#caffeine rush vibes

[honeyboyfelix]

the most fucked up part about making dnd characters is you can do whatever you want with them but it come at the cost.... of having to actually play whatever it is you come up with

[1982grapejuiceblues]

The Mistake I

Series Masterlist | Official Masterlist

The Wrong Pitch Part 1

Summary:

She sat at the wrong table. He didn’t tell her. It was supposed to be a mistake — a mix-up, a meet-cute with no consequences. But something about him lingers. And something about her makes him stay. One unexpected conversation. One missed connection. And two people who can’t quite let it go.

A/N: This is the first part in my first Harry fic! I'm so excited, this has been a labor of love and an outlet for my creative juices. I hope you guys love these two as much as I do.

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings:

• Emotional miscommunication

• Mild angst

• Anxiety spiraling / fear of rejection

• Self-doubt

• No physical touch — only emotional intimacy

• Delayed gratification (they do not kiss in this part!)

• Vibes: if-you-like-to-suffer-softly™

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Tuesday 9:06 a.m. - Milk & Honey

Y/N was late, and it was entirely, stupidly, predictably her own fault.

She’d set her alarm. Gotten up early. Even made a checklist. But then she’d done the thing she always did — convinced herself she had just enough time for a homemade coffee and a quick scroll through email.

Which became a not-so-quick scroll. Which turned into a rush out the door, half-dressed and under-caffeinated, with a latte that was more oat milk than espresso and an anxiety level creeping into the red.

She was now power-walking down a narrow Notting Hill side street with her bag bouncing against her hip and her phone buzzing in her coat pocket like it had something judgy to say.

9:06 a.m.

The meeting had been set for nine sharp.

Her boots slapped the pavement as she skidded around a corner and spotted the café ahead — Milk & Honey, of course. Brody Talbot would only agree to a meeting at a place that sounded like it was trying too hard to be whimsical.

It was charming in that perfectly curated way: potted plants in mismatched mugs, fairy lights in the windows, chalkboard menu with extra loops in the cursive. Inside, it was a mosaic of indie girls, old couples with newspapers, and creative types nursing cappuccinos like they held life-altering secrets.

Y/N paused at the door just long enough to press a hand over her chest and try to slow her heart rate. She could do this. It was one meeting. With one very opinionated, very overrated, very tortured author.

She scanned the tables.

And there he was.

In the corner by the window.

Notebook open. Black jumper.

Curls falling lazily across his forehead as he scribbled something into the page.

Sleeves pushed to the elbows. Rings catching the morning light.

God help me, that is absolutely a Brody.

She approached.

“Hi!” she said, breathless and maybe too bright. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Y/N, from Primrose Literary.”

The man looked up. Slowly. Casually.

Like he had all the time in the world.

And that’s when her brain stalled out.

Because holy shit, this man was beautiful.

Not just attractive. Beautiful. In a way that made time hiccup for a second. Green eyes sharp and calm, mouth soft at the edges, a face that somehow made you want to confess something. And a dimple. Of course there was a dimple.

He blinked once, then tilted his head slightly. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“You’re… not Brody Talbot?”

He smiled. Just a little. “Nope.”

Her entire soul tried to crawl out of her body.

“Oh my god,” she said, already backing up. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were— You just looked very—”

“Writer-y?” he offered, amusement curling around his voice.

“Yes! Exactly. You looked like someone who would write emotionally devastating fiction and judge me for being late.”

“I mean, I can judge you, if that helps.”

She groaned, covering her face. “Please don’t. I’m begging you.”

“I’m just saying,” he added, “you walked in with the energy of someone who’s about to pitch a debut novel and cry about the advance.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “That’s painfully accurate.”

“I’m Harry,” he said, offering no last name, no explanation. Just that — warm and simple and a little too easy.

“Y/N,” she replied, like they hadn’t already been through this part.

“I know. You introduced yourself. Very professionally.”

She gave him a flat look.

He grinned.

Harry watched her flounder with the kind of amused stillness that only someone deeply confident — or deeply entertained — could pull off.

Y/N, on the other hand, felt like she was unraveling in high definition.

“I can’t believe I just sat down across from a stranger and announced my job title like it was a secret code.”

“To be fair,” he said, “you had a very convincing entrance. Firm intro. Apology with just the right amount of panic. Strong eye contact. That’s the kind of energy I want from my wedding speeches.”

She blinked. “You’re married?”

“What? No.”

“You write wedding speeches?”

He nodded, unbothered. “Professionally.”

“That’s a real job?”

“Apparently. People pay me to make them sound like they understand their own feelings.”

“That’s…” She narrowed her eyes. “Honestly kind of amazing.”

“I get that reaction a lot. Right after ‘you’re making that up.’”

She raised her brows. “You are, though.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Cross my heart.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is,” he agreed, “and also mildly lucrative.”

Y/N laughed — really laughed — and something about it lit him up a little. She saw it. That flicker in his expression like he hadn’t meant to enjoy this quite so much.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said, waving a hand between them.

“Crash tables?”

“Talk to strangers.”

“You sat down like you knew me.”

“I thought I did.”

“Well,” he said, “I’d argue you weren’t completely wrong.”

She tilted her head.

“You said I looked writer-y,” he said. “Broody. Like someone who’d glare at you for being late.”

“Right…”

“I do write. Just not fiction.”

“Wedding speeches,” she said again, still incredulous.

He nodded.

“What does one even say in a speech like that?”

“Depends on the person,” he said. “Some people want heartfelt. Others want funny. Most people want to sound like they’re not terrified.”

“And you… translate that for them?”

“I take their chaos,” he said simply, “and turn it into something that sounds like love.”

That landed like a stone in her stomach.

“That’s…” she started, then stopped.

He just looked at her — patient, still, a little too knowing.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, looking down at her latte. “That was more profound than I was prepared for on a Tuesday.”

Harry smiled. “You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

Next thing she knew, she was fifteen minutes in. Still sitting. Still talking. Still not texting her boss to say yes, I found Brody Talbot and no, I haven’t fantasized about throwing a drink in his face yet.

She didn’t even know what she and Harry were talking about anymore. Favorite cafés. The ethics of ghostwriting love. Whether or not books were better when they made you cry.

(He said yes. She said sometimes.)

There was something about him — his ease, his warmth, his unhurried way of speaking — that made the air around them feel like something different. Not romantic. Not exactly.

But charged.

Familiar.

Safe.

Dangerous.

And then the door opened.

She didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. Brody Talbot radiated disdain like a cologne.

Harry followed her gaze. “Is that…”

“Yep,” she said, standing too quickly. “The real Brody. The one I was supposed to impress instead of, you know, you.”

“I’m flattered,” Harry said, not moving.

She grabbed her tote. “Thanks for not being weird about this.”

“Thanks for making my grocery-list-writing morning wildly more interesting.”

She paused. Hesitated.

“You know,” she said, “you’re very good at putting people at ease.”

He looked up at her with that soft, crooked half-smile.

“That’s literally my job.”

And that was the problem.

Because he meant it. And she kind of wished he didn’t.

9:43 a.m.

Y/N turned toward the door.

Brody Talbot had spotted her, of course — standing with his arms crossed and a frown like someone had given him almond milk instead of oat. She gave him a short wave and started across the café, but paused — just for a breath — and turned back to Harry.

He hadn’t moved.

Still in the corner booth, arms resting lightly on the table, watching her with a soft kind of curiosity. Not clingy. Not expectant.

Just… present.

“I hope your client’s less of a diva than mine,” she said, half-joking.

He quirked an eyebrow. “You were kind of my favorite meeting of the week.”

She blinked.

“I’m not saying much,” he added, “but still. Thought I’d mention it.”

She smiled, a little caught off guard.

“I hope they know how lucky they are,” he said, more seriously this time.

Something fluttered low in her chest.

“They don’t,” she replied before she could stop herself.

And then, before the moment could stretch too long, she offered him a final, crooked smile — one part thank you, one part I wish this were different — and turned away.

She walked toward Brody like someone crossing a tightrope: careful, deliberate, already regretting it.

Harry watched her go.

Didn’t stop her. Didn’t call after her.

But something in his chest pulled taut, like he’d just been written into a story and cut from the next chapter before it started.

He opened his notebook.

Wrote:

“She sat down like the seat was waiting for her.

She left like the moment didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

I know it did.”

10:14 a.m.

Brody Talbot looked like he hadn’t smiled since the 2012 Booker Prize shortlist.

He was tall, pale, and sharp-edged — not in the sexy, mysterious way, but in the “I’ve definitely written a twelve-page takedown of a debut author on my blog” way. His coat was expensive and unnecessary. His frown was immediate.

“You’re late,” he said, voice flat as his espresso order.

Y/N inhaled through her nose and gave him a polite smile. “Yes. Sorry about that. The tube was a nightmare this morning.”

“I don’t take the tube,” he replied. “Claustrophobic.”

She nodded like he hadn’t just said something wildly out of touch. “Shall we sit?”

He dropped into the seat with a sigh like he’d already decided the meeting was a waste of his time.

Y/N followed, clutching her tote like it might protect her from his disdain.

“You’re younger than I expected,” Brody said, after a long sip of coffee. “Your boss said you’d handled difficult clients before.”

“I have,” she said smoothly, sliding out her notebook. “And I’m still here.”

He didn’t smile. But something flickered behind his eyes.

She knew the type. Egotistical, overly precious about his work, probably obsessed with the phrase art for art’s sake. A man who thought deadlines were suggestions and notes were personal attacks.

“My last agent,” he said, “wanted me to do social media content. Can you imagine?”

“The horror,” she said dryly.

“She suggested a giveaway. Like I’m a bloody influencer.”

Y/N scribbled nothing in her notebook. “We’d never ask you to give away your soul for engagement, Brody.”

“Thank God.”

He paused, then added, “Unless you liked the book.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“She didn’t like my last manuscript. Said it was ‘too internal.’”

“Isn’t that sort of your whole brand?”

That earned her a sharp glance.

She stared back, unbothered.

He set his coffee down. “You’ve read it?”

“All of them,” she said. “I liked the second. The third needed a stronger editor. The first one tried too hard.”

That startled him.

“You asked,” she said, flipping a page.

He crossed his arms. “Maybe you’re not a total waste of my morning.”

“Thank you,” she deadpanned. “I’ll put that on my business card.”

10:46 a.m.

They spoke for another twenty minutes. He talked in circles. Repeated himself. Lamented the collapse of intellectualism like he wasn’t sitting in a café filled with people reading real books.

Y/N nodded and made all the right noises, but her brain was elsewhere. Somewhere softer.

Back at the other table.

Harry.

The quiet way he watched her. The way he’d smiled when she said he was charming. The way his voice dropped when he said, “I like putting feelings into words.”

It was completely irrational. She didn’t even know his last name. But something about him had made the morning feel fuller.

This? Felt like a chore.

She realized with a jolt that Brody was still talking.

“—so obviously it’s not commercial, but it’s important.”

She blinked. “Of course.”

“You weren’t listening.”

“I was.”

“What did I say?”

“That it’s not commercial, but it’s important.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re good at bluffing.”

She smiled tightly. “You’re good at monologuing.”

A beat. And then, to her surprise, he laughed.

It was short. Clipped. But real.

“You’re a pain,” he said.

“You’re a lot.”

“This might actually work.”

She wasn’t sure if he meant her representing him, or something more ominous — like emotional warfare.

Either way, she was ready to get the hell out of there.

10:56 a.m.

They stood. He offered a curt nod and handed her a business card with only his name and a lowercase email address on it.

“I’ll send the manuscript,” he said. “You can send your notes. But I won’t read them.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I love being ignored.”

“You’re going to do well,” he said, oddly sincere. “Just don’t lose your edge.”

She wanted to say, I left my edge in the corner booth with a man who made me laugh before nine a.m.

Instead, she said, “I never do.”

He left without another word.

She counted to five. And then, before she could change her mind, she stepped back inside the café.

10:59 a.m.

He was gone.

She didn’t know what she expected — a note, maybe. His number on a napkin. His voice, still lingering in the air.

The booth was empty.

The seat was cold.

And Y/N realized something that she really didn’t want to admit:

She hadn’t just walked away from a stranger.

She’d walked away from a spark.

And she might never get it back.

10:48 a.m.

He saw her before he left.

She was sitting at a new table, diagonally across the café. Her back was straighter now, her shoulders squared in that quiet, professional way people do when they’ve put their walls back up. Her face was calm, practiced — polite in the exact way it had not been with him.

The man across from her looked like he came with footnotes. Expensive glasses. Sharp lapel. Frown lines carved into his face like he’d earned them. He gestured with his spoon when he spoke. The kind of man who probably didn’t ask questions so much as wait for silence so he could fill it.

Harry didn’t need to guess who he was.

Brody.

Y/N didn’t look miserable. But she didn’t look like the girl who’d laughed into her latte twenty minutes ago, either.

She wasn’t touching her drink. Wasn’t gesturing. Wasn’t letting herself take up the same space she had at his table.

Something about that bothered him more than he expected.

Harry lingered by the counter with the remains of his flat white in hand, watching the espresso drip into someone else’s cup. He should’ve left already. He knew that.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

Maybe a glance. A nod. A half-second acknowledgment that she still remembered what it felt like to talk to him instead of the person she was supposed to be meeting.

But she didn’t look up.

He considered staying — for real. Sitting back down in the booth they’d shared, pulling out his notebook again, letting the day stretch. But something about it felt… off. Intrusive. Like pushing his luck would break whatever weird little moment they’d already had.

So instead, he quietly reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled five-pound note, and left it folded under his cup on the counter.

He passed the table on his way out. Let his eyes linger for the span of a breath.

She was mid-sentence, eyebrows raised at something Brody had said. Not smiling, not quite frowning. Just… present. Distantly.

Harry stepped through the door, letting the bell chime softly behind him.

He didn’t look back.

11:52 a.m.

He walked. Aimless, slow, hands in his pockets, mind full.

Past the florist next door. Down toward the canal. A street performer was tuning a guitar just outside the station, playing half-chords that didn’t go anywhere.

Harry kept walking.

She hadn’t looked up. And why would she?

She was doing her job. Meeting her author. Handling her morning like the competent, sharp, slightly chaotic literary agent she clearly was.

What they had — that half-hour window of strangeness and connection — it didn’t mean anything.

Except… it kind of did.

He hated that. The way it clung to him. Like fog in his chest. Not heavy, just… present.

He pulled out his phone and opened Notes.

Typed:

I shouldn’t care.

But she made me want to listen to myself speak.

That doesn’t happen often.

Deleted it. Started again.

There was something there. I know there was.

It felt like breathing with someone else in the room.

No. Too much. Too abstract.

Deleted it again.

12:43 p.m.

He sat on his sofa. One leg curled under him, tea on the coffee table. Notebook open to a blank page.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then wrote:

She sat across from me like it wasn’t a mistake.

Like the seat had always been mine.

Like maybe I was supposed to be there.

Then:

I wanted to ask her to stay.

I didn’t.

She left.

I watched her walk toward someone else.

And I didn’t stop her.

Because I didn’t think I had the right to.

He closed the notebook before he could second-guess it.

Ran a hand over his jaw. Pressed the heel of his palm against his eye.

It was nothing.

A stranger. A spark. A moment.

But still… he felt off.

Like something had been almost real, and now it was out of reach.

3:10 p.m.

He passed the café again.

Didn’t even plan to — he was just walking, really. But when he saw the familiar string of fairy lights through the window, his heart gave a little thud he pretended not to notice.

He slowed down.

She wasn’t there.

Different crowd now. A group of friends chatting over croissants. A man in a suit reading a thick paperback. An older woman sipping something bright green with both hands wrapped around the cup.

The booth was empty.

He stood at the edge of the window, looking in for a second too long.

And then kept walking.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for.

He just knew that nothing else that day had felt as vivid as the first five minutes of it.

6:03 p.m. - Y/N's Flat

Her flat was too quiet.

It wasn’t usually a problem — she liked the quiet. She’d picked this place because it was small and cozy and didn’t echo when she walked barefoot across the hardwood floor. But tonight, the silence felt different. Like it was waiting for something she hadn’t said yet.

She stood in the kitchen, staring at the stovetop like it had personally offended her. The pasta was overdone. The sauce was barely warmed through. She didn’t even bother with a plate — just poured it into a chipped ceramic bowl and sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine she didn’t remember opening.

The light above her hummed faintly. Her phone buzzed once. Then again.

Two new emails. Both boring.

She didn’t open them.

She stared down at her bowl, fork dangling from her fingers, and let the weight of the day settle on her shoulders.

It wasn’t supposed to matter this much.

But it did.

6:16 p.m.

She hadn’t meant to sit with him.

That was the thing she kept circling back to — the randomness of it. How easily it could’ve gone another way. If she’d arrived five minutes earlier. If she’d looked left instead of right. If he hadn’t looked like a writer.

But he had.

He’d looked like the kind of person who knew how to listen — really listen. The kind of man who wrote longhand and drank coffee slowly and said the word romantic like it wasn’t embarrassing.

She hadn’t expected to like him.

She definitely hadn’t expected to leave the conversation feeling like she was walking away from something unfinished.

It was a mistake. A mix-up. A one-off interaction.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not in the swoony, fairy-tale way. She wasn’t an idiot.

It was just… something shifted.

And she felt it.

Still felt it, hours later, like an echo.

6:42 p.m.

The water was too hot, but she didn’t get out.

She lay still, arms floating, trying to focus on the quiet splash of the bathwater against the tub. Her phone buzzed on the counter. She ignored it.

Tried to think about work. About the manuscript she needed to review. About the client who’d ghosted her for a week. About Brody, whose ego was roughly the size of London.

But instead, she thought about dimples.

And green eyes.

And that line — “People don’t know how to say what they mean.”

And the way he’d looked at her when she told him his job was weirdly romantic.

He hadn’t laughed it off.

He’d just… seen her.

And now he was gone.

And she didn’t know how to explain why that mattered.

7:12 p.m.

She curled up on the couch, still damp from the bath, oversized jumper sleeves pulled over her hands. The wineglass was on the floor beside her. Her planner was in her lap. She hadn’t written anything yet.

The page was blank.

She flipped back a few days, just to ground herself. Checked her own handwriting like it might remind her who she was before this morning happened.

But all she saw was white space.

Like something had started today — and she didn’t know how to write it down.

Eventually, she opened a new page in her notes app. Started typing, slowly.

Today I made a mistake.

Sat down at the wrong table.

Met a stranger.

Talked about nothing.

Felt more like myself than I have in weeks.

Then, under that:

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

She didn’t delete it.

She didn’t send it to anyone.

She just stared at it until the screen dimmed.

8:04 p.m.

She poured another glass of wine and walked into the bedroom. Turned on the fairy lights. Crawled into bed fully dressed, covers pulled up over her legs like armor.

She opened Instagram again. Searched Milk & Honey Café. Scrolled. Searched her own photos, wondering if maybe she’d caught him in the background of something — a ghost of him somewhere.

Nothing.

She didn’t know why that stung.

She reached for her planner again, flipped to Sunday, and wrote:

Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m.

Then circled it.

Then added a question mark.

Just to keep herself honest.

9:12 p.m.

She turned out the light and lay in bed, wide awake.

And when she finally drifted off — slow, heavy, unwilling — she dreamed about a corner booth, a cold cup of coffee, and a man with ink on his fingers who smiled like he already knew the ending.

Wednesday 8:04 a.m. — Y/N's Flat

The sun had the audacity to be golden.

The kind of light that filtered through gauzy curtains and made everything feel softer than it deserved to be. The kind of light you woke up to when something good was supposed to happen. Not when your stomach was twisted and your brain was still playing back a voice you barely knew but couldn’t forget.

Y/N lay in bed longer than usual.

Eyes open. Motionless. Staring at the ceiling like it might offer some answer to a question she hadn’t asked out loud.

What was that?

She didn’t say it. But it sat there — right in the center of her chest, heavy as anything.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t even supposed to happen. But now it lived somewhere in her, and she didn’t know how to unfeel it.

She finally got up around 8:17, shuffled into the kitchen barefoot, and stood in front of the kettle like it owed her something.

Her planner was still on the table.

The line she’d scribbled the night before — Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m. — stared back at her like a dare.

She hadn’t crossed it out.

She hadn’t meant to write it seriously. It was just a fleeting, impulsive maybe. An if-I-see-him-it-was-meant-to-be kind of note.

But now it was morning.

And maybe that felt too loud.

8:34 a.m.

She brushed her teeth with one hand and scrolled through her calendar with the other.

Two calls. One deadline. A reading sample from a client who “just wanted to see if the concept made sense” and had sent twelve pages of character backstory with no plot.

But still — her eyes kept flicking back to the corner of the mirror. To her own face.

She looked the same.

Except she didn’t feel it.

Her reflection stared back, still and a little guarded. Like she was waiting for something.

You’re not going.

It’s stupid.

It wasn’t real.

She picked out jeans and a soft jumper. The same coat she wore yesterday.

Told herself it was just what was clean.

8:59 a.m. — Y/N's Street

She wasn’t walking fast. That would make it obvious.

She wasn’t checking her watch, either.

She wasn’t doing anything except… heading in that direction. Coincidentally. Casually. Just in case she wanted another coffee.

That’s what she told herself.

But her heart sped up as soon as the café came into view.

And that’s when she saw it.

The booth. The table. The seat by the window.

Empty.

Just like yesterday.

No curls. No notebook. No dimple half-hidden behind a coffee cup.

Nothing.

She stood outside for a second, frozen, her hand half-raised toward the door.

And then she turned around.

Walked straight past it.

Didn’t look back.

10:24 a.m. — Y/N’s Office

Y/N stared at the blinking cursor in her inbox like it was mocking her.

Subject: Quick follow-up on Brody

From: Her boss, naturally

Message: Did you manage to get anything useful out of him yesterday?

She could answer that.

She could talk about his refusal to cut the prologue, his disdain for all marketing language, the fact that he referred to himself as “a vessel for unfiltered emotion” without irony.

She could even mention that he called her “tolerable,” which, from Brody, might actually be a compliment.

But she didn’t.

Because none of that felt like what the meeting had really been about.

She minimized the window and leaned back in her chair, letting her gaze drift toward the stack of manuscripts on her desk. Normally, she found comfort in them — in the work, in the flow of someone else’s story.

Today, it felt like static.

She pulled out her phone.

Scrolled to the planner photo she’d taken the night before. The one where she’d written:

Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m.

She hadn’t gone in.

She couldn’t bring herself to.

But now she was sitting at her desk feeling like she’d missed something. Not just a second chance, but… clarity.

10:46 a.m. — Harry’s Flat

He was still wearing the same coat.

It was too warm for it now, but he hadn’t taken it off after he got home — hadn’t really done anything except move around his flat like a ghost.

He picked up his phone three times.

Didn’t text anyone.

Didn’t open Instagram.

Didn’t write.

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. Just dull and lingering. The kind that makes everything feel one step to the left — like you’re moving, but nothing’s quite aligned.

He sat on the floor, back against the couch, notebook open in his lap.

Blank page.

The pen hovered for a long time.

Then he wrote:

What’s the word for when someone leaves and you don’t even know them well enough to miss them but you do anyway?

And then:

I think I was waiting for something and didn’t realize it until I thought it might show up again.

He stared at the page.

Then scribbled it out.

11:12 a.m. — Y/N’s Office

She tapped her pen against the side of her desk.

Five times.

Then she stood up. Pushed her chair in. Walked down the hall to the break room. Poured coffee. Didn’t drink it.

When she got back to her desk, she opened a new tab and typed:

Milk & Honey café Notting Hill staff

She didn’t even know what she was hoping to find. A name? A website? A list of people who worked there? Maybe some kind of event listing with his name on it?

But it led nowhere.

The café had no online footprint beyond its Instagram — and the last post was a photo of a croissant three weeks ago with the caption “Little joys.”

She stared at it for too long.

Then finally, quietly, she whispered:

“I should’ve stayed.”

And it wasn’t about the coffee.

11:38 a.m.

He found himself back at his desk.

Laptop open. Cursor blinking in the middle of a speech he was supposed to have finished yesterday.

He typed:

“Sometimes you meet someone for five minutes and they rearrange your furniture without touching a thing.”

Paused.

Deleted it.

Rewrote:

“You made me feel like the room had better lighting.”

Nope.

Backspaced again. Too sentimental. Too obvious. Too—

His phone buzzed.

Client.

He ignored it.

He flipped back to the page from earlier. The one with her name at the top.

Y/N

Didn’t stay.

Maybe she thought it was nothing.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe I just want her to be wrong.

He closed the notebook.

Stood up.

This time, he didn’t think about where he was going.

11:59 a.m.

She didn’t even grab her coat.

Just her bag, her phone, and a sharp tug of instinct.

The manuscript on her desk could wait. Brody’s ego could wait. The emails, the edits, the never-ending cycle of deadlines — they’d all still be there in an hour.

But the pull?

That what-if?

That felt time-sensitive.

She was halfway down the block before she even checked the time.

12:03 p.m.

His steps were steady, but not rushed.

He didn’t think she’d be there. That would be too neat, too cinematic. And he didn’t believe in timing like that.

But he still wanted to sit at the table again. Just to remember. Just to feel it.

That energy. That pause. That maybe.

12:06 p.m. — Milk & Honey

Y/N rounded the corner just as Harry stepped up to the door.

They saw each other through the window first.

He froze.

She did, too.

Time paused — not dramatically, not in a crashing, heart-stopping way. Just… softly. Like a breath held a beat longer than it should be.

And then he smiled. Small. Gentle.

Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

And she smiled back.

Like maybe she could.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Part 2

[rambling-at-midnight]

Guide Me Home

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: While walking downtown, you inhale fear toxin. It's up to the Bats to find you before your heart gives out.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Scarecrow attack, (kind of) graphic hallucinations (only a small allude to blood though)

Fun fact: As I wrote this, 'quiet' started to not look like a word anymore.

You rub at your eye, muttering below your breath. Wind has been whipping through the Gotham streets all day, drying out your contacts to the point of discomfort.

The next time you blink, one flips up. Cursing, you cup a hand over the affected eye and blink until the stupid contact rights itself. Digging around your purse, you find your suspicions to be true: after the last time you needed to use your emergency backup contacts, you forgot to replace them. The small bottle of contact solution is missing, lost to the abyss of the purse or somewhere else. All you know is that it’s not here.

The only alternative is your glasses, and those are always a last resort. With an outdated prescription, uncomfortably heavy bridge, and scratched lenses, they’re far from ideal.

It’s fine. You’ll splash some water on your face when you get to the cafe and blink a lot. They’re fine.

Your friend is already sitting by the time you get there, but hasn’t ordered their drink yet. You haven’t seen them for several months, though you used to see each other every day during undergrad. They’re only here for a work conference. They live in Metropolis now, and are wearing an ‘I SURVIVED MY VISIT TO METROPOLIS’ shirt to show it. A couple Gothamites around them are actively laughing into their hands at the sight of it. After all, compared to this city, really nothing is worse.

After the usual greeting, hug, and exclamations over how long it’s been, you say, “Sorry, but my contact’s actually killing me right now. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll watch your stuff,” they say cheerfully.

The bathroom’s about as good as someone could hope for in Gotham. The remains of scrubbed-away graffiti lingers on the wall around the mirror, and a paper towel with a suspicious red stain hangs over the edge of the trash can. Not quite the vibe this place is going for, judging by the painted ivy around the walls and the hanging plants, but oh well.

You blink, squeeze your eyes shut, rub them, and open them again. Much better.

There’s a drink in front of your friend by the time you make it back to the table they found, pushed in the back corner where things are a little quieter. “They have seasonal syrups,” they say, sipping the drink. “Though a lot of them are named after supervillains.”

You scoff and shrug off your coat. “Please. Clayface is hardly a supervillain. He’s just a washed-up actor.”

“That must be nice,” your friend says wistfully. “Did I tell you I had to replace my car last month?”

“No!”

“Yeah! Some alien dictator had beef with Superman. A lot of cars were thrown in that fight.”

“Ugh,” you say wistfully. “We had some good memories in that car.” They’d had it since undergrad.

“Gone but never forgotten,” they say, holding their cup up for cheers, and you both remember that you haven’t ordered anything yet.

Even though you’re on a bit of a caffeine ban—boyfriend’s orders—you order a coffee. One a day won’t hurt you, not when you were averaging at least four during the recent busy season. The pathology lab you work at always has a huge rush of biopsies ordered between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. Now that it’s a little into January, you’re not scrambling quite so much.

With your drink in hand, you head back to the table to keep catching up. Your friend started a new job with a much better boss than their old one. They’re thinking about proposing to their partner of five years. Their dog got into their family’s big holiday meal and they had to order last-minute Chinese takeout instead. And they can’t decide whether to cut their hair or keep growing it out.

Then it’s your turn. You’re four years into your job at the lab, kind of feeling like you want a change, but the generous Christmas bonus is making you think twice. Your apartment is okay but not nice. Your cat is healthy and happy and extremely spoiled. Your family lives across the country, all with separate plans, so you stayed in Gotham for the (surprisingly uneventful) winter.

“What did you do for the holidays, then?” your friend asks, their drink long since finished. Judging by their eyes drifting back to the counter as you speak, they want another.

“My boyfriend’s family celebrates Hanukkah and Christmas,” you say. “Nothing too fancy, of course, none of us are terribly religious. But it was nice to see each other on a regular basis for a week straight.” Jason would disagree, but only out of principle. “We’re all busy people.”

“And your boyfriend? Jason, right? How is he? What does he do for work, again?”

Here comes the hard part. No matter what happens in your personal life, you can’t talk to anyone about it unless they’re in the know. Keeping Gotham safe requires a fairly large system; you and several other scientists or similar professionals are able to contact the Bats through Leslie Thompkins, Lucius Fox, and Commissioner Gordon, but of that number, only a fraction know their identities.

Working overtime at the lab as a new hire, you were the only one Leslie could reach at midnight when Black Bat came in contact with a mysterious substance through an open wound. From midnight to eight a.m., you collected blood and skin samples with hands that shook under the scrutiny of Batman’s white-lensed gaze. Your treatment was a gamble but a success, and after that, the Bats started to come to you more and more. So many of their rogues use biowarfare, after all. Still, it took over a year for Black Bat and Spoiler to take off their masks around you. At that point, you’d only seen Red Hood once, when he brought Robin in and ordered you to never tell Batman that he’d done so. Months after that, he took off his helmet around you, but only because of a nasty cut on his neck, and the domino mask beneath it stayed on. You’d known each other for a year and a half before he spoke more than five curt words to you at a time. Analyzing a new street drug was the first time you two ever worked together, and it was fun. After that, he just kept coming back.

It took so long to gain their trust, and you won’t risk it. But there are so many secrets. How can you explain to anyone else that not only is your boyfriend related to Bruce Wayne—yes, the Bruce Wayne of Gotham, billionaire, CEO, activist, and philanthropist—but he is, in fact, the man’s very publicly dead son?

So you can tell people about your boyfriend named Jason. You can’t introduce him to anyone from outside Gotham; the jagged scar on his cheek and glowing green eyes tend to raise more questions than answers. You can mention that he has a large family. You can’t tell them who his family is. You can tell them that Jason works flexible hours, usually at night, so the two of you see each other often despite your busy schedules. You can’t tell them what Jason actually does for work.

“He runs a not-for-profit community service organization,” you lie, the words familiar and tasteless from how often you’ve had to say them. And he sort of does, but with a lot more violence and criminal cavorting than most other not-for-profits. “He’s really passionate about helping Gotham’s kids that come from low-income households.” The foster system reform laws passed last year were lobbied by Wayne Enterprises, but it was the Red Hood showing up in politician’s houses in the dead of night that really sped up the process.

“I talked to Avery the other day,” your friend says. “They’re convinced you’re making him up.”

You sigh. Avery is another friend from college. You two were in the same friend group for years, but were never particularly close outside of it. “We don’t like to take pictures together, okay?”

Your friend eyes you with a faint air of dissatisfaction. “Well, if you say so. I was actually hoping to meet him while I’m here.”

You try not to let it show how your heart leaps into your throat at the thought. Around the lump, you say, “I’m sure he’d love to, but he’ll be stuck all day at the office.” Lie. He’s at home right now, baking muffins and wearing an apron with the words ‘Kiss the Cook.’ Damian and Tim scribbled over the two ‘S’s with Sharpie to make it ‘KiLL the Cook,’ but the sentiment is still there.

“Right,” they say slowly.

The meetup doesn’t last long after that. At the end of it, you hug and promise to meet up more often, even though it’s unlikely. With a wave, they head off for their conference, and you’re almost out the door when you blink wrong and—

Half the world goes blurry.

You feel the contact fall down your cheek and onto the ground.

“Goddamnit,” you hiss under your breath.

Glasses it is.

You’ve been wearing contacts for so long that you can take out the other one without breaking stride. The wind hasn’t let up in the slightest, and it makes your nose run.

Sniffling slightly, shoulders hunched against the chill, you don’t see the pumpkin until it’s too late.

They’re after you.

It’s not safe, not for you, not for anyone, they want you, they’re grabbing you, hands on your shoulder, people screaming—screaming at you—for you to stop—no—for—for something to stop?

Something is wrong. Dimly, in the back of your mind, you know something is wrong, but your hands are shaking and your bag is ripping, someone is clawing at you, screaming, desperate, they want you to fall back so they’re safe (from what?) and someone else shoves you and you go spinning out, bag in one direction and you in the other and—

They’re changing, the person clawing at you, turning into a monster, and you scream.

They’re after you

(who is after you)

They want to hurt you

(why)

(what is going on)

And you can’t see, something is wrong, you hear glass crunch and then the whole world goes out of focus.

You can’t see.

They’ll get you if you can’t see, and now you can see them, the dark shapes rising from the shadows, claws out and maws gaping, hungry, hungry, hungry for you and your marrow and your heart and they’re going to get you—

You run.

You trip over something (or someone; something like a bone crunches) and your heel slides and your hands catch you but not really, chin clipping the ground so hard your teeth click, and your hands burn, and your chin aches, but they’re still behind you, behind and getting closer—

You run.

You run and they get closer and you see the corner of something dark and blurry, and maybe it’s another monster or maybe it’s a building, and you skid to a stop and throw yourself behind it.

It’s not a monster. It smells awful—a dumpster—and the ground is wet, you hope from rain, but maybe it’s blood

(you’re sitting in a pool of it)

(you’ll be covered)

(the monsters will smell the blood and come running and they’ll hear you shuffling, they’ll hear you panting, they’ll hear your heart pounding, pounding, pounding—)

You scramble to the farthest corner between the brick building’s corner and the dumpster—maybe their clawed arms will be too short to reach you—and hide your face in your hands—you need to stop breathing so loudly—you need to be quiet, quiet, quiet—

People continue to scream. The city, the city Jason and his family try so hard to protect, everyone is dying and you’re going to die and maybe they’ll die, too, or maybe they’ll survive, and maybe they’ll find your dead body and that would ruin Jason, or maybe they won’t and you’ll rot behind the dumpster, smelling just as bad as the trash inside it—

Quiet quiet quiet.

You can’t stop shaking, your teeth won’t stop rattling, and you have to be quiet quiet quiet.

But your heart keeps pounding, faster and faster. It hasn’t slowed down since the monsters came, it’s only getting louder and faster.

Dimly you think you might be having a heart attack.

Everything gets a thousand times worse when one of the monsters shouts your name.

How do they know your name?

Footsteps on the pavement and people have stopped screaming.

Dead, you think. And you’ll be next if you’re not quiet quiet quiet.

The monster shouts your name again. It’s louder—they’re closer. You curl into a tighter ball. They can’t find you.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Your chest hurts; your heart wants to jump out of it.

Jason, you think wildly. Jason will save you. If Jason finds you, he’ll keep you safe. Your hands fish at your side, but find empty air: your purse is gone. There’s no way to reach him, and he can’t even track your location through your phone.

The monster shouts your name again. It has a deep voice.

Another voice joins it, deeper, pitched lower. You can’t quite make out the words.

“They’re around here,” the first monster insists. “B, we don’t have long, this strain is strong—”

“They’re strong,” says the second monster. “Their heart can handle it.”

Something thumps and a third monster says, “Everyone else is clear. Signal had to take two people to the hospital, but they’ll be fine, don’t look so upset, B.”

“You have the antitoxin?” the first monster demands.

“Relax, Hood,” drawls the third monster. “‘Course I do. So you tracked them here?”

“Yeah, I just—” Again it shouts your name. It sounds almost upset. “Please, it’s me, I can help you. Come on. You’re safe. You inhaled fear toxin, I know you’re terrified, but it’s me. You know me.”

It’s trying to lure you in. You won’t fall for it.

You squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath. Let them move on. Let them search somewhere—

“There you are.”

A hulking figure is blocking the light.

The monsters found you.

“Stop it!” you yell, trying to sound brave. “Leave me alone or—or you’ll regret it!”

“Please,” it wheedles, “I’m just trying to help you. Don’t you recognize me?” It reaches out with clawed hands and you kick frantically, but there’s nowhere else for you to go.

“Hey, aren’t these their glasses?” asks the third monster. “What happened to their contacts?”

“Don’t come any closer! The Red Hood will get you, I know him, if you hurt me he’ll kill you! Stop it!”

“I’m really sorry about this, honey,” the monster says, and its clawed hand latches around your ankle and you howl. The sharp points dig deep through skin into muscle and sinew, and it hurts and you’re going to die—

“Jason!” you shriek. “Jason, help me!”

“I’m right here,” the monster lies. “Please, I’m right here, look at me—”

You won’t. You won’t do it. You can’t watch while it kills you. “Jason, please!” you bawl again, but it’s too late. The monsters have you, you’re surrounded, he’ll never forgive himself but what could he even do against them—

Sharp teeth dig into your neck.

You’re dead.

“There we go, darling,” the monster says. Strong arms wrap around you—it wants to crush you to death—and you struggle, but there’s no use.

Except—

You can hear now, kind of, the rush of blood in your ears is receding a bit, and something heavy lands on your nose. This time, when you blink your eyes open, the world’s edges have sharpened. And the monster in front of you—

Well, you recognize the dark hair with a shock of white, and the brilliantly green eyes would be visible if not for the white-lensed domino mask, and the jagged scar on his cheek.

“Jay?” you murmur, hand coming up to touch it. He doesn’t flinch away. It took so long for him to stop flinching when you touch his face. Over his shoulder, you see Batman and Spoiler watching with satisfaction and slight worry. “What happened?”

“Scarecrow,” he says grimly. “He gassed the street, but only about twenty people were affected. I was patrolling nearby, and when I saw your purse on the ground—” He grimaces, then fixes you with a hard look. His two hands can span most of your head, and he takes it to press a firm kiss to your forehead. When he pulls back slightly, without looking away, “I want their heart checked.”

“The antitoxin—” Batman starts.

“I don’t care,” Jason snarls.

Your hands loosely hold his forearms, still shaking a little. “How’d you find me?”

“I tracked you,” he says softly.

“But my phone—”

“Honey,” he says gently, “of course that’s not the only one.”

Well. You should have guessed that, honestly.

“I’ll go check on the victims,” Batman says suddenly. “Come on, Spoiler.”

“Glad to see you’re okay,” Spoiler says to you, then dashes after Batman. In a whirl of capes, they’re gone.

“I’m so sorry,” Jason says in a rush.

“Jay—”

“I should have protected you,” he grits out, white lenses turning to slits as he squeezes his eyes shut. “This should never have happened—”

“You couldn’t have known,” you say softly, letting go of his arms and wiggling beneath them to wrap yours around his torso. Your nose wedges against his chest kind of uncomfortably, but now you can smell him, the familiar gunpowder and a little bit of sour sweat, and the faint tremble in his bones that mirrors the one in your hands. He clutches you close, head buried in the crook of your neck.

He croaks, “I’m so sorry, so sorry, so—”

“You saved me,” you mumble into his armor. “I knew you would.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Jay.” You pull back to look at him seriously. “Even when I couldn’t think straight, I knew you would come. I’ll always know that, no matter what toxin’s messing with my head.”

Judging by the twist of his mouth, he doesn’t quite believe that. He’ll beat himself up internally for days, you know.

But you also know that while Bruce runs his tests in the Cave to make sure there’s no more toxin in your system, he’ll hold your hand the whole time. You know he’ll hold you tight in the bed you share tonight. You know, as long as Jason lives and breathes, he’ll always protect you.

“I love you,” he says thickly. “So much.”

“I love you too.”

“Let’s get you checked out.” He helps you up and holds you close and you know that you’ll be okay.

Jason’s here, so you’ll be okay.

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@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe

Let me know if there's anything you want to see from me. Inspiration strikes at odd intervals, and I get lonely.

[harrywritingsbyme]

The Sweetest Case

a/n: hey y’all, long time no see, lol. I caught the writing bug that included follow-through with writing, editing, and posting. I just had this random idea pop into my head at 3am one night and figured I’d give it a stab. This one is so cute and will be a two-parter and potentially a mini-series. Also, the characters are down horrendous for each other. The second part is going to have my world-famous smut lol, so don’t worry lol. I’ve just been in a fluffy, very cutesy vibe for a long time, and idk if y’all were into that, given my normally smut-heavy writing. Anyway, I hope u like it…enjoy 🫶🏾😗

a baker!Harry au

pinterest mood board ♡

summary: an attorney’s structured life is turned upside down when a charming café owner shows her that love might just be the sweetest case she’ll ever take on.

word count ~ 6.2k words

Not even in your wildest dreams would you have thought that your late commute into the office on a random Tuesday morning would bring you and the man of your dreams together. You knew that casually stumbling across the love of your life wasn’t completely farfetched. But since it’d been confined solely to the pages of the books you’d read on the train to and from work, you were a bit weary of its potential.

But you were in for a rude awakening when you stumbled into the café a block from your office. You were already running late due to your choice of snoozing your alarm three times that morning, so you couldn’t stop at your regular coffee shop on your way to the train. However, no matter how late you were, you would never skip your morning latte. Maybe you’re a creature of habit, or perhaps you have a serious caffeine addiction; regardless, you were going to stop for your morning fix.

You’d seen the quaint shop on the corner on your walks to work, never stopping in, merely eyeing the pastries and deserts through the window as you walked by. You hated the coffee in your office, so there was no other option but to grab a coffee from the charming shop. You stepped underneath the pale green and white awning, pulling open the surprisingly heavy door with curly letters spelling out Sugar Bowl Bakery & Café. When you step inside, you’re immediately enveloped by the warm air and delicious smell of freshly baked goods circulating through the room.

Upon stepping up to the counter, you’re face to face with a pretty handsome barista in what you assumed to be the standard issue pale green apron for the shop and a name tag with Harry scrawled across it clipped to the top.

“What can I get for you this morning?” Harry rasps from behind the counter, a smile forming on his lips as you break from your thoughts at the sound of his voice.

“Oh- um…” You stammer, breaking away from your inner thoughts. “Could I get a vanilla latte, please?” You rush out, a little flustered at your noticed staring. “And a croissant, please!” You quickly add.

“Of course.” Harry chuckles softly, adding the haphazard croissant to your order. “Can I get a name for the order?” He adds, despite you being the only order at the moment.

“Y/n”

“Thanks, that’ll be $8.34.” ‘Pretty,’ Harry thinks as he replies, biting his lip to stop himself from beaming down at you. It only worsens for him as he watches you maneuver into your purse through your jacket, fishing through your things to find your wallet. At that moment, Harry’s wracking his brain to know if he’s seen anyone as beautiful and adorable as you were at this moment. And he comes up short.

“Here ya go.” You smile, handing over the $10 bill you’d pulled from your wallet. He quickly pulls your change from the register along with your receipt.

“Your order will be ready in a couple of minutes.” Harry carefully hands you the receipt and change, his fingers lightly brushing against your palm.

“Thanks.” You whisper back with a small smile, dropping the change in the tip jar and stepping away from the counter. You weren’t sure if you were just imagining things or if you felt a shock of electricity run through your hand when he touched yours. And you weren’t imagining things; Harry could feel it too, not that either of you could confirm or deny at that moment anyway. You were so caught up in the whirlwind that was Harry that you weren’t even stressed about being late for work.

After waiting a couple moments, Harry calls your name with your order in hand.

“Have a good one.” He says, his eyes locking on yours as a bright smile spreads across his lips.

“Thanks, you too.” You reply with a smile, taking the items from his hands. Again, your hands brush against him, and you feel a jolt of electricity flow through your hands. So no, you weren’t just imagining it the first time. You quickly turn and walk out of the shop, desperately trying to shake off the butterflies starting to attack your stomach.

As you walked away, Harry’s eyes never left you, following your every move until you were out of his sight. It was as if you and he were sharing one feeling. A feeling of excitement and hope to see each other again and simply be in one another’s presence. It was overwhelming but in a good way. A feeling that both of you wanted to feel again and neither of you wanted to forget.

While you walked toward your office, you finally took a sip of the hot drink in your hand. You didn’t know if you were biased towards the man making it, but this had to be the best latte you’d ever had. Either way, you were planning on becoming a regular at the establishment.

❃❃❃❃❃

And a regular you were. For a month or so straight, you came in every morning on your way to work, stopping in for your regular vanilla latte and croissant and your daily chats with Harry. You both secretly wished you could sit down and become properly acquainted, but the morning rush in the shop had other plans. Either way, you two appreciated the small interactions. In fact, they stayed on your minds all day long and kept you both afloat until the next morning when you got to do it all over again.

There was one morning, though, where there was absolutely no way you two could even say good morning to each other, as the place was just about packed to the brim. Even though the place was already popular, the muffins randomly went viral, and everyone flooded into the bakery to get their hands on them. In your head, you were patting yourself on the back for being ahead of the muffin curve. The shop was so packed that the only interaction you two had was a glance and smile when he turned at the sound of your voice as you placed your order. Yes, he remembered your voice. It’d be kind of hard to not remember your voice as he replayed it in his head nearly every chance he got. Not only did he remember your voice, he remembered your smile, your laugh, your presumably unorganized purse, given the way you always had to fish around for your wallet, and your bright yet soft aura that undoubtedly flooded the room and his being whenever you walked in.

Because of this incessant need for Harry to be around you, he decided to take the leap and unofficially ask you out. When your name was called to pick up your order, you grabbed the cup and bag and shuffled through the crowd and out the door. Only when you stepped onto the elevator of your office building did you see the note Harry had written on the bag. ‘Sorry, we couldn’t have our usual chat this morning. Stop by around lunchtime, I’ve heard our lunch menu is the best around. H.’ If there weren’t three other people in the elevator, you would’ve squealed from excitement. For the rest of the morning, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the clock, hoping it’d strike noon already so you could dash out of the office and back to the café. 

When the time was finally on your side, you shot up from your desk, grabbing your jacket and purse before dashing out of the office. You stopped in the bathroom to straighten out your clothes and hair before taking the elevator down to the lobby. On your short walk to the shop, you tried your hardest to slow your breathing and heart rate, which was extremely elevated from excitement and nerves. It’s not like it was an official date. Right? Either way, your efforts were in vain because the moment you stepped into the warm establishment, your eyes met Harry’s, and your heart was ready to explode out of your chest all over again.

He’s leaning against the ledge behind the counter, waiting for your arrival. For the past 15 minutes before you came in, he kept an eye on the door, his head tilting up every time he heard the small bell on the door ring. Harry was doing his best to keep cool, trying his best to avoid thoughts of you not showing up or not being into him the way he was into you. Harry and yourself would’ve thought that at your age, you’d be calmer and less anxious about someone you were romantically interested in. But even though you could’ve kicked yourselves for being so infatuated with the other, neither of you cared to fight it much because, deep down, you both had a feeling that it’d be worth it.

“I was told that this place has an excellent lunch menu.” You hum, unwrapping your scarf that was bundled up around your neck.

“I’d have to agree with that.” He chuckles, beaming down at you from across the counter. “What can I get you, love?” He adds with a smile, making your heart flutter a bit.

“I’ll have whatever you recommend.” You reply, putting the choice for lunch in his hands.

“Alright, any allergies I should know about?” He continues.

“Nope.” You pop back, reaching into your purse for your wallet to pay. When he sees you going to pay, he quickly stops you in your tracks.

“No need, it’s on the house.” Harry quickly rushes out. He hadn’t even put the order into the system.

“You sure?” You shoot a questioning pout in his direction, weary of him picking up your tab.

“Yes. Now, how about you go and pick a seat, and I’ll bring the food to you? " he lightheartedly instructs, sending you on your way while he heads towards the kitchen in the back.

When you’re out of his sight, you drop the cash you would’ve spent in the tip jar and turn to find a seat in the tranquil café. You pick an able that’s in a corner by the window and make yourself comfortable while you wait.

In what seemed like no time at all, in the corner of your eye, you see Harry coming in your direction with a tray of food in hand.

“Alright, I picked some of my favorites off the menu.” He says, strategically placing everything down so it could fit onto the small café table before sitting in front of you.

“Everything looks amazing.”You whisper, taking in everything he’d placed before you. You were a little curious, though, as to how he could have possibly known that you were the type to have two beverages, with a cup of tea and a glass of ice water on the table for you. You were even more curious about why he hung around with you. “Why are you sitting? I’m not gonna be the one to get you in trouble with your boss, Harry.” You pointedly add.

“Love, it’s kind of hard to get in trouble with the boss when you own the place,” Harry smirks, sending a slight wink your way before making up his tea.

“You’ve been the owner this entire time?!” You whisper-shout across the table, a little shocked at the revelation.

Harry then goes on to explain that he’d opened this second location for his bakery almost two years ago, a little while before you started at your firm, and often frequented to help out a bit. He also explained how he wasn’t even supposed to be there the morning you first came in and that he was only in to help a bit since some of the staff were sick. Maybe it was meant to be, after all. Especially since you were running late for work and needed a quick coffee in the area that morning. 

For the next half hour or so, you two talked and ate, discussing almost everything from your families to your jobs and hobbies. He told you about how he’d recently become an uncle (which he was beaming about from across the table) and how he’s a shop owner professionally, but his passion is baking. He developed just about every recipe for every item sold in the café. Harry also brought up how he was working on a cookbook and creating new recipes, which led him to his favorite show, ironically enough, The Great British Bakeoff. Which also explained the accent.

Conversely, you told him that you were an attorney, which he was thoroughly impressed by, but not so impressed that he asked you everything you could possibly imagine about your job, which was refreshing, believe it or not. You went on about how you related to him about being close with your mom and how you enjoyed cooking from time to time. You were also similar in the way your favorite shows matched your profession in some way, your show being tied between Suits and Law & Order.

The two of you could’ve kept talking all afternoon long had it not been time for you to return to the office.

“Thanks for lunch, Harry. I think it may just be the best lunch around.” You smile, biting the inside of your lip as you stand from the table. “And I’m serious about being a taste tester for your cookbook. I’m never going to turn down a sweet treat.” You remind him, bundling yourself up again to brave the cool air outside.

“Well, since you’re going to be my taste tester, I think that warrants getting your phone number. So that I can keep you up to date on recipe developments.” He rations, standing up from the table as well.

“Yeah, I wanna be developed on all things recipes.” You counter, fighting back the giggle that was bubbling in your throat. You pull your phone out from your jacket pocket and hand it over for him to put his number in. “The Handsome Baker? That’s what you’re going with?” You laugh, staring down at the new contact.

“Well I mean, do you disagree?” He cocks his head to the side with a wide smirk spread across his face.

“I plead the fifth.” This time, fully biting your lip to conceal your dopey smile. You quickly shrug on your coat and slide your purse onto your shoulder before stopping directly in front of Harry. “I‘ll text you later…” You softly hum up to him, lightly tapping his chest. “About the recipes.” You add with a closed smile before making your way out of the door and back to work.

His eyes follow you as you walk toward your office until you’re out of sight. As he cleans up the table, his mind is solely on you. He replays the entire conversation with you repeatedly for the rest of the day and the next morning when he sees you again. You decided to toy with him a bit and text him until the next morning, getting the sense that he was waiting for your message. You were completely correct about it because he texted you back less than 5 minutes after you’d sent the initial message. 

For the next week or so, the two of you kept up the same morning coffee and light lunches routine. The conversation flowed continuously; if you two had it your way, you’d never leave your designated table in the corner by the window. Of the 6 lunches you two had, he only let you pay for two. In between, you two would be texting back and forth almost nonstop. And there was only one mention of the recipes you signed up to taste test for.

❃❃❃❃❃

One day, though, you were unable to make your regularly scheduled lunch “date.” Your firm had just brought on a new client, and you were tasked with writing up a legal brief. This meant you’d be glued to your desk until at least 3 p.m. and unable to take your standard hour lunch.

You: hey, i won’t be able to make it for lunch today…boss dropped a project on my desk :(

The Handsome Baker : No worries :)

Now get back to work! Don’t wanting you getting in trouble with the boss. ;)

You couldn’t stop a smile from forming on your lips before turning your phone over and getting back to work. Believe it or not, you could completely lock in and focus on your work for the next hour. That is, until your desk phone rang, breaking you out of your work-related daze.

“Hey Emma.” You greet the receptionist through the phone, cradling it between your ear and shoulder as you went back to typing on your desktop.

“Hey, Y/n. Sorry to interrupt, but security just called up saying that you had a delivery in the lobby.” The receptionist replied in her usual chipper voice.

“Thanks, I’m heading down now.” You had a history of forgetting what you ordered online but wouldn’t have anything delivered to your job. But you figured stretching your legs couldn’t hurt, so you slipped your heels back on and made your way to the elevator and down to the lobby.

When you stepped off the elevator and rounded the corner, any confusion you had completely melted away. You were greeted with a smiling Harry standing at the security desk with a brown paper bag and what you presumed to be your go-to latte order in his hands.

On the flip side, Harry could feel his entire body warm when he saw you walking in his direction. He’d seen you dressed in your usual office attire (minus the glasses), but seeing you walking towards him as Y/n, the attorney, was an entirely different sight. It was like every other noise around him faded into nothing; only your heels clicking against the ground and your cheery voice as you closed in on him met his ears.

“Thanks, Andrew.” You greet the security guard as you push past the turnstiles, standing fully before Harry. “I could get used to the personal delivery.” You smirk, trying to conceal the millions of butterflies swarming around your stomach and chest at the sweet gesture.

“Well, you have to eat, and your favorite restaurant closes at 6pm. Plus I figured you could use a caffeinated pick me up.” He slightly tilts his head to the side, giving you a little smile.

“Who sad it was my favorite?” You poke back, mirroring his head tilt.

“Judging by the way I’ve seen you every morning and afternoon for almost two months, it’s safe to say you’re a big fan.” He grins, knowing he got you there.

“I guess so. But it’s only because I’ve heard the owner is kinda cute, can bake a great pastry, and makes a mean vanilla latte.” You whisper back, fully beaming up at Harry now.

Harry’s mind scrambles at your comment, his heart threatening to explode out of his chest and onto the glimmering floor. His mind only races further when your hands brush against his to take the cup and bag from him.

“Thanks for lunch. I’ll text you later.” You reach up to leave a small peck on his cheek before returning to the elevators. As you turn the corner, you sneak a glance back in Harry’s direction to find him still standing there with his eyes solely on you. He hated to admit it, but as good it was to see you coming, it was even better to see you going.

As if you were telepathically linked, as soon as you were out of each other's sight, you both took a deep breath, your brains completely wracked from your interaction. The both of you were stunned at the gall on both of your parts in that small timeframe. For the rest of the day, it's all either of you could think about; thankfully, you were in the final stretch of your brief. Harry had brought you your favorite sandwich on the menu, a pastry he knew you loved, and a cupcake from a recipe he was testing out. You were his designated taste tester, after all. And you made sure to let him know, declaring it the best thing he's ever baked in his entire life over text.

That night, after all those unofficial lunch dates and secretly (quite obviously actually) pining for one another, especially after that afternoon, Harry finally made an official move.

The Handsome Baker: What’s your favorite dish?

You: spaghetti carbonara??

 are you going to make a carbonara flavored cupcake for the cookbook??

  i’ll try it but i'm not sure about that one…

The Handsome Baker: Not quite.

I thought we could make it together in the café kitchen this Friday around 8pm?

You: sounds like a date!

And just like that, you and Harry had your first official date scheduled for Friday night. Let’s just say you both were giggling and kicking your feet as you went to bed that night.

❃❃❃❃❃

Friday night couldn’t have come sooner; you two only had to wait two days, by the way. But to be fair, you hadn’t seen each other since Harry brought you lunch earlier in the week. The universe decided it’d be great to completely inundate you both with work the week of your first official date. Harry was busy at his other café location on the completely opposite side of town, and you were in meeting after meeting with clients and dissecting contracts page after page. But again, the only thing keeping Harry and yourself going was your date.

The day finally arrives, and a cocktail of nerves and excitement runs through your veins. While you’ve dated and done the first date thing plenty of times, you’d never had as good of a feeling about them as you did about the upcoming date with Harry. You couldn’t articulate it yet, but something was different this time.

Before you even pick out what you're wearing to work in the morning, you plan your outfit for that night. Up until now, Harry had only ever seen you in a suit or suit adjacent. You always felt confident, strong, and smart in your suits and workwear. But now you just wanted to feel soft and pretty. So, for almost an hour, you flipped through just about your entire closet, eventually settling on the perfect dress. It's not too dressy or too casual, but just right. After finally nailing down what you were going to wear, all the way through to the accessories and how you would do your hair, you finally got yourself dressed and out of the door to work. 

While you were playing dress up and running late for work, Harry was flying around town picking up items for that evening. He picked up all the ingredients for dinner, stopping at three different grocery stores to get the best ingredients. He also grabbed your favorite bottle of wine, which he only knew to get since you’d sent a picture of the label a couple weeks ago after he mentioned wanting to try it. Along with the groceries and wine, Harry hauled his stand mixer and its fifty million attachments from his home kitchen to the café, stashing everything away into its proper places until he needed them later.

For the rest of the day, you two were locked into your work. You were almost certain you were typing and reading faster than normal, intent on walking out of the office at 5pm on the dot. Harry started the next day's prep work earlier than normal, making sure that he could send everyone home earlier to have the kitchen to himself. And right on schedule, you were heading home to get ready, and Harry had done the last bit of cleaning before sending his staff home early for the evening.

At that point, the countdown had begun. You were taking your precious time getting ready and refusing to account for Friday night traffic. Harry was practically in an episode of the amazing race, trying to get home to shower and change, stop by the florist before they closed to pick up a small flower arrangement, and set up the kitchen all before you arrived. While he may have appeared to be going mad and doing the absolute most, he wouldn’t have had it any other way. Because similarly to how you felt, Harry had this gut feeling about you. While there was still so much more for you two to learn about each other, he thought that you already knew him so well. You two just clicked. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you off, but Harry was in love. And he was ready to say it whenever you were. He was just praying you felt the same way. 

❃❃❃❃❃

The Beautiful Attorney: i’m outside :)

As soon as he saw your message, Harry rushed up from his table in the seating area of the café to the door to let you in, on the way, drying his sweaty palms on his pants. He could see your shoes tapping on the ground outside the door window, and a smile instantly made all his nerves disappear. When the door swings open, your eyes immediately meet, and your arms pull each other into a tight and long-awaited embrace. His arms snake around your waist while yours glide around his neck. You two whisper small ‘hi’s’ into each other’s ears. Upon pulling away from the embrace, Harry closes and locks the shop door, shutting out the cold air. He then helps you out of your coat, draping it over the table he once sat at, and leads you into the kitchen.

“So this is where the magic happens.” You hum, taking in the well lit kitchen. Your heart swelled at the sight of the full bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter.

“Indeed it is…” Harry chuckles. “Now put this on,” He continues, handing you a green and white striped apron to put on. Once you slip the apron around your neck, Harry reaches around you to tightly wind the ties around your waist to tie them together in the front. “Don’t your pretty dress getting dirty,” He mutters, intently tying them into a bow. When he’s done, Harry absentmindedly cups your hips, giving them a small pat before rounding the counter.

At that moment, all you wanted him to do was pull you against his chest and give you one of the best kisses of your life. Knock the air out of your lungs and officially claim you as his. You thought good things come to those who wait as you moved next to him.

“So I figured we could make everything from scratch.” Harry grins, starting to set up the stand mixer.

“I thought so…I hope that doesn’t include the wine though. I’m not a crushing grapes with my feet kind of girl.” You joke.

“Your favorite bottle is in the fridge, " he chuckles, watching you giddily skip over to the fridge in response. And could you grab the shopping bag in there, too?” You follow his orders. You sit the heavy bag of groceries on the counter before abandoning it to focus on opening the chilled bottle. Harry watches in amusement as you concentrate on maneuvering the cork out of the bottle.

“I had a long week okay.” You justify, eventually prying the cork out.

“Why don’t you tell me about it.” He offers, placing two wine glasses in front of you to fill.

You then go on to tell him about your week, every once in a whileawhile he’ll interject to know if the person you’re talking about is the same one you mentioned in previous conversations. You were impressed at how he remembered the little things you’d mentioned previously.

For the next hour the two of you cook, laugh and dance around the kitchen. Harry shows you how to make the absolute perfect pasta from scratch, somehow managing to make you want to cook more instead of just ordering out. After dropping the flour covered pasta into the boiling water, instead of prepping for the next step, Harry grabs you by your waist and spins you around the kitchen to the beat of the music playing out of his phone.

You two wouldn't have stopped if it hadn’t been for the stupid timer. While you were mixing the eggs and cheese for the pasta sauce, Harry was telling you about a potential new recipe for his cookbook. However, all you could think about was how he still hadn’t kissed you despite there being at least two open windows this night alone. You’re only broken out of your thoughts when you see Harry turn away from the stove towards you for your thoughts. You brush off your thoughts, telling him that the recipe sounded good.

Not long after, you two finish cooking dinner. Harry let you sit at the stainless island while he plated the food before taking a seat as well. Your aprons were removed, and you two were finally digging into your creation. It had to have been the best meal you’d ever had, and you weren’t saying that just because you were hungry or because it was Harry who helped make it. You two continued chatting over dinner about your families, shows you were watching, and everything else under the sun.

“I really hope we don’t have to make dessert too. I’m in a bit of a food coma.” You huff, pushing your cleaned plate towards the middle of the island.

“Don’t worry, I already took care of that for you.” Harry chuckles, standing up from the island. He places your dishes into the sink before opening the fridge to grab a small brown box filled with your favorite sweet treat. “I know it’s your favorite.” He grins, sliding the box towards you. When you look into the box, your eyes immediately light up at what’s inside. The cupcakes Harry had you try two weeks ago were sitting in the box just for you. And you waste no time flipping the clear lid off and popping one of the cakes out. You’re so engrossed in the delicious cupcake that you don’t even notice Harry intently watching you as he leaned against the counter next to you. That is, until you set the cupcake down on the counter to take a breath and pace yourself.

“Want a bite?” You motion down to the half eaten cupcake.

“I’m good love.” Harry smiles.

“You sure, it’s a really good cupcake.” You ask again, now looking up at him.

“Positive” He snickers, noticing you had a little frosting on the tip of your nose. But before he could even swipe it away, you were already standing in front of him with the other side of the cupcake waiting for him to take a bite.

“You have to taste your work.” You insist, your smirk becoming a grin when he takes a bite. “Good, right?” You add, to which Harry nods in response.

“But you already knew that since you have frosting all over your face.” He jokes, finally wiping away the frosting from your nose with his thumb. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, from the gesture.

At that moment, Harry couldn’t take his eyes off of you, and you couldn’t take your eyes off of him. His hand still rests against your face, shifting slightly to fully cup your cheek. Both of your hearts were racing, your stomach inundated with butterflies, and your chests rising and falling quicker than before. You shift slightly towards him, with your hands coming up to rest softly against his chest, nonverbally giving him the green light. The millionth one of you were being completely honest. However, this time, he got the memo loud and clear.

His free hand goes to your hip, gliding around to the small of your back to press you further into him. And without any further delay, Harry finally and firmly plants his lips on yours. It’s as if your entire body takes a big sigh of relief, instantly relaxing into his touch. In that moment, you two are perfectly in sync, his lips slotted with yours as he guided your movements. After a few more seconds, his lips separate from yours, allowing you both to come up for air. The both of you were panting messes, your warm breaths fanning across your faces.

“Took you long enough.” You lightly laugh as you nudge your nose against his, reaching up to wind your fingers around the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Well, allow me to make up for lost time.” Harry hums, smashing his lips back onto yours. He was now standing completely straight, holding you firmly against him. While his grip on you was firm, his hold was still gentle. Despite his fervent kisses, like your lips were the oxygen he needed to survive, his touch was delicate. His passion for you wasn’t overpowering; it was perfect. When you parted your lips, granting his tongue access to your mouth, he didn’t rush to cram it practically down your throat (like others in the past had). He took his time and was gentle. And all you could do was contently sigh against his lips from how absolutely perfect the moment was.

Eventually, you two flipped places with your back being now against the island. Only this time, you were being lifted up to sit on the cool steel counter. You slowly pull away from his lips, playfully snagging his bottom lip between your teeth a little as you pulled back.

“I wouldn’t want to defile your kitchen any further.” You whisper to Harry, your hands coming around from his neck back to their original spot on his chest. “Plus, I don’t intend on breaking any more of my dating rules with you tonight.” You assert. You weren’t a kiss on the first date, girl, let alone an entire make-out session like the one you enjoyed not even a minute ago.

“I’ll have you know that I’m a proper gentleman.” Harry pokes back proudly, moving back further to get a better look at you while planting his palms firmly onto the counter on either side of where you’re sitting.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You smirk, lightly poking a finger at his chest.

“And I intend to prove it to you.” He smiles, pecking your cheek.

“Are you asking me out on another date.” Because if he was, you were definitely saying yes.

“I’m asking you out on as many as you’ll have me.” He counters, a dopey smile falling onto his face as he took your features in. Yeah, it was official…Harry was in love.

You couldn’t stop yourself from pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, giddy with the prospect of going on more dates with him in the future. Hopefully forever.

After begging Harry to let you help him with the dishes and him standing firmly in his answer of absolutely not, you were finally heading back home. And, of course, he called you an Uber back home and made sure you arrived home safely. For the rest of the night, while you were getting ready for bed and while Harry was closing the kitchen, there was a permanent smile etched onto your faces as you replayed the night's events over and over again. You both wanted to relive it in your heads as many times as possible until the next time when you two got to do it all over again.

You: i had a great time with you tonight. can’t wait to do it again soon. <3

And almost instantly you got a response back.

The Handsome Baker: I had a wonderful time as well.

Just got in.

Sleep well, and I can’t wait to see you again. <3

Seeing him mirror your little heart made it nearly impossible for you to go to bed, but you managed to eventually fall asleep. And you indeed slept well. The both of you did. And you were pleasantly greeted the next morning with a text from Harry.

The Handsome Baker: Good morning beautiful.

You should stop by the café so I can kiss you again, and again.

After rereading the text at least 100 times, you fall back into your plush pillows, staring up at the ceiling in pure bliss. Yeah, this was shaping up to be the sweetest case you’d ever take on.

❃❃❃❃❃

i hope y'all liked it ♡ Masterlist

[ch3rrybbie]

Shouldn’t have reposted that

Now I shall demand a homelander x fem reader coffee shop! Au at once!

Caffeine calls

Summary: he’s just some dude, kinda maybe. But he’s your favourite customer! And you’re his favourite…. mortal???

Warnings: flufffffffffffffff, Homelander being Homelander lol, yandere homelander?

ch3rrybbie says: I love you anon 😭 keep those demand coming yall r geniuses w ur requests. Kinda went for superman vibes??? Hope you like it 👉🏽👈🏽🥹 so sorry it took ages didn’t wanna rush it and be too awful I still think it’s bad hahah.

———

He came like clockwork.

Everyday for three weeks without fail. The timings differed but his presence he never did.

Six foot, perfect pearly teeth, golden hair, icy blue eyes and a thunderous laugh. He was powerful and everyone behaved when he came in, even the anxious shakes you got when serving someone.

A bell rings in the distance and you yell over your shoulder, “ Be with you in a sec!”

His smooth baritone chuckles back, “No rush sweetheart”.

You gasp and turn. And sure enough there he is amongst the stench of coffee and milk.

Mr H.

———

The first time he’d graced the shop his presence waved over the room.

Gasps and mutters filled the room, you ignored it deciding his gorgeous face was the root of this mass hysteria.

“Who shall I say the orders for?” You can’t help but beam at him, it was fifteen minutes before you’d finally taken his order. You been crying laughing at his anecdotes and jokes and he’d licked up you laughter with a devilish grin.

You’d already guessed his order, flat white no sugar no syrup no nonsense.

“Home-Joh- uh you can call me H” he shuffles awkwardly attempting to regain his lost composure.

Giggling you scribble Mr H on his cup with a tiny heart.

“Alright Mr H, coffee will be a few minutes”

“No rush sweetheart” he smirks at you.

———

“Morning H, you’re out early”

“Well you know me, babies to kiss and baristas to see”

And in no time you pull a coffee from behind the machine, ready and waiting for him, he slides over a twenty.

He was always generous.

You persist in your ignorance of customers flapping over him.

Taking him in with the little time you had, you decide his Vought baseball cap does nothing to hide his classic face.

The handsomeness of classic Americana, all pearly smiles and golden blonde hair.

Leaning over the counter a gestures to your hair.

“This is new!” He coolly exclaims, sending you scrambling to explain.

“Oh! I’m surprised you noticed I don’t know I just thought I needed a little change or-“ fumbling over yourself you scramble to come up with an excuse after all the criticism you’d received prior from others.

“It’s great” an affirmation if you’d ever heard one, his word was final.

Yet sensing the mistrust he persists.

“It’s perfect doll, in fact what are you up to tonight”

“Oh, well I um” insecurity seizes you, why you?.

He waggles a finger in your face.

“Let me decide for you, how about I pick you up around 6 ish and we go for some dinner?”

A smile whips across your face in anticipation sensing his apprehension peaking through you decide to oblige.

“I’m sure I could figure something out” you jest, the corner of your mouth twitching.

A fast knocking sounds at the window, a ginger woman in a bright canary jumpsuit signals the time to him and he rolls his eyes and stars to ready his departure.

He stands up from leaning across to you and directs a withering glance at her.

“Gotta go, world to save sweetheart. I’ll see you later” with a wink and a smile he’s gone as soon as he came.

Only problem was you didn’t remember telling him your address, and yet he said he’d pick you up?

[lilmisssona]

☃︎♡Dynamic And Vibing ☃︎♡

☃︎♡Pairing - Hyunjin × Fem Reader

☃︎♡Plot - You always thought only women got nervous meeting their boyfriend's family, but your boyfriend proves otherwise. He’s adorably stressed about finding the perfect outfit for Christmas dinner, and a shopping trip leads him to a sparkling pair of iconic boots. Little did you know, those boots would be the start of some unexpected holiday drama

☃︎♡Genre - Comedy, Crackhead Energy, Fluff

☃︎♡Warnings - crackhead energy, non idol au, strangers to lovers au, established relationship, comedy, fluffy ,dramatic

☃︎♡Word Count - 8.7K ☃︎♡ Screenshot Count - 1

☃︎♡A/N - Belated Happy New Year! Episode 4 of Staymas is here, and it's all about Hyunjin + chaotic family drama with a side of the sweetest fluff so buckle up! This is just slightly proofread so apologies for any mistakes 🙂‍↕️

☃︎♡SKZ Masterlist ☃︎♡ Staymas Masterlist

Chuseok at your parents’ house was always a beautiful chaos: comforting, loud, and brimming with life. It was everything you’d missed while studying abroad. For two years, you’d spent the holiday alone in a foreign city, attempting to recreate the flavors of home with store-bought tteok and shaky video calls with your family. But now, finally back in Seoul, the world felt familiar again, as if the missing pieces had finally clicked into place.

The past year had been a whirlwind....finishing your degree, landing a great job, and, most unexpectedly, meeting Hyunjin.

He wasn’t just an artist; he was the artist. The kind of guy who wore paint-streaked hoodies like they were high fashion and could make you laugh until you cried over his “accidental masterpiece” of spilling glitter on his sneakers. Hyunjin had an extraordinary gift for turning the ordinary into unforgettable moments, though most of those moments came with a dose of mild disaster.

But this Chuseok, Hyunjin wasn’t with you. He was neck-deep in preparations for a massive art festival, surviving on caffeine and two hours of sleep a night. Lately, your time together had been reduced to rushed coffee dates and late-night video calls.

“I promise I’ll be there next year,” he had said during one of those calls, holding a paintbrush like he was making a solemn vow. “But this festival…”

“I know,” you had reassured him, even as you wished for his presence now more than ever.

“Gotta go!” he’d added abruptly. “I need to channel my soul into these paintings, babe!”

You’d rolled your eyes at his theatrics, but deep down, you missed him - the chaos, the charm, the electric energy he brought into your life. Being home for Chuseok after two years felt monumental, but you couldn’t shake the wish that he could experience it with you.

Your family? They would’ve either fallen in love with him or been completely bewildered. Probably both.

---------------------------------------------------------

The chaos hit you the moment you stepped through the door of your parents’ house. Your mom’s voice greeted you before her eyes did.

“Close the door before all the heat escapes!” she scolded, not even looking up as she deftly flipped jeon and rolled mandu in the kitchen. The dining table was a vibrant mess of ingredients: bowls of sesame oil, chopped scallions, and a pile of persimmons waiting to be transformed into something beautiful. On the stove, galbijjim simmered away, its rich, savory aroma filling the house.

Your dad was at the table, valiantly attempting to fold rice cakes into their traditional half-moon shapes. As always, his songpyeon were hilariously lopsided, with sweet sesame filling threatening to spill from every edge.

“I think they look artistic,” he said, raising an eyebrow at your mom, who shot him her signature look of disapproval.

You smiled, imagining Hyunjin in this setting. He’d definitely find some poetic beauty in your dad’s uneven creations and probably call them “symbolic of imperfect perfection.”

“These songpyeon look like they need a rescue team,” your brother teased from his corner of the kitchen, where he was supposed to be grilling sweet potatoes. Instead, his phone was firmly in hand while the sweet potatoes burned, their charred skins proof of his negligence.

And then there was your grandmother, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, beaming as soon as her eyes landed on you. “Ah, my big-city granddaughter is back!” she exclaimed, patting the floor beside her. “Do they celebrate Chuseok over there?”

“They have Thanksgiving, Halmeoni. It’s… different,” you said, settling down next to her.

“Thanksgiving?” she repeated, her voice dripping with playful skepticism. “Do they have songpyeon?”

“Nope. That’s why I’m back here.”

“Well, come on, you haven’t forgotten how to shape songpyeon, have you?” she asked, handing you a ball of rice dough.

“I think I have,” you admitted sheepishly, eyeing the tray of perfectly crafted rice cakes.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a wink. “You’ve got me to teach you before you run off again.”

But Halmeoni wasn’t one to sit still for long. Before anyone could stop her, she was up on her feet, a piece of jeon in one hand and a fork in the other. “You don’t get legs like these by sitting around!” she declared, twirling across the room with a flair that belied her years.

Her laughter echoed through the house, and soon you were all joining in, your cheeks sore from smiling.

The house was alive with everything you’d missed - the clatter of pots, the hum of overlapping conversations, your mom’s occasional scolding, and the playful bickering between your brother and dad. After being away for so long, you’d almost forgotten how full, how warm, a home could feel during Chuseok.

---------------------------------------------------------

Later, as you helped your mom set the dishes, you couldn’t help but think of Hyunjin. He would’ve turned the whole process into a comedy sketch, complete with exaggerated groans and theatrical hand gestures. You could almost hear him whining, “Why do mine look like deflated dumplings?” as he somehow managed to get sesame filling smeared all over his face.

At dinner, the table overflowed with every Chuseok dish you’d dreamed about while abroad. Your mom didn’t hold back, piling your plate high with galbijjim, japchae, and perfectly steamed songpyeon.

“Eat, eat,” she urged, watching you with that particular kind of satisfaction only a mother can feel.

“Mom, I can’t eat all of this,” you protested, though you knew you’d try anyway.

“You’ve been living on convenience store food for years. You need to eat properly now,” she said, her tone playful but her eyes filled with concern.

As the meal went on, the chatter and laughter filled the room, with everyone reminiscing about old times and grilling you about your life abroad.

Your brother, his devilish grin fully intact, suddenly decided to strike. “No boyfriend again this year? Does he even exist, or did you make him up?”

“What’s his name again?” your mom asked, peering at you over her glasses.

“Hyunjin,” you replied with a sigh, already exasperated.

“He’s real, bro, by the way,” you added, flicking your brother’s forehead in mock annoyance. “He’s just busy with an art festival.”

“Oh, an artist!” Grandma exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with intrigue. “Does he paint bowls of fruit or naked ladies?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Neither, Halmeoni. He’s more… abstract.”

“Abstract? Like splatters of paint on a canvas and calling it deep?” she asked, unimpressed, raising an eyebrow.

“More like…” You hesitated, recalling the time Hyunjin had proudly shown you a painting and described it as “a metaphor for a squirrel discovering capitalism.” Clearing your throat, you finished, “…Yeah, let’s go with that.”

At that moment, your dad set down his chopsticks, his posture shifting into something thoughtful. He leaned back in his chair with the kind of slow deliberation that meant he was about to drop some classic dad-level wisdom.

“This artist boyfriend of yours,” he began, voice low and serious, “does he know how to hold chopsticks properly?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “Uh… yes?”

“Good,” your dad said with a solemn nod, as if he’d just concluded a critical evaluation. “Then I want to meet him. Christmas dinner. Bring him over.”

The entire table went silent.

“Wait, what?” you stammered, your heart rate spiking. Was this a heart attack or just sheer panic?

Your brother perked up instantly, a Cheshire grin spreading across his face. “Oh, this is going to be so good,” he said, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Why Christmas?” you asked, your voice rising with desperation.

“Because,” your dad replied matter-of-factly, “I need to see if this ‘artist’ is worthy of my daughter. And Christmas feels right. Festive, but serious.”

“Festive, but serious?” you repeated, incredulous.

“Oh, this is a classic move,” your brother chimed in, clearly savoring your discomfort. “Dad’s going to ask him all the hard-hitting questions. Like, ‘What are your future plans?’ and ‘Do you plan on starving for your art or earning a real income?’”

Your dad shot him a sharp look. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

“But you thought it,” your brother teased, not missing a beat.

“Dad,” you began, struggling to keep calm, “Hyunjin is not… he’s not just some random guy. He’s—”

“Exactly,” your dad interrupted. “He’s not some random guy. He’s someone important to you, which means I need to make sure he’s… let’s say, ‘qualified.’”

“Qualified? For what?!”

“For you,” your dad said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your grandma, still contentedly munching on songpyeon, decided it was her turn to chime in. “Oh, don’t scare the poor boy too much. Artists are sensitive, you know. One wrong word, and they’ll write a tragic poem about it.”

“Or paint a metaphor about a squirrel’s heartbreak,” your brother added, snickering.

You groaned, slapping your palm against your face. “He’s never going to agree to this.”

“Oh, he’ll agree,” your dad said confidently, like he’d already won. “If he cares about you, he’ll show up. And don’t worry, I’ll be nice. At first.”

“Dad,” you warned, your voice a mix of disbelief and dread.

“What?” he said innocently, blinking at you. “I just want to get to know the man who might steal my daughter away someday.”

“That’s a lot of pressure, Dad.”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “If he can’t handle me, how’s he going to handle the rest of this family?”

Your grandma chuckled knowingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll back him up. Unless he says something stupid.”

“Like what?” you asked, your frustration mounting.

“Oh, you know,” she said airily, waving her hand. “If he starts talking about ‘artistic expression’ and goes on about how it reflects the struggles of the modern soul.”

“That actually sounds like something Hyunjin might say,” you muttered under your breath.

----------------------------------------------------------

The conversation shifted to dessert, but the looming prospect of Hyunjin’s impending “interview” with your dad hung over the room like a storm cloud. Naturally, your brother, ever the instigator, couldn’t resist stirring the pot.

“You know, Dad,” he began, leaning back in his chair with a grin that rivaled the Cheshire Cat’s, “you should start with something dramatic. Like, ‘What are your intentions with my daughter?’”

“Good idea,” your dad replied, stroking his chin as though preparing for a high-stakes interrogation.

You shot them both a withering glare. “This isn’t the 1800s. He’s not proposing with a cow and a handshake.”

“Well, he’d better not come empty-handed,” your mom chimed in, her tone light but firm. “A nice bottle of wine or a fruit basket would do. Something thoughtful.”

“Fruit basket?” your brother echoed, practically doubling over in laughter. “What is he, visiting a hospital?”

Your grandma, completely ignoring him, nodded sagely. “Yes, a fruit basket is good. Grapes show generosity, and apples mean good health.” She paused, then added with utmost seriousness, “But if he brings bananas, I’ll have questions.”

“Halmeoni!” you gasped, nearly choking on your water as your brother descended into uncontrollable laughter.

“What? They’re too casual!” she said, completely unfazed. “Bananas say, ‘I remembered this on the way over.’”

Your dad tapped his chopsticks on the table, like a judge calling for order in court. “Let’s focus here. This young man...Hyunjin, right?—he’s an artist. So, I need to know…” He trailed off dramatically.

“…Know what?” you asked, your patience thinning.

“If he paints with his heart or just his hands.”

“Are you serious?” you asked, staring at him in disbelief.

“Absolutely,” he replied, deadpan. “And if he paints with glitter, we’re going to have a long talk.”

“Why?” your brother asked, barely containing his amusement.

“Because,” your dad said with a grim finality, “glitter is the devil’s confetti. Once it’s in the house, it’s everywhere.”

You slapped a hand to your face. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Oh, it’s going to get better,” your brother teased, practically bouncing with glee. “Dad should ask him about his five-year plan. You know, see if he’s planning to be a tortured artist or someone who can actually pay for a date.”

“I pay for dates, thank you very much!” you shot back, crossing your arms.

“Good,” your dad said with a nod of approval. “That means you’ve got a backup plan.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is a disaster.”

“No, no,” your mom said soothingly, patting your shoulder. “It’ll be fine. Just tell him not to take your dad’s poker face too seriously.”

“My poker face?” your dad echoed, visibly offended. “I don’t have a poker face!”

“Yes, you do,” your mom, grandma, and brother said in unison.

Your dad huffed, crossing his arms. “Fine. But I’ll keep it light.”

“Define ‘light,’” you demanded, narrowing your eyes.

“I’ll just ask him simple things. Like, does he prefer oil paints or acrylics? Does he have any famous artist friends? And why is he dating my daughter instead of focusing on his career?”

“Dad!”

Your grandma waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t scare him too much. Artists are resilient. They’re like weeds...they’ll grow anywhere.”

Your brother cackled, adding, “Or like glitter. Impossible to get rid of.”

Your dad raised a finger triumphantly. “Exactly. And we’ll see if he’s the kind of glitter we want sticking around.”

That night, as you slipped into your room, still chuckling at your family’s antics, the evening felt like a scene from a sitcom. Your dad’s mock-interrogation plans for Hyunjin, your grandma’s deadpan commentary about “sensitive artists,” and your brother’s relentless teasing played on a loop in your mind.

Beneath the laughter, though, your thoughts wandered to the day you first met Hyunjin.....

----------------------------------------------------------

It had been months ago, during a wedding planning consultation. Your client, overwhelmed by the details, had sent a friend to meet you instead. “Don’t worry, they know everything,” your client had reassured you. “Hyunjin’s a good friend. You’ll be fine.”

You’d arrived at the café expecting someone serious, maybe a bit frazzled but focused. Instead, Hyunjin walked in like he was auditioning for a rom-com. Confidence radiated off him...until he tripped over the rug and went sprawling across the floor in a spectacularly ungraceful tumble.

For a moment, you were too stunned to react, staring as he scrambled to right himself. Then he looked up, grinning, and waved as though this were all part of his plan. “Hi! I’m Hyunjin,” he said cheerfully, as if he hadn’t just wiped out. “I’m here to meet the wedding planner?”

You couldn’t hold back a laugh. “That was… an entrance.”

Hyunjin shrugged nonchalantly, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket. “I like to keep things interesting,” he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But don’t worry...I’m all business now.”

“Business, huh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Totally,” he said, sitting down and immediately knocking over a sugar packet with his elbow. “The bride sent me. They’re handling the important stuff...catering, keeping Aunt Jeon from overdrinking, you know ? The essentials. I’m here to make sure the wedding’s a masterpiece.”

You stifled a laugh. “A masterpiece? Are you a wedding planner or…?”

“Artist,” he said, leaning back with a dramatic flair. “I paint, sculpt, create installations...basically, I make a mess and call it art.”

“An artist?” you repeated, surprised. “Then how did you end up here, planning a wedding?”

Hyunjin waved a hand as if it were no big deal. “The bride’s my friend. They needed someone with vision, and who better than an artistic genius? I don’t know anything about weddings, but I’m great at making things beautiful.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “So… you’re suggesting we turn a wedding into an art exhibit?”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “Like, why have a boring tiered cake when you could have an abstract sculpture? A cake that’s a statement piece!”

“An avant-garde wedding cake?” you teased.

“Why not?” he replied, completely serious. “It’s not just dessert; it’s a metaphor. And seating? Who needs assigned seats? Let people pick where they feel inspired...it’s freedom, an artistic rebellion!”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. “You’re really leaning into this chaos, huh?”

“Chaos is just art waiting to happen,” he said with a wink.

The rest of the meeting was a whirlwind of wild ideas, each one more absurd than the last. Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but enjoy his infectious energy. Hyunjin was unpredictable, chaotic even, but there was a charm to the way he embraced his quirks so unapologetically.

Over the weeks, he continued showing up to meetings, always armed with another outlandish idea. You never knew what to expect, but his presence made the planning process more fun than you’d anticipated.

One rainy afternoon, as you walked back from yet another meeting, a car sped through a puddle, sending water flying toward you. Before you could react, Hyunjin darted forward, attempting to shield you. Instead, he caught the full force of the splash.

Soaked from head to toe, he turned to you with an apologetic grin. “Well, that didn’t go as planned.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Next time, maybe skip the heroics?”

Hyunjin shrugged, dripping water but still smiling. “Hey, it’s the thought that counts.”

----------------------------------------------------------

After that day, you and Hyunjin started spending more and more time together. Between wedding meetings, he’d randomly show up with plans for coffee runs, surprise visits to art galleries, and quirky little outings. Whether he was making you laugh unintentionally or with deliberate mischief, you found yourself falling for him, one laugh at a time.

One particularly stressful day, you were drowning in wedding prep, timelines, budgets, and last-minute crises piled high on your desk. Hyunjin waltzed in unannounced, his usual grin plastered across his face.

“You look like you need a break,” he said, pulling up a chair beside you. “How about a little distraction?”

You sighed, leaning back in frustration. “I don’t have time for distractions, Hyunjin. The wedding is in three days, and everything is falling apart.”

He tilted his head, studying you thoughtfully. “Okay, counteroffer: one hour at an art gallery. I promise it’ll clear your head.”

You frowned, torn between the mountain of work and the temptation in his eyes. Finally, you relented. “Fine. One hour.”

One hour turned into two. By the time you returned, the weight of your stress had lifted, replaced by the calm and joy of Hyunjin’s chaos. His ability to ease your burdens with simple, thoughtful gestures was just one of the many reasons you’d started to fall for him.

----------------------------------------------------------

The months with Hyunjin had been a whirlwind of laughter, spontaneity, and moments that left you breathless. It wasn’t just his charm or his creativity that captured your heart-it was how he made the mundane feel extraordinary, as if life itself were art, waiting to be experienced.

That magic followed you tonight as the two of you wandered along the Han River under a warm, starlit sky. The breeze carried the faint scent of blooming flowers and the distant hum of cicadas. Lanterns strung along the walkway cast a golden glow, illuminating his face as he animatedly talked about his latest project...a series of paintings inspired by emotions that couldn’t be put into words.

“One of them is all jagged, sharp strokes for when you want to laugh and cry at the same time,” he explained, gesturing enthusiastically. “And another is this swirl of soft, pastel shades...it’s supposed to feel like when you’re overwhelmed but kind of happy about it. It’s chaos, but that’s the beauty of it!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Hyunjin, your whole life is chaos. How do you manage to make it look so effortless?”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling like the river reflecting the city lights. “That’s the secret! Chaos isn’t something you manage...it’s something you embrace. Like a dance.”

“A dance?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “So, my life should be an interpretive dance of chaos?”

“Exactly!” he said, snapping his fingers as if he’d made a groundbreaking discovery. “And who better to teach you than me, the master of chaos?”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably charming, you mean?” he quipped, his dimples making an appearance as he flashed you his signature cheeky grin.

But before you could retort, he stopped walking, his expression shifting into something softer, almost hesitant. The playful light in his eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by a vulnerability that made your heart flutter.

“Actually…” he began, his voice quieter now, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “What is it?”

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’d come to recognize. “I know I’ve been a bit of a whirlwind...crashing into your life with all my ridiculous ideas and dragging you into my chaos. But through it all, I’ve had the absolute best time getting to know you. And… I don’t want it to end.”

Your breath hitched, his words settling over you like a warm summer breeze.

“So,” he continued, stepping a little closer, “will you go on a date with me? A real one. No brainstorming, no interruptions...just you and me.”

You blinked, caught between surprise and the warmth blooming in your chest. “A real date?” you repeated, pretending to deliberate. “Does that mean I finally get a break from your creative chaos?”

He laughed, the sound light and full of relief. “I can’t promise that,” he admitted with a lopsided grin, “but I’ll try to keep it to a minimum. Controlled chaos.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you smiled at him. “Alright, Hyunjin. I’ll go on a date with you.”

The joy that lit up his face was brighter than the lanterns around you. He let out a breath he’d clearly been holding, his grin widening until it reached his eyes. “Really? You will?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, feeling your cheeks heat under his gaze. “But remember! you promised me controlled chaos.”

“Deal,” he said, his laughter carrying through the warm night air.

Then, as if he couldn’t hold back anymore, he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

Your heart raced as you nodded, unable to speak.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice trembling with nervousness.

“Because I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, and I just… I can’t wait anymore.”

The sincerity in his eyes made it impossible to resist. You nodded again, your breath catching as the world seemed to slow around you.

The smile that spread across his face was gentle and full of warmth. His hands reached up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. “I’m kind of terrified right now,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice just as quiet.

And then he kissed you.

The kiss was everything you didn’t know you needed - soft, warm, and filled with unspoken emotions that made your heart soar. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as if he was afraid to let go. The warm breeze swirled around you, carrying the faint scent of flowers and the promise of something new.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he let out a breathless laugh. “I didn’t mess that up, did I?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

You smiled, your hands resting on his chest. “Not even a little.”

His laughter bubbled up again, and he pulled you into a tight hug, his joy so infectious you couldn’t help but laugh along. As you stood there, wrapped in his arms beneath the warm summer sky, you realized something: Hyunjin wasn’t just chaos...he was your chaos. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

-------------------------------------------------------

Fast forward to now, as you lay in bed scrolling through your phone, a fond smile tugged at your lips as you reminisced about how you met Hyunjin. Suddenly, your screen lit up with an incoming call, his name flashing across it. Without hesitation, you answered.

“Have you eaten?” he asked immediately, his voice warm and familiar, like a favorite melody.

You laughed softly. “Yes, Hyunjin, I’ve eaten. Have you?”

He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Barely. Today was insane. The exhibition was pure chaos..like, actual chaos. One of the canvases fell off the wall mid-display, someone tripped over the lighting cords, and, oh, let’s not forget when I spilled paint on the gallery owner’s shoes.”

You winced, barely stifling a laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault my art invites so much… energy,” he defended, though the amusement in his voice was impossible to miss. “Anyway, how was Chuseok without me? Did your family miss me?”

“Oh, you know,” you teased, “the usual chaos: food, teasing, and… questions about you.”

“About me?” he asked cautiously, suspicion creeping into his tone. “What kind of questions?”

You hesitated, knowing his reaction would be priceless. “Well… my family wants to meet you. On Christmas.”

There was a brief pause. “They what?”

“They want to meet you,” you repeated, biting back a grin.

Hyunjin groaned dramatically. “Like, face-to-face? ‘Sit-down-and-talk-about-my-life’ meet me?”

“Exactly,” you said, barely suppressing your laughter.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “This is bad. Your dad’s going to grill me like I’m the main course. He’s probably already drafting a list of questions about my job, and when I panic and start talking about spaghetti metaphors, it’s all going to spiral. Your brother will just sit there smirking, waiting for me to mess up. And your grandma… she’s going to judge me for the way I hold chopsticks, isn’t she?”

You burst into laughter. “Relax, Hyunjin. My grandma only cares about two things: whether you bring good wine and if your fruit basket game is strong.”

“Wait, what?” he asked, his voice laced with panic. “I have to bring a fruit basket and wine? Is this a Christmas dinner or a survival challenge?”

“It’s festive but serious,” you replied, grinning. “Dad calls it:

‘An occasion for celebration and evaluation’

Which is basically code for: let’s judge you while enjoying ham.”

Hyunjin groaned again. “Why does your dad sound like he’s hosting auditions for the role of son-in-law?”

“Because he kind of is,” you teased, trying not to laugh at his distress.

“Great,” he deadpanned. “I’m walking into a festive firing squad. And I have to come armed with fruit and wine? Do they prefer a classic fruit basket or something more avant-garde? Should I arrange it in the shape of a Christmas tree? Or is that too much?”

“You’re overthinking it,” you assured him, still grinning. “Just grab some nice apples and oranges. Maybe throw in a pear or two for flair.”

“And the wine?” he asked, his voice rising in panic again. “Red or white? Sweet or dry? What if your dad secretly prefers whiskey and silently judges me for bringing wine? What if your grandma’s secretly a sommelier and I offend her with a cheap bottle?”

“Hyunjin,” you said, struggling to keep a straight face, “my grandma thinks boxed wine is fancy. You’ll be fine.”

He let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Okay, fruit basket, wine. Got it. Anything else? Do I need to dress up? Is there a secret handshake? Should I prepare a speech?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Just be yourself. Chaotic, but respectful chaos, remember?”

“Respectful chaos,” he repeated as if it were a mantra. “Alright. I can do this. But if your dad starts grilling me and I start rambling about spaghetti metaphors, you better jump in and save me.”

“Deal,” you said, still laughing.

“And if I survive this dinner,” he added mischievously, “you owe me a nice, peaceful date. No questions, no interrogations.”

“Deal,” you agreed.

As you hung up, you could already picture Hyunjin wandering through a store, agonizing over fruit basket aesthetics and wine labels. You knew Christmas dinner would be chaotic...after all, it always was. But with Hyunjin? It would be a chaos you wouldn’t trade for anything...

---------------------------------------------------------

You used to think meeting a significant other’s family was nerve-wracking only for women. Oh, how wrong you were. In your case, it was your boyfriend, Hyunjin, who was spiraling into a full-blown, Oscar-worthy meltdown about Christmas dinner with your family.

Currently, you were perched on his bed, cross-legged, watching the spectacle unfold with a mix of amusement and secondhand anxiety. Hyunjin was on his third frantic lap through his closet, tossing sweaters and shirts around like a tornado. You leaned back against the pillows, silently debating whether to intervene or just let him burn off his dramatic energy.

“Hyunjin,” you finally said, trying to sound soothing, “it’s just dinner, not the Met Gala.”

He whirled around, clutching two wildly different sweaters: a classic black one and something that looked like it had been stolen from an 80s ski lodge. His face was the epitome of despair. “Just dinner? Do you understand what’s at stake here? This is Christmas dinner! Your dad is going to interrogate me like he’s hosting a true-crime podcast. He’ll ask about my job, my future, my intentions, and when I inevitably panic, I’ll start talking about spaghetti metaphors!”

“Spaghetti metaphors?” you repeated, biting back a laugh.

“Yes, it’s a thing!” He threw the black sweater onto the floor with a dramatic flourish. “When I get nervous, I talk in analogies. And somehow, everything ends up being about pasta. Last time I described my art process as ‘like boiling spaghetti,’ and the gallery owner looked like he wanted to fire me on the spot.”

By now, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt. “Okay, so my dad might ask a few questions....”

“A few questions?!” he interrupted, his hands flying to his hair. “Your dad is going to stare into my soul, your brother is going to roast me like a Christmas ham, and your grandma...oh god, your grandma! She’s going to judge me for how I hold my chopsticks, isn’t she? Is there a secret technique? Should I start practicing now?”

“Relax,” you said between giggles. “Grandma doesn’t care about chopsticks. She cares about two things: if you bring good wine and if your fruit basket game is good or not. "

“Wine and fruit basket. Got it,” he said, nodding like he was preparing for battle. “Okay, one disaster averted. But what about my outfit? I can’t just show up looking like I rolled out of bed. I need to look… professional. No, wait—approachable. Charming. Like the perfect boyfriend. Do I look like the perfect boyfriend in this sweater?” He gestured to the ski-lodge monstrosity he was now wearing.

“Honestly?” you said, grinning. “You look like a backup dancer for an 80s Christmas music video.”

“Great,” he groaned, tossing the sweater aside. “I’m doomed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Or… we could just go to the mall and find something nice. Something that says ‘respectable artist’ instead of ‘escaped circus performer.’”

His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Mall? Yes. Let’s go. I can feel it—I’m going to find the perfect outfit.”

Fast forward to the mall, where Hyunjin had already tried on and rejected half the men’s section. Three blazers, two turtlenecks, and enough dress shirts to outfit a boy band later, you were starting to lose hope.

And then it happened.

You saw it before Hyunjin did...a pair of metallic, shimmering boots that practically glowed under the store lights.

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, already sensing doom.

But Hyunjin’s eyes widened with pure delight. “Oh yes,” he whispered, making a beeline for the display.

“Hyunjin, no,” you said firmly, following after him.

“Hyunjin, yes!” he countered, picking up one of the boots like it was the Holy Grail. “These boots are everything. They’re bold, they’re iconic, they scream ‘fearless boyfriend.’”

“They scream ‘disco ball meets midlife crisis,’” you deadpanned, staring at the blindingly shiny boots.

“Your family will love them!” he said, slipping one on and striking a pose. “Look at this. I’m making a statement.”

“Yeah, the statement is, ‘Please stop staring at my feet,’” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

A sales assistant wandered over, clearly trying not to laugh. “Those are… bold,” she said diplomatically.

“Thank you,” Hyunjin replied, beaming. “I’ll take them.”

“Hyunjin, no!” you protested, but it was too late. He was already at the counter, handing over his credit card like he’d just won the lottery.

As you left the store, Hyunjin practically skipping with his shiny new boots, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“You know,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders, “your family is going to remember me forever.”

“Oh, they’ll remember you,” you said. “They might even still be talking about you next Christmas.”

“Good,” he replied with that signature grin. “First impressions matter.”

“You do realize my dad’s going to ask you about your job, right? While you’re wearing those?”

“Exactly!” he said, his grin widening. “When I tell him I’m an artist, the boots will speak for themselves. They say, ‘This man is fearless.’”

You groaned, shaking your head. “You’re killing me, Hyunjin.”

And as you both walked toward the parking lot, Hyunjin proudly clutching his shiny new boots like they were priceless treasures, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of amusement and dread. Christmas dinner with your family was already shaping up to be an unforgettable event...though whether for good or chaotic reasons remained to be seen...

--------------------------------------------------------

“Alright, so we’ve got the boots,” you said, trying to suppress a grin. “But there’s still one tiny thing left to handle: the fruit basket.”

“Yes, the fruit basket,” he repeated, nodding seriously. Then, with a sudden drop in his voice, he added, “I really hope I don’t mess it up.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing at his dramatic tone. “It’s fruit, Hyunjin. Not a job interview. Let’s just find something nice and call it a day.”

The two of you headed to a fancy grocery store, where Hyunjin immediately locked eyes with the aisles of meticulously arranged fruits. To him, it seemed, this was no ordinary shopping trip. He surveyed the scene like a warrior choosing his weapon for battle.

“I’ve never felt so much pressure over fruit,” he muttered, holding up an apple like it was a rare artifact. “Do you think this one says, ‘I’m responsible and thoughtful’?”

“It’s just an apple,” you replied, trying to keep him grounded.

“But it’s the apple,” he insisted, turning it over in his hands. “It needs to symbolize my commitment to this dinner. The apple is my ticket to acceptance!”

You watched as he placed the perfectly fine apple back and instead grabbed a comically oversized one, clearly trying to make a statement. “Hyunjin, it’s a fruit basket, not a résumé.”

After what felt like an eternity of inspecting, analyzing, and overthinking every piece of produce, you finally settled on an assortment. Hyunjin proudly selected a particularly dramatic pineapple, claiming it “looked artistic” and would anchor the whole basket.

At checkout, his confidence was back in full force. “I think I nailed it,” he said, beaming. “This fruit basket says, ‘I’m here for family, but I’m also a little extra.’”

“Perfect,” you said, nodding. “Now just don’t forget the most important part of Christmas dinner.”

“What’s that?” he asked, his curiosity genuine.

“Grandma’s dance,” you said casually.

His face fell instantly. “What?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised,” you teased. “Every year, after dinner, my grandma gets up and does her little dance. It’s her tradition.”

“No,” he said, wide-eyed and panicked. “Please, no. I can’t do this. I can’t even dance in front of you, let alone an audience.”

“Sorry, but you’re in it now,” you said, smirking. You could already picture the scene...your grandma in her festive red sweater and apron, hopping and twirling around the living room with surprising energy.

“You’re telling me... your grandma dances?” Hyunjin asked, his disbelief apparent.

“Yep,” you said, barely holding back your laughter. “And she’s good at it. Don’t be shocked if she pulls you up to join her.”

Hyunjin looked like he was seriously considering fleeing. “This is my worst nightmare.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, nudging him. “It’ll be fun. You’ll blend right in.”

“Blend in? Wearing shiny boots and holding a fruit basket, dancing with your grandma in front of your entire family? Sure, what could go wrong?” he muttered, shaking his head in despair.

“Exactly. Nothing to worry about,” you said with a grin.

He shot you a look. “If I trip, I’m blaming the boots.”

“And I’ll be in the front row with my camera,” you teased, watching him glare at the boots like they were both his greatest triumph and his downfall.

“Great,” he sighed dramatically. “Immortalized forever on your grandma’s Instagram: shiny boots, fruit basket, and all. Perfect.”

You laughed as you both headed back to your place, bracing for the chaos to come. Between Hyunjin’s flair for theatrics, your grandma’s impromptu dance moves, and a family that wouldn’t let anything slide, Christmas dinner was bound to be a spectacle.

But as you glanced over at him, shiny boots and pineapple in tow, you couldn’t help but smile. If anyone could survive the night...and somehow make it charming...it was Hyunjin. Chaos, quirks, and all...

--------------------------------------------------------

As you and Hyunjin approached your family’s front door, his steps growing slower with every inch closer. For the fifth time since leaving the car, he adjusted the fruit basket in his hands. “Do you think the pineapple’s too much?” he asked, glancing nervously at the artfully arranged assortment.

You turned to face him, stifling a laugh. “Hyunjin, it’s a fruit basket, not a dowry. Relax.”

He sighed, unconvinced. “But what if your dad thinks the pineapple is, I don’t know, pretentious? Or worse!, what if he hates mangoes?”

“Who hates mangoes?” you asked, amused.

“I don’t know!” he whispered dramatically, his eyes wide. “I just really want to make a good impression.”

“You’ll be fine,” you said, reaching up to straighten his slightly crooked tie. “Just be yourself.”

He shot you a skeptical look. “Being myself has historically led to chaos.”

“Lucky for you, my family thrives on chaos,” you teased, giving him an encouraging smile before ringing the doorbell.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing your grandma, her face lighting up when she saw you. “There’s my favorite granddaughter!” she exclaimed, pulling you into a quick hug before her gaze shifted to Hyunjin. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “And who’s this tall drink of water?”

Hyunjin, caught off guard, thrust the fruit basket and bottle of wine toward her like peace offerings. “Hello, ma’am. I brought this for your family. The fruit selection is... uh, curated.”

Grandma took the basket, inspecting it like it was a work of art. “Curated, you say? Well, look at this pineapple...very artistic. You’ve got an eye for detail, young man.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hyunjin said, bowing slightly.

“And wine, too?” she added, holding up the bottle. “Now we’re talking. Come in, you’re already off to a good start.”

As you stepped inside, Hyunjin scanned the room, taking in the cozy chaos of your family’s Christmas decor. Twinkling lights covered every surface, stockings hung unevenly on the mantel, and the Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, laden with mismatched ornaments.

But before he could comment on the festive ambiance, his shiny boots betrayed him. He slipped on the polished floor, flailing for balance until his arm instinctively grabbed the closest thing - your beloved Christmas tree.

Grandma, still holding the fruit basket, let out a laugh that echoed through the room. “Well, that’s certainly one way to make an entrance.”

Hyunjin quickly let go of the tree, brushing pine needles off his sleeve with an embarrassed grin. “Honestly, it’s a very... huggable tree.”

Your dad, watching the scene unfold from his armchair, raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. “So, this is the boyfriend?”

“Yes, Dad,” you said quickly, stepping in before Hyunjin could spiral. “This is Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin straightened up under your dad’s scrutinizing gaze. “Sir,” he said respectfully, bowing.

Before your dad could say anything, your mom entered from the kitchen, her festive apron dusted with flour. “Hyunjin, welcome! You’ve already charmed Mom with that fruit basket, so you’re doing well so far.”

Hyunjin gave a small, nervous smile. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m happy to be here.”

“Let’s see how long that lasts,” your brother said as he strolled in, a smirk on his face. He gestured toward the tree. “Hugging the decorations already? Bold choice.”

“It was... an artistic reflex,” Hyunjin replied awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Your dad cleared his throat, the room falling silent as he leaned back in his chair. “Hyunjin, let’s talk. What do you do for a living?”

Hyunjin hesitated for a moment, glancing at you for reassurance. “I’m an artist, sir. I specialize in abstract painting.”

“Abstract painting,” your dad repeated, his tone even. “Interesting. How does one make a career out of that?”

Hyunjin straightened his shoulders, his voice steady. “I showcase my work in galleries and take on commissions. It’s about creating connections and telling stories through colors and forms.”

Your brother let out a snort. “So... finger painting for grown-ups?”

You glared at him, but before you could defend Hyunjin, he laughed. “Not quite, but I’ll admit it can get messy sometimes.”

“Messy, huh?” your dad said, leaning back in his chair, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. “And what are your intentions with my daughter?”

Hyunjin’s face turned a shade redder than the poinsettias on the table. “My intentions are... entirely honorable, sir. I care about her deeply, and I...”

“Want to hug her like the tree?” your brother cut in, earning a sharp glare from you and a chuckle from your mom.

“Enough teasing,” your mom said, stepping in to rescue him. She smiled at Hyunjin. “For what it’s worth, I like you. Anyone who can handle my mom’s humor and not run for the hills is good in my book.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hyunjin replied, his relief evident.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” your grandma piped up, a mischievous glint in her eye. “There’s one final test. Every Christmas, we dance. And since you’re part of this gathering now, you’re up.”

“Dance?” Hyunjin repeated, his voice rising slightly in pitch.

“Oh, yes,” your grandma said as she made her way to the stereo. “You’re going to have to keep up with me.”

Your brother leaned back on the couch, smirking. “This is going to be epic. Grandma’s got moves.”

Your dad crossed his arms, an amused glint in his eyes. “Consider it part of your initiation.”

Hyunjin shot you a look of pure desperation as festive music began to play. “You’re not going to save me, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you said, laughing.

With surprising agility, your grandma started twirling across the room, her movements almost defying her age. Hyunjin took a deep breath and hesitantly joined her. What followed was a chaotic, laugh-out-loud performance as Hyunjin tried to keep up with your grandma’s energetic spins and dips. He stumbled through a few steps, narrowly avoided tripping over a stray stocking, and accidentally sent a candy cane flying off the tree.

Your brother was in hysterics, snapping photos. “This is comedy gold. I’m framing this.”

Your mom leaned toward you, her expression warm. “He’s charming,” she whispered. “I think he’s a keeper.”

You smiled, watching Hyunjin finish the dance with a dramatic, albeit unsteady, flourish. “I think so too.”

Panting but triumphant, Hyunjin received a hearty clap on the back from your grandma. “Not bad, artist boy,” she said with a grin. “You’ve got spirit.”

Hyunjin gave a shaky thumbs-up, still catching his breath. “I told you... I’m dynamic... and vibing.”

The room erupted into laughter, filling the space with the kind of warmth only family can create.

As the laughter subsided, Hyunjin collapsed into the nearest chair, wiping his brow. “Your grandma should be a dance instructor,” he said, still smiling. “I feel like I just survived an audition for Dancing with the Stars.”

Your grandma smirked, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Oh, honey, if you think that was tough, wait until I challenge you to a salsa battle next year.”

“Next year?” Hyunjin repeated, his eyes wide as he looked at you for backup.

“Don’t worry,” you teased, patting his shoulder. “You’ll have a whole year to practice.”

Your brother, still scrolling through the pictures he’d taken, held up his phone. “I’m definitely printing this one,” he said, showing a particularly unflattering shot of Hyunjin mid-spin, arms flailing wildly.

Hyunjin groaned, burying his face in his hands. “This is going to haunt me forever, isn’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” your brother replied, grinning. “I’m thinking Christmas cards. Maybe even a calendar.”

Your dad, who had been quietly observing the chaos with a faint smile, finally spoke up. “All right, enough tormenting the poor guy. Let’s move on to dinner. I’m starving.”

----------------------------------------------------------

Your mom emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray of appetizers with practiced ease. “Dinner will be ready soon,” she said, setting the tray down. “In the meantime, why don’t we all sit and let Hyunjin catch his breath?”

As everyone moved toward the dining table, Hyunjin leaned in close to you. “Your family is... something else,” he murmured, equal parts amused and overwhelmed.

“They like you,” you whispered back, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze under the table. “Even my brother. This is just how they test people.”

“Test me?” he asked, arching a brow. “I feel like I’ve just survived an Olympic event.”

“Consider it a rite of passage,” you said with a grin.

Once everyone was seated, your dad picked up where he’d left off, his tone now more conversational. “So, Hyunjin, tell me more about your art. Where do you find your inspiration?”

Hyunjin straightened up, clearly more comfortable with the question. “A lot of my inspiration comes from emotions - joy, chaos, even moments like this,” he said, gesturing to the lively scene around the table. “I try to capture the energy of an experience and translate it visually.”

Your grandma, mid-bite of a canapé, perked up. “So, you’d paint this? A Christmas dinner with a fruit basket centerpiece and a tree barely standing after you hugged it?”

Hyunjin laughed. “Exactly. I’d call it Festive Mayhem.”

Your brother smirked. “Can I be in it? As the voice of reason, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes. “Voice of reason? You’re the cause of most of the chaos.”

“Hey,” your brother said, holding up his hands in mock defense. “I’m just making sure the boyfriend is worthy of my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister,” you shot back.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite,” he replied with a wink.

Your dad chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. “Well, Hyunjin, you’ve made it through the dance floor and my questions. That’s no small accomplishment.”

“And you’ve won over Grandma,” your mom added with a warm smile. “That might be the hardest part.”

Hyunjin let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Honestly, I was prepared to sneak out of here in the fruit basket if things went south.”

Your grandma raised her glass, eyes twinkling. “To Hyunjin and his shiny boots! May they carry him through many more family gatherings.”

“Hear, hear!” your brother chimed in, lifting his mug of hot chocolate.

Hyunjin laughed, finally letting his guard down as he clinked glasses with everyone. As dinner was served and the conversation turned to lighter topics, he leaned over to you again, his tone softer. “You were right,” he said, smiling. “Your family thrives on chaos... but I kind of love it.”

You glanced around the table....your dad telling one of his signature groan-worthy Christmas jokes, your mom debating recipes with your grandma, and your brother mock-arguing over the “correct” way to hang tinsel...and smiled. “I told you they’d like you.”

Hyunjin’s fingers found yours under the table, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m starting to like them too. Even your brother. Sort of.”

“High praise,” you teased, nudging him lightly.

By the time dessert was served and gifts were exchanged, Hyunjin was laughing alongside your family as if he’d been part of it for years. Your grandma even roped him into another impromptu salsa dance, which he tackled with much more confidence and far fewer collisions.

----------------------------------‐-----------------------

After dinner, the house buzzed with the warmth of a festive afterglow. The hum of your family’s laughter and chatter filled the living room, but you and Hyunjin slipped upstairs to your bedroom, seeking a moment of quiet amidst the chaos.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the lively sounds from downstairs became a muffled hum. Hyunjin leaned back against the door, exhaling dramatically. “That was... an experience,” he said with a breathy laugh, his face a mix of relief and amusement.

You smiled, crossing the room to him. “An experience, huh? That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Okay, fine. It was borderline chaotic. But also kind of amazing.”

You laughed softly, reaching out to brush a stray pine needle off his shoulder. “You survived. That’s what counts.”

“Survived?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I conquered. Well, maybe stumbled my way through, but still...points for effort?”

You chuckled, leaning against him. “You more than earned your points. My family already adores you...pineapple and all.”

Hyunjin’s face softened, his gaze warm as he looked at you. “Your family is wild, but I can see where you get it from. They’re... wonderful.”

His arms found their way around you, pulling you into a cozy hug. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The whirlwind of the evening melted away, leaving just the two of you in this quiet, perfect moment.

“Thank you for tonight,” you murmured, your voice soft against the fabric of his sweater. “For putting up with my brother’s teasing, Grandma’s dancing, and everything in between.”

Hyunjin chuckled, his chest vibrating lightly under your cheek. “Honestly? I loved every second of it. Even the salsa battle I wasn’t prepared for.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, your smile widening. “You were amazing out there. I mean, the tree might not agree, but still.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling in that way that made your heart flutter. “I was just giving the tree some love. It looked lonely.”

You playfully swatted his arm, and he caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “Seriously, though,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’d go through all the chaos in the world if it meant being with you.”

The sincerity in his words made your cheeks warm, and you felt your heart swell. “You’re too good to be true,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Hyunjin smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Me too. Chaos and all, this is one of the best nights I’ve ever had.”

The distant sounds of your family’s laughter drifted up the stairs, a warm reminder of the love and joy that had filled the evening. But here, in this quiet bubble with Hyunjin, it felt like time had slowed. His gaze dropped to your lips, and his hand came up to gently cradle your cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with emotion.

Your breath caught, and you nodded, unable to hide your smile. “You don’t have to ask.”

His lips curved into a soft smile before he leaned in, closing the distance between you. The kiss was tender, sweet, and slow, like he was pouring every unspoken word and feeling into it. The world seemed to blur and quiet around you, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the taste of his kiss.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his eyes still closed. “You make all of this worth it,” he murmured, his voice soft and full of sincerity.

Your heart swelled, and you smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You’re worth it too.”

Hyunjin laughed lightly, the sound vibrating between you. “Are you sure you’re not a dream? Because this feels too good to be real.”

“If I’m a dream, then don’t wake up,” you teased, your voice playful but full of affection.

He grinned, stealing one more quick kiss before pulling you back into his arms. And as the muffled sounds of your family’s laughter continued downstairs, you stayed wrapped up in the quiet joy of this perfect moment with him, knowing it was one you’d never forget....

☃︎♡ Bonus - Man's so hot he really makes even shiny boots and shiny pants stand out with an artistic impression 😌🤌😍🫠 ( Like how can you not drool 🫣)

☃︎♡Tags - @atinyniki @writingforstraykids @yangbbokari @theo4eve   @livelovelaughmiko @silverstarburst @galaxycatdrawz @skzoologist @shua-f4lmings @iknowyouknowminho @krisstheidiot @hyunjinhoexxx @gho-ster @ezlynkisses @elmoslungcancer @b1nn1e-1s-cut3 @seungseung-minmin @cuddlylonelyperson @jeonginsleftcheek @oreoqueen @freekyfangirl

Comment your @ If you wish to be added or removed from this list ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

☃︎♡ENDNOTE - Everything Here is a work of fiction and my own imagination. This does not represent the real life characteristics of Stray Kids. Make sure to like, reblog comment, and follow me for new updates!

[soleauclub]

The Guide to Romanticizing Your Morning Without Waking Up at 5AM

by Soleau Club

We’ve all seen the #morningroutine craze. The 5AM wake-up calls, the cold showers, the hour-long workouts — it’s a whole vibe if you can make it happen. But, let’s be real: who wants to wake up at 5AM? Not me. I believe in sleep, I believe in rest, and I believe mornings should feel like luxury — not punishment. So how do we romanticize our mornings without losing sleep or being up before the sun? Here’s my guide to waking up with intention, joy, and a touch of glamour, without the 5AM hustle.

1. Skip the Snooze and Wake Up With Ease

First things first, no snooze button. It’s tempting to get those extra minutes of sleep, but they usually leave you groggy and even more tired. Instead, set your alarm with enough time to naturally wake up and stretch out your body. A gentle alarm sound (think: soft chimes, ocean waves, or your favorite chill playlist) is key to starting the day on a peaceful note.

Take a deep breath and slowly stretch out your limbs before even leaving the bed. This tiny moment of mindfulness can set the tone for a calm, intentional day. No rush, no panic — just a soft wake-up.

2. Create a Morning Ritual That Feels Like a Spa

Romanticizing your morning is all about sensory pleasure. Make it feel like a mini spa experience every day. The key? Set the atmosphere. Light a candle, even if it’s just for 10 minutes. Put on some calming music or nature sounds (birds chirping or ocean waves crashing are my personal faves).

When I get up, I love starting with a warm cup of lemon water or herbal tea — it’s soothing, it hydrates me, and it feels like I’m doing something special for my body right from the start. If you have time, try an oil diffuser or a face mist with rose water to add a little luxury to the morning.

3. Morning Movement That Feels Good, Not Exhausting

Now, you don’t need a 45-minute HIIT workout at 6AM to feel good. The goal here is to move your body in a way that feels good, not drains you. A gentle yoga flow, a short Pilates session, or a simple stretching routine can wake up your muscles and get the blood flowing without leaving you feeling burnt out.

If you’re not into yoga, a walk outside in the fresh air does wonders. Feel the sun (or the cool breeze) on your skin. Focus on your breath, and let your body ease into the day. Trust me, this sets such a peaceful, energized vibe for the rest of your morning.

4. Treat Yourself to a Morning Skincare Routine You Actually Enjoy

We all know the importance of skincare, but why not make it fun? Think of it like a mini ritual that not only helps your skin but also calms your mind. I’m not talking about a 12-step routine here (unless you love that), but something simple and indulgent.

Use products that you love and that smell amazing. I swear by a good facial oil or serum in the morning — something that makes my skin feel soft and nourished. Add in a jade roller or gua sha tool for an instant facial massage. It’s like a mini spa right at your vanity. Your skin will thank you, and so will your sense of peace.

5. Make Your Morning Coffee (or Tea) an Experience

We all have our morning caffeine fix, but instead of just chugging your cup while you scroll through Instagram, make it a mindful experience. Take a moment to savor the smell, the warmth of the mug, and the calm as you sip. If you drink coffee, try a slow-brewed pour-over or French press — there’s something so meditative about the process.

If tea is more your vibe, brew a loose-leaf variety or try making matcha for an extra indulgent morning treat. A little cinnamon, honey, or oat milk can elevate the experience and add a touch of luxury to your morning routine.

6. Curate Your Morning Playlist for Vibes

Music is a total game-changer when it comes to setting the mood. Create a playlist that makes you feel like you’re starring in your own movie montage. Whether it’s chill acoustic vibes, a little R&B, or something upbeat to get you energized, music is a key ingredient for romanticizing your mornings.

Even if you’re just making your bed or putting on your skincare, the right song can make it feel like a full-on ritual. Add a little flair to the mundane with your favorite tunes — it’s your soundtrack for the morning.

7. Eat a Breakfast That Feels Like a Treat

I’m all about a breakfast that feels like a luxury experience but doesn’t take forever to make. Think avocado toast with a sprinkle of sea salt and chili flakes, overnight oats topped with fresh berries and a drizzle of honey, or a smoothie bowl adorned with granola and edible flowers (yes, they exist, and yes, they’ll make you feel like a goddess).

This isn’t about a huge breakfast or something that will make you feel sluggish. It’s about something that’s satisfying, nourishing, and a little bit glamorous.

8. Journal or Reflect for 10 Minutes

You don’t have to meditate for an hour or write 10 pages of your deepest thoughts. Just take 5-10 minutes to reflect on how you’re feeling. Maybe write down something you’re grateful for, jot down your goals for the day, or even just free-write what’s on your mind.

This moment of reflection helps you clear your mental clutter before jumping into the day, and it adds a little mental luxury that’s totally worth it. Plus, it’s a great way to stay grounded and intentional, even if life feels hectic.

Follow @soleauclub for more tips on how to live a luxe life with intention — no 5AM wake-ups required.

[lilahlovesjjk]

🇼​​🇭​​🇪​​🇳​ ​🇮​ ​🇬​​🇷​​🇴​​🇼​ ​🇺​​🇵

Chapter 5

synopsis: You and Satoru Gojo used to be inseparable—the kind of childhood best friends that promised to get married, rule the world, and never leave each other’s side.

Then life happened.

Now, years later, you’re both enrolled in the same elite psychology graduate program—only this time, you’re rivals. Gojo’s loud, flirty, obnoxiously charming, and infuriatingly good at everything. You're focused, sharp, constantly proving yourself—and desperate not to let the past (or him) throw you off course.

warnings: angst, slowburn (kinda), swearing, eventual nsfw, (i'll add to the list if I think of any more as the story progresses)

The campus was buzzing with its usual late-morning hum—students lounging on benches with half-zipped backpacks, others rushing by with headphones in and coffee cups clutched like lifelines. You stood in the short line at the campus coffee cart, toeing the ground with your shoe and watching the barista prep a drink with far too much whipped cream.

You were surviving on minimal sleep and residual embarrassment. Ever since your he dropped you off at your place a few nights ago, you’d been carefully orchestrating your schedule to avoid Gojo. Limited eye contact. Short replies. Strategic bathroom breaks. It was almost working.

Almost.

Because then you heard it—that unmistakable voice sliding in behind you like it was born to ruin your peace.

“Don’t tell me you’re here for my order,” Gojo said, leaning in just enough to make you flinch. “Sorry, angel. I only share fries. Not caffeine.”

You sighed. “Go away, Gojo.”

“Oh, come on,” he grinned, stepping closer until he was directly behind you in line, sunglasses perched like a crown on his snowy head. “You miss me.”

You turned just enough to arch a brow at him. “I’ve actually had three very peaceful days without you. You should try it.”

“But who would lovingly critique your fashion choices and hoard all your highlighters?”

“Literally anyone else.”

Gojo gave a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over his chest. “Oof. Wounded. Guess I’ll just be emotionally devastated while I order my—” He glanced at the menu. “—iced matcha latte with oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla, and the sweet, sweet taste of my enemies’ tears.”

You blinked. “You realize you sound like a drama student with a food allergy?”

“I’m an experience, not a diagnosis.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped forward to place your order. Gojo did the same after you, flashing a peace sign at the barista like he was a regular. He probably was.

You stepped to the side, waiting for your drinks, trying very hard to ignore the way he subtly shifted his stance to face you directly.

“You know,” he started casually, “Dr. Yuki’s doing check-ins on our projects tomorrow.”

You perked up. “What?”

“Yeah. Just a quick review of what we’ve done so far. She mentioned it after class yesterday.” He smirked. “Guess who skipped that part?”

You scowled. “I had criminology. I left early.”

“Which means,” he continued, sipping from an imaginary teacup, “we’re gonna need to make it look like we’re not totally behind. You still have your notes, right?”

You gave a reluctant nod.

“Then we should meet up again. Tonight,” he said, too casually. “My place.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Your place? What happened to the library?”

“It’s always freezing in there,” he said, scrunching his nose. “Besides, Geto’s out with some girl and won’t be back till late. Perfect quiet study vibes. Just you, me, and the emotional baggage of early childhood trauma.”

Your coffee was called, and you reached for it, needing the cup to ground you. “Fine. But this is about the project, not—whatever it is you think this is.”

He raised a brow. “What do I think this is?”

“I don’t know. One of your weird games.”

Gojo leaned in slightly, tone softening just enough to make your stomach flip. “Maybe I just like hanging out with you.”

You paused. And for a second, you didn’t know what to say. But then he grinned again, all teasing and light, and the moment snapped back to its usual rhythm.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, turning to leave.

“I’ve been called worse!” he called after you. “Don’t be late! And no stripping this time unless you want another round of my unmatched chivalry.”

You didn’t turn around, didn't even acknowledge him as you walked away with a smile on your face.

Satoru Gojo had never deep-cleaned anything in his life. And yet, here he was—shirt half-tucked, hair damp from a frantic shower, standing in the middle of the apartment living room with a half-empty bottle of Febreze in one hand and a throw blanket clutched in the other like a life vest.

“I swear to god, Geto,” he hissed, looking around wildly, “why didn’t you tell me the living room looked like a frat house exploded?!”

“Because it always looks like that?” Geto replied from the kitchen, entirely unfazed as he leaned against the counter and watched the chaos unfold, sipping a matcha latte with the calm detachment of someone who had absolutely no skin in the game. “Also, your idea of decorating is putting a Supreme sticker on the microwave.”

Gojo glared at him. “This is not the time for jokes.”

“Are you... folding the throw blanket?”

“I’m staging ambiance,” Gojo said with all the seriousness of someone preparing a defense for court. He stepped back to observe the artful placement of the blanket draped over the couch. “She’s never been here before.”

“And?”

“And,” Gojo snapped, running a hand through his still-damp hair, “she’s gonna be sitting there, in that exact spot, for hours. Probably with her stupid little color-coded notes and that perfume that smells like peach tea and heartbreak.”

“You’ve memorized her scent?” Geto raised a brow.

“I have a nose.”

“You have a crush.”

Gojo’s face twisted. “Shut up.”

“Just admit it, man.”

“It’s not a crush.” Gojo looked around in alarm. “Is it hot in here? Why is it hot in here?”

“It’s called nerves.”

Gojo groaned. “She’s going to think I’m a mess, shes probably gonna think I only invited her here to hook-up or something."

“She already knows you’re a mess, and yeah that could be what she is thinking but if she shows up that is a good sign.” Geto grinned, grabbing his keys. “Good luck, lover boy. I’m gonna go before you start sweating through your shirt.”

He left just as Gojo let out an actual, audible whimper.

He stared at the couch again. Then at the snacks on the coffee table. Then at the project notes he’d half-assed for the past two days and tried to make look academic. He adjusted the blinds, lit a candle he found in the cabinet, then immediately blew it out because the scent was “Midnight Rain” and that felt too emotionally vulnerable.

When the knock finally came, his soul evacuated his body for a full second.

He opened the door.

And there you were—shoulders tucked into a light hoodie, hair a little windblown from the walk over, one strap of your backpack slipping off your shoulder. You smelled like peach tea. And, yes, heartbreak.

“Hey,” you said.

Gojo leaned in the doorway, as coolly as someone with a minor cardiac event could manage. “Hey yourself. Welcome to the chaos palace.”

You stepped in slowly, taking in the surprisingly clean apartment. “This is... less disgusting than I expected.”

“High praise,” he said, shutting the door behind you. “We had the maid in this morning. Her name’s Satoru. He cried twice and threatened to set the couch on fire.”

You gave a small laugh, and he felt it echo in his ribs. God, he was doomed.

You made your way to the couch and sat, pulling out a folder already bristling with colored tabs and printed journal articles. “Okay, so. I’ve been compiling sources for our breakdown of Bowlby’s four attachment styles, but I thought we could frame it through a developmental lens instead of just listing them—like, how they manifest at different stages of childhood and then in adult relationships.”

He blinked. “That’s actually... smart.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, I mean. I was planning on showing up with a bag of candy and pretending to be charming, so you’ve officially outdone me.”

You tilted your head. “Did you at least bring candy?”

He grinned, pulling out a bag of sour gummies from behind a pillow. “Got the essentials."

You smacked his arm as he dropped down next to you, a little too close. The space between you buzzed. Gojo had to bite down on his instinct to shift even closer.

Your notes were spread across the table, along with your laptop. “Okay,” you said, clicking open a document. “We should divide the work. Maybe I’ll handle secure and anxious-ambivalent, and you do avoidant and disorganized?”

Gojo squinted. “Avoidant. Like you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He lounged back with a smirk. “You’re clearly avoidant. Explain why you won’t text anyone back until they’re emotionally broken.”

“Oh, says the guy who jokes his way out of any serious feeling.”

“Touche.” He popped a gummy into his mouth. “Fine, I’ll take disorganized. Makes sense.”

“Why?”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and his grin faltered. “Because it’s complicated,” he said quietly, but not without a hint of humor. “You know. Unpredictable caregiving. Mixed signals. Safety and fear all wrapped in the same person. It... hits close to home, I guess.”

Your fingers paused on the edge of your laptop. But just as the weight of his words started to settle, Gojo clapped his hands suddenly and said, “Anyway! Back to avoidant-you. Let’s dive into how you would rather walk into oncoming traffic than ask for emotional reassurance.”

You rolled your eyes, but your gaze lingered on him a second longer than usual.

He kept laughing, but his heart thudded in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was from the confession he’d almost made or the way you’d looked at him just then, like you’d caught something cracking through the perfect surface.

You both turned back to your notes, your arms brushing now and then as you worked. Gojo tried not to visibly flinch every time it happened.

Thirty minutes later, you stretched your arms over your head with a groan. “We still have so much to do.”

Gojo swallowed hard. Your hoodie had ridden up just slightly. He looked away fast.

“We should eat,” he said, voice a little higher than usual. “You want food?”

“Sure,” you said. “As long as it’s not instant ramen.”

He jumped up. “Amazing. I’ll go order something. You keep being... scholarly and intimidating.”

Before you could respond, he darted into the hallway, phone already at his ear.

“Dude,” he hissed when Geto picked up. “She’s here.”

“Obviously. Is she murdering you yet?”

“No. But her leg touched mine and I nearly died.”

Geto’s laugh was a full cackle.

“I don’t think I can survive this study session,” Gojo whispered. “She’s got these little paperclips that match her highlighter colors. It’s deranged. It’s perfect.”

“Wow. You’re down bad.”

Gojo sighed dramatically, head falling against the wall. “I’m so screwed.”

From the living room, he heard your voice: “Everything okay?”

He cleared his throat. “Peachy! Just—uh—ordering food. Back in a sec!”

And with that, he dialed the number of a restaurant that delivers and ordered food before he stepped away from the wall, squared his shoulders, and marched back in.

Fake it till you make it he thought or until she figures out you’re in love with her and flees the country.

Whichever came first.

The apartment falls into a thick, wordless hush. There’s no music, no murmured jokes, no teasing remarks or commentary from Gojo to break it. Just the occasional scratch of pencil against paper and the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen. The only thing louder than the silence is the way Gojo’s mind refuses to shut the hell up.

He’s supposed to be reading over a journal article on Bowlby’s attachment theory—something about disorganized patterns and parental responsiveness—but all his focus is drawn to the girl sitting on the other half of the couch.

You.

You're cross-legged, hunched slightly forward over your notebook, brows furrowed as your pen races along the page. The soft, steady swish of your handwriting has a rhythm to it that should be mundane, boring even—but for some reason, it sounds almost hypnotic. Like a metronome he’s synced to without realizing it.

Your perfume—some light, sweet thing he can’t stop thinking of—is making it really hard to breathe like a normal person. And every time you shift, every time your knee bumps into his, even just slightly, it feels like a tiny static shock right to his ribs.

You’re wearing that fuzzy sweater again. The one he already knows is softer than it looks, because he accidentally brushed against your arm earlier when reaching for a highlighter. He still hasn’t recovered.

God, he’s pathetic.

His eyes drift from the pages in front of him to the curve of your cheek, to the soft line of your jaw, to the way you chew lightly on the end of your pen when you’re thinking. He could sketch you from memory at this point.

“Do you think we should include something about internal working models?” you ask suddenly, not looking up.

Gojo blinks. “Huh?”

You turn your head just slightly, not enough to notice the way he was staring—but enough that he has to scramble to recover.

“Internal working models,” you repeat, gesturing toward your notes. “Bowlby says they form based on early attachment experiences, right? So even in adulthood, people use those mental models to predict how relationships are supposed to work.”

He nods, grateful to latch onto something academic. “Yeah—like, if you grow up with unreliable caregivers, your brain just assumes that’s the blueprint for all future relationships.”

“Exactly,” you say, scribbling something down. “It’s not just about how you relate to other people, it’s how you perceive your own value too. Your self-worth.”

Gojo nods slowly. “Makes sense why people with avoidant attachment act like feelings are nuclear waste, then.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re describing yourself.”

He grins, deflecting instantly. “I’m just projecting. You’re the emotionally avoidant one, remember?”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch like you’re holding back a smile. “Says the guy who panicked over a phone call and ran to the other room.”

“Hey, I was ordering food,” he says defensively. “We both need fuel to survive your study tyranny.”

You arch a brow. “Right. Survival snacks. And yelling at Geto on speakerphone was part of the nutritional pyramid?”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Okay, first of all—”

A knock at the door cuts him off.

Gojo practically leaps to his feet, both to escape your pointed stare and because he’s genuinely relieved for the distraction. He grabs the food bag from the delivery guy, thanks him quickly, and heads back into the living room.

“Behold,” he declares, dropping the bag on the table with unnecessary flair. “Dinner of champions.”

You scoot over and start unpacking the food. It’s a messy spread: dumplings, noodles, egg rolls, some sort of meat you can't name, and a bag of pretzels.

“Classy,” you remark, holding up the pretzels. “Is this your idea of a five-star meal?”

“With the right company?” he says, grinning as he flops down beside you again. “Absolutely.”

You roll your eyes again, but he catches the faint pink tint at the tips of your ears.

The notebooks and pens are pushed aside, replaced with chopsticks and crumpled napkins. The conversation shifts, the tone lighter now. You talk about everything and nothing—your weird TA from Criminology class, how Geto once accidentally lit a microwave on fire, the way freshman dorms smell suspiciously like corn chips no matter what floor you’re on.

“I can’t believe you guys survived your first month in that hellhole,” you say through a mouthful of noodles.

Gojo leans back on his elbows, grinning lazily. “Geto almost gave up. He tried to convince me to move into a van and become psychology nomads.”

You laugh, a soft, genuine sound that does something wild to his chest.

God, he missed this. Missed you. Not that he’ll admit it out loud—not when it’s so easy to tease you instead.

You wipe your fingers on a napkin and sigh. “This is nice.”

He glances over, surprised by the honesty in your voice.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”

For a moment, there’s quiet again—but not the tense, academic silence from earlier. This is different. Thicker. Charged.

You’re both still on the couch, close. Closer than before. Gojo’s knee brushes against yours again, but neither of you pulls away this time.

Your head turns slightly, and he mirrors the motion.

There’s that look in your eyes—curious, searching. Your lips are parted, breath shallow. He notices everything about you, from the curve of your mouth to the way your lashes flutter when you blink. He doesn’t think. He just leans in.

And for a second, it feels like it’s finally going to happen.

You lean in too, eyes flicking down to his mouth.

But just before your lips meet—

BRRRRT. BRRRRT.

Gojo’s phone buzzes violently against the table, making both of you jump.

You pull back instantly, blinking like you’re just waking up.

He fumbles to grab the phone, heart hammering in his chest. It’s Geto.

He doesn’t answer.

When he glances at you again, the spell is broken. You’re already reaching for your notebook, avoiding his gaze like it never happened.

Gojo clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “That was… probably just Geto. Again.”

“Mm.” You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “We should probably get through the rest of these notes.”

“Yeah.” He grabs his pencil, but he doesn’t write anything.

The tension is still there—muted now, buried under half-eaten food and unspoken things.

Eventually, the mood settles. You both get back to work, making slow progress on the outline. The almost-kiss doesn’t come up again, but it hangs there anyway, an invisible thread between you.

You pack up your things half an hour later, and Gojo walks you to the door.

“You sure you’re okay getting home?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

You glance up at him. “I’ve done it a hundred times.”

He opens the door but lingers. “Still.”

You step into the hallway, then pause and look back. “Thanks for dinner. And… for the study session.”

His smile is softer now. “Anytime.”

You disappear down the hall, and he stands in the doorway long after you’re gone, wondering if you felt that too.

The next day the classroom felt somehow colder than usual. Maybe it was the air conditioning. Maybe it was the way your stomach was turning.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about last night.

You’d gone to Gojo’s apartment fully prepared to focus on Bowlby and academic rigor—and instead, you’d nearly kissed him over dumplings and color-coded notes.

Now you sat at your usual desk in Dr. Yuki’s Developmental Psych seminar, your leg bouncing under the table as you stared down at your neatly written outline. You’d barely said two words to Gojo since you arrived, too preoccupied with pretending like nothing had happened.

He looked entirely unbothered. Slouched back in his seat, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, twirling a pen between his fingers with casual ease. You hated how normal he seemed. How unaffected. You hated even more that you noticed how nice his hair looked today.

“Alright,” Dr. Yuki said as she strode to the front of the class. “Let’s take today to do some informal check-ins. Nothing terrifying—I just want to hear how your projects are coming along.”

There was a wave of low murmuring across the room, a few groans, a few panicked glances at laptops.

“Each pair will have about three minutes,” she added. “No slides necessary. Just talk me through where you’re at, what your focus is, and where you’re headed next.”

You felt your pulse quicken.

Gojo leaned closer to you, his voice low. “You nervous?”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

“Liar.”

You shot him a sharp glance, but his grin only widened.

A few groups went before you. Most stumbled their way through the updates, either still in the research phase or floundering with a partner who clearly didn’t pull their weight.

When Dr. Yuki finally waved the two of you down.

“Wish me luck,” he whispered, then headed to the front.

You followed a beat behind, heart hammering, palms cold.

Gojo did exactly what Gojo always did—he opened with a joke. “So, uh, we’re diving deep into childhood trauma. Real uplifting stuff.”

There were a few laughs.

Dr. Yuki smiled politely. “And your actual focus?”

He shifted gears smoothly, gesturing toward you. “We’re looking at Bowlby’s theory of attachment, specifically how early caregiver relationships can shape adult emotional behavior. You know—like why some people can’t commit and others text back too fast.”

More laughter.

Gojo had always been good at winning a room. But what surprised you—maybe even impressed you—was that he didn’t try to do the whole thing himself. After the first few lines, he turned to you.

You stepped forward, the words coming more easily than you expected.

“We’ve been studying secure versus insecure attachment patterns and how those predict interpersonal responses later in life,” you said, glancing at the professor. “We’re using a few real-world case studies—some clinical, some anecdotal—to analyze behavior through Bowlby’s framework. There’s more to attachment than just the childhood origin, though. We’re also looking into how adaptability plays a role in adulthood.”

Dr. Yuki leaned forward slightly, interest clearly piqued. “Can you give an example?”

You nodded. “Sure. For instance, we’re exploring how someone with an avoidant style might appear independent or emotionally closed off, but in reality, that behavior’s rooted in a learned response to unreliability in early caregiving. That same person could develop secure traits over time if they’re exposed to consistent, supportive relationships.”

Beside you, Gojo shot you a little side-smile. Proud. And, you realized with a flutter of panic, fond.

When you finally wrapped up, Dr. Yuki crossed her arms, thoughtful.

“I’ll admit,” she said slowly, “when I first paired you two up, I wasn’t sure how it would work out. But now I see that it is working.”

She looked between you. “You balance each other out. You keep things grounded,” she said, nodding to you. “And you…” she turned to Gojo, “…keep it interesting.”

Gojo beamed. “That’s my entire brand, Professor.”

Dr. Yuki chuckled. “Well, I’m looking forward to your final submission.”

You both returned to your seats, and as soon as you sat down, you turned slightly away from him, staring very intently at your notebook, like it held all the answers to your spiraling thoughts.

“Hey,” Gojo whispered, nudging your elbow. “You crushed that. Seriously.”

You didn’t look at him. “Thanks.”

“You okay?” he asked, voice a little softer now.

“Fine,” you said a little too quickly. “Just tired.”

“Right,” he said. “Must be that emotional avoidance again.”

You shot him a glare, and he grinned, unfazed.

Class ended ten minutes later, and as you were gathering your things, a girl from the row behind you leaned over toward Gojo.

“Hey, that was a great presentation,” she said, twirling a pen between her fingers. “You’re hilarious.”

Gojo smiled, that casual, charming grin he used like a weapon. “Thanks. I try.”

The girl tucked her hair behind her ear. “If you ever want someone to study with, I’m usually in the library on Tuesdays.”

You zipped your bag a little too forcefully.

“Good to know,” Gojo replied smoothly.

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You slung your backpack over your shoulder and slipped out the side door before he could catch up. Your pulse was spiking, your stomach a mess of knots.

You weren’t jealous.

You weren’t.

You were just… annoyed. Because flirting during study check-ins was unnecessary. Because Gojo was your partner and he was supposed to be taking this seriously. Because he looked at other girls the same way he looked at you sometimes, and that shouldn’t have mattered but it did.

You shoved your headphones in and headed toward the quad, determined to pretend like none of it bothered you at all.

“You’ve been so boring lately,” Shoko called from the bathroom, her voice muffled over the hum of the hairdryer. “You’re literally glowing with repressed sexual tension. Let’s fix that.”

You groaned from where you sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a battlefield of half-folded outfits, a curling iron, and the faint scent of dry shampoo.

“Thank you for that diagnosis, Doctor,” you muttered, reaching for your mascara. “Very professional.”

“I aim to heal,” she quipped, stepping out with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and glitter eyeliner winged like she’d walked out of a runway show and into your shared apartment. She gave you a once-over. “You’re wearing that?”

You looked down at your oversized hoodie and gym shorts. “Obviously not.”

“Then pick something that says 'I’m fun and mysterious and maybe you’ll kiss me under fairy lights’ and not ‘I gave up on life in sophomore year.’”

You threw a pillow at her. She dodged it effortlessly.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you grumbled, standing up and eyeing yourself in the mirror.

It had been a long week. Between classes, the project with Gojo, and the unexpected near-kiss that had haunted your every thought since it happened, you hadn’t had time to go out. Let alone try and flirt or be flirted with.

Honestly? You weren’t even in the mood for a party.

But Shoko had cornered you after class, flicked the side of your head, and said, “I’m dragging you out tonight, and you’re going to like it. Wear something slutty.”

That’s how you ended up here, digging through your closet while she sat on your bed cross-legged, sipping wine out of a mug with the words “World’s Okayest Student” printed on it.

“Okay, what about this?” you held up a dress—a short silky slip number that usually stayed buried in the back of your drawer for special occasions or confidence spikes.

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Very ‘Oops, did I just ruin your life?’ energy.”

You rolled your eyes but held it against yourself in the mirror anyway. Not bad.

As you shimmied out of your hoodie, Shoko suddenly asked, “So. Have you told him yet?”

You froze. “Told who what?”

She sipped her wine like this was an interrogation and she had all the cards. “Don’t play dumb. Gojo.”

Your blush gave you away before your mouth even opened. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Uh-huh. So the way you were staring at him during class yesterday was just… what? Scientific curiosity?”

You scowled. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m right,” she singsonged. “Look, I get it. The history. The drama. The fact that he looks like a literal supermodel. But you’re clearly into him.”

“I’m not into him,” you argued, pulling the dress over your head. “I’m… aware that he’s attractive. Objectively.”

“Oh please,” she said, hopping off the bed and tugging the hem of your dress into place with precision. “You talk about him in your sleep.”

Your eyes widened. “I do not.”

She just grinned. “Only once. It was very scandalous. You said, ‘Satoru, no, not the whipped cream.’”

You smacked her arm, mortified. “Liar!”

“Okay, fine, you just mumbled his name, but let me have the whipped cream thing. It’s funnier.”

You tried not to laugh, smoothing your hands over your hips and checking the mirror again. The dress actually looked… good. Better than you remembered. And Shoko wasn’t lying—there was a warm sort of glow under your skin lately, and no amount of denial could explain it away completely.

Gojo had been taking up space in your thoughts for days. Weeks, if you were being honest. Ever since he reappeared in your life like a storm and crashed straight through your emotional equilibrium.

And last night—his place, the way he looked at you, that moment where the world went silent right before his phone rang…

Yeah. You were in trouble.

“You ready?” Shoko asked, grabbing her bag from the hook by the door.

You hesitated, casting one last glance in the mirror. “You think this is a good idea?”

She looked you dead in the eyes. “I think not going is a bad idea.”

You sighed. “That doesn’t actually answer the question.”

Shoko rolled her eyes and looped her arm through yours. “Come on. We’re going to drink cheap vodka, pretend to like the music, and you’re going to flirt with someone other than Gojo for once in your life. Sound good?”

You laughed, letting her drag you toward the door. “Sounds terrifying.”

“Perfect.”

The two of you stepped into the night, heels clicking on the pavement, the buzz of campus parties already starting to echo faintly from blocks away. You tried to shake the nerves, the lingering image of white hair and a lazy grin and the way he always smelled like sugar and mint.

Maybe tonight would help. Maybe you’d drink something pink and fizzy and kiss someone you didn’t have a years-long pining complex over.

And maybe, just maybe, you'd finally get Gojo Satoru out of your head.

The music hit first—low and pulsing through the hallway like a heartbeat you couldn’t quite catch. The kind of bass that made your teeth buzz a little as you stepped inside the off-campus house someone’s cousin’s roommate’s friend rented for the semester. Shoko was already ahead of you, shouldering through the crowd like a girl on a mission, hair shiny under the colored lights, a mischievous little smirk tugging at her glossed lips.

Now, weaving through bodies and red solo cups and the distinct smell of weed and cologne, you were starting to wonder if she was right. Your skin buzzed. The dress you’d spent thirty minutes debating was starting to feel a little too tight in all the places Gojo Satoru might actually look.

Not that you knew if he’d be here.

Not that you cared.

Okay—you cared. A little.

You scanned the living room, heart thudding.

And there he was.

Leaning against a doorway like a damn poster boy for bad decisions—white shirt rolled to his elbows, hair still an absolute mess and somehow pulling it off. He was mid-convo with a few people, laughing at something a girl said, flashing that stupid smile. His entire aura screamed effortlessly hot.

You forced yourself to look away before you stared too long. Grabbed a drink from the makeshift bar, something sickly sweet and glowing neon. Sipped. Winced. Made your way to the back patio for air.

You were halfway into a casual chat with a guy from your Criminology seminar—cute, genuinely nice—when you felt it. That sudden weight of a stare. The hair prickling at the back of your neck.

You didn’t have to turn to know.

He was watching you.

And when you finally did glance over your shoulder, Gojo didn’t look away. Didn’t even try to hide it. His mouth was a little parted, eyes dark under the lights, the muscle in his jaw tight.

He wasn’t smiling.

Oh.

Oh, this night was going to unravel.

You lost track of time after that.

There was music. Dancing. More drinks—two, maybe three. The patio guy had moved on to someone else, and you’d drifted through the party in that floaty way that always came with a decent buzz and the itch of knowing Gojo was somewhere close.

And then he was right there.

“You know,” he said, voice smooth as silk, “if you’re gonna flirt with someone else, at least pick a guy who’s not terrified of eye contact.”

You raised a brow. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not jealous. Just disappointed in your taste.”

“Right,” you said, sipping your drink. “Because a guy who thinks Sour Patch Kids and chips are valid brain food is obviously the gold standard.”

Gojo stepped closer. Too close. His breath was warm when he leaned down to murmur, “You look so hot right now.”

It was the kind of line that should’ve felt sleazy. Except his voice dipped at the edges, almost reverent. And it made your whole body seize up with heat.

“W-what?” you managed, blinking.

He smirked. “You heard me.”

You stared at him for half a second too long. And then you were pushing him, just lightly, back against the nearest wall, dropping your cup without a second thought. His back hit the plaster with a dull thud, and he didn’t even flinch—just looked shocked, a little breathless, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

And then you kissed him.

God, it was everything you’d been trying so hard not to think about. Soft lips and heat and the way his hands flew to your waist like he’d been dying to touch you all night. You felt the press of his fingers at your sides, one of them sliding up, up, brushing the curve of your thigh just beneath the hem of your dress.

Your fingers tangled in his shirt. His teeth grazed your bottom lip.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry and desperate and so full of tension it might’ve torn a hole in the air around you.

Gojo’s voice rumbled against your mouth, a low groan escaping. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You barely heard it.

Barely registered anything except him.

His scent. His hands. The way he kissed like he’d been thinking about it for a long, long time.

Until—

“THERE you are!” Shoko’s voice cracked through the haze like a damn fire alarm, and you jolted back so fast your shoulder hit the wall.

Gojo blinked, clearly dazed.

Shoko stumbled forward, eyes glassy, her laugh too loud. “I was looking everywhere for you. C’mon, I need your help finding the bathroom.”

You swallowed hard. “I—uh—yeah. Okay.”

You barely glanced back as you let her drag you down the hallway, but when you did, Gojo was still watching you, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His lips were pink, his hair mussed, eyes locked on yours with a mix of disbelief and frustration.

taglist:

@linaaeatsfamilies @eolivy @whiter4bbitcorner

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[concreteburialplot]

𝒲𝒶𝓁𝓁𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇 🌸 // 02

02 - I Can See You

Pairing: Sam Kiszka x Fem!Reader

Masterlist: Here | Crossposted: ao3 | Word Count: 8.9k | Playlist: Here

Summary: After bumping into the boy who saved you from being locked out of your dorm, he whisks you away on an adventure to a bar you shouldn’t even be allowed in. Drunkenly, Sam invites you to a get together with his brothers. The anxious energy at the gathering has you questioning the invitation’s intent.

Warnings: (unknown) mutual pining, one bed trope technically, hint of forbidden twin?, very soft, sweet sammy, underage drinking, weed, jake being jake, unrealistic college experiences?, feelings of inadequacy, ~new crush anxiety~, 18+ MDNI

A/N; thank you so much to anyone who read part one, it makes me so happy to know it was enjoyed so much 🩷

Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and does not reflect any members of the band or their real lives/actions/etc. - i hope you like it 🥲💞🌸 smut next chapter promise

Vibes this chapter;

-I Can See You - Taylor Swift - Close To You - Gracie Abrams - Maroon - Taylor Swift - Fallingforyou - The 1975 - So High School - Taylor Swift

The moment consciousness seeped into your body, you jolted upright, your heart racing like a shot of adrenaline straight to your system—a perfect substitute for caffeine. Your eyes scanned the room within a millisecond only to have the throb of a hangover remind you of how you got there in the first place. You immediately looked beside you on the mattress even though you felt no presence there. The bed and the room were empty. The edge of your lips inadvertently downturned at the lack of him. Your eyes landed on the bedside table, finding a note there. 

Mornin’ - 

Help yourself to some snacks or some green

Hope to see you around, Wallflower ❀

-Sam :)

An embarrassingly wide grin crept across your lips and butterflies began to run rampant in your tummy. If the note itself wasn’t enough, the little flower doodle made your heart soar. You instantly tried to stifle it down, he was just some boy you met at a party. He didn’t make any moves on you and treated you only as a friend. You barely knew each other. You were nothing special to one another - at least that’s what you told yourself. 

Once ready to get out of bed, you stripped off the rust-colored shirt you’d borrowed from him the night before, folding it into a neat square on his dresser. You changed back into the stained shirt that his had temporarily replaced just to be clothed enough to walk across the hall to your room.

The notepad that seemed to belong to the note on the bedside table sat next to the boxes of incense on the dresser. You took it upon yourself to write him a note back. 

Hey - 

Thanks for the shirt and for saving me last night. 

See you across the hall! haha

-Wallflower xx

Weeks slipped by without a single sight of him. You thought he must really spend all his time at Danny’s, because despite living on the same floor, you never saw him coming or going. Each day, as you walked down the hallway to or from your room, you’d glance toward his door, just hoping to catch even the briefest glimpse of him. But every time, there was nothing—no sign of him at all. It was as if Sam had vanished into thin air.

The longing gnawed at you, filling you with the prickling rush of a high school infatuation. It was that same eager anticipation you used to feel while lingering around a crush’s locker, waiting for that fleeting moment when your worlds would briefly collide. The anticipation, the nervous energy that hummed through your veins—it left you with a familiar ache of wanting to see him, even just for a second. It felt almost insane to be so desperate to run into someone you’d met only once, but it was maddening how he seemed to occupy every corner of your mind, refusing to be forgotten.

You were beginning to wonder if Sam had just been a figment of your imagination until an hour before closing the on-campus café, when a familiar face walked up to the counter. When you looked up at him, his grin grew wide.

“Wallflower!” He exclaimed. 

A peachy tint coated your cheekbones at the fact he remembered the nickname he’d given you. “Hey Sam.” You tried to keep your voice level to not seem overly enthusiastic, but inside there was a flurry of excitement. “I haven’t seen you around much.” You kicked yourself for mentioning it, thinking he may find it creepy that you noticed.

“Ah yeah, I take night classes, so my schedule is all fucked up.” He shrugged. 

“Oh, that makes sense.” You said in realization since you mostly took morning classes. It was no wonder you never ran into each other with your schedules flipped. 

He ordered an iced chai and watched as you swiftly threw together the ingredients without a second thought. “You really seem like a pro at this.” 

You laughed. “Yeah, I guess.” After throwing a lid on the cup, you slid it to him. 

“Hey, when are you off? I’m thinking of heading to the bar after this, wanna come?” He plucked a straw from the container full of them then smacked one end on the tabletop until it ripped through the other. 

“About 30 min-“ Your head tilted a bit. “You’re a freshman, aren’t you? How are you getting into a bar?” You asked skeptically. 

A smug smirk tugged at his mouth and shrugged nonchalantly. “I have my ways.”

“Oh, well I don’t have a fake ID or anything like that…” You trailed off suddenly feeling the excitement of seeing him again drain from your body. 

“It doesn’t matter. Like I said I have my ways, I know people. I can get you in no problem.” He paused. “If you want to, of course.” 

“Okay.” You nodded, still not fully convinced but you weren’t going to pass up on an invitation out with him. 

Upon arriving at the off-campus bar with Sam, you’re immediately overwhelmed. The bar was tiny, grungy with red neon lights adorning the outside. Posters of music artists, new and old, were plastered all over the walls. It was packed, people bustling and flowing in and out the front door. All Sam did to get you both in was show up. All the staff seemed to know him and didn’t blink an eye when he ordered you both drinks. You chose a lime margarita while he chose a beer. 

“Where are your friends?” You asked looking up at him before taking a small sip of your neon green beverage. You wrapped your cardigan around your body as a way to soothe your social overstimulation.

He looked at you a bit funny before outstretching his arms, “Well, look around!”

You giggled and did as he instructed. In a way he was right, just about everyone in the room seemed friendly with him but not necessarily his friends. You nudged his arm with your elbow, “You know what I mean.” 

“First of all,” He used his free hand to cover the area you had just gently poked. “Ow! That hurt.” He exclaimed teasingly. “Second of all, did I say I was meeting friends?” 

You reflected on the earlier interaction, initially perceiving it as him meeting up with friends and you merely being an afterthought. But as you reconsidered, one phrase stood out in your mind: "I can get you in no problem, if you want to, of course." It replayed over and over, taking on a new significance.

He could clearly see the hoops you were jumping through in your mind, and it brought a grin to his lips. His hand tentatively found your wrist to gently ground you enough to regain your focus back to him. “I asked you to come here with me, not them.” He said simply, like it was as easy as breathing but it hit you in the stomach like a punch. 

Blood flooded your cheeks bright red, “Oh,” You didn’t know what to think nonetheless what to say. The last thing you wanted to do was misinterpret what he was implying and make a fool of yourself. “I see.” If it had been any other man, they might’ve taken your curtness as a rejection or grown insecure, but not Sam. He just gave you a smile and said, “Good.” before taking a sip of his beer. 

He led you into the back corner of the bar where the pool tables and games were located. “You wanna play some pool? Test out those tricks you learned a couple weeks ago?” He asked but your eyes were elsewhere. 

A large grin pulled across your lips with a brightness filling your eyes as they returned to him. “What about darts?” 

His eyes flickered with uncertainty before pulling into a smile, “Sure, why not! Loser buys the next round.”

“Deal.” You happily went to gather the existing three darts on the board and brought them over to the boy. You offered them up like a gift in your hands. “Here ya go.”

He put his hand up and shook his head, “No, no ladies first.” He was being polite, but it just seemed like he was unsure of his abilities. 

You positioned yourself in front of the dartboard, feeling Sam’s gaze on you as you prepared to throw. The light hum of bar chatter faded to the background as you focused, the dart cool in your hand. Your fingers curled around it just right, and with a smooth motion, you threw. The first dart landed solidly within the outer ring—not perfect, but decent. You turned to glance at Sam, flashing him a playful smile before grabbing the second dart.

As you lined up your next shot, you made sure to take your time. You could feel Sam’s eyes on you, watching your every move. With a small flick of your wrist, the second dart hit closer to the center this time—just barely off the mark from a perfect shot. You gave him a small, satisfied smirk, the competitive spark in your eyes unmistakable.

For the final throw, you felt a playful and buzzed surge of confidence. Turning to Sam with a smirk, you gave him a challenging glance. “Ready to see how it’s really done?” You asked with a teasing lilt in your voice. Then, with another smooth, more controlled, flick of your wrist, you released the dart, watching it land just shy of the bullseye, so close that you could almost feel the victory in the air. You stepped back, letting out a breath of satisfaction. “Your turn,” you said, stepping aside and offering him the darts with a grin. "Good luck."

Sam chuckled softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Okay, show off,” he sassed, clearly amused but a little more nervous now. He stepped up to the line, eyeing the board with a serious expression that only made you grin wider. 

“C’mon, Sammy,” you teased. “Don’t tell me you’re already nervous.”

He glanced back at you with a raised eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk. “Worried? Nah. Just making sure I don’t embarrass myself too much in front of you.”

Your cheeks felt aflame, the statement could’ve definitely been meant in a friendly way, but it made your heart race. Just the idea that he was conscious about your perception of him was almost enough to make you spiral into what-ifs.

Sam took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders like he was about to face a real challenge. He stepped forward, aiming carefully. The bar's warm lighting cast shadows over his features, giving his usual confident expression a touch of apprehension. He threw the first dart—landing just shy of where your first shot had landed.

"Not bad," you teased, crossing your arms. "Think you can do better?"

His lips twitched, that competitive edge sparking in his eyes. He glanced at you briefly before throwing the second dart, this time hitting dangerously close to where your second shot had been. "There we go," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.

You couldn't help but laugh softly. "Guess the pressure's on now, huh?"

Sam smirked, his eyes finding yours as he prepared for the final throw. "Always is when you're around." The words were light, but there was a certain tension beneath them, a weight that made your heart skip a beat. His focus shifted back to the board, and he released the third dart—this one just a hair away from the bullseye.

You let out a mock gasp, stepping closer to him as if to inspect the board. "Well, look at that! Seems like you could actually win."

He leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. "Could?" he echoed, his voice low, teasing. "Sounds like you're doubting me."

Your smile softened, feeling the heat of his presence next to you. "I guess we'll just have to see, won't we?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, and for a moment, the world outside of this dart game seemed to fade. It was just the two of you, standing close, the air charged with something unspoken yet undeniable. You wondered if it was just the alcohol rushing through you or if it was real, and more than anything, you wondered if he felt it too. 

You and Sam continued playing, the competitive energy between you both lighthearted but persistent. With each round, Sam improved slightly, his throws becoming steadier and more consistent. But despite his best efforts, you managed to stay ahead, winning both rounds with just enough of an edge to keep teasing him about it.

By the end of the third round, it was clear that you had the upper hand, your score pulling ahead with each set of darts. Sam finally threw his last dart, which landed just shy of the bullseye, and turned to you with a mock sigh of defeat. “Alright, you’ve officially beaten me three times in a row, I think it’s time to call it.”

You laughed victoriously, the burn of alcohol warming your skin and allowing your real, unbridled self shine through. “Fuck yeah!”

“Damn, beat my ass in pool and darts, gonna beat me in poker too?” He joked. “C’mon I owe you probably the most expensive shot on the menu.” Sam knew he’d lose to you the entire time. Not only because he really sucked at darts but because he just wanted an excuse to buy you a drink without it being an overtly romantic gesture.

While a shot wasn’t necessarily what you wanted, who were you to deny Sam of anything. You were certain that he could convince you to do goddamn anything with those big hazelnut eyes.

One shot of tequila turned into two, two turned into three until you were four shots deep, giggling at the bar with Sam over any and everything. With a new margarita in your hand and fresh beer in his, you both found yourself in the back corner again, this time on a leather couch. Your thighs and hips sat flush with each other, and it was all you could think about. Warmth radiated off of him and seeped burning heat into your side. You were aware of any and all movements beside you and your hazy mind worked hard to decipher them. Sometimes it felt like he was flirting with you and other times he’d act like a friend. This confusion wasn’t made any easier when he dropped his arm around your shoulders. 

Little did you know that Sam was feeling the same way, sensing a nervous pit in his stomach as he picked apart every expression and reaction you gave him. He paid extra attention to when he attempted to flirt with you, he noticed that your cheeks would redden but you wouldn’t flirt back. He was just as confused as you.

You both were nervous, confused and excited. As much as Sam wanted to rush it, he wanted it to play out organically to see if you felt the same. 

All the alcohol from the night was making you tired so when you leaned into Sam’s touch, it didn’t register that you could be overstepping. Sam froze but wasn’t upset about your sudden affection. 

“Sammy.” You hummed against his shoulder, letting the smell of his herbally cologne fill your nostrils. “You smell really good.” 

He let out a breathy laugh and wrapped his arm further around you, pulling you closer. “Yeah? You like it?” He asked, looking down at you with a soft smirk.

“Mhm. It’s perfect.” You looked up and giggled as you booped his nose. “Like you.” 

If you had been sober, you would’ve been mortified of your own actions but drunk you only noticed how his tan cheeks turned pink. He looked so cute with rosy cheeks. 

“Oh,” He laughed down at you. “You must be very drunk.”

“Nuh uh!” You protested sitting up, using Sammy’s thigh for support. He was immediately extremely aware of your hand placement but was trying his best not to think about it too much. “You had the same amount to drink.”

“I never said I wasn’t drunk, silly.” He stated proudly, “Just that you,” He booped your nose back. “Are definitely, very drunk.” 

You pouted at him before letting your defenses fall, giving way to your fatigue. “Sammy, I’m sleepy.” You informed with a bit of a slur. “Bed. Must get to bed.” 

Before he could respond, you were up and marching for the door - you had a mission and you were going to accomplish it. Sam gathered your cardigan and purse for you and hurriedly followed you out of the bar. “Hey, wait up!”

Once Sam caught up to you, the two of you stumbled through the night like only tipsy college students could, winding your way through the streets back to your dorms. You trekked through the quiet streets, making your way home with a mix of laughter and slurred songs. You sang whatever pop song was dominating the radio, your voice loud and uninhibited. Despite Sam's earlier claims of hating mainstream pop, he somehow knew every word. You both belted out the chorus together, the melody echoing in the still night air.

You skipped ahead, dancing and twirling under the streetlights, your carefree energy infectious. Sam, though a little more reserved, couldn't help but smile as he watched you. He wasn’t necessarily a reserved creature normally but even wasted he was nervous to make a fool out of himself in front of you. Sam mostly watched with a fond smile, occasionally giving in to your playful antics and joining in—whether it was a spontaneous spin or a goofy dance move—he couldn’t help it, you were addictive to him. Not so much like a drug, but more like a new favorite latte to be craved every morning. He didn’t mind getting lost in you; he was happy just being there with you, letting himself be swept up in whatever fun you dragged him into.

Once you reached your dorm room door you fell to your knees dramatically, “Nooooo!” You shook your fists at the sky over another sock on your door.

He giggled at your theatrics, “Does she do this often?” 

“AUGH.” You groaned and fell flat on your back. “Only every other fucking day.” You exhaled and blinked at the dust-coated ceiling. 

He held out a hand to help you up, which normally would take no effort, but your exaggerated movements were obstructing the ease. “C’mon let's get you into a bed.”  

Once on your feet again, his hands found your hips to push you forward and it sent a chill down your spine and a heat between your legs. Even in your heavily intoxicated state, you were extremely aware of just how large his hands were and how they enveloped your hipbones completely. The way he guided you to his room reminded you of that first night with him, though you were much less drunk then. When inside, the now familiar scent of marijuana and patchouli filled your nose, and the dim lighting comforted you. 

“I don’t even wanna know what you’ve been doing all these nights while you’re locked out of your room but,” He opened the top drawer to his desk, grabbing something that hung by a little white disc. “You can always just come here, since I’m gone most of the time anyway.” He shrugged, holding it by the disc in front of you between two fingers.

“Oh, I absolutely can NOT take that.” You pushed his hand back towards his body. 

Sam rolled his eyes with a smile and reached towards your pants, gently pulling your pocket open and dropping the key in. “Don’t use it if you don't want to but,” He paused, taking a moment to look at you. “I want you to have a safe space to go to.” 

Your heart swelled so big in your chest that you feared that your ribs might crack. His chocolatey brown eyes were so soft and genuine, and most of all concerned. The idea of Sam not only trusting you enough to give you his key but doing so because of his concern for you, made you want to melt into the floor. Which is exactly what you did. 

Your knees buckled and you fell onto the ground once again in dramatics. You sprawled out flat on the carpet with your eyes locked on the geometric tapestry hanging from the ceiling. He chuckled and towered over you with his hands propped on his hips, “You done now?” 

You blinked up at him. “Why would you do that?” You whined more of a statement than a question. 

“Do what? Give you the key?”

“Make me like you.” The words danced out of your mouth effortlessly, so much so that your drunken brain didn’t even register what you said.

The smile that pulled across his lips was so glorious, so beautiful - it reminded you of morning sunlight shining down on fresh, dewy grass. Sober you would definitely be filling your brain with 68 different ways he was too good and far too gorgeous for you – but right now, you just admired him and his presence. He reached over to grab his pipe and a lighter before sitting down criss-cross next to you on the floor. 

“You like me?” He asked with a soft smirk as he brought the pipe up to his lips and lit the lighter to spark over the herb. As the green burned, he inhaled a deep hit, held it, and exhaled a smokey cloud above you. 

You turned your head to him with a smile wide enough to hurt your cheeks and nodded. “Sure. Maybe.” 

He kept his grin like he was satisfied with your answer. The anxiety he felt before melted away just a bit. His own heart was full from your slight confession but still aware that you were heavily intoxicated. The admission filled him with both hope and apprehension. He offered the glass pipe over to you, “Want some?” 

You waved it away, “No, no. If I get crossfaded, I’ll throw up.” To which he quickly retracted his arms and his offer. 

“Please don’t puke on my floor.” He teased before setting the pipe back on his nightstand. 

After a bit of silence, he cleared his throat, “So, um,” He sounded nervous to continue his inquiry. “My brothers and I are having a movie-day-get-together thing this Friday, would you wanna come?” 

You tilted your head at him, your stomach dropping a bit in anxiety at the idea of being in a room full of people he knows, not just his friends, but his brothers. Nonetheless, a soft smile spread across your lips, “Sure, Sammy.” 

He let out an involuntary giggle, he loved the way his name sounded in your voice, “Cool.” Abruptly, he pushed himself off the ground and held a hand down to you. “C’mon, you said you wanted a bed, remember.”

“Mmmmmm yeah but the floor is comfy too.” In your drunken state, it felt like heaven. 

“Don’t make me pick you up, because I will.” He warned with a pointed finger, to which you just stuck your tongue out to like a defiant child. 

“Fine, hard way I guess.” He shrugged before leaning down and scooping you up into his arms with one beneath your knees and the other supporting your back. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck for stability. Time seemed to slow as you watched him focus on getting you into bed - he was breathtaking, glowing even. You weren’t sure why he was radiating but you bathed in the sun rays he beamed. His wavy brunette hair framed his face perfectly, cupping his jawline with a small curl inward. All of his angles were sharp which contrasted tastefully with his plump lips and soft eyes. If there was a blueprint to what a man should look like, it was definitely him. You weren’t religious but you were convinced that some god up there must’ve crafted him perfectly, sculpted him into the most gorgeous man you’d ever seen. 

You were falling in love, and you didn’t even know it yet. 

“Sammy.” You mumbled sleepily, nuzzling into his arm as he set you down. “Don’t leave. Sleep.”

He chuckled, crawling into bed behind you. “Wasn’t planning on it, Wallflower.” He whispered gently, turning his body towards you. 

He muttered something along the lines of ‘oh shit the light’ before reaching over you carefully to click the lamp off. As he settled back into his original spot, he accidentally ended up closer to you. Before he could move away, your sleepy body instinctively grabbed his arm, pulling it around your waist. He froze for a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected intimacy but your warmth was too inviting to resist. He quickly melted into the spooning position, holding you close as sleep began to overtake you.

Sam stayed awake a little longer, savoring the warmth and closeness. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed this—being able to hold someone, feeling a comforting connection. It had been a long time since he’d had a girlfriend, and while he often saw his brothers and shared platonic affection with friends, it wasn’t the same. Cuddling had always been the part of relationships he cherished most, even more than sex. As he snuggled into you, and you unconsciously pressed back against him, he felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a while. Whether it was just a drunken gesture or something more, it didn’t matter right now. It simply felt good to hold someone again.

Your sleep riddled eyes slotted open slowly to warm light seeping in and gentle music playing. When your eyes finally adjusted to the light, you saw Sam lighting incense and dancing a bit to music you didn’t recognize.

“Morning.” You said gently as not to startle him, which proved useless since he nearly jumped out of his skin. 

He placed a hand on his heart, “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.” He then readjusted to lean against his dresser in a ‘cool’ way, “You didn’t uh, see anything did ya?”

You giggled, bringing the duvet over a yawn. “You mean like you dancing? Nooo didn’t see any of that.” You replied teasingly. 

“Whatever, forget what you saw.” He waved you off and went back to trying to get the incense lit after being interrupted. The lighter flicked a couple times before finally igniting and catching the tip of the scented stick. 

“Already forgotten.” You smiled into another yawn and stretched, pulling the muscles in your shoulders and arms. 

You suddenly got a rush of ‘I need to go home’ when you realized you were still in last night’s clothes but relaxed the second you realized that your room was just down the hall. 

“You hungry? I ordered some food that should be here soon.” He grinned, hesitantly. “I didn’t really know what you liked or if you’d be awake so I just kinda ordered a bunch of stuff.” He laughed bashfully. “I was also a little high when I placed the order so…”

You chuckled at him, “Yeah sure, I could use something to soak up all this alcohol.” 

Soon after there was a knock at the door with the food. You watched Sam greet the deliveryman who he already seemed to know, and tipped him a $20, which you thought was extremely generous until you realized just how much food he ordered. 

He turned to you with an expression that embodied both shock and embarrassment. “Okay so maybe I was really high when I ordered.” 

You both laughed as he set down four bags of food for the both of you. While it was true that he had been quite high when he ordered, he also hoped that he’d pick something from the menu that would entice you to stay a bit longer. 

He plopped down on the floor in front of all the food, starting to separate all of the transparent containers. You soon met him on the floor on the other side of the mountain of food. “What is all this stuff?” You questioned, not recognizing the green branding. 

“It’s my favorite little bistro, Rose & Lentil! You’ve never been?” He pulled out what looked like a smoothie bowl, something pudding-like, a mixed salad and some grainy pancakes. You never expected a boy like him to be eating anything other than junk. 

“No, I’ve never been, but it looks yummy.” You half lied. “What’re you gonna eat?” 

“Hmm, I was thinking either the açaí bowl or the chia seed pudding. But if you want either of those, by all means.” He kept hands off all of it until you chose. 

“I was actually gonna ask for the pancakes so that’s perfect!” You hungrily reached over to grab the container and brought it to you. 

Sam opted for the açaí bowl, informing you that it was actually his favorite breakfast food, aside from regular pancakes. The ones he’d ordered were whole grain pancakes, but they ended up being delicious regardless - that or you were just starving. 

Breakfast was full of jokes about the previous night’s events, with both of you laughing over the silly moments and playful mishaps. As you sat across from him, the conversation flowed effortlessly, each joke and shared memory bringing another burst of laughter. Everything felt so easy and natural with him, like slipping into a comfortable routine. But even amid the lighthearted banter, there was a small, persistent flutter of anxiety in your stomach. It was a twist of nerves that you couldn’t quite shake, a subtle hint of the deeper feelings lurking beneath the surface.

As you watched him move around some blueberries at the bottom of his clear container, you were suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude. You were thankful that this stranger attended that frat party weeks ago and that he spotted you. You were so grateful for his kindness; you didn’t know what you would’ve done these nights being kicked out of your dorm. But mostly, you were thankful for his friendship. Katie was a decent friend and roommate, but she was absent most of the time and you hadn’t made any other friends. If it didn’t sound so lame you would’ve thanked him verbally for spending time with you. Being away from home was lonely and it was nice to spend some time with a friend. You weren’t sure if this little flutter in your heart would actually lead anywhere but if anything was for certain it was that you’d find any way to make sure he stayed in your life, even if it was just platonic. No matter how much the idea of platonic hurt to think about. 

After breakfast you said your goodbyes and slipped out of his room and back into your own, quietly, in case Katie was sleeping or still had company. Thankfully, the room was empty, and you could decompress in solitude. You pressed yourself against the back of your door and took a deep breath. All Sam did was be kind to you, and you were already smitten with him. How could you not be? With beauty like his you were surprised he didn’t have a jealous girlfriend kicking you out of his room. You closed your eyes and let your head fall back replaying the night. Suddenly, a vague memory arose, of him wrapped around you as you fell asleep. Heat filled your cheeks and the tips of your fingers at the thought, and you wondered if you had just imagined it. Regardless, you now felt the absence of him around you, and it was a feeling you didn’t like.

But you stuffed down the sensation as much as you could, he probably was taken or uninterested in you in that way. With how pretty he was there was no way that he’d be interested in someone as mediocre as you thought yourself to be. He probably dated the most beautiful girls on campus, and you believed you definitely weren’t one.

A week later, you arrived at the address Sam had given you and craned your neck up to the skyscraper-esque building. Sam had called this an apartment building, but it was definitely a condominium. You didn’t even know there were condos on the outskirts of campus, but you went to a prestigious university so, it would make sense the rich kids lived here. Which surprised you because you never even suspected Sam to be a “rich kid”, he was just, Sam. 

After a long elevator ride, you reached the 7th floor and stood in front of a white door adorned with a gold number paired with a letter, 7C. You shift back and forth on your heels and grip the straps of the tote bag hanging on your shoulder. After exhaling a deep breath, you mustered the courage to knock your knuckles against the door. 

You’d briefly met all of his friends already except for the brother that owned the condo, but you hadn’t met them yet. Not sober anyway. 

The door suddenly swung open only to reveal a boy with shaggy brown hair and a giant, toothy smile on his face. 

“Y/N!” He exclaimed excitedly and you wondered how he knew it was you even though you’d never met before. The boy just a bit taller than you wrapped you in a big hug. Your brows furrowed a bit at the gesture, seeing as again, you’d never met before.

You chuckled nervously, “Josh? Right?” 

“The one and only!” The grin never leaving his face. “Welcome, welcome!” He announced, spreading his arms wide. “Make yourself at home, grab a drink, enjoy yourself!” It was then that you realized he’d been holding a beer the whole time. “Oh, and please take your shoes off at the door, thank you!��� 

“Thank-“ You began but he had fluttered away before you had a chance to finish. 

You could hear the bustle of the other boys in another room which is where you assumed Josh had run off to. You took in the condo as you were left alone. It was spacious with an open floor plan. Floor-to-ceiling windows filled the room with dim light from the cloudy day. Everything was white with abstract art decorating any sparse areas.

Josh must’ve promptly informed Sam of your arrival because he appeared quickly after his departure. 

“Hey Y/N,” He smiled softly, and you took note of his reserved cadence and the fact he didn’t greet you with your nickname. He wrapped you into a half hug, which after Josh’s bear hug seemed small. You felt crazy for noticing the tiny differences in behavior when they probably meant nothing. 

“Hey Sam.” You smiled shyly and gave him a small wave. The interaction seemed so… new, and stale, when you’d been hanging for a bit and even at the beginning, he hadn’t been like that. It settled a storm of nerves in the pit of your stomach. Suddenly every interaction you'd had with him was replaying in your head, wondering if something went wrong. 

“Do you want a drink or something?” He asked, leading you into the spacious modern-styled kitchen. Once in front of a rather large silver fridge he opened the french doors to reveal a plethora of alcohol, taking up most of the appliance. 

“Oh, um,” In the corner you spotted one row of water bottles. “Could I have a water please?” You figured that alcohol may not be the best idea when feeling as nervous as you did. 

He smiled, “Of course.” His hand plucked a bottle and handed it to you before grabbing a beer of his own. 

“Hey, Sam!” Called a voice you recognized as Jake’s calling from the other room. “Come help fix this shit with this TV.” 

He rolled his eyes but placed a tender hand on your shoulder, “Excuse me.” He said in a tone insinuating that he’d rather do anything else than go help them. 

Shortly after Sam left, you soon felt another presence enter the kitchen. “Well, well, well. Nice to see you again.” Welcomed Jake adorned with a faux British accent and a half drank amber beverage.

“Hi- uh,” You pointed over your shoulder. “Didn’t you just call him over for help?”

Jake smirked and gestured over in the general direction. “Yeah, that’s what he’s doing. Helping.” He took a sip of his drink, his chocolate browns eyeing you over the brims of the short glass. He looked even better in the daylight, in a patterned button down, unbuttoned til the very last few buttons before being sucked into his jeans. His hair was long, past his shoulders, and fluffy. His face was sterner than Sam’s but not as angular or sharp.

“Oh.” You replied shortly, feeling naive and a bit cornered.

“Oh love, you can’t be only drinkin’ water.” He stayed in the British accent except it was sounding a bit Irish. “Let me make you something.” He began taking bottles off the counters and pulled a stemless martini glass from a cabinet. 

“No, no.” You tried to stop him using your hands to wave away his actions. “I’m okay really.”

“Nonsense. I’ll make it light.” His gravelly voice returning to his American dialect. Though, what he was making looked far from light and the churning anxiety in your stomach only worsened. 

He poured in some vodka into a shaker and took the opportunity to glance up at you while the liquid poured. “So, Sammy wooed you huh?” The corner of his lips curling into a smirk. 

“I-I,” You began but fell short, not really knowing the answer. It was true but Sam didn’t even know how you felt, you couldn’t let Jake know first. 

“I see.” He nodded, adding cranberry juice to the metal container. “Either you haven’t told him or he’s not doing a very good job at wooing you.”

A bright red blush bloomed to your cheeks at his words, seemingly stunned silent, lost in your own jumbled thoughts.

He paused with his brows lowering then raising, “Or both.” Before the smirk returned again. “What a shame.”

“What is?” You asked innocently.

Some other juices and ingredients you didn’t recognize were added to the shaker before he snapped the lid on it. “You’re easily the most beautiful girl he’s ever brought around.” He said effortlessly, no hesitation behind the words - unlike with Sam, who had you questioning your entire purpose there. “It’d be a shame for him to fumble the opportunity to win you over.” He brought the shaker over his shoulder and shook it with one hand, ice clashing into metal filling the silence in the room. 

“Oh, no.” The blush on your cheeks had dulled to dusty rose and your eyes fell to your water bottle as you played with the label. “I don’t think it’s anything like that.” When the words left your mouth, they felt like lies. It had to be something right? There’s no way you were just imagining everything. You shrugged. “Or maybe? I don’t know.” 

He poured the martini glass full of a cloudy pink liquid and handed it to you garnished with mint. “You’re far too stunning to be that confused about someone’s feelings for you.” 

You took the glass delicately to not disturb the beautiful presentation. “Thank you.” You replied quietly to both the drink and the compliment. 

Jake’s eyes darted to the left catching Sam making his way back. The smirk returned to his lips before leaning over to reach your ear. “If you’re not impressed by him, let me know. I can do anything he can’t.” His hand lightly gripped your arm before parting from you to walk past Sam in the opposite direction.

Your eyes widened unsure how to take his claim, but a buzz fell into your hips nonetheless. What could he possibly show you that Sam couldn’t? But more importantly, was there truth behind his words, should you not be blindly crushing on Sam without knowing his feelings? While Jake wasn’t the one you wanted, he sure had a way of making everything so simple.

You were startled out of your thoughts when Sam finally reached your side. “C’mon, they’re about to start the movie.” He said quietly then placed his hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you to the living room. 

The feeling of his touch on you made your heart swell but only further confused you about his behavior. Even after his hand left you, it still tingled where it had been. He plopped down in the middle of the couch and patted the cushion beside him, inviting you to sit next to him. 

You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your recently glossed lips and took the seat next to him. 

It didn’t take long for all the boys to gather around the tv, some on the couch and some on the floor. They put on some indie movie that you could barely keep up with, not because it was necessarily over your head, but because of Sam’s proximity to you. Your knees were barely touching and there’s just a hair of space between our stationary pinkies on the cushion, just begging to cross over each other. Your heart stayed high the entire time, but you try to hide your chest rising and falling rapidly. You wonder if Sam or anyone else around them could tell or if Sam felt the same way.

Jake sat on the other side of Sam, and you were grateful for it because the idea of being sat between them made your head spin. It was bad enough you’d already caught him stealing looks at you every now and then, but you paid no attention to him, not wanting to fuel whatever fire he was trying to start. It was bad enough that his words were ringing in the back of your head and your curiosity running rampant.

You and Sam’s pinkies were still barely touching, and the contact remained light yet electric throughout the entire movie. The sensation of his skin brushing against yours was enough to keep your heart racing and your skin tingling with goosebumps. The quickened pulse and fluttering nerves never eased during the film’s two hours and seventeen minutes, despite the lively chatter and laughter of the group around you. Each time you shifted, or the couch creaked, the brief, tantalizing contact was a constant reminder of his closeness, amplifying your giddy nervousness. Every slight movement or accidental brush seemed to heighten the tension, making it almost impossible to focus on anything other than the shared, electrifying proximity between you. The soft, shared touch was like a delicate thread binding you together, making every casual brush of his hand feel intensely significant.

As the movie ended, the group burst into animated discussion, gesturing enthusiastically about their favorite parts. You were more than content to fade into the background, relieved not to be thrust into the conversation since you had barely paid attention and couldn't have contributed meaningfully. As the chatter continued and the group began to scatter—grabbing their belongings or placing glasses in the sink—You rose from your seat, stretching your arms above your head to loosen the muscles that had been dormant for the past two hours. Then, you navigated around the couch, stepping out of Jake's way as he made his way toward the living room exit.

You ended up leaning forward against the backside of the couch, pressing your palms into the headrests for support. Suddenly, you felt the warmth of Sam’s head resting on your shoulder from behind. It was a simple, unassuming gesture, but it sent your heart racing, making it feel as if it were leaping into your throat. The thudding pulse in your ears seemed to drown out everything else, and every hair on your body seemed to stand on end.

Sam's hands were tucked behind him as he bent slightly to rest against you. “Did ya like the movie?” He asked casually, completely unaware of the mini panic attack his closeness was causing.

“I—” You stuttered, feeling your cheeks flush with warmth. He chuckled softly, sensing your unease.

“You didn’t like it, did you?” He guessed with a knowing smile.

The blush deepened on your cheeks as he pulled away, giving you a moment to regain your composure. You turned to face him, trying to steady your breath. “I did,” you said, not entirely untrue, since you had been too distracted to focus on the film.

Sam’s face softened into an endearing, embarrassed grin, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Ah, I told the guys we should’ve picked a more interesting movie.” It was adorable, the way he was nervous about you enjoying the piece of media, nervous about impressing you. 

You noticed then that it was just the four of them, no extra partners or friends. This was really about him introducing you to his tight-knit circle. He was more reserved with them compared to his larger-than-life charisma he normally exuded in other social situations. Being the little brother of two other grandiose personalities, it made sense that he’d sometimes get outshined. You wondered if this was the normal dynamic with them or if they were on good behavior because of your presence. 

Without thinking, you reached out and found his wrist, giving it a little squeeze. “I liked it. I think I’m just tired.” 

His regular joyful smile and the sparkle in his espresso eyes returned, “Oh, I’m glad. I was scared it would bore you.” 

You shook your head with a reassuring grin, “No, I think I just need some coffee.”

“Hey, Y/N!” A voice called from the kitchen and when you leaned over to follow it, you found Jake with a cigar perched in his lips while he lit the end. “You should join us at the arcade tomorrow night.” 

Your eyes flickered up to Sam, who looked like Jake just asked a question he had been hyping himself up to ask. “Sure.” You smiled up at Sam before moving back to Jake. “I’d love to.” 

“Cool.” Sam nodded, trying to act nonchalant about it all but the truth was that he was ecstatic. 

The more he got to know you, the more he became something he rarely was - shy. Fidgety and nervous were never part of Sam’s repertoire, he was always his most authentic self, never caring who thought what of him. Until you. Especially since you weren’t seeming to pick up on any of his hints. True to your nickname, he thought of you like a flower, something delicate. Delicate for Sam was dancing around all of the obvious signs instead of blurting out his feelings. He didn’t want to scare you away with overstepping or misread signals. You were slowly becoming his new favorite person, and he didn’t want to rush or lose that because of his own impatience. 

After saying goodbye to the boys and thanking Josh for his stellar hospitality, you and Sam wandered over to an on-campus café for some much-needed coffee before Sam’s evening class started. The atmosphere was cozy, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wrapping around you like a warm blanket. It felt like the perfect way to wind down after the busy day.

The view from the amply large windows gave you a perfect view of the setting sun, casting pink and gold through the glass and onto the tan boy. You couldn’t get over just how beautiful he was, you wondered if he knew that about himself.

“Thanks for drivin’ me back to campus,” Sam said as he brought his cup to his lips. You couldn’t help but let your eyes drift to his mouth, watching as his pink lips touched the plastic lid. You felt a strange pang of envy toward that cup, wishing you were the one he was drawing closer to.

“Yeah, ‘course,” you replied, quickly blinking away your stare and taking a sip of your hot coffee to distract yourself.

He set his cup down and cleared his throat, his gaze locking onto yours with a spark of mischief. “So,” he began, drawing out the moment with unnecessary suspense, “I have a very important question.”

Your eyes widened as you mirrored him, placing your cup down too. “Oh god, what?”

Sam paused for effect, leaning in ever so slightly before finally asking, “What is… your major?”

You let out a relieved laugh, placing an open palm on your chest. “Jesus, you scared me.”

Sam chuckled, flashing you that easy grin of his. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“Um, honestly, I’m kind of undecided,” you admitted with a shrug. “I came in as an English major, but now I’m not so sure. You?”

“Ah, I’ve got no major,” he said casually, taking another sip of his coffee. “Why choose? I want a little bit of everything, ya know?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I believe they call that Liberal Arts.”

“Damn,” he sighed dramatically, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “And here I thought I was being revolutionary.”

If you didn’t have a massive crush on him, you might’ve teased him more, maybe something like, "Yeah, a lot of men seem to think they’re revolutionary," But you bit your tongue, opting for something lighter instead.

“Looks like you’re gonna have to think outside of a bigger box, Sammy,” you teased, tipping your cup toward him with a grin.

“I guess you’re right, Wallflower,” he shot back smoothly, making your heart skip a beat. It wasn’t your name but god did you love the way he said it. You felt the familiar warmth creeping up your neck, threatening to color your cheeks red, so you quickly changed the subject.

“So, your brothers just go to arcades regularly?” you asked innocently, trying to steady yourself.

He laughed, setting his cup back down. “Not just any arcade. It’s The Arcade. It’s this bar-arcade place, kind of like a smaller, off-brand Dave & Buster’s.”

Your lips formed an understanding "O." “My bad.”

“It’s a lot of fun,” Sam continued, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “I think you’ll really like it.”

You smiled, enjoying his enthusiasm, but something had been gnawing at you for a while now, so you leaned in with a half-serious grin. “Hey, so how do you get into all these places anyway? Just how many people do you know?”

Sam laughed easily. “Honestly, just one—my dad.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your dad?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “He’s the Dean.”

You almost spat out your coffee. “Your dad is the Dean? Of our school?”

“Yep,” he said with a grin. “And, well, I guess I know three people if you count Jake and Josh. They set some traditions before I started. Most of the bars let me in because of them.”

You blinked, processing the information. “So, your dad just lets you guys drink and party wherever you want?”

Sam shrugged nonchalantly. “Kinda. He wants us to have the full ‘college experience.’ As long as we keep our grades up and don’t screw up too badly, he pretty much lets us do whatever. It also helps that no one really wants to say no to us because, you know, Dean’s kids and all. Not that we’d ever get anyone kicked out or anything, but they don’t need to know that.”

You laughed, leaning forward on your elbows with a teasing glint in your eye. “So basically, don’t piss you off?”

Sam grinned, his expression softening as he leaned in slightly. “I don’t think it’s possible for you to piss me off.”

As you finished your coffee, the conversation drifted into lighter topics, the laughter between you and Sam making the café feel even cozier. But as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm glow through the café windows, the thought of your upcoming weekend plans lingered in the back of your mind. The idea of spending more time with Sam at The Arcade filled you with a strange mix of anticipation and excitement—a little nerve-wracking but thrilling all the same.

“Ah shit.” Sam quickly shifted his watch into view. “I gotta get out of here before I’m late - again.” 

The anticipation was sweet, a pleasant undercurrent as you both stood up to leave. You didn’t know it, but he was feeling just as anxious and excited as you. 

Sam flashed you a grin that made your heart flutter. “So, Saturday then? I’ll pick you up around seven?”

“Yeah, sounds perfect,” you replied, unable to suppress the smile that tugged at your lips. It felt like the weekend couldn’t come fast enough

As you said your goodbyes and parted ways, a smile lingered on your lips, the thought of seeing him again sending butterflies swirling through your chest. 

You found yourself looking forward to it more than you expected, not just because it sounded fun, but because it was with him. You couldn’t help but smile at the idea of what the weekend might bring—laughing over games, the buzz of the arcade lights, and maybe even an excuse to let your guard down a little more around him.

The thought of the upcoming date left you both excited and a little bit anxious. It felt different, but you couldn’t tell how. But mostly, you couldn’t wait to see where the night would take you—after all, being with Sam always promised an adventure.

Next Chapter -> 03 - Deflowering*

Taglist; @sacredthefran @deathblacksmoke @measuredingold @persuasivus @broken0mens @peaceloveunitygvf @shutupdevvie [comment or send an ask to be added to taglist<3]

A/N; Thank you SO much for reading! Let me know what you think<3

[riversidecryptid]

I’ve been thinking about him recently

This is my new shipchild oc Timelapse, who uses it/he pronouns! He’s from animatic and clock lol

Some notes on him—

- it fell out of the polka dot void and clock looked at him and said “well I guess this is mine now”

- it shares traits from both animatic and clock, has all of their abilities, doesn’t use most of them

- it gets sugar rushes but if it gets any form of caffeine it falls asleep immediately

- it’s movement style is a mix of animatic’s and clock’s, it can basically do literally whatever it wants

- he’s generally very quiet around people it doesn’t know well but is very talkative to close friends (kinda autistic vibes tbh)

- he’s best friends with Gabe (a sodapack shipchild made by my friend on discord, I don’t own that design)

Might make an ask blog for him idk I think that sounds fun

[3rachasdomesticbanana]

His Groupie | Han Jisung

Summary: For two years you and Han have had a special "arrangement" whenever he was in New York. Now that he's in town he needs to see you.

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Genres: fwb with light smut?

Triggers: unprotected sex, quickie, public sex

an: Tumblr/fanfic noob still. Bare with me 🙈

Want more smut? Follow the banana 🍌

It's been a few years since you met when he and his members had their world tour in New York. It became a regular thing for you two to meet up two or three times a day for however long their stay was. It didn't matter where to him just as long as he had you underneath or on top of him.

Tonight is no different. Although you knew he was in the middle of the concert, the text you got from him telling you to meet him came to no surprise to you. The urgency in his text could be felt and you could feel your arousal quickly flood between your thighs.

You found him drenched in sweat and still wearing the leather pants and flashy jacket covered in sequins to match. The second he saw you from where he leaned against a large heavy looking carrying case he sprung up and immediately removed the jacket. He strolled towards you as if he had all the time in the world instead of only a couple of minutes.

Your eyes followed a bead of sweat that dripped slowly from the base of his neck, between his pecs and down over his abs, soaking into the band of his briefs. Without warning and with speed you've only seen in him when he's high on caffeine, he grabs your waist. With your back against the wall in-between a guitar and stack of drum cases you can feel the vibrations of the crowd. Pressing his lips over yours and slipping a hand underneath the black and red pleated skirt you wore that completed the punk rock vibe your outfit had, Han was pleased to find the river that was waiting for him. He was pleased to find how ready you were for him and took no time in losing himself in you while the others did their solo performances on stage.

It was quick but intense as it often was during these secret hookups while he was working. If Chan knew what Han was up to every time he disappeared during a concert he'd be in a shit ton of trouble. He didn't care though because the thrill of performing gave him such a rush that he needed your body to relax him. Even with a limited amount of time he worked two orgasms from you before spilling himself inside of you. The aftershocks and the adrenaline had left your legs feeling like jelly but it was addicting. You wanted more but you knew that would have to wait. You watched him take off running for the dressing room while you chuckled and cleaned up the mess he left you.

Back in your seat and with Han back on stage as if nothing happened, you both wore matching smirks that only you two knew the story behind. By the end of the night he'd text you again, eager for another round and another. Alone in his hotel room where he could treasure and worship you as Jisung and not Han. Lazily and unrushed as he often was off stage. If he could he'd have you follow him wherever they went, all the time as his groupie.

[fairyhaos]

seventeen and being cafe workers

requested by anon: "hi! i really liked your take of svt having a cold! what are your thoughts on svt as cafe workers? thank you for your hard work! "

notes: LMAO this was actually sm fun

masterlist

seungcheol

he doesn't know why he's working in a cafe tbh. he doesn't even know how it happened. jeonghan brought him to the cafe he worked at one day and the next thing he knew, he was being hired as a barista at that very same place. oh well, he supposes it's kind of fun (?) to work alongside such chipper people, and it encourages him to talk to a vast range of people while he works

jeonghan

assistant manager, sleeps in the back room half the time, only ever gets called out for it by chan. somehow a master at handling orders during rush hour, though? gets through coffees in a flash, taking orders and yelling at minghao to get on with it and also packaging pastries and working the cashier and still smiling and greeting people nicely. but don't call for his help until it's rush hour again okay he needs another nap now

joshua

doesn't actually do, like . anything. he's out there on the floor chatting to people and (sometimes) taking orders and (not really) clearing the tables and smiling and doing nothing whatsoever. gets away with it bc he's pretty and good at talking to people so it gains them more customers anyway. works in a cafe, but doesn't like coffee. asks people if they want a cake instead when they ask what coffee he recommends

junhui

bright and sweet and has the weirdest recommendations when customers ask him how he normally takes his coffee. either looks like he's buzzed up on way too much caffeine or looking like he's about to doze off any second. has probably slept during a lull in his shift before. whizzes around the shop with his broom going "wheee!!" while he's cleaning up when they're closing up the coffee shop for the day

hoshi

bids all the customers goodbye with a wave and his signature move (his horanghae hands), gets slapped on the head with a tea towel by woozi every time he catches him. is always stealing the pastries from inside the display during the lazy times of the day, swears he's innocent and pins the blame on poor seungkwan who was on the other side of the cafe at that time

wonwoo

has literally every customer in their early 20s giving him their phone numbers/ asking him if he wants to go grab something to eat with them. typically hides behind the coffee machines and doing the barista work bc ngl he's kinda terrified because one time this lady just Kept Coming Back to talk to him and his social battery was just not up for dealing with her level of bright chatter. 

woozi

he gives me manager vibes. he's the one who scolds mingyu whenever he gets within a three foot radius of the coffee machines, who hits hoshi over the head for his excessive tiger agenda, who lets jeonghan sleep in the back room but denies that it's because he's lowkey scared of him. very very good at manager-ing and can also barista when it gets too busy. the cafe would fall to pieces without him tbh. 

minghao

one of the best baristas ever. memorises complicated orders in the blink of an eye. rattles off the order back to the customer when they claim that he made their drink wrong and then raises an eyebrow and goes "isn't that what you wanted, sir?". grins almost sadistically whenever someone orders an insanely caffeine-loaded drink. is in horror at junhui's coffee preferences. 

mingyu

isn't allowed near the coffee machines after that one time he almost broke one of them while pulling the lever too hard. is great at doing cashier work because he's such eye candy, pulls in the greatest amount of tips because of it. sometimes works the floor, but that's also risky bc there have been times where he's gotten in the way of his colleagues as they hand out coffee and spilt it all down his uniform

dokyeom

brighest sunshine smile ever. asked to work mainly morning shifts, and woozi agreed because putting seokmin and his sunshine brightness in an evening shift would probably make their tired customers feel even more exhausted while talking to his unending brightness. has gotten the second most amount of numbers given to him after wonwoo, but the clueless boy doesn't even understand why

seungkwan

that one chatty barista who talks about anything and everything to anyone who looks at him too long while he's working. hates the opening shift. always complains long and loud at how sloppily the shop was cleaned up by the people on the closing shift of the day before. scolds hoshi when he snatches a cake pop when he thinks no one is looking. 

vernon

Good And Honest Worker™. nothing to say tbh, he's just actually genuinely good at the job. everyone wants to be put on the same shift as him. gives customers song recommendations too whenever they ask him what drink he recommends they have. once tried to write the prop-up sign for the cafe, was laughed at by woozi bc it looked like it was written by a child

chan

newbie. doesn't know how to work the coffee machines, isn't allowed to figure them out in case he becomes the next mingyu and destroys the machine that was almost killed by the guy's hands. is in charge of drawing smiley faces on the coffee cups. writes everyone's name wrongly on the cup, and yet calls it out flawlessly every time as he hands them their coffee with a beam and a chipper "have a nice day!"

request guidelines

reactions tags: @jeonginssa @hanranghae17 @magicaltonaru @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @turningcarat @zarara @bunnyiix @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @iheartyujin @summery-bat @newgirlygirl @moonlitskiiies @ejspencer14 @mirxzii @wonranghaeee @saythename-chess @yonabutnotyuna @youthoughtiwasfeelingyou @crackedpumpkin @wqnwoos @sunshinekyeom-sang @ocyeanicc @zozojella @thesmellofcoffeeandrain @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @icyminghao @nananacomeonnnn @valenhui @sweet-like-caramel @hansolaria @gam3bo1z @marisblogg @evasaysstuff @odxrilove @kyeomyun @chansburgah @pepperonijem @jeonride @kellesvt @butiluvu

[silversword7000]

☕️Bridge Crew Coffee Headcanons☕️

Author’s Note: I indicated TOS and AOS for Kirk because each version gives me wildly different vibes about coffee but the rest of them can be read as either TOS or AOS🥰

Kirk:

TOS Kirk would have coffee occasionally and only put a splash of cream in it.

He would absolutely have a special cup for coffee so it is more of a treat though!

AOS Kirk would put 20000000 sugars and creamers in his coffee and also he should NOT be allowed to have coffee ever because he will have 50 cups in a day if no one (Bones) stops him.

He would absolutely love coffee though and like TOS Kirk he would have a special cup but AOS Kirk would have a blinged out reusable to go cup✨

Spock:

Spock would NOT drink coffee. He hates the bitter taste of it and even if it was doctored up, he still wouldn’t like it.

Caffeine would not agree with his Vulcan half…

McCoy:

He has a caffeine addiction.

With all the bullcrap he has to deal with on a daily basis I do not blame him.

He also doesn’t have time to sleep often so…yeah.

He drinks his coffee black. The bitterness reminds him of how he feels when people (Jim) are constantly getting themselves hurt in idiotic ways.

The only time he ever drinks it any other way is when Uhura makes him latte art. Even though he prefers it black, he enjoys seeing how excited she gets about doing it.

If anyone tries interacting with him before he has his coffee, he will kill them. All of the other medical officers stay far away from him until he has his first cup.

Scotty:

You already know my man is not bothering with coffee unless it has alcohol in it.

Scotty is able to wake himself up pretty quickly. He just gets up and he’s ready to go! So, he’s never had the need to drink any coffee.

Frankly, he just doesn’t enjoy the taste of it.

Uhura:

Uhura would love to start her day by having a nice cup of coffee! It is part of her morning ritual. ☀️

She has a few mugs that she swaps out to have some variety, but her favorite is her pink Hello Kitty mug that her mother gifted to her. (Hello Kitty would stand the test of time, I make the rules and you know I’m right.)

She puts some half and half as well as a little sugar in her coffee most days, but sometimes she switches it up for funzies to varied results.

One day on shore leave, a friend of hers taught her how to do latte art and she has been OBSESSED with it since.

She has her own coffee machine and she brings it to the rec area some mornings to make latte art for other crew members! She loves making hearts and leaves the most!

Her favorite part is seeing others smile when she gives them their special coffee <3

Because she knows how much he needs it, sometimes she lets Bones use her coffee machine to get a fresh cup.

She likes to make him special latte art when she is on breaks because she loves seeing how it cheers him up!

Sulu:

Sulu only ever has coffee on special occasions.

It’s not something he needs every day so he only ever has one when he is on shore leave or vacation and it strikes his fancy.

He loves to try specialty coffees from different places to taste the regional differences.

Chekov:

Chekov LOVES coffee.

However, he is not allowed to have it after…the incident.

Scotty installed a special sensor on the replicators so that if he tries to make a coffee, it doesn’t work.

If Chekov does have coffee…oh boy, strap in. He is like a little kid with a sugar rush! Pavel will NOT be able to sit still to the point where it impedes his work and annoys everyone around him.

He is bouncing off the walls like nobody’s business!

The last time Pavel got his hands on some coffee while he was on duty, Sulu was assigned to wrangle him. It ended with Pavel tied to a chair and gagged.

So yeah the entire bridge crew knows NEVER to let him have any coffee anymore.

💫Thank you so much for reading!! Reblogs and comments are adored <3💫

[ohmyminsung]

KASS CAFÉ FEATURED MENU TOP 20 TITLE TRACKS OF 2023 insp: x, x | cr: flaticon

tagged by my beloved @xiaojuun 💕

*walking in late with an iced coffee* hii welcome to kass café ! home of my top picks of the year! here are 20 of my favorite title tracks, singles, and pre-releases from 2023, loosely organized by Vibe™️ and paired with some of my favorite coffee shop drinks. come by if you like and share a tune and a fun little beverage with me ! hot and caffeine free options also available 😊

in no particular order: PERFUME - NCT DOJAEJUNG / SPICY - AESPA / CREAM SODA - EXO / MOVE - TREASURE (T5) / SUPER - SEVENTEEN / PERFORMER - VANNER / FACT CHECK - NCT 127 / S-CLASS - STRAY KIDS / LOVE WAR - YENA / SWEET JUICE - PURPLE KISS / CHILL KILL - RED VELVET / ROVER - KAI / GOLDEN HOUR - MARK LEE / FIGHTING - BSS / HANA - INI / GROOVY - CRAVITY / KICK IT 4 NOW - TNX / MEMORIES - RIIZE / LIP GLOSS - THE BOYZ / SUGAR RUSH RIDE - TOMORROW X TOGETHER

i'm definitely one of the last people to do this so i won't tag anybody but if you see this and wanna share consider this ur tag! :)

[drakyns]

it doesn’t take a genius to realize that håkan isn’t much of a morning person,  at least not without a little boost.   percy should thank his mom for helping him become well accustomed with the coffee maker from a young age;  he eagerly took to the station as a result of wanting to make her life a little easier back then,  it was about one of the few things he can do in the kitchen without setting off the fire alarm.   and after asking their friends if they know how håkan likes his coffee,  while also ignoring their knowing looks and sly grins,  percy grew confident that he’d be able to handle a grumpy håkan with this pure black potion of straight up caffeine.   ( not that percy is any better,  with his cans of energy drinks here and there. )   quietly,  he leaves a steaming cup on the counter for håkan to reach,  and percy wisely does not comment on his disheveled state.   he does smile into his own cup of hot chocolate though,  before dipping his croissant into it.   “ morning,  sunshine. ”

ㅤhe woke to silence—actual, honest quiet. no screams. no alarms. no coppery scent of blood, or that sharp tang of fear and sweat in the air, choking you. just stillness. dare he say, peace: the familiar woolly texture of an old shirt percy had left behind, smooth against his neck. weird. this felt beyond realistic. was he having one of those prophetic dreams demigods were cursed with? hah, good one. surely the monsters gnawing at the edges of the world would show up any second now. the gods did love a cruel punchline. håkan rolled over with a groan, bracing for the stiff chill of a camp cot—but the sheets were warm, the bed big and deeply rumpled. it felt too soft. he frowned, confused, and buried his face in a pillow, considering the possibility of staying unconscious forever. green eyes fluttered open once he recognised in the sheets that unmistakable perfume he had come to adore, however: the spray of crashing waves, mixed a bit with mischief and… coffee? oh, if this was a hallucination, he’d personally swear revenge against pasithea: hypnos and his wife could burn.

ㅤdragging himself out of bed like some beast reluctantly summoned from hibernation, håkan followed the artificial beep of a coffeemaker and the faint clink of ceramic. stumbling forward into the kitchen, the one blessed by hephaestus tugged under his shirt, as if it was suddenly too hot despite its lack of sleeves. his mechanical leg hissed as a calloused hand over wild locks that wouldn’t be tamed without a good shower. he stilled. / and there was @implcde. by the counter, hoodie two sizes too big—emblazoned with racing cars and neon-green flames that screamed gas station clearance sale. his dark hair gleamed in the early light, haloed absurdly by daylight’s first rays. ‘morning, sunshine,’ the figure of his dreams-reality welcomed. håkan narrowed his eyes against the glow. then he saw that smirk of his he fell for, the dimples. he groaned. dammit. sunshine, indeed.

ㅤbut the aroma of coffee tickled his senses, wicked and promising. håkan zeroed in on the steaming beverage waiting for him, a dark roast in a newly-bought mug stamped with a cartoon-looking shrimp and the words don’t krill my vibe. he looked from the cup to the son of the ocean, who was waiting for him with those inviting plump lips, curling at the edges as if they were guarding a sharp-witted comment under an alluring grin.  / without a word, håkan reached out, gently cupping his chin, eyes scanning those bright pools of blue like a question: are you real or are you another one of my yearnful fantasies?   / and then, he drank from his lips, because that is how he knew him.   / not rushed or precise: just a lazy, drowsy press of mouths that moved slowly and tenderly, turning a little with each shared breath. warmth bloomed through his chest as the scent of caffeine curled between their skins, making teeth a bit too hungry on the edges, if only for a few seconds before håkan needed to sigh. his thumb brushed the curve of percy’s hip. this was his favourite kind of kiss, the one that didn’t ask for anything. it simply said: we’re here. / i love you. / and somehow, it’s not even noon.

ㅤ“morning.” he mumbled, voice still rough like gravel, and maybe percy would never know how much of a miracle it was for håkan to smile so openly in the mornings. he took a sip from his pure black drink, revelling in its bitter taste and letting it ground him to reality further. he leaned in again, nuzzling his face against percy’s cheek, shoulders relaxing when still-growing beard scratched and brushed warm skin. this was / is real. “thank you for the coffee, love.”

[radashes]

Book Review: The Syndicator (Dark Verse, #6) by Runyx

No sugarcoating, no hate—just my honest opinion. I didn’t like this book. It was disappointing.

I walked away feeling unsatisfied. Maybe my expectations were sky-high because the first four books set the bar so well. Here’s where the wheels really fell off:

Spotlight overload on Luna and Dainn: The book was supposed to cover all four couples, but it felt like the whole story revolved around Luna and Dainn. They were the main focus, and everyone else got sidelined.

Rename this book 'Morana and Shadow Man Save the Day': Seriously, Morana cracked every mystery like Sherlock Holmes on caffeine, and Shadow Man cleaned up the action. The others might as well have been cardboard cutouts in the background.

Tristan and Luna's unnecessary plot twist: Their relationship twist was completely unnecessary! I almost threw the book across the room. What was RuNyx thinking with that? It felt so pointless. Their first meeting was great, but then what? Zero screen time at the end. I wanted to see more of their sibling bonding, but nope.

Dante and Alpha were basically VIP spectators: These two felt like they were just sitting in the front row, watching the drama unfold. What exactly was their role here besides looking cool?

Morana deserved better: Tristan was my favorite male lead, but in this book, he was frustrating. He could tell his sister he loved her but couldn’t say it to Morana? She went through so much, and he just fussed over petty things. RuNyx could’ve portrayed him as a better partner. Morana deserved more than this sad, lopsided love story.

Alpha’s memory loss left hanging: The whole series ended, and we still didn’t get Alpha’s memories back? I was really looking forward to that.

The ‘family’ vibe was missing: The ending didn’t feel like “they’re all one big family.” Instead, the ending gave off “awkward coworkers at a forced team-building retreat” energy. Luna felt distant, and while her story took center stage, she didn’t seem to fit in at the end. Where were the heartfelt moments between Dante and Luna? All he did was doubt her. And Luna’s struggles were rushed through one scene like no one cared.

Luna’s character shift: I loved her in Annihilator, but here? She felt like a moody teenager on her first crush. The “Mine” line was soooo cringe and weird… When Morana was in the hospital, why didn’t she check on her or Tristan? And her reaction to meeting her own child, Xandar was So flat.

The Syndicate—big talk, no action: This villain was hyped up through the entire series as the ultimate threat. I expected an epic showdown, but it was over in two minutes. Shadow Man handled it, and everyone else, like Dante and Alpha, were chilling at home like it was a casual Sunday. The villain appeared and vanished in the blink of an eye.

Underwhelming plot: Honestly, the main story could’ve been told in 10 pages. The rest was just filler romance and unnecessary character appearances. Zephyr’s mother suddenly killing her father? Random. And everyone was so wrapped up in Luna’s drama that no one even cared. I actually laughed because it felt so ridiculous.

In the end, this book was just okay—not terrible, but far from great. I’m still glad I discovered this series, and I hope RuNyx keeps writing and creating amazing characters in the future.