She feels ungrateful, selfish. 

Her mother’s dying, and her daughter’s trying to figure out a way not to go home. 

She finds she keeps having a particular thought, more and more these days, I want to go home. And yet she never seems to find herself there in the quiet of her childhood home. There’s no relief or sense of safety. Just quiet dread. I want to go home. And it’s the cool skin of her mother, paper thin. The occasional brittle sound that works its way out of her throat. 

She thinks, I want to go home. 

But there’s no home anymore. Just a ticking clock.

And she’s trying to let go of something that isn’t even gone yet. 

He keeps his eye on her. He’s sure that his words won’t sink in until later, the truth of them hard to swallow for people like them.

“My shift ends in an hour.” He leans back. Reaches into his pocket. His knuckles prod her closed fist, and something cold is placed into her grasp. Keys. He says, “Wait for me.”

She nods. 

What else is she going to do?

Then he leaves her in the stairwell. 

Eventually, she gathers herself together, eases back up onto her feet, and ambles her way out of the sliding doors. In a haze, she clicks the lock button and locates his car by the responding beep. It’s nice, smells like leather and pine—attending salary, she supposes.

She sinks into the passenger seat, numb; it’s the first time she’s sat still in weeks.

The car is quiet when he slides in beside her.

She doesn't open her eyes, just hears the soft click of the door, the sound of his bag hitting the backseat, the sigh he lets out like he’s been holding it in for hours.

He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits with her.

“You hungry?” he asks, like any of this is normal routine. Like this could be a date. 

Her tired mind pauses. Like she isn’t very obviously in the midst of a clinical breakdown.

So, she shrugs halfheartedly. Can’t quite remember the last time she ate, especially the last time she ate without her mom’s nurse forcing her to just sit and chew. She feels reduced to a child, unable to care for herself. 

His fingers tap against the steering wheel.

“Okay.” 

The engine turns over. She sits there with her head against the window, watches the city lights blur past in the dawn. He doesn’t talk, doesn't force conversation onto her. But she can feel his eye occasionally drift over; she can’t think about the beat of her heart when it does.

His place is clean in a lived-in way. Coffee cups in the sink. A stack of foreign medical journals on the kitchen counter. Throw slung over the back of the couch. 

She doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway. A tad uncertain and eyeing. 

He toes his shoes off onto a rack. Shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on a hook next to her.

He motions for her to turn around, helps her out of the stiff shell of her scrub top with gentle hands. Careful. Like she might break.

She shivers against the cool air of his apartment, sweat clinging to her skin and tank top. 

His hands purposefully don’t linger. He steps away, through the large sliding barn doors at the back, where she assumes his bedroom is. A moment later, he comes back with a sweatshirt and blankets in hand. 

He presents the sweatshirt to her silently. Their fingers brush as she takes it, slipping it on over her head. Worn cotton. Faded logo. It smells like detergent and him.

Already, she feels a little more alive.

“You can take the bed,” he offers, already walking toward the kitchen, giving her space. “I’ll be on the couch.”

It takes a moment. And then, “What?”

She pads quickly after him, floorboards creaking under her foot. 

He doesn’t answer right away—just opens the fridge, peers down, and makes a vague sound of confirmation—nothing particularly edible left.

“I can’t cook for shit, so…” 

She glances past him, can't help the comment, “And your fridge is sad.”

His eyes narrow and slowly, he straightens up, but there’s the giveaway, a little twitch of his lips. “I invite you in and you go in on my-”

“It’s, like, mostly condiments.” 

And beer, but she doesn’t mention that. She’s pretty sure Harrison, McKay's kid, would call it divorced dad core. He pulls two out, silently tips one toward her in offering. Why not, she figures, reaching out and taking the bottle from him. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and leans on the counter—the taste reminds her of college, probably the last time she can remember relaxing. 

Then, she sighs, returning to the topic, despite his attempt at a detour, “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” Voice scratchy with fatigue, she adds lamely, “Don’t be stupid.”

He exhales through his nose, sentiment he doesn't know how to word staying firmly in his throat. 

Arms tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, she watches him over the counter. 

There’s something buzzing in her chest. Inappropriately tender. 

“Not a big deal,” he says finally, then drinks, his eyes on her. Not in a waiting-for-her-to-fall-apart way. Just… on her. He’s watching her like she’s a person and not a patient, not a problem to be solved. 

She’s not quite sure what to do with it. At work, at home, she has to keep it together, pretend in equal measure that nothing is wrong, that she has it all together. So now, with the space to just breathe, she falters. She doesn't know how to be anymore. 

“You let strange, frazzled women crash your place often?” she says, trying for levity, settling into a stool across the island.

He seems to ignore her self-deprecation entirely. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Not even a pity laugh thrown her way. The quiet that’s left sobers her. Again, he sees her. 

She shifts, realizing how near he is—how inconsequential the island is between them.

“No,” he swallows, looking down at the counter, then up at her, “just you.”

It lands with weight. She wonders what it means, if he even knows. 

She tries to take it casually. But as it rests in the quiet, she’s forced to swallow down her clashing confusion of feelings. 

She wants to say something, anything, to fill the void. Make a joke about him agreeing with her—she is frazzled. More so now. And there’s something dangerous crackling in the quiet. Instead, she sits there, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens slightly when he notices her watching him. 

She’s so fucking tired, and her brain is a mess—fogged by grief, adrenaline, the echo of chest compressions, the tremor still in her hands. She could be imagining it all. Probably is.

Just you.

“You need sleep,” he says, firm. “Real sleep. Not just half-hour naps when your body gives out on you.” 

“Look that bad, huh?”

“Little worse for wear,” he starts, a familiar tilt to his mouth, “Still better than most on their best.”

Again, he throws her a fraction off-kilter. 

She takes it better this time. A quick study—as he’s told her before. She’s usually better at volleying, but today she’s an exposed nerve. In the ED, the banter feels harmless, a way to pass the time. Here, in the confines of his place, it feels charged, intentional. Dangerous. 

Jack sighs, more at himself than anything else, and pushes off the counter. Releases himself from looking at her. His fingers flex at his sides, a twitch like muscle memory, like he’s already imagined what it’d be like to touch her. Pull her close. Lay his palm against the back of her neck and give in to the worst of his urges, the ones that have built up in him since he very first saw her.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because she’s grief-struck and unraveling, and he knows this would be a sort of theft.

He wouldn't be able to take it back. And she rightfully may not forgive him. He might shatter this bit of comfort he’s been able to extend to her. Or perhaps worse, she’ll want him, this, now, but not when the fog dissipates, when a clearer head prevails. 

“I’ll order in,” he says as he turns from her, flicks open a drawer overflowing with takeout menus. Mindlessly, he rifles through them as he takes a breath. He feels her eyes on his back, that prickling awareness at the base of his neck.

She knocks her knuckles on the counter, “Kay. I'm forewarning you, I’m gonna snoop.”

His eyes meet hers over his shoulder, and he nods to the low shelves in the corner, “Records over there.”

He watches her turn, the corners of her lips lifting in response. She unwinds, that last little bit of tension leaving her as she falls back into a familiar rhythm. 

“You're such a hipster piece of shit.”

“No, just old,” he states dryly just to get a smile out of her. He’s rewarded with it, accompanied by a short exhale out of her nose. 

She wanders over to the corner, squatting down as her fingers run over his collection. Taking her time gently sorting through them, she occasionally pulls one from the shelf, eyes scanning the tracklist. He can’t help the interest that’s settled into him: Which ones are to her taste? Which are bands she’s never heard of?

He’s curious about her, always—the briefest glimpses of her leading to more questions.

“You,” she starts, declaring as she pushes to stand, “are a fleetwood mac stan.”

“Of course I am, I'm a self-respecting child of the seventies.”

Her eyes stay on him for a moment before she hums, approving.

It’s that bit of curiosity that’s going to do him in. 

He hasn’t told his therapist about her. Not exactly. Not in a way that counts. The predicament that’s not a predicament. Because he’s kept his head, kept things mostly professional. 

His voice rings in his head, saying what he knows the man would, placid to promote some amount of self-reflection: 'Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jack? '

No. He’s not.

But he’s already in it. Not much farther to fall from here.

She watches as Jack pulls out a diner menu, asks her, “You like pancakes?”

“I'm partial to them.”

They remind her of weekends and summer and her mom. Of giggles and the smell of burnt batter. So yes, she supposed she likes pancakes.

Jack pulls out his phone. Presses it between his ear and shoulder like it’s muscle memory. Always multitasking.

“You a chocolate chip or blueberry kind of gal?”

An hour later, they’re sitting side by side, quietly eating. Forks clink against ceramic. Her elbow brushes his every now and then. Neither moves away. 

He’s taken his leg off. She’s let her hair loose from its bun. Something about it feels telling. 

Too comfortable for what their relationship should be. 

Beer and pancakes. Two things that shouldn't mix.

“Thank you for,” she sighs, “you know.”

The air is still around them. 

He looks over at her, and his eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen them, kind and unguarded in a way that’s a punch to the gut. They quietly roam her face—pinning her. It sits between them—this vast unnamable thing. She wonders what he’s looking for in her face. Perhaps the same thing she’s looking for in his. 

When his gaze lands on her lips—momentary, maybe accidental—it zips down her spine, lands hotly in her stomach.

He doesn’t know how to formulate the devotion on his tongue, say, I’d do anything for you or I’m sorry or Maybe if circumstances were different.

So instead he says, “You’re not a machine. You can’t run on two hours of sleep and caffeine forever.”

She hums in return.

He knows she’ll show up to the next shift the same way—dark circles, thermos in hand, too much tension in her shoulders. Tonight, his words, will probably change very little in the grand scheme of things. Change is difficult at any scale. Especially for people like them. He’s learned that much.

But if she sleeps soundly, lets some of that tension in her shoulders release, even if only for a few hours, then maybe that’s enough.

The rest of their meal is finished over hushed conversation—him digging up the remnants of his past for a good story. A few close calls, some risky maneuvers, the periodic breaking of protocol all teased out to keep her eyes on him. But eventually, time runs out, she stifles a yawn into her fist and her lids grow heavy. 

Quietly, he takes her empty plate and slides it into the dishwasher, urges her up with a hand between her shoulder blades. A gentle push to bed. His grip slides down to her waist as she reaches up onto her toes and thanks him with a press of her lips to his cheek. 

And then she’s gone, the sound of her feet padding down the hallway. She doesn’t say goodnight.

She thinks, in another version of this night, he might have followed her.

But in this version—the only they have—he just stands in the kitchen, eyes on the hallway long after she’s disappeared. He rinses the cups. Wipes down the counter like it matters. Like it keeps him from thinking too hard.

He turns the record player on. Starts an album. Keeps the volume low.

Jack sinks into the couch like it’s an old friend—his hip cracks, his back protests. This isn’t his first stint sleeping in his living room. On certain nights—bad ones—his bed is too big, too empty, too quiet, too full of memory. He’ll grab a blanket and crash out here, maybe catch an hour or two of actual rest before his next shift.

Now, he stares at the ceiling as if it might offer him clarity, like it’s penance.

It doesn’t. It never does.

He remembers how she looked—backlit by his kitchen light, sipping beer like this was any normal Tuesday, like this morning wasn’t a death sentence for his already fragile grip on propriety. It’s not even the presence of her that wrecks him—it’s the ease of it. Like she belongs here. Like it’s natural. Like the universe didn’t put a giant red do not fucking cross this line between their lives and laugh every time he toed it.

She’s asleep in the other room.

And nothing happened.

Nothing will happen.

But still, there’s that buzz in his fingertips. He wanted something to happen. It burns behind his eyelids.

Somewhere, faint through the speakers still murmuring in the background—

Billy Joel starts to hum again.

She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

Jack sighs, closing his eyes. 

Sun starts to fill the room.

Oh, she takes care of herself; she can wait if she wants. She's ahead of her time.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

[gallusrostromegalus]

As someone who was recently introduced to the wonders/horrors of the night shift, what does the graveyard shift look like for the 4th Division?

Also, is healthcare in Soul Society plagued with the same understaffing as the Living World, or has Unohana managed to destroy it with her own hand?

Under the cut:

1. The ER nurses I used to let Charlie therapy dog for

2. 4th division staffing

3. Unohana's genetic meddling

4. Unohana's genetic meddling part 2: Kuchiki clan Boogaloo

5. The actual night shift

1. I used to live near an Emergency Room and walked my dog where the nurses would go to smoke, and they'd fawn attention on him and share horror stories with me. I made a comment once about the night shift being worse than the day shift, and they all disagreed. People only come to the ER at night if they're really, really in distress and while that's not great, that is a problem they have been specifically trained to handle. During the daytime however, you get people coming into the ER for mundane shit because they can't be arsed to schedule an appointment with a GP, or because they're bored and want to start a fight, or a host of other reasons that do not belong in the ER and that is VERY frustrating.

2. Staffing: shortly after the founding of the Gotei-13, the Central 46 started getting paranoid about them potentially siezing power and declared that no individual division have more than 200 members. Unohana interpreted this to mean "I can only have 200 *Shinigami* working under me. I can have as much support staff as I want " and has finagled her way into having the hospital staffed with non shinigami nurses, researchers, specialists and the like so the hospital isn't short staffed.

2.1: It also helps that she put the Fear Of Unohana into the political powers that be, so the staff of the fourth division are not just the best-compensated in the Gotei-13, they're some of the highest-paid people with the best employee benefits in the soul society at large.

3. I headcanon that Unohana has more or less been selectively breeding the Yamada Clan for the last millennium. Her very good friend from the founding generation Shijima Chigiri married into the Yamada Clan after they handed the fourth over to Kirinji, and Unohana has been a sort of unofficial wizened aunt to them ever since. She's not pushy about it, but it is extremely convenient for any young person who is interested in romance or starting a family to be able to go to her, because she will have a list of candidates who would be good matches in terms of personality, interests and genetic traits.

It's ESPECIALLY convenient for the Yamada because the Yamada are the single largest shinigami clan. Every single division has at least one Yamada in it, and there have been at least two Captain's Yamada. The family is occupying an unusually large section of the already shallow local gene pool, and it's very easy to accidentally start dating your cousin. The Yamadas at large are aware of her meddling, and given that the family's expected lifespan has tripled since she started, they're not about to complain.

She's mostly been breeding them for Kaido (the ability to magically heal bodies and replenish reiatsu). While Unohana has been very crafty about staffing, the ability to perform Kaido is RARE so early on, there were years when she didn't have 200 shinigami to command. And out of this major staffing issue came her idea about selectively breeding for more Kaido users.

Lately , the thing Unohana has been breeding for is temperament. As prolific and powerful as the Yamada Clan is, they're not well-liked: Hanataro's older brother and her former lieutenant Seinosuke, who regards pain management as 'optional' and will revive people actively begging for death, is a fairly prototypical Yamada. The whole family has a beautiful talent for single-minded focus, and atrocious social skills, like if one were to cross-breed a border Collie and a dumpster raccoon. While this does have the benefit of cutting down on the amount of people who turn up at the hospital who do not need to be there, it also stresses patients out, so they take longer to heal etc.

So to that end, Hanataro Yamada is a TRIUMPH of practical genetics. He's exceptionally good at Kaido and remarkably death-resistant, but most importantly, had the affable temperament and work ethic of a large draft horse, something she's been trying to introduce to the line for CENTURIES. While he's not quite old enough for her to start walking potential mates across his line of sight yet, she has the list fully prepared.

4. In more recent years, her genetic meddling has started to pay dividends and she now has SPARE kaido-positive shinigami, so she is spreading them into the seated officers of other divisions, partly so there's at least one healer on-site in an emergency, and partly because it's not a bad thing for a third of the seated officers in the Gotei-13 to salute her out of habit. Lieutenant Izuru Kira started out in the fourth before he was poached by Gin (a move that rather annoyed Unohana. He'd been shaping up to be a fine anesthesiologist.), and Thirteenth division third seat Kiyone Koetetsu was formerly unohana's fifth seat. Extremely handy to have an accomplished medic within arms reach of one of her most intractable cases (ukitake and his imploding lungs).

4.1: Byakuya Kuchiki is also a triumph of Unohana's genetic meddling, because the Kuchiki clan doesn't have a gene pool so much as vague genetic dampness. It was a miracle that poor Sojun Kuchiki made it to adolescence, let alone breeding age, his blood was so doggedly determined to evacuate his body. Unohana had... Not quite pleaded, but she had taken Ginrei aside and very gently* explained that having Sojun father any children would be cruel to the resulting offspring and that maybe senbonzakura should be passed to a branch member with less catastrophic blood problems.

* for Unohana. It was really more of an extremely blunt, academically dense and somewhat threatening slideshow

Ginrei refused, and so Unohana embarked on a clever plan of subterfuge that Sojun be attended to by only her most physically robust nurses during his long stays at the 4th. To her delight, Sojun hit it off with the ox-constitutioned Sachiko Yamada, who was of sufficient respectability and remarkable charm that Ginrei allowed the marriage. Young Byakuya had the good fortune to inherit the best aspects of both his parents- Sojun's enormous well of reiki and talent for Kido, and Sachiko's excellent health and stubbornness.

Unohana was genuinely devastated when Sachiko died quite young, defending her husband and son from the assassins of a rival clan, and again when Sojun succumbed to his hemophilia from a battlefield injury. Despite this, Byakuya continued to thrive, and when he fell in love with the as-unrelated-to-him-as-possible Hisana Aramaki, she went out of her way to see them married come hell or Ginrei.

Hisana Kuchiki died of complications from an ectopic pregnancy. The surgery to save her had been successful but had introduced a septic infection that killed her a month later. While it could not be determined where Hisana picked up the infection, the surgical center in the 4th at the time was dilapidated from centuries of putting off repairs due to budget concerns from the central 46.

Unohaba destroyed the surgical center in a fit of rage not seen since she became Retsu.

This did rather force the hand of the budget committee and the surgical center was rebuilt with a ruthless adherence to sanitary practices. There have been no incidents of post-surgical sepsis originating from the 4th since. If Byakuya blames her, he's never said a word, and still willingly goes under her knife. Regardless, Unohana blames herself. She holds out hope that he might marry again, but understands why he hasn't yet.

5. BACK ON TOPIC: As for the actual night shift, it's probably the best time to get a hold of Unohana. She has ADHD and the delayed phase sleep issues that come with it, so where most people have a circadian rhythm she has an experimental noise album. The ER is slow at night, until it's not, and then everyone present is VERY GLAD the captain and her centuries of experience at this bullshit are also here.

5.1: Counterintuitively, she almost never sees anyone from the 11th late at night these days. Zaraki and his division are far from averse to danger, but he also has centuries of experience in That Bullshit, and has been passing the benefits of his experience onto his men, in such topics as "how much water have you had? Not enough", "Protect your head goddamnit" and "the nerds in the 12th will be sad of we don't use all this protective gear they made us. Humor them."

It also helps that she has Hanataro on regular duty over there for auxiliary lessons like "don't touch snakes" and "if you think 'am I sober enough to do this?' you're not. If you think 'I'm totally sober enough to do this!' you're REALLY NOT."

In fact, the ONLY member of the 11th she's seen after midnight since Zaraki took over was Yachiru, who developed appendicitis in the middle of the night. That was alarming but entirely manageable. Having her beloved, the most anxious single father in that world or the previous one, in the waiting room, was much less manageable.

"Yamada." She addressed Hanataro the following morning, slightly haggard. "I am going to request your expertise as both my head of toxicology and 11th division liaison-"

"I've been trying to figure out a reliable sedative for Captain Zaraki for fourteen years now." Hanataro sighed. "I'm well into the snake, spider and cone snail families with no success."

"...Shit."

[anremithrl]

In all the hills of Nolorei, no name was spoken with more bemused admiration—and in equal parts frustration—by the Arcane Constabulary than that of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

When I first heard it, it was as a muttered expletive from that befuddled dwarf whose crime scene had, according to his account, been “prematurely and unnecessarily solved” by a man neither enrolled in the Guild of Sages nor licensed by the Circle of Justice.

Holmes, it was said, was either a rogue diviner of the old school or a conjured simulacrum made flesh by some forgotten theorem of logic. Tales of him were almost certainly exaggerated. Some claimed he’d exposed a ring of elven counterfeiters in Arithmorei without ever stepping into the forest. Others insisted he’d unmasked a shapeshifting fae by the scent of its boots.

No two tales agreed on his origin. Echoriath, said some; others claimed Neros, or even distant Swanward. I had no reason to believe he was anything more than a myth conjured by failed detectives to explain away their own shortcomings

He was, surely, a kind of folklore that grew in every telling.

But then, on the sixth month, he took up residence in Eldalar, my city.

The stories only grew more absurd. He had recently been in Veloria, and it was said that he unmasked a were-hydra by the way it folded its laundry. Before that, in the frozen north, a frost giant chieftain reportedly gifted him a ring of loyalty after Holmes predicted the outcome of a tribal war using only a map, two spoons, and a broken harp string.

He had hardly left the strange abode I had heard rumours of, and was conjectured to be irritable and antisocial.

And so when my mistress at the River Academy received a summons—signed only “S.H.”—requesting “a capable assistant, preferably quiet, literate, and ambulatory,” she handed it to me with the weariness of one discarding a cursed object.

“He’s rejected all I’ve sent so far. Best get this over with.”

The address led me to a most peculiar place. Not cursed—no whispers in the stones, no shadow at the edge of sight—but wrong. Not enchanted, but fundamentally… foreign.

It was made of brick—brick. But unlike the sand-coloured bricks of the Chiss, these were reddish orange, roughly cut. Not arranged in the dome-like structures they used either, here it was arranged into precise, utterly graceless lines. No flowing silverstone, no cantilevered spellwork, no ivy guided by gentle charm to trace the contours of a roof. Just angles. Right angles. Everywhere.

A strange green sign bore writing in an unfamiliar but legible script. Brass letters, blocky and undecorated.

I knocked.

“You are late, Watson,” a voice called from within.

A tall, oddly Swanward-looking man peered out.

“Not… Watson,” I said awkwardly.

He waved this off. “Yes, but you’ll find it’s easier if I keep calling you that. I’ve no time to alter habits. No point in it anyway. You’ll do just as fine if I call you Watson as anything else.”

He said this offhandedly, immediately returning to what seemed to be a pheonix feather, dipped in a strange chemical, under a microscope.

There were shelves—but not carved or grown. They were hammered and nailed into place, groaning under the weight of paper-bound tomes. Some of these lay open, written in a blocky, monochrome script. Incredibly precise. I could hardly imagine the handwriting of the person who had formed them. How were they so precise, uniform, and soulless?

There was a fireplace, entirely unconnected to any heat-stone, which he fed manually with blackened lumps of fossilized tree. The resulting smoke drifted into a chimney like some relic of age of shadows.

The walls were papered—papered!—with patterns so intricate and repetitive they made my eyes twitch. Across the floor stretched a patchwork of rugs that had clearly never met. One bore the woven crest of a beast that no Guild recognized. Another was covered in stylized lions that repeated at jarring intervals.

Strange objects cluttered the tables. Vials of some form of potions, though none I recognised. Artifice, I guessed. The last thing I had expected.

“You aren’t going to interview me?”

“I already know all I need.”

“What—”

“Freshly educated—there’s scroll dust still on your sleeves. Ink under your nails. You walked here; shoes are worn, cheap make. Left heel cracked, recent. Scuff marks on your knees to match. Marks of dust on your belongings as well. You no doubt tripped on the way here, and spilled everything. Hence why you are late. Left-handed. Recently unemployed. From the southern quarter. And that charm against scrying in your pouch? Ineffective and not of your crafting.”

He didn’t even glance up.

How in the nine hells? I stared at him for several seconds, hand still halfway to the pouch at my belt where the charm nestled. He must have had the Sight, it was a rare skill. Incredibly rare if it could break past my charm.

“I didn’t bypass the charm. Haven’t the Sight anyway.”

I didn’t believe him. He was lying. But I racked my brain for another explanation all the same.

I decided I would find out eventually. I had a more pressing curiosity.

“One thing,” I asked. “You’ve turned away all the others. Why me? None of your reasons have told me that.”

“You paused before you entered, to note the strange architecture. Once inside you have looked around with great interest. You didn’t believe me, but still considered other explanations. So, you are Watson.”

“You didn’t ask if I wanted to be.”

“You’re curious. One of the best qualities of Watson. So of course, you want to figure all of this out. You’ll accept.”

He stood up from the microscope with a start. “We have to go. Come on.”

“But-”

“You were about to ask for a gold piece a day. Hoping that I'd at least settle for seven silvers. My numbers may be slightly off. You know your duties, they’re on the slip. I’ll give you two gold pieces and we’ll skip this nonsense. Come on.”

He strode out without turning back to check if I was following.

That was how I became assistant to the strangest man in all of Earendor—a man who called himself Sherlock Holmes, wore a ridiculous longcoat, and spoke of London as if it were a real place.

If Sherlock Holmes was Isekai'd to a fantasy world he would just deduce the rules of this world and get back to solving crimes. He'll find an elf girl sidekick,name her Watson, and pretend like nothing happened.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Breakfast

My first Thunderbolts* fic!

I am so in love with this bunch of losers. I was already all in on Bucky anyway, but the others are magic and I love them all 🥰

Anyway, I bashed this little Tower Tale out this afternoon. It's probably the first of miniseries, so be sure to look out for any follow-ups!

Thunderbolts* (platonic for now) x F!Reader, no warnings, just some domestic sweetness. Bucky x F!Reader if you squint. It's brewing.

Word count: 1.5k

Under the cut in case of ~spoilers~ though there aren't any, really.

There was no food.

What the everloving fuck were they eating?

You opened another cupboard.

Three boxes of Wheaties, two of them ripped open like they'd been mauled by a wild animal.

In the fridge, a bottle of vodka with less than half a measure left, a single egg, leftover chilli fries with mould creeping into the edge of the cardboard and an apple with a bite taken out of it.

You propped the fridge open with your hip and started launching the contents into the open trash can.

With a final yeet, the egg was the last item. You heard it crack as it made contact with the vodka bottle.

“Who're you?” a voice asked from across the room.

“Oh!” You jumped, the fridge knocking against your elbow as you moved.

“Where's all the food?” You asked the dark haired man. He stared, wide eyed, and tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Umm…” he looked around, as if waiting for someone to turn up and answer on his behalf. “There's Wheaties?”

“Yeah. And literally nothing else.”

“It's Alexei's turn to shop.”

“Hmm. And when was the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast.”

“Today?”

“Yeah… well, like, 2am when everyone got back,” he shrugged. “We had Wheaties a la Bob.”

“Do I want to know?”

“With water not milk. Because there was no milk.”

Your lips pinched together and you sighed.

“That's… that's gross. So I take it you're Bob?”

“Yeah, the others are sleeping I think. Late night.”

“And you're all grown adults?”

“I mean, Bucky's like, 110!”

“And not one of you thought to visit a grocery store? Or get DoorDash?”

“We get DoorDash all the time, Alexei is like the king of DoorDash.”

“Ah,” you think you're starting to see the problem. The reason you've been hired.

“John always takes the leftovers. And Bucky.”

You lift the heavy grocery bag onto the counter and Bob's eyes widen.

“Right, Bob,” you start unpacking. “You want some real breakfast?”

He's cautious about talking too much.

He fidgets on the stool while he watches you chop onions, mushrooms, bell peppers, potatoes. Mel had been underselling the facilities. You'd found a pantry with every gadget under the sun, brand new pots and pans still in their packaging. Your brain went into overdrive.

The kitchen begins to fill with the intoxicating scent of various foods cooking, of freshly brewed coffee and pancake syrup.

As you're frying cubes of potato sprinkled with paprika and garlic powder, he's inching forwards, leaning over the counter to see what you're doing.

“Who the fuck are you?” Another voice spoke up.

“Who's asking?”

“John Walker. You gonna answer me now?”

“Take a seat, John, coffee's just brewed.”

He stayed on his feet, looking between you, Bob, and the magic happening on the stove top.

“Oi, fucking move, Walker. Why are you just standing in the way?”

“Who's she?” He asks Ava who shrugs.

“Who cares, I smell food. And coffee!”

“You gotta talk to him about the limo, Lena,” another voice entered the room.

“I tried! He won't listen to me, you need to try. Like, soldier to soldier.”

“That's… that's not gonna happen and you know it. What's that smell?”

“Food. Real food,” the blonde woman peered around Walker at you. “What's this?”

“This?” You asked, assessing the selection so far. “Well, starting this end, croissants, fruit, yogurt, then I've just finished the fried potatoes - those are gonna be so good with the shakshuka that's just finishing in the oven, then there's eggs benedict, bacon, mushrooms, pancakes and syrup…” you looked up at the five bemused faces.

“Smells like heaven,” a voice bellowed, “What is this? Who is cooking?” Alexei came to a halt and looked over Yelena’s head. “An angel. An angel is cooking. You!” He pushed his way between Ava and Bucky making his way toward you, and then took your hand, shaking it vigorously. “I am Alexei, Daddy Avenger. You can call me daddy,” he winked.

“Oh, god’” Yelena heaved. Ava grimaced.

You smiled gently, “I will not be calling you daddy. But it is good to meet you. All of you. Food is pretty much ready, so… help yourselves I guess?”

Bob went first, to everyone's surprise and confusion, the others were far more cautious. John warily sniffed each dish before settling on the pre packaged croissants.

“I'll make fresh tomorrow, I wasn't sure what time I'd have today,” you explained. He ignored you.

Ava went for the pancakes with bacon, “and these are -?”

“Freshly made. There's still some batter if you want more?”

Unlike John, she smiled. Tiny and uncertain, but you figured a smile is a smile. Yelena went for the eggs benedict.

“Have you got any -”

“Salmon or ham?” You opened the now full fridge, her jaw dropped.

“Ham, please,” she stared in awe. As you passed her a packet of sliced deli ham, the timer went off on your phone.

You slid open the oven and pulled out a tray, setting it on the counter before it started burning you through the oven mitt.

“Is beautiful,” Alexei sighed happily at the tray of tomatoes with shiny egg whites and sunshine yolks.

“Shakshuka,” you told him. “Fresh bread tomorrow, but have it with potato hash for today,” you handed him an empty plate.

They milled around, taking seconds and thirds but not taking their eyes off you for long.

“You gonna tell us who you are?” Bucky asked, still nursing the singular cup of coffee someone else had passed him.

“Are you going to eat?” You asked.

“Bucky, she is angelic person with food!”

“It is really good food,” Bob smiled warmly.

“Great hollandaise,” Yelena agreed.

“We don't know anything about her, she could have poisoned us -”

“You started off with something out of a packet, but you soon made sure you tried everything else, Walker, don't be ridiculous.” Ava rolled her eyes. “And those pancakes were amazing.”

“So I'm the only one who thinks this is weird?”

“Ms. de Fontaine hired me.”

“Great, of course,” he threw his hands up and scoffed. “She micromanages our diets now?”

“If, by micromanage, you mean she considered the fridge contents a health code violation and has had enough of 3am DoorDash notifications, then yes.”

“And you're here to, what? Cook three square meals a day?”

“Pretty much,” you shrugged.

“That's kinda neat,” Bob beamed.

“We do all hate cooking,” John muttered begrudgingly.

“Only because you're shit at it, John.”

“Ava, swear to god I'm gonna -”

“What, what are you going to do?”

“Guys, enough. You're happy with this?” Bucky asked the group. One by one they all nodded.

“C'mon, Bucky. Try some -” Yelena took an empty plate and started loading it with shakshuka, bacon, and potato hash. She put the plate down in front of him and took his coffee away.

You hid your smile behind tidying up, the others filtered away with nods of thanks. By the time you'd finished arranging the dishwasher and turned around, he was the only one left.

You put a fresh cup of coffee next to his plate and for a moment, his knife and fork paused.

“Happy I haven't poisoned you?”

“Hhmph,” he grunted.

You continued the clean up, compiling the (very few) leftovers, wiping the surfaces, and making notes for a full kitchen restock.

With a neat clatter, his cutlery fell silent. You took the plate, added it to the dishwasher and switched it on. Finally, you passed him a paper bag.

“What's this?”

“I like to finish breakfast with something sweet. I made these yesterday so they're still good, I'll make some more for tomorrow.”

He opened the bag to find a chocolate croissant you'd kept warm.

“Thought you told Walker they were from the store?”

“The ones I put out were, this one isn't.”

He looked at the bag, and back at you, “thank you. About earlier, I didn't mean -”

“It's fine, really.” You smiled. “I know it's hard, someone intruding when you were all doing so well on your own.”

His laugh surprised you, warm and rich.

“Yeah, we're uhh… still figuring it out.”

“Well. Now you have some help. You'll have to let me know your favourite foods, I'll see if I can do them justice.”

“Something tells me that won't be too much of a stretch,” he said softly.

“Barnes! We're out, let's go,” Yelena called from the elevator.

“See you later, doll. Thanks for breakfast.” He held up the croissant in salute and disappeared, leaving nothing but crumbs in his wake.

[lolitalovess]

── .✦ sub, dom, and switch vi headcannons.

warnings: scissoring, pussy eating, strap-on sex, bondage, brat taming??, switch vi, down bad vi, surprisingly only 1 sub vi hc....? not proof read, yada yada what's new

an: putting multiple asks in one fic as headcannons because yeah... they've been sitting there for awhile

── .✦ switch!vi who's so down bad more than you think your fucked out brain could ever even muster. bad day at work? her hands are reaching to tug and slide off your underwear mid make out sesh, handing you the joint she rolled earlier that day, lighting it for you, and then hooking her arms under your thighs and burying her face between them after she's sat you down on the couch, all in consecutive order. (this one's for you @usuck, luv u mootie)

── .✦ switch!vi who is a size queen and is not ashamed about it. when she's tired and wants to be a princess, she always lays herself out like an easy whore, pulls you ontop of her and begs you to fuck her in-between kisses until you eventually cave.

── .✦ switch vi who guides the movement of your hips when she feels like being in charge, cooing praising little words in your ear, like "that's my good girl." and "there's my good girl. keep on doing that." when you're doing well.

── .✦ switch!vi who knows she has bog hands, and she uses them to always be groping you. you two go out for some drinks with a few friends? she's absolutely pulling you to a secluded corner or a bathroom stall to do nothing but feel you up. dancing together at the club? her hands are on your ass, practically fondling it when pulling you closer to her. you're riding her? her eyes are glued to your tits and the way they're continuously bouncing every time you lift yourself up and down, reaching her hands up to switch between pinching your nipples and squeezing them.

── .✦ dom!vi who always waits (im)patiently for you to wake up after she does, never being able to stop herself from practically grinding her pussy on your ass when she's doing so.

── .✦ dom!vi who mutters little "mornin, baby"'s when she feels you shift around and murmur something in question, her hand already managing to find it's way under your shirt to grope your tits, her heart shaped lips smiling against the back of your neck when she hears you complaining that you missed her.

── .✦ dom!vi who thinks her favourite way to get you both off at the same with her still being in charge is to scissor. she's always ontop, with one of her hands holding onto your leg that's hooked over her shoulder, and the other wrapped around your neck for both stability and to attempt to shut you up, though she will not hesitate to tie your hands up to the headboard and make you suck on her fingers the second you get bratty.

── .✦ sub!vi who gets wet at the thought of you marking her all over, and vise versa. if she can't feel the ache of the scratches you left on her back from the night before, she automatically has a bad day, and will nudge her face into your neck while shyly asking you if she can fuck you again.

who thought this day would ever come.. (too many of my moots bullied me into writing something, that's the only reason i did)

taglist: @korn-dawg, @marieeeluvsyou

masterlists

[prythianpages]

Come Back To Me | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Experiencing some pregnancy complications, Azriel is left with no choice but to seek out Eris for help.

a/n: This is pt 10 and a little under 4.5K words. It's nearly 1am where I live but I couldn't help myself & needed to finish this lol.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant, mentions of high risk pregnancy, things get a little tense between Eris and Az

Shadows clouded around Eris, blurring his vision and muffling his hearing. Even his keen sense of smell was dulled as Azriel’s shadows coiled around him further. It infuriated him—the lengths the shadowsinger was going to protect your location from him. Your mate.

Azriel had made certain there would be no trail for Eris to follow after this. Not scent, not sound. Not even magic as Azriel had forced him into a bargain, the ink etched onto his arm fresh and burning. Azriel would bring him to you to aid in your situation, but only under strict conditions: Eris would remain only for as long as Azriel allowed and under no circumstance would he be permitted to take you back with him.

Two of the shadows bound themselves around his wrists like shackles, pulsing faintly. As if the bargain was not enough for Azriel. It didn’t matter. His shadows were not enough to suppress the power simmering just beneath his skin. Eris could have fought against the makeshift shackles, easily burning the dark tendrils away. He didn’t though. If the shadows hadn’t picked up on it, he knew it was smarter to let Azriel think they could actually suppress his power.

When the shadows blinding his sight finally lifted from his eyes, Eris found himself standing in a hallway. The first thing he saw was an older fae woman approaching. She wore plain robes, the symbol of a healer embroidered in silver thread on her sleeve. Her gaze landed on Azriel first, the two of them exchanging a look.

Eris’s patience frayed with each second of silence. Azriel had told him almost nothing—only that it urgently concerned you and the baby. And his mind had done the rest, conjuring horrors, each one worse than the last.

“Where is she?” 

The healer didn’t flinch. She must have heard that tone countless times in her line of work. Her eyes swept over him, calm and assessing. “You must be the father,” she replied simply.

The word hit him like a blow. Father. He was going to be a father. A title he didn’t think he would acquire so soon. Though, this wasn’t the reason why he hesitated to answer.

 It was what him claiming that title meant.

To say the words out loud was to admit a truth that carried weight and danger. It meant putting you and the baby in the crosshairs of enemies who would use them against him. He could only put his trust in Azriel to have picked a discreet and trustworthy healer, even though the paranoia in him was screaming not to trust anyone.

There were very few people Eris trusted and Azriel was not one of them. Not even close. But the way Azriel had held you before he took you away, the unquestionable look in his eyes when he showed up in Autumn to bear the bad news…had the Shadowsinger fallen for you?

Eris couldn’t blame him. You were a precious gem. One he failed to treasure and hold onto as he should’ve. Not because he stopped caring but because he found himself caring too damn much.

And now, he has lost you.

Or as he would rather say, he was losing you. He only had himself to blame, realizing the grave mistake he had made. He would never forgive himself for this, for the way he broke you. He’d give anything to go back, to have been brave enough to say those three words back.

The past was done, and now, he had to fight as he was not ready to admit defeat quite yet. Because even if he’d already shattered whatever future you might’ve had, he had to keep trying with all his might. You meant too much for him not to fight for you back. Especially when the one he was fighting against was Azriel—that Illyrian bastard. 

He could lose you and he would have to live with that, if it’s what you wanted. But Eris could not lose you to him.

“I am,” he finally said quietly. He felt as though his throat was closing. His tone was much less demanding when he spoke next. “Who are you?”

The older woman’s lips curved slightly in a polite greeting. “I’m the healer tending to y/n,” she confirmed. “You can call me Madja.”

His eyes flicked to Azriel, who he had no qualms on restraining his emotion on. So he directed all his anger and frustration to the shadowsinger instead. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

It was Madja who answered, her tone somewhat somber. “Come and see for yourself.”

She moved to the door, painfully slow, and Eris nearly shoved it open himself. His chest ached, heart thudding as he stepped into the room.

The sight stole the breath from his lungs.

The room was warm—too warm— and it seemed, all the heat was coming from you. You were submerged in a porcelain bath that stood out like a sore thumb in the room. Barely conscious, your head rested on a pillow cradled in the lap of a woman, who looked similar in appearance to Azriel.

“‘S’hot…” you murmured, moaning in discomfort.

Eris took a step forward instinctively. The shadows binding his wrists tightened. His stomach twisted as he looked you over.  Your skin was flushed and your breathing shallow. You didn’t look good, you looked….

He didn’t let himself finish that thought. 

The woman behind you lifted a bucket, pouring ice into the tub. He watched as your body slackened with relief and despite the warning of the shadows, he took another step toward you.

That’s when he saw it. 

It wasn't the clearest view, the rippling of water and ice blurring your body. But there was no denying the mottled, angry marks that were spread across your stomach. You were hurt…and the baby…?

“Your fire gremlin is burning her from the inside,” Azriel snarled, venom lacing each word.

“Azriel!” The woman at your side immediately reprimanded.

Eris’s vision tunneled and flames erupted at his fingertips. The shadows at his wrists let out a sharp hiss, immediately fluttering back to their master. So much for pretending. That bastard—that bastard—had the audacity to call his child a gremlin? 

Eris’s head turned, amber eyes blazing as they locked onto the shadowsinger.

But Azriel didn’t flinch as the shadows around his wrist had. If anything, he took a step closer toward Eris. There was a challenge in his stance, his wings flaring just enough.

Madja stepped between them, diffusing the spark before it could become a wildfire. “At first, I thought it was a fever. I tried everything I could think of. The ice baths help… but only temporarily,” her voice was tired, her gaze lowering to Eris’s burning hand. “It seems your child has inherited the fire in your blood. Y/N is being burned from within.”

Burned. By their child.

Eris’s eyes hadn’t moved at all from Azriel’s.  “How long?”

Azriel hesitated, and that hesitation said more than words ever could. His normally unreadable expression cracked, guilt seeping through the breaks. “Three days.”

Three days. Eris’s rage detonated. Three fucking days. Fire burst from his hands now, licking up his forearms in spiraling flares of molten gold and red.

“You waited that long to come for me?”

Azriel’s guilt twisted swiftly into fury. His eyes darkened as he took another step forward. The two males were no more than a foot apart. “Can you blame me?” he shot back, not wincing when he could feel the dangerous heat radiating off of Eris. “All you’ve ever done is hurt her. She’s like this because of you!”

Flames surged higher around Eris while Azriel’s shadows swarmed in a frenzied storm, like a furious hive on the brink of breaking loose. The room quaked beneath the weight of barely restrained power.

“Well, it doesn’t matter who did and didn’t do what,” Madja cut through, once again diffusing the tension. “The damage is being done as we speak. Y/n is in pain and though I’ve been giving her sedatives to ease it, I don’t know how much longer her body can endure this.”

Eris’s flames went out immediately. His heart squeezed so tightly it ached. That’s why he couldn’t feel you through the bond—why your side of it had gone so still. You’d learned how to shut him out but he felt you every now and then. When your emotions were too much to bear on your own, the bond would crack open just enough. You may or may not have known it but he felt those emotions with you.

“And the baby?” Eris asked, voice barely more than a rasp.

“Restless,” Madja said grimly. “But alive for now. If we can’t find a solution, I fear the child’s life will be in danger. Y/n’s body can no longer safely support the child’s growth.”

Eris swallowed. His gaze turned to you. His mate. The one he had pushed away, trying to protect you from the dangerous politics of his court. He had thought distancing himself would save you.

Instead, all it had done was hurt you. And now, it is killing you.

His thoughts raced back to his mother. To her pregnancies, the sleepless nights she had, the ice baths to keep her from overheating. But his mother had come from a family born of fire. Just like his father. Just like him. 

You were not.

This child growing inside you was made of the same flame and now threatening to consume you. 

His hand trembled at his side, helplessness threatening to take hold. A feeling he absolutely hated. Until a thought struck him. A memory. A possibility. Maybe, just maybe...

“I think I know how to help,” he breathed.

Eris crossed the last of the distance between you, dropping to his knees beside the tub. One hand clutched the porcelain edge with white-knuckled desperation, while the other reached for you. Your skin was searing to the touch. Too hot–far too hot.  And terrifyingly wrong, because your skin had always been much cooler beneath his touch. Always.

You whimpered, wincing away from his touch.

Azriel stepped forward then, his shadows slithering like wild snakes across the floor. “What are you doing—”

“Don’t.” The word was sharp, near feral, spoken through clenched teeth. Eris’s eyes did not leave you. Fumes released from his body, providing a barrier between him and Azriel’s shadows. A warning.  

The woman beside you must’ve sensed something in Eris’s gaze. Perhaps, it was his desperation or his determination. She gave him a small nod, shifting her legs and adjusting your head carefully. “Tell me what to do.”

“Just hold her still.”

He tried again, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. You winced—again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered with a small frown.

He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for anymore. For letting you go? For not being here sooner? For giving you a child that was hurting you?

He drew a shaky breath, lifting his hand from your face. He conjured a flame onto his palm. It shimmered and twisted until it gathered into a single, pulsing orb of bright red magic. A kernel of his power. He stared at the orb for a second, sending a prayer to the Cauldron, to the Mother, to anyone or anything that would listen. That this time, he could do something right by you.

Then, he released it. The orb floated from his hand and moved toward you. It hovered above your chest and then, slowly sank into your skin.

There was a stillness. A moment when even Azriel’s shadows held their breath.

Then, you exhaled. A soft, low sigh. Your brows unfurrowed, expression smoothing out. The burn marks on your stomach dulled. The fevered flush began to fade from your cheeks. And finally, the ice in the bath stopped melting so quickly.

Eris felt the bond stir.

You were there on the other side again. 

He bowed his head, overcome with relief. A ragged breath left him, silently thanking all entities who heard his prayer. It worked. It had actually worked.

He hadn’t been sure it would. He’d only ever seen something similar like this once. Under the mountain, when his father had given a spark of life to Feyre after she had saved them all. Eris had only hoped that by sharing a kernel of his own power with you, it might do the same. Might change your body, mold it to help carry the fireborn child.

Eris had seen people burn from the inside out before. His own fire could be a gift or a curse depending on how it was wielded. He had never feared it, never hated it. Until now.

Guilt clawed further into his chest. It seemed never-ending at this point. All he seemed to do was bring you pain—trouble after trouble. It’s not like he planned for this. Becoming a father wasn’t something he expected at all. Not now, not yet. And certainly not like this.

None of this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to hate him, to move on. He thought if he was cruel enough, you'd leave and eventually, you’d forget him. You’d go live the life you wanted. The one he couldn’t give you. You’d live free from the curse of loving a man like him.

Eris had never intended for you to carry this burden alone. He had intended to be the only one suffering. 

But this fire had already taken root, whether either of you were ready for it or not. 

Parenthood was no longer a distant concept. It was here, knocking at his door, demanding to be faced. With it, came fear. For you. How could something so small and unborn already wield such power?  How could he not have seen this coming?

He remembered his mother having similar troubles but it wasn’t until her last month of pregnancy that they arose. You couldn’t be that far along. He would’ve definitely noticed then as he could pick up on the shift in your scent now.

Had he known the risks you’d undergo, he would’ve done this for you the moment he found out you were pregnant. Without hesitation, without question. He would’ve handed over every last ember of his power, if it meant you wouldn’t suffer.

Madja was at your side, her hand moving across your fevered skin. First your forehead, then your chest, and finally, she dipped her hand beneath the water to feel your stomach. A look of relief crossed her face as she nodded her head.

“The fever is broken. She seems to be stabilizing now.”

“Thank the Mother,” the woman, still holding you, breathed.

Eris didn’t need Madja to know you were feeling better. He could feel it, the bond awake once more. Your breathing grew more steady. Exhaustion now took over your features, body slumping further against the woman.

“Let’s get her out and dressed,” Madja instructed the other woman.

Eris immediately stood on his feet, ready to help.

Madja stopped him. “We can take it from here.”

Eris told himself to not get upset. It’s clear she meant no harm from it. Though Eris has seen you countless of times, he realized that if you were fully conscious, you may not have wanted him to help you dress. So he took a step back and averted his gaze, letting them help you instead.

His eyes found the shadowsinger’s wings.  Azriel, wanting to also protect your decency, had turned his back, facing the wall. Eris’s ears were attentive to the movement behind him. He listened as the women behind him moved and dressed you, bringing you to bed. 

One of his fists clenched in unease when he finally heard you speak, your voice a faint murmur. 

“My baby…is…okay…?”

“Yes, your baby is okay,” he heard Madja comfort you.

“Good,” you breathed. “M’tired…so, so tired…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he heard the other woman, whose name he still hadn’t bothered to ask for. He should, considering how caring and attentive she’s been to you. “You can rest all you need to.”

A strangled noise came from you, a cry from exhaustion.

Eris hadn’t meant to look. His chest flared with protectiveness at the distressing sound you made, his body moving on instinct. His eyes flicked over his shoulder—just for a second—and they widened.

Your undergarments were in place, the women working together to slip a sleeping gown over your body. It wasn’t the sight of your skin that had his eyes widening. it was what had changed.

He knew your body like the back of his hand, had memorized every inch of it with his eyes and lips. He knew it well enough to immediately pick up on the changes. Your hips had widened and stomach rounded, all to accommodate the baby growing inside you. His baby.

The awe that pierced through him was drowned quickly by guilt as the women blocked his view, settling you further onto the bed. When they drew back from you, he was comforted by the peace slowly easing onto your face. The Illyrian woman smiled down at you as she brushed your hair back.

“I’m going to finish some tonics that she can use to build up her strength again.” Madja said before walking out of the room. 

“It’s time for you to go.” Azriel finally spoke, addressing Eris. “There’s no need for you to be here anymore.”

Eris’s body tensed, that anger from earlier flaring back up. He forced his gaze away from you, though it felt like tearing flesh from bone, and turned slowly to face the shadowsinger. “She needs me.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t want you.”

Eris winced, as if he had been struck. The blow landed deep. He didn’t know if it was true and that was the worst part. 

Though, it didn’t matter if you wanted him or not. What if another complication arose? The power he gave you was a sliver of his but one you never wielded before. He had centuries of mastery while you had none. If something happened, he could help you. Not Azriel. Him. 

And what of the baby? Who would be there to guide them once they were of age? Or if they started manifesting them much sooner as it already was proving to be?

“She’s carrying my child. They need me. She can’t go through this alone.”

“They’re not alone,” Azriel said sharply, stepping forward. His shadows were stirring behind him, emphasizing the bright pulsing of his blue siphons.  “They have me.”

Eris laughed bitterly. A sound with no humor—just disbelief and hidden pain. “You?” His lip curled. “You expect me to trust you? You knew what was happening and still—still—you waited three days to come find me.”

Azriel’s wings twitched, whether in irritation or restraint, Eris couldn’t tell. But the room suddenly felt smaller. Like it might close in under the pressure of their magic. The two males stood nearly toe-to-toe, just as they had before.

“Because you broke her trust,” Azriel shot back, his shadows coiling tighter, like leashed beasts waiting for the order to strike. “And I don’t trust you. Never did and never will. You always have a selfish motive for everything.”

Eris’s nostrils flared, pure jealousy flaring beneath his skin now. “And when exactly did you earn her trust, shadowsinger?” 

“Enough, the both of you!” the Illyrian woman snapped, stepping between them with a might of her own. She winced as the bed behind her rustled, you stirring in bed. “If you are going to fight, then do it outside."

Neither male moved at first.

They simply stared at one another. Hate and grief and guilt writ in every tense breath between them. Then, finally, Eris stepped back, muttering a curt “sorry” to the woman. The flames in his hands flickered out, though the heat in his eyes remained.

“Eris.”

It was you calling to him.

Azriel blinked, taken aback, and a small, unexpected victory pulsed through Eris’s veins. 

Azriel reluctantly stepped back, his shadows retreating with him. Still, they lingered close and Eris swore they had eyes of their own as he could feel them staring him down.

“She's been through enough," the woman said with a sigh, her gaze lingering on Eris, as if she were assessing him. She turned to Azriel. “She’ll probably wake up hungry, poor thing hasn’t eaten much either. Won’t you help me prepare something?”

Though it’s phrased as a question, there’s an underlying demand in her tone. One Eris can’t help but feel grateful for.

“Sure,” Azriel replied after a brief pause, his voice taut. He turned to follow, but not before glancing back. “Five minutes,” he said over his shoulder.

**

Eris’s eyes caught the clutter on your nightstand as he approached your bed. For a moment, he froze. The letters–his letters– were stacked unevenly, some edges bent from being reopened too many times. There were small things, too. The other gifts he had sent.

None of his letters have been returned and it appeared that the gifts he had sent were unused. 

But they were here. They’d at least been opened and kept. Not thrown away as he feared.

The smallest sliver of hope pushed into the cracks of his chest. Perhaps, there was still a chance. You hadn’t shut him out entirely. He exhaled slowly and then, finally, he turned back to you.

The bed dipped slightly as Eris sat on the edge, and for a moment, he just looked at you. The fever had dropped but it left behind a sickly sheen of exhaustion. Reaching out, his hand hovered over your face. There was a moment of hesitation before he gently lowered his hand to rest against your cheek. You were no longer searing to the touch, just slightly cooler in comparison to him now.

You didn’t flinch like before. Instead, you leaned into his touch and the movement stole the breath from his lungs. His lips parted, a tremor of a smile tugging at one corner. 

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the gown draped across your body. He could see the small curve of your stomach beneath it and it made his chest tighten.

There. Right there. Life–Life the two you had created.

His hand moved from your face to rest lightly on your bump. His touch was featherlight like he feared even pressure might hurt you further. The contact was both grounding and devastating. He really wished things didn’t have to be this way. 

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself whispering again. He was full of so much regret and so much yearning.

“Eris,” you rasped, your lashes fluttering faintly. “Is it really you?”

Eris knows it must be the exhaustion. He can see you fighting it, struggling with the weight it pressed upon your eyelids. The hand that had been resting over your stomach drifted lower to reach for your own hand. “Yes,” he replied. His hand tightened around yours, bringing it to rest over his heart. “I’m here.”

You hummed softly, your fingers twitching in his grasp. He watched you, observing every shift of your expression, every flutter of your lashes as if it were some fragile miracle. The tears he’d been holding back finally slipped free, tracking down his cheeks in silence.  

“When Azriel came for me, I thought the worst. I thought I was protecting you by pushing you away. I thought…” He trailed off, swallowing hard and struggling with his words.

He gave you space to respond, though he knew better than to expect it. He wondered if the exhaustion won, sleep finally taking over you. Good, he thought. You probably haven’t been able to properly rest these past couple of days.

Your breathing remained steady and no more words from you followed. Just the soft rhythm of your body. He could hear your heartbeat and he swore he could hear the baby’s too. It was quiet but quicker. A ticking sound, almost.

Before you, he hadn’t believed himself capable of feeling for someone this deeply. But you—you had carved out a place in his heart, built a home there, even when he tried to board it shut. And now, there was someone else nestled in that space too. Someone so small and unseen but already adored with an intensity that terrified him.

The bond between you stirred faintly, dulled by your fatigue. Maybe you wouldn’t remember this. Maybe it would all fade into your dreams. It didn’t matter. He had to say it anyway.

“I’m going to fix this,” he whispered, pressing your hand to his lips. “I swear it. Even if you never forgive me... I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting for and protecting you. The both of you.”

Eris closed his eyes, forehead resting briefly against your joined hands. And then, with a tremble in his chest, he said the three words that had haunted him since the day you spoke them first. The three words he had felt long before you ever gave them breath. The ones he had buried beneath fear and duty and pride.

“I love you.”

It left him in a broken whisper. A confession and a promise all in one. He only hoped he’d get the chance to say them to you when you were awake. He wanted to sit here with you, holding your hand as he waited for you to wake up. He didn’t want to leave. How could he, when everything that made his life worth anything was here in this room?

The tattoo on his arm from the bargain with Azriel flared, as if sensing where his thoughts had headed. It pulsed against his skin like a second heartbeat and it was followed by a knock at the door. Azriel must’ve felt it too.

Eris looked at you one last time, his gaze trailing over your face. Then down to the bump beneath the thin gown, where your hand now rested. You looked at ease now and it made it even harder for him to leave when all he wanted was to curl up beside you. His legs felt heavy, as though the weight of what he was walking away from had rooted him in place. 

He burned the image of you into his mind before he forced himself to stand. He didn’t know how, didn’t know when. He just knew he would find his way back to you. Even if he had to bleed for every step back to you.

And then, he walked away, closing the door softly behind him. He didn’t hear the faint words that left your lips moments later, voice cracked and barely there.

“Don’t go.”

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this part! <3 In my head, iI have a little HC that f Eris and reader had consummated the bond, this pregnancy wouldn't have turned high risk so early. I have 2-3 more parts planned but I'm going to take a small break from them so I could write little drabbles/scenes in between them. Basically, it would be scenes I couldn't figure out how to incorporate into the next parts but still wanted to write out.

Help me pick what to focus on here.

If there's anything you'd like to read, let me know! I'm open to suggestions and also love hearing your thoughts.

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens , @galaxystern08 , @faeofthemoonandstars , @antisocial-architect

@elisha-chloe, @cwallace02sblog, @randomramblesfanfiction, @moonlitlavenders, @booksnwriting

@sunny1616, @holb32, @gamarancianne, @daemyratwst, @ratgirl2020 @balufy

[electricgg]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 6: I Stray Not From The Path, I Hold Death’s Hand In Mine

Masterlist Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 (Here!)

Head wounds tend to heal relatively fast. 

All due to the ample blood supply in the head and neck region. The abundant blood flow helps deliver the necessary cells for tissue repair and regeneration. The healing time can vary based on many factors, like wound size, depth, and individual health.

Large and deeper wounds potentially heal up to 2-3 months.

Maximoff’s wound didn’t even leave a scar or trace on her skin.

The butler, Alfred, had mentioned being of help to the young girl the first day until she claimed being able to take care of cleaning the wound and changing the gauze by herself once he explained the steps one by one. She would do it every morning after waking up and after taking her nightly shower, before heading to bed.

But even with a strict cleaning routine, a head wound like the one she had shouldn’t have healed so quickly. 

Especially in only 5 days.

“Someone certainly has some impressive genes…” Rio muttered offhandedly, pretending to be very busy with her files as she took a seat at her desk.

The looming glare from the girl sitting at the examination table had the green witch holding back her grin.

Everything was falling into place.

There was no reason for the girl to come for a check-up directly to the police station. Much less likely to get a check-up from Rio. The Wayne family had their private doctor and were way more capacitated than a nurse with basic paramedic training and a doctor title, mostly directed towards cadavers and autopsies.

Well, that was just her cover story. No need for mortals to know the personification of Death was playing dress up for funsies.

Either way, the only reason her Wheel of Fortune would be here, it would be if she had requested or demanded that she be brought to Rio herself.

She certainly caught on to things quickly, unlike her bothersome twin brother. Even if she had some otherworldly help, Rio had to give her some credit.

Which led to the current tension in the office that was currently occupied by the two of them. The butler was off talking with the chief about some new development in the investigation of the attack.

Red Hood had left almost nothing to identify the bodies with. Rio retained her bubbling anger by dumping the files into her hand on the desk with a controlled sigh.

Endless Above, the Waynes were a thorn on her ass.

Good thing her cards on the table were placed along quite fast.

“Where is Billy?”

She was straight to the point, too.

That wouldn’t do.

“Why would I know?” the woman drawled, spreading on her chair will looking at Maximoff with a raised eyebrow.

Maximoff’s face was all frowned up, the corner of her lips curling in frustration and impatience. Rio thought she looked like an angry puppy about to start yapping and barking at her feet while shaking. Almost like a chihuahua.

That made her laugh sharply, startling and confusing the young girl.

“Ask the right questions, pet. That may get you the answers you need.”

The shiver of disgust at the nickname amused Rio to know end. Getting under people’s skin was such an entertaining show for her.

“...Do you know who I am? What am I?”

Rio could work with that.

“I am familiar with your family’s history.”

The girl gave her a deadpan expression. “That’s the most vague shit answer I ever heard off.”

“Take it or leave it,” she shrugged.

With a roll of her eyes, Maximoff sighed and shrugged in defeat. Might as well ask other questions then, right?

“Fine, then. Who are you then? Because I’m pretty sure you know something that I don’t about the Addams Family on steroids.”

“Ah, the Waynes,” Rio’s tone was sarcastic and low. She got up and stood in front of Maximoff, who listened attentively.

“They have been messing around with things that they shouldn’t, and it’s time for them to pay me back.”

“...So, you are like, mafia or something?”

“Not quite. The mafia still manages to keep up with their parts of my deals.”

That got Maximoff thinking, her head tilting to the side as her gaze moved up to the ceiling in thought.

Yeah, she was just like a puppy. She could now see why Agatha was so entranced with the other Maximoff.

“So,” the girl said while her nails clicked fastly against the metal table. “the Waynes owe you something, and you have it out for them?”

“Seems almost too simple, right?” A grin crept on the witch’s lips. She could almost see the gears turning in the girl’s brain.

Maximoff groaned, scratching her cheek as she tried to piece stuff together.

“You told me to keep a ‘low profile and trust my gut’,” she complained in a higher pitch tone while gesturing around with her hands. “And all that I got from that was meeting a bunch of unstable men who don’t seem to grasp emotional intelligence to save their lives, and way too touchy. And that’s without counting the horror tapes from the poor girl whose body I’m possessing while her spirit-”

Her rambling had sped up halfway through, words turning into a tongue twister for any person listening. It was fascinating for Rio to witness how the girl’s mutation was developing without her even noticing, blending in with such normal things like talking or moving around, and making her stand out easily. But the abrupt stop put the room in a sudden silence.

By how wide her eyes were as she looked at her, Rio could easily guess Maximoff had figured something out.

She remained quiet, waiting for her to find the words.

Maximoff pointed at her, eyebrows furrowed,” You knew her? The Wayne girl?”

“We never spoke directly, but I did know her. And heard her.”

That wasn’t a lie.

“Then this whole owed deal it’s related to her? Or most of it, at least.”

Seeing how such a young being pieced together the bits of small information she had at hand was very pleasing to the witch. 

It had crossed her mind before. The thought of taking on an apprentice. It had crossed several times, and there were very few candidates she had considered worthy (with the very exception of Agatha, of course). 

Only one had been oh so close to be hers by sacred ritual. A deal made by a desperate mother, looking to protect her child from Rio’s own hands.

A child who was hidden from her by none other than Bruce Wayne.

The room’s temperature grew colder at the thought of said man crossing her head. He had cheated her over and over and over and over and over and she had had enough.

Rio took a deep breath through her nose, brushing away the bangs on her face to disguise her slip of control.

“I don’t like it when somebody messes with my deals,” she said with a sickly sweet tone, starting to pace around the room.

“Bruce Wayne and his flock of little birds have been getting away from me with a little too much for my liking. And because of that, I have decided to hit him where it hurts the most. A man like him craves control. He is paranoid and needs to know all the possibilities at the palm of his hand, just so he can have the high ground in any given situation.”

She sharply whips her head back, a loud crack of bones startling Maximoff as Rio gives her a maniacal, wide smile over her shoulder. Her sharp black nail pointed at the girl, sauntering towards the metal table.

“Which is why you, my dear wheel of fortune, make the perfect piece in my chessboard table to make him suffer.”

Maximoff looked at her as if she had spouted pure nonsense. Which it probably was for her, since Rio looked like a madwoman with a chaotic glint in her eyes.

“And why should I be involved in this? I didn’t exactly choose this body.”

“True. You didn’t. But your brother did.”

That made her click her mouth shut and glare harshly at Rio. The woman inclined forward so they were eye to eye, smiling with a sharp edge at the corner of her lips.

“It’s nothing hard to do, just being yourself is doing more than enough to make my plan fall right into place. I only need you to be a tiny little less instigating and let them overthink it by themselves. And, of course, a couple of little favors that only you can help me out with.”

“Are you going to kill them?” Her tone was somewhat small and quiet. Worried, as to say.

How sweet. But that wouldn’t do.

“Sadly, no, I can’t,” Rio took notice of the tension slightly leaving the girl’s shoulders. “The Waynes are vital to the balance of this city, and I can’t mess with that. But I can make them miserable. As retribution.”

Maximoff hummed to herself, never looking away from Rio’s gaze as she thought of what to say next. Their visit was coming to an end, and she needed to get her answers quickly. Or at least, some of those answers.

“What favors would you need?”

“Just some old items that the mother of this new body of yours has entrusted to Dear Old Bruce. And anything that spirit that keeps hanging around you asks you to do.” 

Maximoff gasped and looked around her before looking back at the amused ‘doctor’.

“You can see h-”

“Tick tock, pet. Last question.” That made her curse under her breath as she gave a quick glance at the door. Footsteps coming up the stairs were echoing outside the office. Maximoff looked at Rio with a reluctant air around her.

“If I do your favors,” she said quickly, standing up from the table and facing Rio directly. “Will you tell me where Billy is and help me find him?”

Rio laughed, crossing her arms as she took in her firm stance. Decision and steel in the girl’s eyes and posture.

Oh, she was keeping this Maximoff.

“Don’t you worry, pet.” She teased with a less sharp smile. Maximoff frowned.

“He will come directly to you.”

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

“Would that be all, gentlemen?” 

The sharp tone coming from Mr. Wayne had made the business associates look at one another in silence. The air was so tense in the meeting room that it made some of them fidget with their ties, swallow back coughs, and sweat beneath their hair implants.

A poor intern glanced nervously at his boss every 5 seconds, hoping the meeting would be dismissed sooner rather than later for the sake of everyone’s nerves.

Bruce Wayne had not come to Wayne Enterprises in a good mood.

The meeting had been scheduled with two months of anticipation. Worthington Industries had made several business proposals to ally with Wayne Enterprises in a series of funded research projects involving medical substances that have yet to be discussed. First, they had to do some research around said company, avoiding getting involved in any type of scandal before making any decisions. Then, they would weigh the pros and cons of agreeing to the proposals before deciding to come to an official meeting with the Worthington Industries CEO.

All the documents and research had been done thoroughly, and there were more pros than cons surrounding the proposals. Everyone was expecting a positive outcome from the meeting.

But Mr. Wayne’s mood had dampened any ray of hope.

As to why he was in such a mood?

That would have to do with breakfast that very morning with his daughter.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

It had been an uneventful morning. At first.

After Bruce had made sure Tim was sleeping in his own bed without any type of electronic nearby, and that Dick had gone to Barbara’s apartment to get some space to calm down for a bit away from the supposed chaos among the walls of the manor, he was eating his own plate of scrambled eggs that Alfred had made for him in the stove before he left to drive Damian to school.

Apparently, she had slept in for a bit longer, and Alfred would come for her once he had dropped Damian off.

He had gotten distracted by the sudden breakthrough of the case. By the time they finished downloading files from the hospitals and clinics around the area, Bruce was pretty sure everyone had retired for the night.

Meaning that this very morning, he would finally get to see his daughter after days of putting back the said encounter.

The feeling of patheticness loomed over him, making every bite of his food taste as bitter as his cup of black coffee.

He would never admit it to himself, but Bruce was anxious.

Would she be upset he hadn’t checked up on her? She was always so understanding and sweet. At least, that's what he had gathered from their past interactions. Perhaps he could let her stay at the manor another week if she wasn’t feeling like going back to school.

Was she scared of going out, too? He had read the police report over and over again after Dick had shoved it right into his face while yelling at him for not keeping a closer eye on her safety.

He could only imagine the feast the media would have once the information about the attack became public. The press following her around, the school getting swarmed, the flashes of camera invading her space, and making her have another public meltdown.

Maybe considering homeschooling wouldn’t be such a bad idea-

The scraping of a chair against the floor dragged him out of his head, gaze landing on the other end of the table. Far away from his spot.

She was wearing a green jacket and some dark bell-bottom jeans. A clean gauze stood on the left side of her head, which led to noticing how her hair was pulled back in what seemed like a butchered braid with some wavy curls slipping out and framing her face.

Not a single hello. Not a single good morning. Not a single glance his way.

Just the clicking of the fork against the plate as she ate from a huge pile of scrambled eggs as if she had been starved for weeks.

Bruce suddenly understood why the boys were freaking out.

(Y/N) was a simple, well-mannered, and polite. Always greeting, always offering help, and always looking for ways to be close to them. No matter how many times they avoided or ignored her efforts and advances.

If Bruce were by some chance eating at the table, she would take the spot right next to him and try to start a conversation before he excused himself under the guise of needing to finish some work.

And another thing was how impeccably she dressed. Business casual and hair down, not a single strand out of place.

Before him was the total opposite of what his daughter was supposed to be.

He cleared his throat, hoping to catch her attention since she was way too focused on her food.

She didn’t look up.

“Dear?” he questioned. “Do you feel alright?”

His breath got caught in his throat once her gaze snapped up. Making eye contact for the first time in days.

Before him stood the reflection of a woman he had failed to help and keep safe. Dark, soulful eyes staring deep into his own and making him fall back into that dreadful night, where he was too late to make a difference. Where a child lost a parent and gained a mediocre imitation of one. Where he lost another important person in his life. Where he failed a friend.

Where his daughter lost her mother.

“Quite late to be asking me that, don’t you think?” she grumbled, shoving her fork full of eggs into her mouth.

He had to take a quick sip of his coffee, feeling his throat tighten and trying to speak up at least.

“What happened to your contacts?” was all he managed to utter out. He would later realize that was not the best thing he could have said.

Those dark eyes were suddenly sharp, and Bruce could only see Bianca glaring at him as if she was ready to knock him off his seat.

“You sure you want to go down that line, Father?” 

The way that she said father had him standing up from his seat, knocking the chair down to the floor, and making a clutter of noises around the room.

“Young lady, that’s not a tone you will use with me.”

He had hoped that would make her back down. Go back to the sweet girl he swore she was, because there was no way that she had changed this much. Not in the blink of an eye.

Was it though? Had it been the blink of an eye? Had it really been that fast? When was the last time they actually talked? When was the last time he had spent more than a few minutes with her? 

Listened to her talk about school. About her classes. About her hobbies. Her aspirations in life. What she liked. What she disliked. Favorite foods. Favorite movies. Favorite books.

When was the last time Bruce had even hugged her?

His expectations were broken the moment she slammed her fork against the table and got up from her seat, gaze unwavering and lips pressed tight.

Before she could get another word out, two sudden presences caught their attention.

Cassandra stood by the entrance of the kitchen, with Alfred giving a heavy stare over at Bruce.

Without a second thought, the younger girl picked up her now-empty plate and gave it a quick wash in the sink. Ignoring the owlish stares from Cassandra and Bruce. Once she was done, she looked directly at Alfred with an undefined gaze from Bruce’s perspective.

“I’ll wait in the car.” She said, getting a nod from Alfred as she passed between him and Cass. The other girl gave two steps back as she followed her retreating form down the hall with her gaze.

Bruce began walking towards them. “We are not finished-”

“I believe,” Alfred cut him up both verbally and physically by stepping in front of him. “This is a good moment for everyone to have some space to think things through before escalating the situation in a way that there’s no coming back from.”

“Alfred, I need to-”

“You need to get to an important meeting and give her some space, Master Bruce.”

That got him a deep sigh from Bruce, who impatiently rubbed his chin before nodding at Alfred.

“Good. Now, if you excuse me, I can’t keep the young lady waiting.” With that, Alfred was gone.

Cassandra only looked back at Bruce once she was sure she heard the car pull away from the garage. He was looking at the empty chair where she had been sitting not too long ago. A look full of what Cass could gather as despair and confusion. It unsettled her a bit, seeing him like that.

But, she still said a few words to Bruce before walking away.

“That was on you.”

And Bruce knew she was more than right.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

His mind was stuck on that encounter all morning.

His child couldn’t have changed so drastically like that. Was it a new tactic to get his attention? Because it was working extremely well. But it didn’t make sense. His dear daughter was nothing but good intentions and wouldn’t even try to argue back with him. She didn’t even fight back with Damian, and most of the time, he had to intervene himself so it wouldn’t escalate (at least when he was present). 

That hit on the head had altered her personality, and Bruce wanted his old daughter back.

It had to be that damned wound, it couldn’t be anything else. There just wasn’t another expl-

‘But there is.’ A whisper shot through his head, making him tense up.

…There was a very small alternative. But it couldn’t be. It didn’t work like that at all. He knows it.

Even if mental illnesses can be hereditary, that one couldn’t be. There were too many factors that came into play with such a condition, and he had made sure she hadn’t been exposed to any type of heavy trauma. Keeping her at an arm’s length away from his night job and all the repercussions it brought along.

But had he actually protected her enough? Did keeping her away actually prevent any trauma that could affect her personality?

No, he hadn’t.

And now he had a huge problem in his hands.

“Call to organize a meeting with Mr. Worthington as quickly as possible for negotiations. Meeting dismissed.”

Almost everyone let out a breath of relief once Mr. Wayne walked out the door with a hurried step.

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

It had been such a shitty day.

First part, finally meeting the man behind this whole family madness. She was hoping to get away without interaction. Just eat her breakfast, dip, and hide in the garage so she could avoid encountering any other member of the family until Alfred came to pick her up. It was a picture-perfect plan, in her mind at least.

But her first mistake had been sitting too far away from Dear Old Bruce. 

Apparently, this family was so obsessed with order and patterns, that they would have freak out if she even stepped out their imaginary drawn lines. Wayne had giving her a splitting headache as punishment for not putting that much attention to those details after she had stormed off towards the garage.

To which she responded by swinging fists at empty air before Alfred caught up to her.

‘Fuck their order and patterns. I ain’t their little doll they can manipulate around.’

That thought put her ghost companion in silence, making the headache slip away as they drove to the police station.

In the second part, the chilling interaction with Rio. Jesus, that woman could make the bogeyman sweat. She had hoped to get some answers out of her, and while she got some, she left with even more questions. And, apparently, got dragged into a messy deal with said crazy lady in order to get at least some information on where Billy was.

As long as she found the items that Rio claimed were owed to her.

Items, that she had not a fucking clue of what they were.

The only bit of information that she had was that the mother of this body (she really should start referring to the body as her own, it was getting annoying) knew about said items and their locations. Which meant that Wayne, her dear grumpy ghost bestie, would also know about these items since she would visit her mother every two weeks.

It had been served on a silver platter. All that she needed to do was ask Wayne!

But that silver platter had been thrown into the Bermuda Triangle when Wayne apologetically flicked the bathroom lights of the thrift store Alfred had taken her to give her boxes of clothes away in denial of knowing about said items.

All because her mother was in a state of delirium and mania. Meaning that any word coming from the poor woman wasn’t coherent or trustworthy.

Another dead end.

Which leads us to standing inside the record shop beside the thrift store. Gaze lost in deep thought, facing a rack of vinyl records of the pop genre, as her fingers flicked through the albums mindlessly with a frown on her face.

Just when she thought a door had opened, another ten appeared in the next room.

Rio wasn’t exactly someone reliable. Something in the back of her head was inclined to think she wasn’t even human. All the vague shit and weird mannerism seemed more than act to unsettle people. If it was an act, then she was very committed.

Still, she wasn’t to be trusted. Not when she was keeping her so in the dark.

The new information she had was still in pieces and needed to be put together with delicacy and patience, or something could slip, and she would end up even more lost than she already was.

That didn’t stop her from trying to overthink it.

‘If the deal had to do with Wayne, why would her Old Man not keep a closer eye on her? Rio is pretty hellbent on getting her stuff back if she is making me pull my weight around to find it. Does he even know her mother made a deal, or was he the one to make it? It wouldn’t make any sense if he did it, though, because then he wouldn’t have just left Wayne go around without some bodyguard.’

She pursed her lips, fingers rattling the record stand by how fast she continued to flip through them.

‘Hell, he never stopped by to check in the bedroom or even bother to pick her up at the police station. There’s no way he knows about this. He doesn’t care enough, clearly. What kind of a father acts like that around his daughter?’

Her nails began to scratch off the chipped black paint of the metal from the stand, switching her weight from leg to leg as her mind sped up in circles.

‘What parent does that? Where’s the warmth and care? Where’s the concern? Where’s the love in his actions?’

Teeth began pulling at the fragile skin of her lips, almost peeling it off. A high-pitched ring was going by her ear.

“My parents would never do that. My mom would make hell on earth to protect me. To protect us. Where is she? Is she dead? Is she gone? Where is she? Where is my mom? Where is my dad? Where? Where is my family? I need them. I want them here. HEre witH ME. HERE. HERE. HERE. HERE. HERE. WHERE ARE THEY-”

“Did Cher do something to offend you?”

A voice snapped her out of it, startling and making her jump, while looking to her side towards the person who spoke to her. 

It was a guy. Just about a few centimeters taller than her, with a well-built body. Light brown hair that seemed almost ginger when the light hit just right. Blue eyes with concern and an awkward smile, dimples showing off his faint freckles over his cheeks.

He took a step back to give her some space once she looked at him down-up, giving an apologetic smile as he gestured to the record she was holding in her hands.

“Sorry for that! Just saw you almost ripping the record in half and thought that I should say something about it.” He fretted gently, hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket.

She looked down at the item and realized he was right. The plastic was torn off, and the edges of the record were already crumbled under her still-fidgeting fingers. 

An embarrassed groan left her throat, covering her face with the crumbled record.

“I didn’t notice. I got lost in thought, ugh,” she urged, pulling down the record with a red face.

Great going, girlie. Now you are a criminal.

“It’s alright, I get lost in thought too!” he quipped back with a stammer and an awkward laugh.

Which plunged into an awkward silence.

Awkward enough to be contagious and make her snort a laugh as well. And making him snort as well. Both of them were laughing before calming down from the tense moment. An easy, friendly air was going around them, making her feel some weight off her shoulders.

She really needed that.

“I have seen you around, at school,” he commented. “We actually take class together, but we never actually talked before.”

That got her attention. 

“Oh, yeah. I usually prefer my own… company.” That last part sounded very similar to a question.

The boy nodded in understanding. “No judgment! I can only imagine how it is for you.”

She rolled her eyes with a snort, moving back towards the records. She could only imagine how public the fact was that Wayne was the least liked amongst her own family. That doom scroll through Twitter last night was very enlightening.

“Wait! I didn’t mean it like that,” he sputtered, with a wide look, realizing how wrong his words sounded out loud.

She let him squirm for a few moments, glancing from the corner of her eye as he tried to stammer an explanation and apologies, before grinning at him. Making him stop talking and shut his mouth.

“I was just teasing. Chill out,” she trailed off, motioning at him to introduce himself.

He nervously laughed, offering his hand for her to shake.

“I swear, I have manners.” His tone was lighter, making her smile as she took his hand for a quick shake.

It caught her off guard how cold his skin was.

Almost as cold as pure ice.

“I’m Robert. Robert Drake.” He smiled brightly. “But I prefer Bobby. It’s what my friends call me.”

Bobby Drake

The young girl nodded, pleased at finally getting a name from the first friendly person of her age. A soft warmth invaded her chest.

“Well, Bobby,” she teased, making him chuckle as he took a place beside her. “Mind helping me out, hiding this broken record and picking a new one before I get banned from this place?”

Bobby hummed with a mocking tone, pretending to look busy by flipping through a few records while she waited for his answer.

“Well, I’m in desperate need of a friend and a lab partner for science class, soooo,” He drawled while giving her pleading puppy eyes.

Now it was her turn to act all busy, before nodding pleasedly.

“You got a deal, then.”

“Oh, thank god. Because I couldn’t let you walk away with that monstrosity in your hands. Do you like Chappell Roan? It doesn’t matter. I have to amend your sins one way or another.”

A friend.

She had made her first friend.

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

Westchester County, New York - 9:30 PM

Charles Xavier had been holed up in his office for the past two hours. There were documents all sprawled around his desk, all meticulously studied and organized in a way that was only for Charles’s thought process.

Another child had disappeared. A mutant child.

The child was on the list of possible candidates for the school. Their mutation has recently awakened (being able to go through walls and different surfaces). A very fascinating mutation, but still overwhelming for a teenage girl who didn’t understand what was happening.

They had scheduled a home visit with her parents a few weeks back, both of them willing to find the help needed for her daughter’s new development.

Then, she disappeared. Just like the other three children.

A pattern was made. And Gotham City was the hunting grounds.

“Professor, am I interrupting?”

Xavier lifted his head and smiled at the young man at the door. He opened the door wider with a small nudge with his mind.

“Come in, Scott. I was just searching around.”

Scott Summers clicked the door closed behind him, making his way towards the desk with a worried frown.

“No updates yet?”

The professor shook his head, rolling back in his chair and going around the front of the desk to be side by side with one of his oldest students.

“Unfortunately, not yet. Our ‘investigator’ just got settled in Gotham this morning.”

That made Scott grumble under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest and making Xavier give him an amused look.

“Why send him? You know how unstable he can be, and this situation is very delicate.”

“I need you here, Scott.”

The young man gave him a side eye under his red-tinted sunglasses.

“Ororo would be more suited for the job than he.”

Charles shook his head, moving his chair towards the glass-stained window that gave a view of the front yard of his mansion.

His home. His haven. His school for his children.

His children, who were taken away before knowing they were more like them. A place where they could belong.

“The students can’t know something is wrong. It will upset them, and Miss Monroe’s presence is required to keep peace and calm in the mansion. You know she is almost like a mother to the student body. We can’t take that stability, not from them.”

Scott remained quiet, moments passing before nodding with a sigh.

“Fine. But if the Batman finds out a feral man is running rampant amongst his city, I am not saving his hairy ass.”

Charles knew he was bluffing.

But he let him be. For now.

Because he was dreading the moment a certain metal bender found out about this.

And Charles knew that would be a nightmare to deal with.

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

Author's note: SURPRISE SHAWTIES!!!! Longest chapter up to date and with SO much information because we are finally moving foward!!! I wanted to get done with the introductions of the batfam an most of them are almost done ( I haven't forgotten about Cass and Jason, don't worry.) But we finally have Bobby with us! I was so excited to write him because i love him to bits. He's my golden puppy and I will make you guys love him. We're also back with the Saturday/Sunday updates every week! Let me know what you guys think of this chapter or theories you have in the asks or comments. I love answering! Lots of hugs and love, GG✨

Tag List:

 @bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild @devotedlyshamelessdetective @shycreatorreview @nirvanaxx1942 @soulsire @ryuushou @rinkydinkythinky @lithiumval @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @cssammyyarts @lordbugs @ilovecoffe0 @kore-of-the-underworld @fortunatelydifferentqueen @vanessa-boo @livingund3ad @aelxr

Bonus Memes:

[1800titz]

THREE

The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

WEE third part and she's a big one, this is where the plot kind of heavily starts to differ from the OG. This one definitely gives more of a deep-dive into Harry's character to set things up in that aspect. Reblogs/feedback always super appreciated. If you like a fic, sharing the work with the reblog button and leaving a comment/sending an anon keeps writers motivated to keep posting on this platform for free! (ꈍ◡ꈍ) <3

FETISH masterlist : PATREON masterlist (316.7K+ words of content and updating) : MAIN masterlist

CONTENT/WARNINGS: rumors, a DIY pastry delivery service (flavor: apologetic), sexual undertones/smutty insinuations, impact playing/spanking mentions

WC: 13.3K

Some people collect souvenirs. Harry collects tote bags.

It’s not inherently a purposeful, curated trove of keepsakes— not in the same way an avid mug collector would eye one of those kitsch ceramic cups with a city name stretched across it on a trip abroad, and then add it to their collection. It’s just one of those things that keeps happening. A bookstore here; a street fair there; a pop up farmer’s market that sold homemade pepper jam and, incidentally, merchandise that could not be ignored.

He likes them. They’re convenient, and whoever had started the stigma against man-purses just had an agenda to steamroll practicality. As a child, he’d had the hardest time wrapping his mind around it— seeing his mother with a heavy purse perpetually slung over her shoulder, always assuming the practice was some normatively imposed hassle, rather than a beacon of functionality. As an adult, however, Harry can confidently admit, with full disclosure, that he was naïve, misinformed, and frankly, uneducated.

From the array, he has his go-to’s— a jute edition with a singular green sardine embroidered into the center (both a durable option and quirky in its minimal, offbeat design), and a cloth alternative with the word NO in plastisol ink. Simple, effective, all caps, midnight black lettering; it speaks for itself. The third option is another cloth variant, but it’s decorated with the outline of a steaming mug, and he’d picked the piece up from a poky coffee shop during a trip to France, years ago.

Most from the assortment, however, remain as untouched bundles of fabric stacked in the corner of his pantry as soft, vaguely judgmental relics of errands past. There are four tote bags that he hasn’t used in over a year. One is from a pop-up wine shop. Another has a sardonic quote about late capitalism on it, and he only ever reached for it when he was in the midst of a particularly antagonistic streak. One is too stiff to fold properly and therefore exiled. The last one— plain canvas, no print, worn soft at the corners— has inexplicably developed a smell he can’t quite place. Not bad, just faintly of old paper and maybe a foreign shampoo that’s never existed in his possession— something that feels achingly, too closely squeezed between nostalgia and a sense of impending existential upheaval. He keeps intending to throw the bag out, but there’s something threaded into its lived-in texture that feels a little too personal to discard. It’s been to all the best places with him. He once brought it on a third date with a girl whose name he can’t quite place anymore, and he suspects that’s part of the reason he’s held onto it for as long as he has; sentiment by proxy. The bag has stayed, for whatever reason, even as the woman it vaguely reminds him of has almost completely faded from memory— face, and name, and all. 

It’s the kind of thing Harry doesn’t notice has become a habit until he’s opening up his pantry door and discovering the tangle on the floor, shoved up under the lowest tier of the shelving unit. Something he’s reminded has calcified without his conscious awareness. The tote bags. The particular corner by the door where he deposits his keys out of muscle memory. The rhythm of casual consistency interacting with the other tenants carries: a nod in the hallway; cheerful smalltalk; one of those instances where one of the elderly ladies Harry has befriended in the complex— by the grace of God-given dimples and a sense of charm his friends scoff at— (Barb, who lives on the same floor, and Eunice, who resides on the seventh) ropes him into a conversation and ultimately hands off a plate of baked goods. It’s consistent— it’s comfortable. 

Which is why, Harry supposes, the shift in energy feels so loud. 

It’s been four days since Y/N had confronted him head-on with her grievous misconceptions— in the middle of the night, surrounded by a half-awake cohort of their neighbors, no less— and despite his upfront explanation, within those four days, the rumors have multiplied at a rate that defies science. 

Only a couple of days ago, he’d stepped out to water his plants and overheard a group of girls, unbeknownst to his eavesdropping— a circle of collegiate roommates, as far as he understands, given that he’s heard them discuss Kappa Sigma’s infamous Brett’s cock in disgustingly avid detail (is girth more important than integrity? The world may never know)— conversing out on the balcony right beneath his own. Once, he’d sat through four whole minutes of what sounded like an intervention about “the ethics of fucking your lab partner for Adderall.” The conversation wasn’t nearly enthralling enough to stomach more before he finished his joint and went back inside, but this time, the snippet he hears gives him pause. He stands still with his watering can in his hand, hovering over Monte (a bushy thing that’s tripled in size since he first acquired it from the plant nursery), and his pink mouth slowly settles into a grimace the longer he listens. 

“I heard he was on house arrest, but they removed the ankle monitor early.”

“No, no, he’s just in witness protection. But like, bad at it.”

“Wait, I thought he was an ex-cop?”

“No, he’s a dom.”

“…A what?”

“A dom. You know. A professional one.”

“Like a dominatrix?”

“Isn’t that just a woman?”

“I don’t know, I just know he runs one of those torture chambers and probably wears leather.”

“Holy shit, Jess.”

Oh, Jess. A 3.9 GPA— honestly, impressive, given that she’s spent more time scrolling GreekRank gossip forums and contemplating professor tier lists based on cuddle game than studying— and still, somehow, so, so off.

When someone else tacks on, after an awed pause, “…Do you think there’s a sign-up sheet we could hit?” and a peal of girlish giggles erupts, the man literally has to muscle down his eye roll. The last group of people he wants on his roster are a freshly-legal coalition of matching crop tops with vodka breath. It’s not exactly his ideal demographic.

Harry walks back inside off the balcony with a new understanding that day; according to the messy sorority circle in the apartment under him, apparently he’s a dom-for-hire. Which is also— he discovers in the oncoming days— probably one of the friendlier, more innocent assumptions.

It’s not overt; it’s not like anyone says anything to him directly, or plasters misdirected anger management flyers to the back of his door. It’s soft-burn, subtle things. Quieter than a simple dirty look pointed into his direction. 

For starters, the man in 9E, who unironically refers to him as buddy, in the way only a middle-aged dad does during a Superbowl party with an amicable shoulder-clap, doesn’t return much more than a brisk yep in response to some cordial, small-talky joke Harry makes in passing regarding a local sports team. It’s an instance that isn’t inherently suspicious, but when taken into consideration alongside the way the lady in 9G with the green glasses doesn’t smile back at him all of a sudden... well. It packs a little more of a punch. Even the yappy little pomeranian leashed around her knuckles— who typically opts for self-strangulation via collar in its pursuit to get closer to him and paw up at his knees— seems to hang back, sniffing at the air as he passes and choosing to chase its own tail instead. 

Harry doesn’t consider himself to be paranoid. Intuitional, contemplative— sure. Paranoia, though, that’s for the type of man that trims a duct tape square to stick over his laptop camera and tells someone that 5G will give them brain tumors. And yes, in theory, every semi-curt interaction he’s archived with his neighbors over the prior days could be chalked up to perfectly excusable coincidences in a collective bad experience, entirely unrelated to him, but Harry simply has awareness. It does not operate off of a tinfoil hat or a conspiracy rant posted onto a niche online forum— it involves that strange feeling in the pit of his stomach and dresses itself far better than delusion. A group of ladies stops and stares in the mailroom, huddled like an overly lip-glossed coven— all pristine acrylics, and Gymshark workout sets, and coconut dry shampoo— in a way where Harry can feel their eyes searing into the muscle along the side of his shoulder.

It’s not guilt. He knows that much. It’s not quite shame, though, either. No, he’s long past shame— that’s a mechanism he discarded a long time ago when he’d started wearing those tiny running shorts that ride high on the thigh and realized he didn’t particularly care who watched him haul a bag of frozen peas out of Trader Joe’s while donning them. 

It’s something worse.

It is a vague, creeping certainty that a version of him now exists that he can no longer control. 

It’s always existed, somewhere, at some point, he supposes. It varies— mutates— wears one face in a group chat somewhere, takes another shape in a soft-spoken recollection over a plastic coffee cup, one girlfriend to another. He’s been around— a… polite, genteel euphemism for the flyer miles he’s packing below the belt, Harry supposes— gotten around enough, to know that this piece of him lives like a shadow and occasionally reinvents itself through word-of-mouth. He’s self-aware. Probably alive as a screenshot and a one-sided story in a group chat or three.

The problem with this edition, though? It’s alive, and it’s false, it spores. It magnifies, and it reaches, and it’s current— it does not exist like a weak echo in a group text; it smears itself over his face like a clear film as he walks the halls, and he can’t wipe it. It is a version constructed out of silhouettes, and assumptions, and just enough circumstantial evidence to stick. 

He’s lost control of the narrative on a large scale, and he doesn’t know how to get it back. 

It’s not that he even cares what people think, not necessarily. He’s a grown man. He pays his bills on time and almost every lighting fixture in his home is bluetooth. He doesn’t crave approval from a bunch of twenty-somethings who, as far as he can tell, spend their nights screeching over which of their exes had the best dick game and arguing over whether or not a “real feminist” would get lip filler. He’s not interested in being a topic of conversation among girls named Kennedi and Tiffani with an “i.” He just… would prefer not to be accused of domestic violence in a vague, wafting way that only groupthink and mildly traumatic social media exposure can concoct.

The thing is, he can’t even find it within himself to be truly upset with Y/N for the fallout. Not in a sincere way, at least, like a burgeon of spite rooting in and gnarling into a grudge. He’s a little miffed, sure, (frankly, justified, given that having his reputation dismantled over adults exploring consensual bruising techniques was never exactly the ideal), but he doesn’t fault her for her vigilance. In fact, he would probably have similar assumptions and a similar moral dilemma; if only he wasn’t on the other end of the misinterpretation, and if he wasn’t aware that what sounded like violence was just a consensual implementation of a fairly aggressive fetish. 

He thinks he can pinpoint the incident that’d caused the spiral, vaguely, but really it’s a bit of a raunchy blur given the usual rotation, isn’t it? Really, it’s basically, probably Katy’s fault for being so loud in that session with the hairbrush over an overdue parking ticket (not quite short and sweet, but she’d literally asked for it, please and all), which in turn translates into it being his fault for not coaxing her to practice a little more restraint with her pipes.  

Anyways, he can technically retrace the steps and find the root of how a little agreed upon accountability has branded him into public enemy number one, but he’d at least like some benefit of the doubt (given that every unsmiling neighbor has entirely bypassed the fairly thorough explanation he’d given the girl). A little guilty-until-proven innocent action. It’s the bare minimum, really. 

The man stares up at the popcorn ceiling and a little frown envelops the pink corners of his mouth, tucking them down. Guilt is strange, he thinks, especially when he’s technically done fuckall wrong. It’s not that it’s a foreign emotion by any means, but so many times he’d resided on the other end of the equation, with the guilty party strung over his lap, or on her knees between his legs, or caught up between his fingers. He can’t fathom how the sensation coiling in the pit of his belly could ever be twisted into an aphrodisiac, but he supposes it’s a bit different when a power exchange is involved. 

Something taps his socked foot. Slowly, the man lifts his chin and blinks down from the angle where he’s craned his neck flat against the back of the couch. Snuggles climbs over his foot nonchalantly. 

It would blow over. Of that, Harry was grotesquely certain. Canceled Tuesday; forgotten by Friday. People, as a collective, mostly remembered rumors with the clarity of a windshield smeared in expired mayonnaise— foggy, patchy— and had attention spans mirroring all the longevity of a soap bubble in a hurricane. Right now, he’s become the unfortunate centerpiece in the monthly community scandal, but it would only take one yoga mom inevitably starting an affair with her personal trainer, and the spotlight would be diverted. Eventually, the soft-core cancellation would fossilize into one of those half-remembered stories, not nearly exciting enough to be retold, and the mythos rots. 

Besides, in a world where a man could get a sponsorship for reviewing moisturizer on TikTok while actively evading tax fraud allegations, Harry figures a mild spanking kink has ever been grounds for permanent exile. It’ll be fine, the man reminds himself. There is absolutely zero call for spiraling.

Y/N is spiraling.

As the days pass and the realization of what she’s done— what she’s managed to accomplish with a cracked moral compass and a sense of justice wired too tight— truly settles, the consequences, (uninvited, overdressed, in heels), anchor somewhere behind her ribcage. It does not crash. It glides in, quietly, like a cat with blood on its paws circling her ankles, and the young woman steeps in the tracks the longer she weighs it out in her head and picks it apart. Puts it back together. Picks it apart again. 

The little investigatory descent into his digital footprint had, shockingly, been for the worse after all— it’d only fostered a new dilemma. Because now, not only did she feel bad about the accusations, but she was catastrophically aware of his large hands and what they looked like doing pixelated, raunchy (terrible, horrible for whatever flimsy scaffolding of morality she was still clinging to, and his dignity, in that order) things.

It is with this vague sense of impending doom that Y/N decides she probably owes the man a formal apology. The only question— a daunting conquest she’s been left to unpack— is how. A note left stapled to his door, despite the efficiency, feels far too impersonal (given the… weight of her transgressions). A note slipped offhandedly into the envelope collection residing in his mailbox, on the other hand, feels downright intrusive and borderline stalker-ish. It’s soaked in the same energy of shoving love notes into locker grates in junior high, retreating with a whistling speed walk, and the sheer notion nearly puts a bad, familiar taste in her mouth. Surely if Zachary didn’t appreciate the method fifteen or so years ago, her next door neighbor wouldn’t, either. She doesn’t have his phone number, but sending a text would probably feel just as sterile as the first idea, chock-full of the same emotional sentiment as elevator music.  

Hey, so— sorry I accused you of being a felon! (cup-pong attachment). 

This conclusion, of course, is what leaves her clumsily following an apple pie recipe off of Pinterest on her day off, flour smeared across the crests of her sweaty cheeks and dusting the front of her Arctic Monkeys sleep shirt. The best way to express regret and make amends— the valiant, adult method— Y/N decides, is to confront the conflict head on, face to face, in the flesh; and the proper measures to decrease the likelihood of having a door slammed in her face would be the introduction of a baked good alongside her tight, awkward smile. A touch of sweetener.

The pie— honestly, as Y/N had pessimistically expected, despite the way she’d gingerly followed the digital instructions to the T— had dissolved into the kind of spectacular failure typically reserved for first-though tweets and mid-season AMC finales. 

The filling soaked through the undercooked base. The crust was too aggressively homemade— patchy in some places, too thick in others, with a venting cut-out that had vaguely resembled a uterus, or possibly a jellyfish. It was a shape that was hard to place. Ultimately, it was the kind of in-the-flesh reminder of her aggressively consistent inability to bake that had prompted her to opt for store bought treats. Namely, the cute little scones her cafe offered; partly due to the employee discount, and partly on account of how popular the menu item seems to be.

So, here she is; metaphorically twiddling her thumbs in front of his door on a Saturday afternoon with her knuckles curled around a paper bag of edible reparations, attempting to convince herself to just knock. 

Just knock. Just… knock.

She’s not entirely sure if the way she feels her pulse rabbiting (a steady, progressively intensifying thrum that makes her head feel a little light) in her throat should be credited to her general sense of apprehension addressing this, or the different lens she sees him through, courtesy of his video diary archive. She had always found the man next door attractive (it was unavoidable, really— she had a working set of eyes, after all), but the little research project had spun him up into a new light, and the lewd details still web across in the pit of her underbelly. For courage, Y/N puckers her mouth and blows out a deep breath, and then she lifts her free hand and raps her knuckles against the door. 

And for a long moment, there’s no answer. Shifting her weight from one knee onto the other, the young woman lets her eyes peruse over the crown molding that decorates the hallway. The only noise in the lull is the sound of the paper bag in her hand crinkling and the undeviating whir of the AC pumping along the floor. With all of the delicate, calm patience reserved for the waiting room in a dreaded dental appointment, Y/N casts a glance to her own respective door, only a few, short steps away. The stretch of lingering silence reminds her that he may not even be home at all, given that it’s a weekend, (and this whole thing is so impromptu, and strange), and—

Before the young woman’s paper-thin shred of courage inevitably combusts, the familiar sound of a door chain slipping open on the other side and then the door lock unfastening breaks through the haze of her thoughts. She freezes. 

As the door peels back to reveal her innocuous (tenderly sleepy-looking) neighbor— bare feet, sweats (the kind that cling to and hang from all the right places), conspicuously vulgar tee (Safe Sex!: two cartoonish, faceless lilac figures with their arms crossed and their hands fisting over the others’ phalluses), and gently sleep-mussed curls— Y/N can only blink up at him with all the words she’d rehearsed so meticulously lodged at the back of her throat. 

Finally, as if her sense of social awareness has kickstarted into recalibration, the young woman pastes a smile over her mouth, so flimsy she feels her lips wobbling as they curl around her teeth and so wide that her cheeks burn from the strain. The vague sense of anxiety coursing through her blood spikes, and the hammer behind her ribcage forces her numb tongue into motion off the roof of her mouth as her cheeks blister and her head swims.

“Hi. I, uh— I have scones. There’s, uh. Three of them, here,” Y/N launches, glancing down at the paper bag and nearly prying it open as she over-explains the unanticipated visit. “They’re not poisoned,” she tacks on, lashes fluttering as her nervous system forges on in overdrive, and the idiotic statement nearly has her gnawing her tongue in half the second the words slip off its textured, wet landing, “…don’t worry.”

With all the energy of a man limned in fatigue, facing a door dash delivery he’d never ordered, Harry blinks.

Y/N is a nice girl. Up until only a few days ago, in fact, Y/N had been just about the picture-perfect definition of Harry’s ideal next-door tenant; relatively reserved and just polite enough to bypass the awkward inconvenience that rode on the recurrent issue of their mail interchanging. There was, of course, the misaligned streak of vigilantism, but at her core, Harry’s sure that Y/N is still a nice girl. 

This theory in mind, the curly-haired brunette genuinely feels a little bad at the level of amusement swelling up within him as he watches her, with no apparent trigger, self-destruct in real time. Although, if he’s being entirely honest, it’s only a faint echo of a thought— all things considered— and is significantly outweighed by his mirth.

There’s a flavor of entertainment— a rare, emotional genre that lives in that exclusive umbra between secondhand embarrassment and morbid fascination, the kind that morally treads the same bandwidth as laughing at a video of someone getting hurt in an unpredictably ridiculous manner. And Harry— still fuzzy around the edges with the kind of creeping, misty stage of somnolence that dozing off midday entails (he’d been in the midst of a particularly important ritual; lying spread-eagled on the couch with one leg kicked up onto the back, half-engrossed in a documentary on luxury trains, eating dry cereal out of the bag when the drowsiness started settling like fog in the hollows of his limbs)— watches Y/N flounder with the same mild fascination he reserves for Youtube compilation videos of cats falling off of countertops. 

Her hair is slung up into a messy, haphazard updo, loose strands climbing out and stretching in soft static wisps to cup her cheekbones, and she’s wearing a short sleeve brown tee with a small Sip Happens logo embroidered over the left corner of her chest. It’s a coffee shop that the existence of vaguely lives in the dells of his memory, based on how often the man passes by it on his runs, and the wardrobe choice implies she’s either an avid punch-card user, or she works there. Tiny, almost imperceptible dry flakes of mascara cling to the soft skin of her under-eyes, like the layer of pigment has crumbled off her lashes over the course of the morning. Her cheeks are flushed as if she’s run a mile, and her grin (if it can even be called that) resembles trembling enamel more than friendliness. It’s cute in a way that probably shouldn’t be, doesn’t intend to be. Oddly endearing.

Apparently she has baked goods— scones, three of them, unpoisoned (which is a mildly relevant detail)— and she feels the need to announce it, so, based on context clues, he can only assume this element is related to her presence at his doorway. He thinks he can deduce what this is supposed to be (apology with a capital A; one that comes wrapped around café-sourced penance), but he hasn’t quite uncurled the warmth from the stretch of skin where his forearm had pressed into the couch for two hours too long, and her dewy pupils are cha-chaing behind her lashes like she wants something from him, so.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, finally. His voice sounds thick (aggressively all too familiar to the kind of husky sounds she’s heard from the other side of the wall); vocal cords blatantly weathered in sleep, (verve cudgeled in sex, palm probably all sore and stingy from)—

The curly-haired brunette clears his throat, and Y/N simmers in the heat welling up under her skin. 

“Are these—“ Harry nudges with his chin, pointedly into the direction of the paper bag lodged under her clammy fingers, “…are you sharing?” 

“Yes! Yeah. They’re, well,” she holds the bag out to him, her tone laced with only the kind of over-enthused notes nervousness could conduct, “they’re for you, actually.”

Slowly, one of his hands reaches out, and as he locks his fingers over the side of the bag— right beneath where she’s got her own grip clasped over the haphazardly rolled top— the only thought that the young woman can conjure is a hysteria-laden mental-screencap of an image she’d rather not describe out loud.

As if entirely to dismantle Y/N’s sanity, the sheer size of his palms and the way they cradle the bag as she hands it off is enough to make her feel like something vile and wicked is clumsily somersaulting in her stomach. The indisputable fact is this: they are just hands. Long, delicately svelte fingers; colossal, massively, unjustifiably large hands, but hands nonetheless. 

The other irrefutable fact? These are hands Y/N has watched in incredibly obscene action. 

The thing is, by all technicalities, he is so soft, and his current state does no favors to dispute this impression. Right now, sleep-tousled and low-toned, words spilling like honeyed molasses in the languorous husk of his words, the whiplash spills through her like dense ink. Delicate tattoos reside over and under his kneecaps in fine lines, and in every other circumstance, a soft beam chisels dimples into his cheeks as he casually toes the line between real, alive man and fresco escapee. Behind the door somewhere, he’s got a rabbit called Snuggles, and that’s the brutal anomaly, Y/N decides. It is the foundation to which the geometric edges of her brain refuse to bend around. Because there is a fine, fine line in the way his soft, indigo-lacquered hands stretch out to accept an olive branch sown from overly-processed carbohydrates, and the way they move on camera; the way they plant flat, open-palmed blows on warm skin like bruising kisses, the way they trace the pink welts smacked alive in their wake with a delicacy reserved for reverence. They’re strong, rugged, steadfast, mean—

The young woman’s molars squeeze into the smooth, gummy lining along the inside of her cheek. There’s a little vein that runs up along his wrist, and that tendon bracketed by that jut of bone flexes in a manner so heavenly when he pauses to shake his fingers out. The bag, by no surprise, is dwarfed in his grip, and Y/N stands there with his eyes feeling like sticky, heavy inkpools drilling her into place. 

“How thoughtful,” Harry responds, eventually, faux musing, and an undeniable, little smile teases at the corners of his mouth on the latter fragment of the statement, “thank you for the… unpoisoned scones.” 

Sensing the man’s amusement at her awkward introduction, Y/N restrains the vivid sense of embarrassment that buoys to the surface, instead opting to tell him, “Right! Yeah. You’re welcome,” as her face flushes. With the original point of the delivery in mind, the girl clears her throat. “It’s… well, it’s actually, like, an apology-slash-please-don’t-sue-me gift,” she admits, gnawing into her lower lip. 

He leans a shoulder onto the doorframe then, brows shifting (rising) just a smidge, as an almost imperceptible symbolism of intrigue, before they settle back into place. “Is that hyphenated?”

Y/N stares. 

“Apology-slash-please-don’t-sue-me gift.”

“I— maybe?”

For a moment, her neighbor doesn’t say anything. Meaty arms crossed, paper bag hanging out from the hand that’s tucked under inky, smooth muscle, dark, cherubic ringlets coiling around his forehead. He purses his pink mouth like he’s biting back another simper, and then he sighs theatrically. 

“I won’t sue you,” he murmurs, faux-rolling his eyes playfully, as if the notion involves him being the bigger person and shedding a grudge, rather than letting her settle into a rightfully earned consequence. “Do you wanna come in, then? Miss Hyphens. I’ve got tea.”

His teeth— the front two, blocky and just a tad longer than the others— gently lodge over his plump lower lip expectantly. “Or coffee,” he tacks on, casting his gaze briefly onto her workwear. “Whatever goes with… scones.”

Y/N, for all the time she’s spent living next door to this man, despite sheer proximity, has never actually, fully held a conversation with him beyond simple mail-swap pleasantries. And for a man she’s so thoroughly defamed— a man she’s practically publicly sacrificed on the altar of assumption— he’s almost unexpectedly forgiving. Sure, the sweeteners are working just about as brilliantly as expected, but the invitation, unanticipated nonetheless, throws her so heavily that for a long beat, Y/N can only wordlessly blink at him from the hallway. That is, until her social awareness mechanism, sculpted by a handbook of socially acceptable etiquette rules hammered in from her from kidhood, kickstarts for— what? The third time? Maybe the fourth? In all honesty, she’s lost track, and frankly, it’s by no fault but her neighbor currently interacting with her. The thing is— he’s not even inherently doing anything. Just standing there, propped up against his own door frame, curls tufting around his ears, dewy eyes vibrantly taiga-like. And in all honesty, perhaps the only thing worse than dragging his good name through the mud, like a public medieval ritual, is the way she’d turned around right after the fact to sexualize him behind his back. That part? The softcore porn part? The way something low in her tummy had swirled, seeing him like that, rings denting faint shapes into skin? That’s something she will not— will not— revisit contemplating while standing in the radius of his jawline. It’s not even a jawline, she thinks. Not really. It’s a weapon. 

And despite however shitty of a person Y/N believes herself to be in this particular moment, libel and objectification and all, the rational fragment of her mind (chiseled by those social expectations), considers that accepting a warm drink from her neighbor when prompted— as opposed to wordlessly gawking— is the right choice. The normal option. Something a normal person would do. The alternative is spontaneous death on his welcome mat, and frankly, she doesn’t have the social stamina for that kind of posthumous legacy. There are only so many seconds a person can stand there, sweating through their coffee-stained work shirt, before offbeat, maybe semi-endearingly awkward takes a sharp pivot into the direction of downright strange.

And right now? He’s looking at her like she’s still in the former. 

So, with her face hot and her hands cold, Y/N blinks and nods, anchoring as much nonchalance into her voice as she can manage given the circumstances, “Yeah. Yes. Sure.”

The young woman is not entirely sure what she expects of Harry’s apartment. Not anything in particular really, beyond the fact that the layout should, in theory, be a mirror of her own home right across the drywall. What she discovers, inching quietly across her neighbor’s living room, is that while the general floorplan is almost a precise duplication in terms of spatial organization (that, while they share the same, pasty painted walls and worn beige carpet), the actual integrity of his design sort of puts her own to shame. On the granite peninsula that juts from the wall in the little kitchen beside the living room, in place of where Y/N has a stack of half-sutured envelopes— various bills, coupons, credit card offers, that one cancellation notice from her car insurance she’d received months ago (now resolved, but something she’d forgotten to bin)— there’s a stack of apartamento magazines with a half-burned Le Labo candle on top like a paperweight. In place of the barstools she’d picked up from a garage sale, there’s a record stand: wide, wooden, sleek, and by educated hypothesis, probably full and meticulously organized behind the doors. A tall shelf lined with books resides beside the sliding glass door to the balcony; classics, topics on philosophy, fiction, and self help. One book is all about failed utopias of the twentieth century, and another is on the cultural significance of soup. A hardback edition of the Kama Sutra is crammed into the corner. 

Y/N’s couch was a hand-me-down from a cousin. A ratty, jet black recliner that looked like it withstood the tale of time, surrendered over into her possession when said cousin’s wife finally convinced him into a new one after their ugly little maltese scratched up the leather. Harry’s looks like it’s a direct derivative from an Eames design catalog page. It stands facing the flat screen on the other side of the room, and beside it, there's a floor-level chair that, paradoxically, manages to somehow look both comfortable and like the stiffest resting invention to ever exist. In the center, there’s a dark, wooden accent table and on top of it there’s another pile of magazines, as if for the sole sake of decoration, and a stack of ceramic tile coasters with mismatched mid-century patterns, each one seemingly a different retro motif— abstract fruit, vaguely psychedelic squiggles. Beside the handful of other eccentric decorations Y/N notes (a framed architectural drawing on the wall, a marble fig with a chipped stem on the bookshelf, a tray with exactly seven multicolored lighters— three of them are red— an arc floor lamp with a tan paper-shade that dramatically arches over the couch), she can’t help but recognize that the apartment is painstakingly clean. Organized. Enough for her to gingerly toe off her non-slip sneakers by the door before she makes her way further into his home. 

Instead of immediately taking a seat, the young woman hovers. 

The first words out of her mouth are: “Where’s your bunny?”

“Probably off eating cardboard, somewhere. He’s a very… independent sort of bloke.”

Y/N nods, as if the admission is entirely in the ordinary. The man turns toward the television, operating on low volume, currently detailing some sort of video inside of what looks to be a carwash, with a close up of a mechanism being the shot that plays as he acknowledges it. His brows furrow. “Care to learn about the… wonders of carwash mechanics— I dunno what the fuck this is actually, I was watching something about trains.”

He looks up at her, a lopsided smile ticking the edges of his lips when he recognizes that she’s just lingering by the coffee table like she’s unsure of what to do with herself. “You can sit, you know.”

Y/N blinks like a deer in headlights as she’s called out, limbs unraveling from the way they’ve caged over her chest in universal symbolism of apprehension. “Oh. Thanks.”

She’s kicked her shoes off, and she’s standing in his living room in a fashion that implies she’s afraid to touch something (lest it break), and it’s a sight that’s still, from a morally dubious standpoint, sort of deliciously entertaining. But, he’s a decent host after all, and she did go out of her way to bring him baked treats, which is a considerate notion, so he’s not going to let her literally stand there and stew in her own awkward hesitancy, no matter how amusing the view is.

“You brought scones,“ the curly-haired brunette twists his chin over his shoulder as he passes into the kitchen, quipping playfully, “That’s at least fifteen minutes of hospitality.”

When Y/N takes a seat on the couch, hands gluing to her knees— opting for the safe choice (she’s not quite ready to discover whether the leathery, pillow-looking togo chair on the other side will sculpt to her posture or annihilate her tailbone)— she discovers that this seat, at least, is more comfortable than she’d anticipated. She’s still not quite sure what to do with herself though. What to say, whether she should launch into an apologetic monologue on the misunderstanding (given his unexpectedly cheery disposition, she supposes she won’t have to grovel for forgiveness, which is a reassurance). Meanwhile, her neighbor busies himself in the kitchen, picking up an electric kettle from the counter and propping the lid open with a button on the handle, filling it with water from a filtered container beside the sink, and then setting it back onto the heating base that’s plugged into the wall. The process takes an entire, silent fifteen seconds.

“I like your place,” the young woman settles on, eventually, her eyes still wandering over the expanse of his decor. Her gaze ends up resting on a little bear statue on the TV stand. “It’s… nice. Like, quietly cozy.”

“Surprisingly no screaming women,” Harry responds nonchalantly, still turned away with his back in her direction. 

The comment catches her off guard, and the squeezy, sick feeling coils up her stomach at the reminder. Right. The monologue was… probably the correct choice, after all.

“Oh, God.”

“You said ‘quiet,’” Harry pivots, still only half-facing her (granting her the sight of his hulking shoulder), but he sounds far more amused then disdained, like he’s muscling it down and teasing, and a dimple presses into his cheek like punctuation before it fades out, “Not me. Tea? Coffee?”

“Yeah, please. Tea. I’m… sorry. That was— I don’t even know.”

Y/N wants to bury her face in her hands. She doesn’t. She keeps them very politely sealed over her knees, because that’s a new level of self-pitying pathetic she won’t let him witness, but she can’t bridle her grimace as she contemplates what had happened, nonetheless. It’s like a… bad memory she can’t burn out from behind her skull. 

Pulling open the kitchen cabinet across from him, Harry retrieves a plate alongside two mugs. One is a deep shade of blue, hand-glazed, with just enough imperfections to insinuate he’d either picked it up as one of those hand-made junk-donations from a thrift store or wheel-thrown it himself. The origin is the latter; he’d sculpted the creation in a little pottery shop downtown with a group of friends, years ago, and, admittedly, the shots the cohort had taken before taking on the crafting experience shows through its craftsmanship. The other is a white mug with a little doodle of an orange jellybean on one side, and it has a chip on the rim. Not sharp enough to cut, but just misaligned enough to require constant lip navigation. From the same cabinet (different shelf), he also culls a sealed cardboard cylinder of loose-leaf black tea that he prefers to order online. He reserves the chipped option for himself and carefully shakes out a serving into each cup.

“Hm, yeah. Horribly offensive,” Harry murmurs offhandedly, his voice laced with faux-disappointment as he twists the lid back on, “You should be flogged. But I’ll accept the scones as a plea deal.”

Despite the way the joke is delivered with no openly coy motive, spoken with the same energy as a jesting “jail” comment (no intended innuendo), something twists deep in Y/N’s belly when it lands. Something distinctly different from the shame that’s been bubbling. 

A nervous bark of laughter squeezes at her vocal cords, scraping its way out from the back of her throat before she clears it and pivots the topic of conversation sharply. She is not going to soak in that inadvertent double entendre or attempt to dissect what the suggestion means. 

“What do you do, um, for work?”

As the kettle continues to heat to the required setting, with the tea stored back into its spot and the cabinet door softly closed, Harry turns back to face his guest and reaches for the bag of scones he’d set onto the peninsula.

“I’m a videographer.” For a moment, his features crinkle up, green irises skating to the ceiling as if in brief thought, then smooth, “Well. Kind of. I was, now I just mostly stick to the editing side. I do, like, real estate listings for social media.”

“Oh,” Y/N says, genuine notes of intrigue coloring her tone, “that’s awesome.”

One of his shoulders rides up in a shrug, like the job is what it is, as he one-handedly spills the packet’s contents out onto the plate he’d earlier set aside— scones, three of them, unpoisoned. Although the job itself is comfortable and remote, with a wide spectrum of clientele (courtesy of his networking abilities), it has its difficulties as much as its perks. The man sets the plate up onto the peninsula as he discards the bag into the bin. “It’s alright. I used to do weddings and I always thought groomsmen choreography was tragic, but I’ve learned that you don’t know despair until you’re working with a realtor that looks like they’re being held at gunpoint because there’s a camera in their face.”

Last week, he’d been sent a collection of files in which, in the most polite terms possible, no clip was any better than the last. While technically filmed well (given that he partners with other reputable videographers he’s worked with before, usually borderline unemployed college kids looking for gigs, comfortable taking a cut of the profit— Harry had realized early on he couldn’t handle directing camera-shy gen x-ers without feeling incredibly drained by the end of the day, and honestly preferred the almost entirely remote work), it was the behavior of the agent being filmed that had made him cringe. He’d sat there, one hand dug into a bag of Hippeas and the other on the mouse, with the monitor screen providing the only light source as he watched through the attachments on the drive. It genuinely took so little effort to forge some drive into whatever pre-scripted spiel they were giving— check out these custom cabinet handles! or this gorgeous flooring, genuine wood, dates back to…— and flash a few smiles into the direction of the lens that Harry was sure just about anyone could do it. And watching some of the horror-show clips he’d received back left him slightly unsure of how exactly some of these clients managed to make a living to begin with. In theory, these people should already know how to sell a house, and the entirety of the process should be even easier given the fact that there are no limits on exactly how many clips are taken. And still, somehow, Harry had sat through about nine of the same— similar enough— recordings of an agent completely demolishing what little hope Harry had for the industry. 

Some involved long pauses and mispronounced words. Others involved awkward body language through the delivery— hangs swinging nervously, eyes lingering to the side where he imagines cue-cards were held up. Every clip involved the same lifeless tone and the same uncomfortable posture. A genuinely dismayed, semi-disgusted sound had spilled from his mouth as he witnessed the fallout before he’d plucked another puff from the bag and chewed. The thing is, yes— Harry can alter the footage. Cut any awkward breaks, sew clips together seamlessly enough if anything doesn’t work. But he can’t actually alter whatever the person is doing on the clip, and when every sentence sounds like someone is threatening them from the other side of the camera, he can’t even opt for voice-overs over b-roll. 

Needless to say, sixteen hours of editing later, Harry had a semi-presentable product to send off, but he also had a headache and a distinct mental note to never work with that man again. 

“That sounds… unreasonably bleak for a job involving marble countertops and voice overs.” 

“It is,” Harry admits, deadpan, “It’s like if HGTV and a hostage video had a baby.” 

He turns back to the kettle as it chimes, signifying the water has heated to the optimal temperature, and then lifts it off the base to pour water into both mugs and let the tea steep. 

“And I’m gonna assume,” he says, twisting his chin over his shoulder at her in acknowledgement as the water trickles, plumes of steam seeping up from the tops of the mugs, “you’re a barista? Lucky guess?”

Y/N blinks, batting her lashes at him from the couch at the assumption. “Why do you think that?”

With the kettle back in its spot, Harry turns slightly, one hand planted onto the counter and the other situated on his hip. The one on his hip motions out as he pretends to mull it over, brows furrowing, “Well, you’re either the Sip Happens unofficial brand ambassador, or you work there.”

He blinks and nudges his chin pointedly at her choice of wardrobe, a slow smile unfurling over his lips as the girl glances down and the realization hits her. She’d forgotten, for a moment, that she was still wearing her uniform from the morning shift, and she blinks back up at him with sheepish recognition swelling in her features, a little half-smile cresting her mouth. 

“Oh. Right. Yeah.”

“Milk?” his pointer taps against the granite, “Sugar?”

Y/N takes a deep breath. “No thank you and yes please.”

As the man turns on his heel and picks up a jar of sugar situated beside the kettle and then pulls a spoon out from a drawer, Y/N swallows and clears her throat again. The sound of the metal spoon clinking against the edges of ceramic overlaps with her inquiry as he mixes the sugar into her respective cup. “How did you get into videography?”

“I went to school,” Harry answers once the sugar’s been mixed into the hot beverage, and the leaves are in the process of settling to the bottom, swirling around in the liquid. He sets the utensil into the sink, and takes a mug in each hand. “And then I realized that law felt like a… very expensive way to slowly rot from the inside out. Just about as soul-sucking as everyone promised.”

The proximity between them decreases as he explains, and by the end of his statement, he’s stood ahead of her in a way that has her chin tilting up to meet his gaze. His fingers are cupped over the rim of the mug in a purposeful way— to have the handle readily available for her to take. She glances down at the offering, gingerly curling her fingers over the curved attachment so as not to burn her skin on the heated ceramic, murmuring a quiet thank you as he hands the tea off.

“Don’t worry,” he assures, voice low and teeming with low grade playfulness, “It’s also not poisoned.”

“Ha,” Y/N responds flatly. Despite the molten heat spilling through the ceramic and the way it stings at her fingertips when she touches it, she takes the mug by the handle and grazes the other side with the opposite hand. The heat, to some extent, grounds her. 

That same nervous edge itches into her veins as she watches him pick a coaster up from the stack on the accent table and set it down ahead of her. Then, he sets the plate of scones into the center, on top of the magazines, plucks one up, and takes a seat on the togo chair with his own respective mug. 

“What about you?” Harry asks, motioning out with the treat between his fingers before he takes a bite, “Caffeine always been your calling?”

It’s a good scone, he’ll give her that. He can almost taste the notes of apology sewn into the blueberry flavoring as he chews. He watches her shoulders sag as she breathes, her gaze skidding to the side in thought before it settles back on him.  

“Surprisingly enough, it’s incredibly hard to find anything besides museum curating or glorified church janitor work with a bachelors in anthro,” Y/N nods, a little simper gracing her mouth before she cups the mug up to her mouth and puckers her lips into a soft ‘o’ to blow over the heat. 

He takes another thoughtful bite, chewing slowly as his brows furrow before he swallows the mouthful. “Church janitor work? You need a degree for that?”

As Y/N takes a sip of the beverage, she raises her eyebrows over the top of the mug in response before she answers softly, “It’s technically a historical monument.”

“Hm.”

The third bite is the final one, and he works it over for a longer, quiet beat. And he looks so sexy like that, is the thing, Y/N thinks— carved jaw flexing, thighs split wide, gaze pensive, off to some corner of the room as if in deep thought. It has her head swimming, and simultaneously, the self-awareness has her pulse thumping heavily in her throat. She peels her gaze away from him, opting to sling it onto the television instead, where some stocky male is discussing something about car washes, and she buries her mouth against the mug as she tips it for another drink. It burns her tongue a just a tad, but the way the warmth spills down into her chest is a solid enough distraction from whatever is going on in the chair beside her. 

The silence, of course, doesn’t last. 

“The girls downstairs think I’m a dom-for-hire,” Harry comments with little to no warning, and the admission is so sudden that it catches the young woman off-guard mid-sip and causes her throat to close up around the heated liquid.

She presses the backs of her fingers to her lips as she chokes on the mouthful of scorching liquid, all to prevent coughing and spewing tea all over his carpet and his nice accent table. Summoning every morsel of strength to inhale through her nose and swallow the rest down, Y/N clears her throat as she glances over at him. She thinks he might be fighting down a grin, but it’s hard to say.

“I’m… sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Harry tells her as she clears her throat again, lifting a shoulder. She thinks he might be done. But then he says, offhandedly, like he’s just nursing this odd icebreaker and not currently wringing her guilt like a twisted wet shirt, “I reckon it’s a nicer thought than what some of the others must think.”

Y/N frowns, glancing down at her tea, where her own shiny, wounded-eyed reflection meets her over the burnt umber depths. Sincerity bleeds into her cadence, and she meets his gaze earnestly to repeat the words, “I’m sorry. I really do feel so horrible about it.”

There is, typically, something so oddly delicious in hearing a pretty girl say sorry. Watching it; in the right context, of course. It’s a strange predilection, really, and sort of sounds oddly cruel, but in all honesty, it’s because of how doughy they get. Because they become all doe-eyed, dewy; soft. It doesn’t have anything to do with some weirdly misplaced remorse in actuality, or genuinely negative emotion. Of course, that’s only in the right context, and seeing Y/N, truly frowning, a little ruckle creasing its way between her brows— the posture of her shoulders folding in just slightly as she holds his gaze and then apprehensively casts it down to the hot tea cupped between her palms— has a little burgeon of… not pity, it’s not quite that. It’s more cautious, and it blooms apart in that soft space between his lungs and his ribs. As misguided as his neighbor had been in her assumptions, his intent wasn’t to pestle her down over it, or contrive some sort of revenge by any means. Really, his intention was only to tease the girl, and he tucks as much earnestness as he can manage into his soft tone as he blinks and meets her eye, ducking his chin a bit.

“I’m just messing, yeah?” Harry tells her then, shaking his head, “It’s all good, really. I understand where you were coming from. And I’ve already accepted your scones as a plea deal,” his lips twitch, “remember?”

Y/N doesn’t immediately respond, and for a moment, Harry thinks she might start crying— God forbid— or something equally as uncomfortable, and then he’d probably truly be fucked, because what does he even do in that situation besides awkwardly side-glance? He’s already starting to mull it over, he remembers he might have a pack of tissues still tucked into the coffee table somewhere, courtesy of… things (whichever direction one would like to think in: probably yes), and—

“Do you think,” Y/N’s soft voice breaks him out from his thoughts, and he redirects his sight from the corner of the floor he’d reluctantly driven his eyes into to avoid the fallout in its full, uneasy glory. She’s looking at him from under her lashes, her short nails scratching over a divot in the sculpt of the mug, “they could work as a rebrand? A mass baked goods handout?”

The quip catches him so off guard that it takes him a second to respond. And then he recognizes that she’s attempting to jest— he pauses, intrigued, settling with his back fully against the backrest as he pretends to ponder. 

“Damage control in the form of a baked goods giveaway… I like it. I figured we let the press cycle cool down, first.”

“Right,” Y/N ducks her chin into a nod, “Standard protocol. Lay low. Tasteful radio silence. Avoid the balcony.”

A slow-splitting grin shapes its way around his teeth, dimples engraving into his cheeks, “Exactly,” and then he schools his features into a mask of mock-seriousness, draping himself in fabricated contemplation once more, “Maybe leak a blurry photo of me donating books to an underfunded library.”

“We can give you a rescue dog to hold,” Y/N offers, holding one hand out, palm up. 

“You’ll need to be seen crying on a bench,” Harry muses, raising his eyebrows and directing his index at her, before he rubs his palm down his jaw in consideration. “Something tasteful. Cashmere coat. Glossier skin tint. A latte you’re too tired to drink. Public remorse, but chic.”

“Strategic vulnerability,” Y/N nods, chock-full of agreement, as if they really are on the same wavelength, and then her brows pinch together, “What about a pinned instagram post? Empty chair, caption starts with something like, ‘I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but—‘“

“No, that’s too deflecting,” Harry waves out with his hand, reciting the plan as if he’s got the whole thing figured out to the minor details, “We draft a joint Notes app apology. Story post. You take full responsibility. I forgive you graciously.” 

“And I’m assuming…” one of her brows climb as she talks, “I’m writing this?”

“You’re head of PR,” Harry deadpans, blinking, “It’s literally your job.”

To stifle her smile, the young woman buries her teeth into her lower lip. She clears her throat and then asks, “Do I get health benefits?”

“No,” Harry responds, eyeing her over the rim of the mug where he’s hiding the beginnings of his own grin. He takes another drink, swallows, and then asserts, like it’s all common sense, “You get tea.” 

The duo settle into a comfortable silence, then. The kind of comfortable neither would have really anticipated, but with Y/N’s feelings on the matter clearly regulated and with the man’s (Y/N has assumed) issues on the manner squared, both parties feel as though they can breathe and just co-exist. Tentatively, Y/N is the one to shatter the lull this time.

“How did you, um. Get into that?”

A gust of air spills out from his nostrils, something like an almost-laugh. “Fake press management or the alleged spanking enterprise?”

Y/N raises an eyebrow once more, this time pointedly. “…Alleged?”

Behind the mug, a little smirk paints over the man’s mouth. “Very delicate segue.”

Harry had never really been a fan of labels. Titles. 

Roleplay-adjacent nomenclature; whatever the grand performance of slipping on a new skin before climbing into bed (or worse, therapy-scented kink discourse spaces) is called. Labels— well, those are cementing. Not in the warm, anchored, adult-in-therapy sort of way, but in the slowly-filling-sandbag-on-his-chest kind; the kind that wouldn’t let him wriggle out even when he’d decide he changed his mind.

They’re too serious. Too official altogether, and there was always something about the label-happy subculture associated with kink, in particular, that made him a little itchy. Acronyms, micro-identities, moniker-wrapped semantics, all to take the form of raunchy, glorified LARPing, clad in latex knee-highs, bull-whip draped around a nape like an explicit rendition of a loose winter-wear accessory, specifically tailored for those who liked to edge others just to see them cry— 

He just didn’t identify with it. Dom-status. Disciplinarian— he doesn’t like that one. It’s a word that, in his opinion, belongs more to the musty back corner of a Catholic prep school than to anything involving arousal. Something with chalk dust in its teeth and a ruler clutched in one authoritarian fist, the kind of persona that comes with polished oxfords and an aggressive disdain for late homework. It wears a waistcoat and has strong opinions on proper trouser ironing techniques (he doesn’t particularly care how many people say it’s hot— there’s nothing remotely erotic about a title that sounds like it comes with a pocket watch and a library card).

It just wasn’t him. Isn’t.

And still, somehow, he now exists, tangled several years deep into an increasingly absurd, niche pattern of carefully arranged connections with women who want one very specific thing from him: structure, and the inevitable sting that follows when they break it.

He likes spanking. That’s the clean-cut version, at the very least, that doesn’t devolve into the complexities surrounding why arousal and red-hot bruises go hand in hand. That’s all. That was how it started, and how it remains— more or less— though the logistics have evolved into something far more complicated and softly bizarre, the way simple shrubbery mutates into a crawling jungle over time. And the way it all began? It wasn’t even his idea, really. It hadn’t been a lifelong compulsion, or some neatly traceable fixation formed in adolescence that sharpened over time into a clean-cut kink identity. It wasn’t that profound. Or that romantic, or nearly as organized. He didn’t find kink through an orphaned copy of the Story of O left on a bus seat, or through anything nearly as intentional as looking for it. Instead, looking back, it was something that had settled over him slowly, then all at once, until he couldn’t remember a version of himself that hadn’t been holding the reins. He’d fallen into it in college, the way people fall improv groups or casual coke habits in that weird semi-adult stage where nonchalant self-destruction masquerades as self-discovery. Accidentally; socially. 

It started with an ex, naturally. One of those shitty apartments he was renting on the outskirts of his university with mold along the bathroom ceiling and a sink that groaned like it resented being used. The air always smelled vaguely of canned soup and boyish delusion, and the windows didn’t shut all the way, which meant everything— relationships, tea, existential spirals— happened against a soundtrack of distant sirens and someone else’s Spotify Premium echoing through the wall, including the throwaway comment about whether he’d ever considered putting someone over his knee. 

The ex in question was a second-year film major with a horizontal tongue piercing. She wore thrifted leather boots year-round, almost perpetually had this little patch of chipped red polish on her index finger that drove him weirdly mad, and once insisted she could tell if someone had divorced parents based on how they held a cigarette. (Apparently, Harry was obvious. He still refuses to comment on what kind of emotions that psychoanalysis stirred up). 

There were exactly three tattoos on her body: one was a poem for her mother, another was a joke no one else understood, and the third was just the word reminder in verdana font, tiny and delicate in that soft spot along the inside of her elbow. She claimed that last one literally served as a reminder for whatever trivial detail she needed to remember in the humdrum of a day, and offhandedly commented that the pain getting it done had felt strangely good, which in hindsight, should have been… an indicator.

Harry’s usual type had always been a tragic amalgam of self-titled tender parasite and art-soaked amateur philosopher.

Usually at least mildly broken. INFP’s, typically, because— yes, MBTIs carry more rational bearing than star signs. There was something vaguely magnetic about their (usually) self-imposed torment, the way they pressed into an old, metaphorical bruise on themselves like they wanted to feel the ache again. Creative types with unresolved emotional turmoil. It’s not that he has knight syndrome— he doesn’t feel the need to be needed and he’s never been compelled to fix anyone. Maybe it’s the fascination. Maybe, without ever acknowledging it, he has more in common with them than he’d ever be willing to admit. But maybe? It’s just easier to justify the fallout when it was always partway broken.

It’s always worked like this: he chases, coaxed by some deep itch inside of him he hasn’t quite ever been able to dissect, and they meet him halfway. And for some reason or another, he’d always seemed to gravitate toward something usually halfway to collapse. 

Emotionally battered baristas with bite, who’ll flirt by mocking his order and blushing when he tips; the Etsy shop entrepreneur with an anxiety disorder, hand-stitching lingerie as she watches true crime. Bookstore clerks with a collection of expired bus passes, calmly annotating erotica with a pencil behind the desk. Music school girls with frayed cuticles and a pack of nicotine gum next to their crumpled sheet music. 

And back in the day, a film major with snake eyes and a bruised peach of a laugh? She went right in the drawer of Harry’s mental taxonomy marked bad decisions with excellent legs. There was this trick she had with the tip of her tongue during oral (probably courtesy of the snake eyes— apparently wildly controversial in the piercing community) that, without fail, made his toes curl into the carpet like he was grappling to keep himself physically grounded. It was euphoric. 

They’d been seeing each other for a few months. Maybe less. Time was slippery in college—measured more in backlogged assignments and 2 AM curry fries than any real emotional awareness. It didn’t happen during sex, which— statistically speaking— would’ve made more sense: a bit of rough play, a tap that landed harder than expected at an awkward angle, a moan into his mouth in response. No, when the actual conversation happened, they were sharing a tea bag between two chipped mugs, and she was still waiting on the third coat of polish to dry on her toes with two of those stupid-looking foam-spreader things on her feet, and she’d asked the question the same, nonchalant way someone might ask for a stick of gum.

“Would you ever spank me? Like, for fun. Or, well— like, not for fun, too.”

It was spoken politely, offhandedly, like it was just another item on the grocery list. Eggs, coffee, a handprint across her ass. It was asked like this particular inquiry wasn't about to rearrange the way he saw sex, power, touch, and trust in the span of one aggressively under-furnished semester. Harry genuinely doesn’t remember the exact reaction he’d had, but the word spank had hit him square in the dick like a cartoon piano falling out of a third-story window, and logically speaking, he was probably weird about it. He was twenty. He still got flustered when someone made eye contact while eating a popsicle. He was weird about everything. He was still getting off to whatever suggestions existed in the first three queues of the Pornhub homepage, and had no sexual creativity, and he thinks he might have settled on something eloquent like, “Uh.”

He probably tried to be cool after that. Said something like, “Define spanking,” in that insufferable way he was just learning to mold flirtatious, which was an important development considering he’d only recently learned how to avoid burning scrambled eggs and still called his mother with a debrief of how his week was going every other night. 

He’s not entirely sure what it was even about him that didn’t just make her scoff and roll her eyes, but maybe he should give his past self more credit. 

Anyways, he did it, despite the entirety of the awkward preamble. He was careful, moving through the motions wearily, like he thought he might break something. Which, to be fair, was entirely the right, justified instinct— only the thing is, he’d missed the mark a bit by assuming it was her body that needed caution. It wasn’t. It was his own.

Because something in that moment short-circuited. Not in a cartoonish, lightning-strike way. More like a slow-burn short fuse in the recesses of his brain, something cellular, and ancestral, and alarmingly simple— he liked it. Maybe too much. More than he’d anticipated. It didn’t feel dark, or deviant, or devouring. No. It felt… focused. Singular. 

Harry didn't plan for it to become a recurring motif. It was never intended, from his perspective, to anchor him, and it certainly wasn't there to define him. At the time, he'd thought it was a one-time thing, like waxing his chest, or trying hot yoga, or letting someone gaslight him into believing that olives don't just taste like someone preserved despair in brine. At best, he'd figured it would be a strange, mildly entertaining story to pull out after drinks with a select, close-knit group of attendees. It'd fall in line somewhere between the one about the dentist with the singular nipple piercing and the time he'd mistakenly crashed a wake because the GPS rerouted him through a church parking lot.

And then she called him Sir.

One minute he was perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed he'd snagged off of Facebook marketplace (suspiciously low price tag— maybe haunted), wondering if tilting her too far would result in blunt force trauma via nightstand, and the next, she was twisting her chin to look at him over her shoulder, voice low and syrupy-sweet, eyes half-lidded as she was saying it— Sir— with this kind of reverence that made him feel like someone with gravity. Purpose. Like he was something more than a financially unstable, sleep-deprived undergrad sporting a semi; like something cracked open in her ribs every time she used it, and he was the only one who could crawl inside.

He remembers the sex was really good after. Her on top, nails digging jagged, rosy pink lines into his pectorals, her warm ass in his hands. Somehow, it made him cum harder, holding onto that; the warmth there. Feeling that. And after, she fell asleep on his chest, like she didn’t short-circuit the last decade of his sexual development in the span of a singular afternoon. 

Retrospectively, that was the beginning of the end.

A kind of slow-brand over the pit of him that he wouldn’t recognize had fundamentally changed his outlook until it was just… his norm. 

Anyways, of course he went to the party. 

Not a sex party— he wasn’t that interesting yet. Party was a form of loose, glorified nomenclature for the impact play mixer said film major later dragged him to. A very specific, curated event deep within the subgenre swamp of the kink community was a fairly unconventional idea for date night, but at the time, most of their dates consisted of glassy-eyed coffee stops between study sessions or makeout intervals on a creaky couch with something random on the TV in the background. He thinks it might have been called Spankapalooza, or something equivalently tragic, and it was held in a borrowed warehouse that smelled like spilled spearmint lube and leather conditioner. There was a registration table and color-coded wristbands. There were demo tables and a table spread of gluten-free baked goods.

He didn’t play. Just watched. Took mental notes while people negotiated scenes like they were unionized actors: pacing, tone, tools, aftercare methods. Someone got lectured in a New Zealand accent about not cleaning the kitchen counters. Someone else got paddled, smiling and bound, with a toy that was being handed around a group of three other people. It was all very adult in a way that felt mildly deranged and weirdly beautiful.

It was also, oddly enough, incredibly peaceful. Everything negotiated. Everything explained. Nothing creepy, or secret, or shameful. Just people with wristbands, and name tags, and decades of learned wisdom about which parts of the body bruise best and why it matters whether someone uses a bath brush or a frat paddle. One man— Gene, possibly the most soft-spoken person Harry had ever met— casually mentioned that he typically tasked his submissive with picking out a switch from the backyard if she forgot to charge her phone overnight, and (wow! Okay! moment) Harry had to physically sit down for a second just to process that reality (it was the only incident, to date, that ever managed to top the first time he’d had a threesome and had just ended up starfished on a beanbag afterwards in a state of catatonia).

And here’s the thing: he liked it. Not the performative bits. Not the leash-wielding, collar-clanking theatricalism of it all; it was the honesty. The focus. The moment of contact, the sting, the way a breath hitched when someone realized they were being paid attention to, thoroughly and with care. It felt like the kind of intimacy no one admitted to craving. It felt like holding something steady while the world spun stupid around him.

What struck him most wasn’t the spectacle. It was the precision. The ritual. The unblinking sense of acceptance, because this was normal, and attainable, and safe, and something that made him feel like he was on fire and so strangely serene all at once. The structure didn’t take away the heat— it was the heat. Like edging, but emotional. Like someone had found a way to turn boundaries, and sadomasochism, and niche methods for conflict resolution into foreplay. It made everything feel deliberate. Made the intimacy feel earned. 

It was an intimacy in and of itself.

When he and the film major broke it off, eventually, inevitably— blocking each other on social media but staying logged into the same Netflix account for the next three years— she was gone, but the idea of it, of this, had already imprinted itself somewhere deep in his wiring.

And the rest? Well. That’s as they call it, history. 

The blog was an offhand thing. Not entirely intentional. He’d launched it a year later with another girl he was seeing, and it was her idea, yet again. They filmed it (without their faces) because watching it back made her wet. It was grainy, and shot on his old iphone 4S with poor lighting. There was some animal documentary on in the background and the camerawork was shit in his shaky hands when he picked the phone up off the dresser to film the color her skin bloomed into. But then came a comment about branding sex in a cinematic light, something-something authentic kink education— her words, not his— and he’d laughed and said something noncommittal. They put it up. 

Eleven million profile views later it's just a thing. Another collection, like the totes, only this one is intentional— personal, and feels far more like an art form than a pile of cloth sacks in his pantry. It’s a folder of observations. A quietly color-corrected archive of records. Documentation of the way someone melts when they’re understood through restriction like it’s softness. The quiet smugness in knowing exactly what someone needs and how to deliver it in increments of five. 

When his casual flings rotated out like seasons, the blog stayed, and so did the growing name. The brand. The requests. Women kept showing up. People he’d meet at events, or friends of friends, recommending him through the grapevine like a sordid new lunch spot to hit up: “Have you tried Rings&Paddles? They have really good… service.” Although that analogy sounds far more prostitutional than it’s ever been, and he’d like it to be known— officially, on the record and all— that orgasms are not an actual menu item, readily available for order. More of a secret menu arrangement type-deal. What he does, according to the fact that the only currency he takes is obedience and punctuality, is basically just civic duty. 

Charity work, practically, according to the young woman who once messaged him on FetLife to say his videos made her feel "more emotionally regulated than therapy," which was both flattering and a sign that the world was very, very deeply broken.

He never labeled himself a dominant. Still doesn’t. The title feels too large, too performative, like a costume two sizes too big, even with an excel spreadsheet detailing his usual churn of dynamics, rules, preferences, timestamps, and all. The more rule-heavy type stuff, the kind that leans into that prep school punishment cosplay he’s actively disavowed? That didn’t come until later, and wasn’t inherently by his own volition, anyways. It escalated, as these things do, somewhere between a girl getting a recommendation from a friend for a method of mild catharsis (because she had a shitty receptionist job and little to no coping mechanisms) and the way he’d let her sit on his lap after and cry into his hoodie for twenty minutes like his loungewear was baptismal cloth for her emotional exorcism. 

Despite his inflated reputation and the nature of the hobby, less of these things were actually sexual than not. Not every session led to something carnal. Not every dynamic cracked something open beyond this deeply intimate genre of connection and, ironically enough, casual politeness afterward. Some girls showed up, got spanked, said thank you, and left like they were clocking out of a very niche part-time job. Some messaged him twice a month like it was a recurring dental appointment. A few never made it past one session, deciding— respectfully— that it just wasn’t their thing, or that Harry wasn’t their particularly-sought flavor of authority, and that was fine.

He didn’t push it. He didn’t chase it. The structure (or the psychological purge, depending) was what most of them came for. The sex, when it happened, was entirely incidental. But he did make friends along the way. Eventually, he’d sit with a repeat visitor after and discover they both liked the same music, or had the same disdain for couples matching roman numeral tattoos, or some equally surface-level interest that whittled a genuine bonding moment. 

And that? Those evolutions, probably alongside the whole mechanism of aftercare paired with vulnerability— incredibly important step to the whole process, in his opinion— started to foster something new. Just an… unacknowledged softness. An edge of rawness that started showing up in the way they wrote to him.

More emojis. More thank you’s. One of them left him a voicemail once— completely unprompted, completely uncalled for— just to say that he was helping her feel like a person again, that no one had made her feel this safe in years. That she didn't know how to explain it, but it mattered.

Harry had listened to the recording exactly once, standing in the cereal aisle at Trader Joe's, staring down the shredded wheat like it had personally wronged him. He'd paused it, locked his phone, and then bought two boxes of something sugary and chocolate just to reassert control over his own autonomy. It didn’t help.

Initially, Harry didn't like the feeling. It was strange, being mistaken for someone capable of that kind of generosity. He wasn't safe— he was consistent, and that was only because he was a stubborn creature of habit that was allergic to change. But the girls kept coming. Kept asking and saying things like, "Would it be okay if I told you when I mess up?" and "You don't have to reply, I just like knowing you're there."

And what was he supposed to do? Say no? Say, "Sorry, I'm only emotionally available when someone's bent over my lap with their skirt hiked up and a very clear safeword system in place" or, "Actually, I'm more of a benevolent pervert than a real support system, but thanks for the vote of confidence"?

He just said, "Sure."

And then he added a new tab to his spreadsheet, and then he re-sorted it by name and infraction type and timestamp. He never meant to become a fixture in anyone’s story, but apparently, structure— when delivered with a calm voice and a little spectacle— sticks. Even when the rest of it doesn’t. He was good at it. That was the problem. He was too good at it— too good at tone, at pulling someone across his lap and delivering a scolding that made them blush before he ever lifted a hand. He was the type of person who didn't make things weird. Who could calmly say things like that's ten for the attitude and two more for being late, isn't it? and could make a girl feel like following some arbitrary rules was the fun part, but breaking them, just a little, just enough to get his attention, was even better.

It’s sort of a bit like very hands-on therapy, in a way. Nowadays, only a handful of them, if that, are rule-heavy (and looking back, it was always that way— a full spread kind of catering project, instead). Not all of them are punishments. He tailors. Sometimes someone wants routine emotional regulation. Other times, a girl he’s been fucking basically asks for glorified lovetaps and his nails lightly trailing over the backs of her thighs before his fingers find their way between her legs. It’s not about control. It’s about closeness, the quiet calm that settles into his bones. The way he knows he’s giving the other person the same.  

But he likes spanking. All kinds. Silly, giggly bratting that ends in threats and cherry-red skin. Lazy, indulgent swats between kisses. Stern, structured correction with lectures, and safewords, and someone blinking up at him like they need to hear it— that what they did mattered, that someone’s paying attention.

And when it is disciplinary— when it’s not about sex, or flirting, or fun— he expects to be called Sir, because every man needs a little gravitas to offset the fact that there is a hungry holland lop roaming the same living room, between their feet, like an equal shareholder in every square foot of the property. It’s not about the title. It’s about the shift. The mutual recognition that they’re stepping into something together, something that requires structure, presence, follow-through. Something that says, I will hold you to this, because you asked me to, and I care enough to do it right.

So, that’s the story. There’s no deeper meaning. No psychosexual backstory he’s ready to unpack in therapy. And sometimes… 

Harry sits up and stretches over the table to reach for the next coaster available, setting his mug on top of it as he gives his palms room to motion. Folding his hands and his lap and pursing his lips as he stares down at a piece of the carpet across the room, he chews over where to begin. Eventually, he meets her eye. “So, there’s this girl in uni, right?”

Sometimes, when it’s late and the room is warm and someone’s looking at him like they trust him to know when enough is enough, he lets himself think that maybe that strange little corner of connection is the closest thing to intimacy he’ll ever not run from.

Read the next 8.3K here now or > access on tumblr 06/02/25 sign up with a browser (not the app) to save money!

[starlockheart]

Never lose me

kk Arnold x reader

summary: You and kk are teammates who are dating on the low. You both are going to the WNBA draft together, and after you accidentally make a TikTok and post it online for y’all fan base to see.

A/N: i havent wrote something in so long and i will get to work on that hazel fanfic i just been ….. busy with smtg 😅

april 11

You and the team had just won the natty and it's just been an amazing time. Especially since you had won it with your girlfriend kk, but only the team and some mutual family knew about it since u wanted to keep it casual.

You and kk are now on live before the draft since it was in two days. The livechat was roaring with excitement as everyone was happy about the win and the draft coming up since everyone knew about Pagie being the #1 pick.

“When is yall gonna make them tiktoks 😒”

“oml they such a cute couple”

“i'm wlw and love them together but we need to leave these girls alone!”

“are yall going to the draft?”

kk had read all the comments, they were funny, to say the least. “Yes girly pops we are going to the draft and we know yall can't wait to see our outfits.” kk was very giddy which didn't leave the fans eyes. 

lanihopps: “why is kk so giddy?”

mayra🦋: @lanihopps “because she got that good pussy from Y/n after the win.”

The comment got taken down very fast but everyone in chat definitely show it, including you and kk. You look to your left and saw kk holding back a laugh as you both made eye contact you both burst out laughing.

The whole chat was eating this up as the commets were going by so fast to the point where you guys couldn’t even comprehend what was being said. So you ended the live not even trying to deny the comments shipping yall.

It was now later and the clip had blow up on tiktok which isn’t a shock so as anyone would do when anyone is waiting for them to address the comments and shipping, yall stay silent. But who doesn’t stay silent is the team gc.

payless page: “did yall see the live these two dumbasses had.”

one link attachment

nonchalant alpha sarah: “just dumbass doing dumb shit.”

influencer era morg: “HELP??? did nobody notice what the comment sais?”

thirst trap aubrey: “i think thats the whole reason for the video morg…”

kk read the groupchat as your head laid softly on her lap. She knew that you both mutually agreed to keep the relationship on the low since the media was very batcrazy about the relationships at Uconn. But sometimes she wanted to show you off to the world.

You had woke up as you looked up at kk staring at you which was romantic but in this case she was looking a little out of it. “baby whats wrong, you’re staring at me like i killed ur dog.”

“i just wanna post you without having to stress about if the post sends the wrong message.” kk had started stroking your hair looking at you with the most authentic expression.

You wanted to say something but no words would come out or maybe the right ones wont come out. So you stayed silent which kk took as an answer. She took your hands out of your hair and stood up walking away from the bed, or you. The emptyness filling you as you got up to follow her.

“kk come back.” Was all that could leave your mouth not wanting to say something too much or too little. You followed kk to the bathroom as she laid on the sink hiding her head.

crazy to think that something that started as a funny life led to something so serious. Kk turned her head to the side you were as she just stared for a good minute. “Do you not want to post me publicly because you're scared of being known as gay?”

The question had thrown you off guard, but you knew you had to answer the question so you contemplated what to say so you said the right thing. “Kk I'm never concerned about being known as gay, I just believe it's the right time for things to happen.”

You stepped behind her pulling her into a backward hug. This calmed her nerves a little as she melted into the hug. “Trust I would love to post you but it's just not the time.” You said as you started to wrap your hands around her waist.

April 14

It was now the day of the draft and you and Kk were in the car taking pictures, and feeling yourselves in your outfits. As you scrolled on tiktok after posting a photo of you and Kk on your instagram story you heard the “never wanna lose me audio.”

“He dont never wanna lose me.”

“He dont never wanna —wait .”

“Pussy so good make him do what i say”

The Tiktok was a girl hard launching her and her man's relationship which was cute and an amazing song so you saved the audio in your favorites.

As you scrolled on a couple of more tiktoks and made a singular one with kk you finally made it to the draft. As you and kk left the car the photographer and interviewers were eating it up. Everyone knew you guys were going together even if they were convinced it was two friends.

The draft itself was amazing with the photographers, some interviewers, pagie being the number one draft, kaitlyn being unknowingly drafted, and aubrey getting drafted. It was truly a night of success and drinks, a lot of drinks.

As you and kk left the afterparty from the draft you and kk wouldn't stop giggling as your driver drove home. “Kk let’s make this tiktok I I saw.” This lead to “Never lose me” by flo milli to start playing as you started lip syncing the lyrics as kk smiled drunkenly in the back.

“She dont never wanna lose me.”

“She dont never wanna —wait .”

“Pussy so good make her do what i say”

At the last lyric, you focus the camera on Kk’s face as she stumbled the last words out trying to hear the phone. “Make her do what I say” As the TikTok ended kk looked over at you as you looked at it smiling without knowing what you were about to accidentally do.

“Are you… posting that?” kk voice snapped you out of your glaze. “uh no just wanted to uh capture the moment.” You smiled as kk noticed how perfected you looked under the new york city lighting as the windows were down blowing your hair all over your face making you look majestic.

kk pulled you into a kiss as your hand accidentally pressed post instead of draft. Your phone was dropped on the car phone as kk pulled you onto her lap. Your dress rolling up as kk’s hands were gripping onto your ass, your legs straddling kk’s lap.

The intimate moment getting heated before kk’s phone in her bra blowing up. You broke the kiss looking at kk before she nodded and you took her phone entering her password and look at her Groupchat.

“Are you two hard launching🥹🙌🏾”

“wtf are you guys drunk🤨”

“Yall finna lose ALL them interships😭”

You were confused as your eyebrow raised kk looked at you with an expression that had “What was going on” written all over it. “Your friends are talking about a video we posted, we didn't post anything..”

As you opened TikTok you saw the video you accidentally posted with 80k likes and 8k comments in only ten minutes. Your eyes widened as you put kk’s phone down and grabbed yours. “Bae, tell me what happened?” You tried to reply but you were to stressed trying to take the video down as your notifications were blowing up.

“i p-posted the video, im sorry i just always talk about when would should hard launch but i just posted that a-.” kk cut you off with a kiss, a warm and gentle lip to lip connection that brought your frown to a smile.

“its fine just take down the video of us drunk, and we will announce it tomorrow.” kk voice sounding comforting as it made u smile. You toke down the video as you laid on her lap while the city nightlife was all around.

guess kk could never wanna lose you.

A/n: soo this was shorter and worse then i intended for so sorry if its bad!! and this was something to start off, also kk is 19 and u have to be 21 to drink so… i believe it was underage drinking… whoops..