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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

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Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER.

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after.

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip.

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat.

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face.

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to. I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs.

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard.

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself.

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold.

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to.

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “You feeling okay?"

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away.

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact.

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself.

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still.

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale.

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.”

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..."

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flooded with warmth instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "You okay?"

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact.

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light.

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there.

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes.

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight.

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in.

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you.

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you.

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer.

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack.

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under her breath as she passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening.

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor.

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—�� he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up."

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long."

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

“Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home.

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs.

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #the pitt spoilers #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbott #jack abbott #dr. abbott

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greenwitchfromthewoods · 3 months ago

Text

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 1] l Harry Castillo

Summary: you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: fluff, a little bit of angst, friends to lovers (maybe?), one pregnant woman, some alcohol, two broken hearts, one lie

A/N: I'm not sure if I should have posted this. But I couldn't help myself because this story has been in my head for two days and if I don't get it out I'm going to go crazy. Let me know what you think and if I should continue. Thanks to the people who put up with my doubtful ranting. please be gentle with me.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist][Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

"I told you that you should put up a signpost or sprinkle crumbs on the floor."

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone, and you smiled to yourself. You drove Harry Castillo to the brink of madness. “You’ve been to my apartment so many times, so why haven’t you learned the layout yet? You know where my office is.”

"I don't know." you replied, pouting your lip. "Maybe because it's a real maze?"

"Where are you?"

“I’m standing in front of some weird sculpture.” You looked at this piece of art, which was probably worth a few thousand dollars, for five minutes, Harry probably thought you were wandering around his penthouse.

Another sigh. He was already close to breaking down, but he tried to sound calm. His low, warm voice resonated in your receiver again. "How weird is this sculpture?"

"Weird enough."

You could barely contain your laughter when you heard a muffled "Jesus Christ." You adjusted the folders you were holding in your arms, looking around the spacious hallway. The conclusion appeared in your head that Harry would soon start looking for you himself, so you spoke up.

"I see the kitchen on the right."

"Great. So go left." He rubbed his eyes with his hand and leaned back in the chair. He could hear your footsteps in the receiver. "You should pass three rooms on the left, then turn right and..."

"Oh!"

A strange shiver ran down his spine. "What's that 'oh' supposed to mean?"

You cleared your throat. "Harry, this room is weird. I didn't expect that from you..."

"W-What? What are you talking about..."

"These whips, the leather... Jesus. And this?" There was silence for a moment. Harry thought it would take forever. "How is that supposed to fit in there? It won't fit. Or maybe..."

“What the hell?!” he shot up in his chair. “Where are you?” but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the door to his office open.

His assistant stood there, clutching a folder of documents to her chest and the most disarming smile on her face. He rolled his eyes, unsure whether he should fire her or kill her.

"Gotcha!" You chuckled and entered the office with a determined step "I brought what you asked for."

Harry Castillo, CEO of a large multi-million dollar company, watched as his assistant placed a folder of documents and Chinese takeout in front of him. It was supposed to be another Friday night, where you try to plan the coming week instead of trying your luck at bars or watching TV on the couch.

You had worked for him for almost a year, and your relationship had quickly changed from formal to friendly. Although you still called him Mr. Castillo at work, you were both more casual outside of that setting.

The job was very fulfilling, but your personal life was a complete mess. Apart from a few friends at work, there wasn't much going on there. But the pay was decent, and your boss was a really nice guy, so...

"Mark said he'd send the report tonight. That email you were waiting for also arrived." you said, sitting down on the comfortable chair in front of his desk and quickly scrolling through your phone "Mrs. Smith asked to contact you after the weekend. She has a few questions about the contract."

It wasn't until you tore your gaze away from the screen that you noticed Harry watching you intently from behind the desk, his dark eyes fixed on you. The white T-shirt hugged his broad, strong shoulders nicely, and a smile played on his lips.

"Is something wrong?" you asked uncertainly.

"I need you." Harry replied. Now a strange shiver ran down your spine and you gripped your phone tighter.

"What do you mean?"

He tilted his head without taking his gaze off you. "I need a woman."

He watched with delight as your eyes widened and your mouth parted in silent surprise. It took a lot of effort not to burst out laughing at the sight.

"A w-women?" you finally repeated in a choked voice "In what sense? To what? No! Don't tell me!"

You squeezed your eyes shut, raising your hands as if you wanted to stop him, although Harry was still sitting at his desk and still just staring at you.

Finally he decided to take pity on you. “A good friend of mine is getting married on Saturday. I want you to go with me.”

You opened one eye, then the other, and burst out laughing. “No, no, no!” you shook your head. “Good joke. I go with you to client meetings, not to your friends’ weddings. You have many friends, beautiful women, why don’t you invite any of them?”

Harry leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He was a handsome man, and you were sure there were plenty of women who would love to go to a party like this with him.

"Maybe I've already asked them and you're the only one left, darling?"

“Ouch, that hurt.” you mumbled, squinting. “I’ll have to say no too. I don’t have…”

"I'll buy you a dress tomorrow, no problem. The wedding is in the afternoon, so we'll make it." He smiled at you as if the decision had already been made and you had no other choice.

“Harry…” You sighed. “That’s not the point. You know, I… I don’t think I’m cut out for this.” He frowned, so you tried to explain. “These people, your friends, aren’t my world. They’re always so beautiful and dazzling, and I…”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you think I'm some kind of higher class or something? A better species of human?”

"Can I be honest? On the Titanic you would definitely have first class. I would have been below deck."

“Jesus!” he laughed and shook his head. “I assure you, honey, you will be the most interesting person at this wedding. I know what I mean. Besides, you will be with me. If this ship sinks, you can take the door, I won’t argue with you about it.”

You shook your head, smiling slightly and not believing that you had given in to him.

The place looked like it was cut out of a wedding magazine. Your eyes moved from the crystal chandelier, to the tables covered with snow-white tablecloths, to the vases with beautiful bouquets of flowers. Soft music flowed from the corner of the room where a band made up of several professional musicians stood.

You almost jumped when someone placed a hand on your back. "Harry, don't do that." You said, feeling your heart speed up.

"I'm sorry, are you okay?" he asked, smiling friendly. He looked stunning in a well-tailored suit and styled hair. When you nodded, he led you to your table.

He could see that you were stressed. Although you looked stunning in your dress, which beautifully emphasized your curves, and many eyes were looking after you, you kept smiling nervously and were rather silent. It wasn't like you so Harry did everything to cheer you up, and he was great at it.

He didn't leave you alone with people you didn't know for long, his arm always served as your support and he made you laugh whenever he had the chance. That evening would have passed pleasantly if not for the fact that when you were coming back from the bathroom you heard a familiar voice that froze you. Someone said your name and when you turned around you saw him.

"Daniel! What a surprise! What are you doing here?" you smiled even though you had the impression that someone had just squeezed your insides with a vice.

A tall and slim brunette approached you smiling, the suit he was wearing looked really impressive. "It's my friend's wedding. And what are you doing here? Are you a friend?"

"I'm accompanying someone." you replied.

Daniel nodded in appreciation. "I came with my wife. Do you remember Beth?"

Oh, you remembered Beth. Very well to be honest. It was for her that he left you three years ago. You followed your gaze to the place he indicated and saw a beautiful blonde with a nicely rounded belly. Something sharp must have pierced your heart, but you bravely smiled.

"Still looking for a job?" Daniel leaned slightly towards you. "A friend of mine is looking for a secretary. He runs a construction company, I can give you his number."

"Thank you, but I'm not looking for a job right now. I'm happy with what I have."

Daniel shrugged. "You've never needed much, have you?"

The words got stuck in your throat. For a few moments you didn't know what to answer, and at the same time you were afraid that whatever left your lips would be immediately turned against you. Daniel was a master at this.

Suddenly, someone said your name again and in the back of the room you noticed Harry, who was walking away from a group of elegant-looking men and heading towards you.

"It's Harry Castillo." Daniel mumbled, straightening up. "I didn't know he was here."

"Yeah, it's his good friend's wedding. We came together and..."

"You're with Harry Castillo?"

It was too easy. You knew perfectly well that you shouldn't do it, but your lips moved before your brain had time to react properly. "Yes, we're here together."

It wasn't a lie. Not completely.

"I was worried about you." Harry said, walking over to you and smiling politely at Daniel. He quickly extended his hand in greeting.

"Daniel Stevens." He introduced himself. "I'm a lawyer."

"Nice to meet you." Harry looked at you expectantly.

"Daniel and I, we've known each other for a while. And this is his wife, Beth."

A pretty blonde walked up to you and Daniel put his arm around her, straightening up proudly. A woman like her was definitely the crowning achievement of his career. You weren't cut out for this.

Even though you kept a smile on your lips, the whole conversation felt like a speeding bus was heading towards you. Harry was as polite as ever and didn't even bat an eyelid when Daniel mentioned "She said that you are together. It must be something new, because nothing has spread around town yet."

"We want to keep it private. You understand, Daniel." Harry replied smoothly and without hesitation, placing his hand on the small of your back and looking at you fondly. "A woman like that is a treasure, I want to enjoy her before we show ourselves to the world."

Daniel nodded as if he understood what Harry meant, and Beth let out a fond sigh. After a few moments, you said goodbye and Harry led you towards the door.

“Do you want to tell me more?” he asked quietly, more amused than angry.

You shook your head. "Just throw me under the car." you muttered "Damn! I knew I shouldn't have come here."

Harry immediately sensed that something was wrong. You seemed more tense and withdrawn during the whole conversation. "Who was that?" he asked.

You took a deep breath. "My ex-boyfriend. And Beth... That's the woman he left me for. And as you can see, she's pregnant now. Wonderful, right?" you tried to laugh, but it came out so fake that you quickly fell silent.

"So that's why you told him that you and I... That we're together?"

You stopped. You looked so pathetic that his heart almost broke.

"I didn't lie to him. Not really." you finally said. "I told him that we were here together. Daniel took it differently."

“So maybe I should explain it to him?” Harry made a move as if to go back to the party and find Daniel, but you quickly grabbed his arm.

"No, please!" you groaned. "Don't make me feel even worse. This whole situation is already embarrassing enough. Daniel will forget about it by tomorrow."

"If you say so." Harry sighed and put his arm around you. "Come on, I'll take you home. It's been a long day."

You were quiet as you climbed into the backseat of his car, your gaze barely leaving the window as the driver drove you through the dark city. Harry didn't say a word either, respecting your silence. But this wasn't how he expected the evening to end.

It wasn’t until you were standing in front of your apartment that he heard your quiet voice. “Thank you, Harry. And I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

He smiled, and at the same time, a small smile appeared on your lips. He reached for your hand and squeezed it lightly. “You always have me by your side. And you can always count on me.”

"I know. Thank you."

He watched you for a moment longer, then you said goodbye to him and the driver and got out, leaving him alone.

Harry Castillo had almost everything a man his age could ever want. A thriving company that was making millions, a penthouse in the heart of New York City, and an expensive car. But the expensive suits he wore and the clothes made of the best materials couldn't hide what he really lacked. Closeness.

Although he was surrounded by many people, when the door to his 12 million apartment closed behind him, he felt really lonely. Harry was slowly approaching fifty and was starting to wonder if it wasn't a bit too late for him. Maybe he had missed a moment in his life?

Yes, he had met many beautiful women, had gone on dates, but it was never long-term, and that was exactly what he was looking for. He wanted someone who could be just his, who would love him and ask how his day was. Someone he could watch stupid movies with on the couch, go on vacation, or just be bored. Was he asking for too much?

"Do we really have to do this today? Everyone has gone home." The door to his office slammed shut, and then he heard a dull thud as you plopped down on the couch. Harry smiled to himself and turned away from the huge window that overlooked the city at night.

"We'll get this over with in a minute and then I'll drop you home. Is that okay with you?" he asked, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling up the sleeves.

You rolled your eyes and sighed. "I'm not sure. I could have snuck out with the others."

"My personal assistant tells me things like that?" he frowned, but at the same time smiled and sat down next to you. "It's just some folders to look through. It'll take us an hour at most. Would you like a drink?"

You shook your head and lifted the mug of tea you had brought with you. You grabbed the first folder and flipped through it. "You have a sponsors' party this week. I've cleared the evening and morning for you."

"Thank you."

For a moment, you were both focused on your work. You were putting the next reviewed documents on the empty chair, and the room was filled with your quiet typing on the laptop keyboard. Harry took a sip of whiskey and glanced in your direction.

You were so focused that you completely ignored him. A small wrinkle appeared between your eyebrows as your eyes ran over the next lines of text.

“Would you like to go to this party with me?” he asked, breaking the silence, and when you looked at him, he added, “We’ve been having quite a bit of fun together lately.”

“Do you really think so?” you were surprised, remembering Daniel and the situation that had taken place at the wedding. “Can’t you bring one of your friends with you? You were dating Jean recently, right? What about her?”

Harry shook his head and smacked his lips. “It’s over. I don’t know if it’s even started, though.” He shrugged, and you felt sorry for him. Harry was a really great guy, even though he was your boss. Handsome, tall, well-mannered, he always made the people around him feel seen.

“Can I be honest?” you asked, putting your work aside for a moment, and Harry’s brown eyes landed on you expectantly. “I feel like you’ve jumped headfirst into a pool without even knowing how much water there is. I mean, when you meet someone and you just go for it. Expensive restaurants, gifts, flowers, weekends together… You fulfill all their dreams and whims, and yet you don’t want anything in return. I wonder where you are in all of this.”

Harry analyzed your words for a moment, until he finally spoke. "So you think I should..."

"You should really get to know someone first. And then they should get to know you too. Because you have a lot to offer, and I don't mean money or anything like that. But the real you..."

Silence fell after your words. You stared at Harry's profile, his prominent nose, the fine lines around his eyes, you noticed a few grey hairs at his temple. He was really handsome and you were surprised that you had to explain such things to him.

Finally, he moved his gaze to your face again. "How is it possible that you are still single?"

You smiled sadly. "I am a lot to handle."

"Not true. Who told you that?"

But you didn’t answer that question. Harry could tell you were sad, though you tried to hide it by looking back at your computer screen. “I think we should get back to work.” You finally said. “We don’t have much left.”

For a moment his attentive gaze rested on you, analyzing your words.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

#pedro pascal #harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #the materialists #harry castillo x f!reader

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satowooo · 1 year ago

Text

I said "I love you."

you say nothing back

Falling in love with Gojo Satoru was as easy as reading the pages of your favorite book, not until you reached the very end of the chapter and the author just loves to twist the story.

contents: it was all a bet trope, angst lol, fluff, hurt!gojo, groveling, satoru gojo x fem!reader, college AU, playboy!gojo, comfort

credits to @/toOOfu for the art above!! ^^

***

September 1, 2023

"She looks like an easy target," Satoru chuckled as he watched you walk over to your friend, Utahime Iori, in the school cafeteria. It was one of those days when he would joke with Suguru and Shoko, with Suguru always making sure Satoru gets riled up by his joke.

Suguru simply told Satoru that girls may swoon over him, but he's sure that they're some others who probably would find him annoying, someone like you. That statement made Satoru cocky, and as prideful as he was, he made it into a bet that he'll make sure to make you fall in love with him by the end of December, enough time to swoon you over.

"We'll see about that, Satoru." Suguru smirked. "The end of December, you say?"

The latter nodded his head, a wide and annoying grin on his face. "Watch and you'll see, Suguru."

The catch? Nothing, just plain fun and feeding his ego.

"Satoru!" Oh, and here comes one of his girls. His flings.

September 2, 2023

Satoru wastes no time. The next day after making their bet, he quickly made advances towards you. After seeing you in the lockers first thing in the morning, he walked over and leaned to the locker right next to yours. And when you turned, you found him there with a smirk on his face.

"Hey, darling..." He said, almost seductively, if not only for the furrowed eyebrows in your face.

"Excuse me, who are you?" Your soft voice echoed in his head.

Now that hurts his ego. Satoru Gojo. Gojo Satoru. The handsome Satoru. The greatest. The flirt. The smartest. The playboy. The Gojo Satoru. The damn Gojo Satoru who you didn't even know who.

His mind was floating elsewhere after hearing your question. As unbelievable as it may sound, you were, unfortunately, serious about not knowing him. And guessing by the look in your face, he definitely was not making a good first impression.

First attempt: Failed.

But he's not the Gojo Satoru for nothing. No, he won't give up just yet.

So he straightened his composure, faking a cough as he flashes his smile that makes all his girls go crazy, and lowers his head to show you his ocean blue eyes underneath his glasses.

He definitely made sure you won't forget his name as he asks forces you to walk you into class, blabbering nonsense by your side.

You were just too nice to tell him to go away.

September 16, 2023

Gojo Satoru was persistent. Walking you to class, even waiting for you outside the door when he was vacant, disturbing your quiet study session at the library, sitting with you at the cafeteria table when Shoko or Suguru was not there. You definitely didn't forget his name this time as he became the annoying Gojo Satoru who's becoming a nuisance to your somewhat quiet life turned into a roller coaster.

During those days, Gojo found out things about you. You were studying at the architecture department, you like arts and coffees as for what he noticed when you were at the library, you were at the top of your class, and you have a few admirers that you turned down in a nice way possible, just like how you were turning him down too.

He also took note of the fact that you were introverted, and a little shy with people so he might just go easy on you. You had a soft voice, however, you weren't as innocent as you came out to be. You are honest with your words, so when you say you're not interested in him, then you're truly not.

You weren't an easy target after all. But Gojo Satoru loved the thrill, you challenged him so much that he wasn't about to give up now that you intrigued him. He wanted to prove to himself that he can get anyone, he can have whatever he wants, and he definitely will.

"It's raining, it won't hurt to get in my car, princess." He said nearly in your ears. You pushed his face away with a look of disgust.

"No way, Gojo. You probably took so many girls in there already, and how can I be so sure you won't do anything bad?" You frowned at him, shoving his chest away as you stand outside the doors of your building, waiting for the rain to stop. You were angry, but damn you can't even raise your voice at him.

Soft. Too damn soft. Can he break you?

Through the days that he came by to woo you, it didn't matter anymore what words came out of your mouth. People may see you as the shy type of girl, but you're not afraid to voice out your opinion, and your somewhat intimidating face speaks a lot for you.

"Jealous?" He laughed when you glared at him. "Princess, I can assure you I haven't taken anyone inside my car. Plus, I can even buy a new one exclusively just for you if it bothers you too much." He grinned, annoyingly.

You gave him a moment of silence, and that sparked a new hope in Satoru's ego that you might be considering his offer now.

"Well... no."

Oh.

But he could only smirk, assuming you were only playing hard to get. Girls always liked when boys chase after them, no?

"I'll walk you home then."

You shot daggers at his back as he ran to his car, and came back with an umbrella. His shirt got a bit soaked, hair a little wet after running to the car, but damn, he still got that annoying smirk on his face.

You sighed, how annoying.

September 29, 2023

He never gave up despite how you rejected him multiple times. He stuck by your side even though you don't want him to, and he was somehow getting into your system. He carries your bag when he walks you to class, or just about anywhere, and you didn't even give your bag to him—he practically forced you. He'd buy you coffee in the morning, making sure he gets the right order, and when you give money to pay, he'd refuse and shove the money back in your wallet. Sometimes, he'd give you sweets even if you don't ask him to, giving you the flavors that he likes the most.

Funny how you can't even get him to stop whatever he's trying to do. No man has ever pursued you like he does.

"Gojo–"

"That's Satoru for you, love." He cut you off with a playful smile. "Haven't I told you already?"

"Gojo." You repeated seriously. His eyes glinted with interest as he waited for your words. "Get lost, please."

How nice of you to say please.

He laughs. He had the audacity to laugh. "You know, you're really cute."

"Look," you sighed tiredly. "Whatever this is you're trying to do, stop. I'm not interested. If you want to get into my pants like you did to those other girls, that's not going to happen."

With one look at him, you snatched your bag from him and walked away with your heart beating loudly. Your face was heating up after saying each word, and never in your life have you turned someone down so harshly.

Satoru watched as you walked away. Sure, that hurt his pride, but he can't let his ego step on so easily.

He left you alone during the day, just giving you the space since he seemed to have pushed your buttons a bit. Plus, he was busy with basketball practice since his coach was already nagging him for not attending their training.

However, your assumptions were only proved to be true when you caught him with a girl at the parking lot the same day. A cheerleader, stroking his chest as if she was comforting him as her other hands wiped his sweat with a towel. You looked at his physique, Satoru Gojo was in his basketball uniform, showing a lot of his biceps. You watched as his adam's apple protruding as he drank his water.

You felt annoyed. Your eyes turning red when you see just how he didn't mind the cheerleader. Of course, Gojo Satoru was a playboy.

Who cares? You definitely didn't.

That's what you thought.

You walked in the opposite direction, just so you wouldn't cross paths. But of course, Gojo Satoru will always see you. After all, he was at the parking lot waiting just for you, and only you.

"Wait up!" You heard his voice from behind, and you didn't even look back, thinking he wasn't calling out for you. You wished he was calling for you.

Satoru grabbed your wrist, and forced you to look at him. "Hey!"

Your brows furrowed, trying to yank your wrist away at his strong hold. "What do you want?"

"Woah... slow down." He said as he grasped your elbows with both hands. His eyes searched yours, his piercing blue eyes staring at the raging fire burning in your gaze. "What's wrong?"

You swear, your brows almost met each other at him. But you didn't want to burst. At least, not in front of him. "Go back to your cheerleader, Gojo." You frowned at him.

He observed you for a minute, then a small smile crept on his lips. Realizing just how much he's finally having an effect on you.

"Sorry," he chuckled.

"What?!" You almost shout at him in annoyance.

"I said, I'm sorry, princess." He repeated. "I didn't think of you as the jealous type. Plus, she was just helping me."

"Help you what? Wipe off your sweat? Since you don't have the hands to do it for yourself?" You glared at his annoying handsome face. "You playboy. I knew you were just trying to play with me." You said, pushing his chest with your pointer finger.

He pursed his lips as he caught your wrist, stopping you. "Now, now, don't think like that." He chuckled. "I'm sorry, I'll be sure to push those girls away so you won't be mad at me anymore."

And damn, he was true to his words. He didn't know what got into him, but he definitely started rejecting every girl that came his way. He didn't even feel sorry, and he even stopped calling those poor girls with sweet endearments as he rejected them.

Gojo Satoru was slowly starting to feel something for you. But he doesn't even know it just yet.

In a span of a month, he successfully got into your system.

October 6, 2023

"How's the deal going?" Suguru asked as they walked together to their class.

"Poor girl, I heard from people that she's nice." Shoko added, shaking her head at them. "Though people may see her as intimidating, they said she's really kind. A soft voice, and all that. Shouldn't you stop, Satoru?"

"Nah, I think I'm enjoying this." Satoru shrugged.

Of course, Satoru definitely felt something tugging at his heart. He definitely liked having you around, since you were giving just the right thrill to rile him up, he loved every rejection, and every attention you gave him. But somehow, he was feeling a little guilty. But he's too prideful to even admit that.

"Plus, she's friends with Utahime. That girl hates you a lot, Satoru." Shoko said. "You wouldn't want to hurt her best friend."

October 13, 2023

"Didn't I tell you to call me Satoru?" He raised his eyebrows at you as he accompanied you in the library, placing a coffee and a small cookie right next to your books.

"We're not friends, Gojo."

"Right, since you're going to be my girlfriend."

You shot him a look, sighing as you turned the pages of your book. "What do you want this time?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to spend time with my favorite person." He smiled, opening his books too. "I'll study with you. I promise, I'll be quiet."

You didn't respond to that, just expecting him to keep his words. And when he did stay silent like he promised, you were already thanking god for having to hear your prayers.

As the hours went by, you slowly fell asleep, your head resting in your arms as your books laid discarded. Satoru looked at you, a small smile crept on his face as he gently stroked your hair.

He stood up, organizing your books in a pile, taking your pencil case as he shoved your pens in them and putting it inside your bag, he got the empty cup of coffee that he got for you and threw it in the trash can, and he did it all so as to not wake you. He waited for a few hours, tenderly watching you doze off, before he tapped your shoulders to wake you up so he could take you home.

October 18, 2023

Maybe Satoru felt guilty now.

He twists and turns in his bed, thinking of you and how you put up with him everyday. And everything you do, never escape in his eyes as he finds himself memorizing you.

You'd smile at him nicely, despite how your eyes show how annoyed you were.

Your feet would tap the floor when you get too nervous.

You don't even know but you unconsciously hold a piece of fabric in his shirt when it gets too crowded, hiding behind him when there's a lot of people.

He notices how your hands move gracefully as you trace your art project, eyes furrowed and focus on getting your work done.

Truthfully, he adores your smiles. The way your eyes would squint every time your lips stretch in delight. He held your hands once at his attempt of flirting, and it was so soft that he couldn't even get himself to let go. He loved playing with your soft, silky hair whenever you fell asleep in the library, staying by your side until you woke up. He also loved your silence, the comforting atmosphere that you give off seems to calm something in his heart. When he manages to get a proper conversation with you, he just wants to melt every time he hears your sooting voice.

And nervously, he thinks he's starting to like you.

October 23, 2023

Slowly, Satoru became a part of your day. Somehow, he managed to finally be friends with you, and still, you refused to call him Satoru, indicating that you still cannot allow yourself to be casual with him.

That's fine. He can settle for whatever you can give him. For now.

"Baby, there's a basketball game coming up this Friday..." Satoru trailed off. You were almost going to point out his endearment, but then again, it's Satoru, and you were slowly getting used to him.

"What?" You asked. "So?"

"I bought you tickets so you can watch. It's two tickets, so you can bring your friend."

He didn't even ask if you wanted to, but then again, for a hundredth time, it's Satoru. He wanted you to watch his game, nonetheless.

And you did. Your seat being close to their benches so he can see you easily.

October 27, 2023

"Seriously? I'm about to watch our school's basketball game, because Gojo Satoru invited you?" Utahime said annoyed as you both sat at your assigned seats.

"Well... yes..." You said shyly, looking around at the amount of people in the stadium. "You know, we've been hanging out a lot–"

"I told you, he's bad news." Utahime cut you off. "How am I supposed to get that in your head?"

"I know, I know... But he's actually been nice. Haven't you notice?"

Utahime thought for a moment. Of course, she noticed some changes. Gojo Satoru seemed to be spending his time with you lately. He didn't even care about his ex flings, or his admirers, he was solely focused on you. Usually, Gojo would take a girl wrapped around his fingers in a day, and then disposing them just as quick after he got what he wanted. He looks like he's not like that to you, Utahime thought. Though, she hated his guts, Utahime knew you were enjoying having him around.

She sighed, "Just... don't get hurt, okay?"

You chuckled at her. "Why would I?"

After the game ended, with your school cheering loudly at winning, Utahime said she had to go home quickly, so you were left alone.

You didn't know what to do, or where to go. Satoru was busy with his teammates, talking and congratulating each other. Satoru wanted to go to you quickly, but his fans surrounded him, stopping him from going your way as they celebrated their victory.

Satoru knew too well that you didn't like the crowd, so he was trying hard to escape from it.

Your eyes watched as his fans congratulated him, asking for pictures, and even giving him gifts. You sighed, texting him that you'll be going home since he wasn't about to finish anytime soon.

You understood that he was famous, and all that. He's Satoru Gojo, after all. And it's another part of him that you're still not used to.

A part of you was proud of him. And you couldn't possibly be selfish about him, especially if you only recently got to know him.

Satoru hurriedly ran away from the crowd, excusing himself politely as he saw you walking through the exit doors. He got his bag, and ran to catch up to you.

Thanks to his long legs, and his intense basketball training, he was able to catch up to you quickly. "Hey!" He called.

You turned as you heard his voice, seeing his disheveled hair and sweaty forehead as he ran to you. "Gojo, hey, I texted you and–"

"Hey..." He greeted, panting heavily.

You pursed your lips, getting a handkerchief from your pocket so you can wipe the sweat off his face. "Why did you leave them? Everyone was celebrating with you."

"You weren't there." He frowned. "What's the point of it..."

Satoru was tired after the game, but he was regaining his strength once he saw you.

"Nonsense." You chuckled, in which he frowned even more.

"I'll take you home." He said as he holds your hand to his, leading you to his car. "I invited you anyway, it's my responsibility to take care of you."

You nodded, getting in his car since you had been tired from all the crowd.

When he reached your home, he quickly got off so he could open the door for you.

Oh, the little things that he does.

You both stand outside of your house awkwardly, both trying to find the right words to say. You looked away, tapping your feet nervously as Satoru watches you.

"Congratulations... Satoru."

Satoru... Satoru... Satoru... His name never felt so good until you said it. It was like an achievement, a big prize that he won in his life. And his heart was almost about to explode when you finally called him by his name.

Satoru almost stuttered thanks to you. Slowly, he was approaching you until your back leaned in his car.

He closed his eyes, as his head fell on your shoulders. "Say that again... please?"

"Huh?" You were confused, your face blushing at the proximity. "Congratulations?"

"No... say my name... please, baby?"

His voice was so soft, desperately asking you to say the words he longed to hear from you. Satoru felt weak in his knees.

He looked up at you finally, his eyes searching your soul. Despite the darkness of the night, his eyes were glowing brighter than the moon.

"Satoru?"

"Fuck..."

Satoru Gojo knew he's in danger.

The moment he locked eyes with your eyes, looking at them until it darted on your lips. Before he knew it, he was leaning down for a kiss.

And fuck it, just how dangerous it was that you weren't even pulling away.

October 28, 2023

You were confused when you saw Satoru at your front door the next morning, his hands holding a bouquet of flowers. He looked absolutely handsome in his shirt, his sleeves tucked until his elbow.

You blush when you remember what happened last night. "Satoru, what are you doing here? It's a Saturday."

"I know," he said, handing you the bouquet of tulips. "I missed you."

"H-huh?"

"Will you allow me to take you out on a date?"

His heart was at bliss when you said yes to him. It was a simple coffee shop date, but you felt so happy as he made sure you were also comfortable and having fun. Having casual talks with you, but this time, there was a lying affection between you two.

And when he took you home, he slowly sealed your lips in a kiss. Exploring your mouth gently, smiling as he pulled away.

October 30, 2023

Satoru finally told Suguru he wants to stop whatever game they started with each other.

"Just about time you do."

Satoru swears he felt his ears heat up when Suguru said those words with a teasing grin. Shoko was laughing at his flushed state, clapping her hands in delight.

"Ah! I knew it!" She exclaimed. "Knew you were going to fall on your own trap. Well, that's actually good."

Satoru blushed even more. Finally, he can admit that he was starting to like you. Love you even.

In all honesty, he felt like he couldn't even live without you in his life. He felt like every moment with you was precious, and he was desperate to make you his, seriously this time.

All those times that he accompanied you to class, were influenced by his own choice. He could've just left you alone some days, but he didn't even know he was doing all those things unintentionally. Buying you snacks, and your coffee, he could've easily stopped that after every rejection, but he chose not to.

Gojo Satoru wanted to always be a part of your day. He was already a part of your present, and he wants to be there in your past, and still be in your future.

November 3, 2023

Satoru, as usual, was eating lunch with you in the cafeteria. Everyone in the school knew by now that he was not entertaining anyone anymore, just you. And he made it that obvious, looking at you so lovingly everyone who passed by would've looked at you in envy.

"Why aren't you with Shoko and Suguru?" You asked as you take a sip of your coffee. You looked over to the table where his friends sat, both busy at whatever conversation they had.

"They don't mind." Satoru replied, scooting closer in your seat. "You should get used to it by now."

"To what?"

"Sitting with you during lunch." He smiled when you looked away. "I like being with you."

Your mind wandered off somewhere when he said that. Does he like you or does he like the company that you give?

November 10, 2023

Satoru was frowning at you when he saw you sitting with another guy in the library. At your usual spot, in his seat, in front of you. He was annoyed that someone even had the guts to make a move to you.

Slowly, with heavy steps, he approached your table, sitting at the vacant chair next to you. His hands wrapped itself between your waist, as his jealousy pulled him to kiss your cheek in front of your innocent classmate.

"Baby..." He whispered closely in your ear. "I was looking for you."

He looked in front to shoot daggers at the guy you were with. The innocent stranger blushed as he looked away, "Uh... I guess I'll see you tomorrow. I'll message you if I need help."

The guy hurried on his feet, stumbling as he exited the library. Satoru's arms tighten on your waist and you looked at his angry face.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Who is he and why is he going to message you?" A frown was evident in his face, and he was getting a little too close. You had never seen him this intimidated.

"That's my partner for a group project, idiot." You muttered the last word. "You scared him off."

Satoru pulled you close, nuzzling his nose against your temple. "It's annoying..."

"What's annoying?"

Satoru cursed under his breath, "Come on, I'll take you out to dinner."

But while he was driving, it was painfully silent. You're not used to this kind of mood, he was always playful and teasing, but now, he was glaring ahead at the car in front of him, as if the car did something wrong.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and for some reason, you find yourself putting your hands above his, running circles on his tensed ones.

His hold loosened up a bit, and he sighed heavily.

"Tell me, what's wrong, Satoru."

Satoru pulled over to the side, facing you with a nervous face. "I'm sorry..."

"For what?"

"I was... jealous." He answered truthfully. He frowned, not liking the feeling twisting in his stomach. "I've never felt this before, baby. I want to keep you to myself, to always have you by my side and not anyone else, and it's so selfish that I hate myself for it. You're driving me crazy, and fuck it, I love you. I love you for making me like this. You don't understand... I'm head over heels–"

You interrupted him with a kiss. Satoru didn't even realize that he was already confessing, not until he felt your mouth against his.

It felt like there were fireworks exploding in your surroundings. Feels like he was finally breathing for the first time ever. Like the summer melting his winter.

"I love you too, Satoru."

He felt like dying right then and there, cupping your cheeks in a hungry kiss. Pulling you to his lap as you both make out in his car.

"Can I be your boyfriend?"

How can he be so cute, muttering those words weakly underneath you?

His question was not even a 'will you be my girlfriend' but a 'can i be your boyfriend?'

It was so cute. He was asking you your permission, he was asking to be yours.

He was... surrendering his heart to you.

And who were you to deny him?

November 20, 2023

You found out Gojo Satoru is a clingy man. It was obvious, the first time that he never left you alone, but this time, it only got worse, in a good way though.

He holds your hand when you're together, not even caring when girls would look at the two of you jealously. He doesn't care if a teacher sees him snuggling his face against your neck, he just wants to be that close to you. He will ask for a cuddle every time you two spend your time in your house. He would dart his tongue out teasingly at Shoko and Suguru when all of you sat at the same table, and he was hugging your waist and leaning his head on your shoulder. And when you two are in a private space, especially his car, he'd pull you in his lap for a long make out session.

You weren't even complaining, since you loved him just as much.

"Utahime!" You smiled when you saw your best friend in the cafeteria. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Utahime gave out a tired sigh. "I know, the professor is always giving out so many tasks, I might pass out anytime soon." She chuckled. "How are you? You and Gojo? He's like a lovesick puppy always sticking by your tail."

You chuckled. "That's so exaggerated, Utahime... But I'm really really happy."

Utahime was glad to hear her only best friend was this happy. She was thanking god that Gojo finally decided to be serious over a girl for once, and if he ever just breaks your heart, she'd be so sure to be the first to kick his ass.

December 4, 2023

"You're still with her?" Gojo's ex flings, Jia, asked him during his basketball training. Jia was the cheerleader girl that you saw him with in the parking lot, the fling that Satoru had for a month, longer than usual. He already rejected her, but she's still desperately trying to get with him.

"Of course, I am." He muttered, annoyingly. He snatched the towel that she was holding, her attempt to help him wipe his sweat. "Jia, I already told you–"

"Isn't she just a bet?"

Satoru froze, as if a bucket of ice was dropped all over his body. Her voice rang in his head, and he blinked furiously a few times.

"She's not–"

"But I heard you and Geto." Jia smirked, knowing she was just pushing the right buttons. "Come on, you were at the cafeteria, were you not expecting someone to hear you? I was pitying her when I saw the poor girl slowly starting to–"

"Whatever you heard, Jia, is none of your business." Satoru said in a cold-hearted tone. "I love her. Get that in that little brain of yours." He scoffed, walking away.

Jia was furious, her eyes turning black in anger. Oh, she wanted to hurt you. She was the last fling of Satoru, and just because of you, he was acting like this. She didn't like the fact that you easily stole him from her.

December 13, 2023

The fall. The breaking point.

Suguru was having a party in his house, a public year-end party with a few of his college friends and blockmates, everyone was invited to have fun. Satoru took you with him, making sure to just stay by your side so you won't get lost at the sea of people.

"How are you two holding up?" Suguru approached you two, handing a cup to Satoru. "You two having fun?"

You nodded your head quietly. "Yeah... there's a lot of people. Are they all from our university?"

"Some are outsiders," Suguru chuckled. "Satoru, we're about to play by the pool. We'll wait for you there."

Satoru nodded, pulling you by the waist as Suguru left. "You okay, baby? Do you want to go home?"

You shake your head, "No, no, it's fine. We can stay a bit more."

"Mhmm, just tell me if you get tired, okay?"

You two walked together to the backyard, where the swimming pool was at. It was a bit crowded, but definitely fewer than inside Suguru's house. Shoko was there, a few of Suguru's friends, and Satoru's basketball teammates. They were all passing out their drinks, mixing whatever liquor was there.

Everyone said hi to Satoru, even to you. You watched silently as a few of his friends talked to him.

"Satoru, I'll go to Shoko first." You whispered above the noise. He turned his head at you, stopping his conversation with his friends.

"What? I'll go with you then–"

"No, it's fine, Shoko's just there." You said, pointing at Shoko who was lighting a cigarette right next to Suguru. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Satoru nodded reluctantly as he let you approach Shoko and Suguru, turning back to his friends, glancing at you once in a while.

But when he wasn't looking, Jia just had the perfect timing to enter the scene, stopping you midway.

"Oh, it's Satoru's little toy." Jia slurred her words. You looked at her confused as she looked at you judging. "He's still not breaking up with you? He wants to hurt you that bad, huh?" She chuckled.

You were trying to assess her words. You recognized her as the cheerleader Satoru was with last time, and her aura and words were making you nervous. What was she trying to say? What did she mean by that?

Satoru saw you, and his breath hitch when he saw who you are with. He looked over at Shoko and Suguru, who both stood up to approach you, but Jia was already taking advantage of you being alone.

"Poor girl," she frowned teasingly. "I'm pretty sure Satoru didn't want to go too far with the bet."

"Bet?" Your voice came out hoarse. You looked over at Jia's shoulder, where Shoko and Suguru stood frozen in their spot, their eyes widened in horror, and it gave you just enough explanation about what's happening.

"Oh, they were just betting about how Satoru can make you fall in love 'til December." She laughed wickedly. "I'm sorry, honey, you had to find out this way, but really, I was feeling sorry that I have to tell you–"

Her words were cut short when you felt a hand on your wrist. And you turned to see Satoru, his eyes red and shaking, "Baby..."

"Satoru? Was that true?" You looked into his eyes, hopeful. Your eyes welled up in tears, and his silence just made it worse. His hold on you was trembling, and he couldn't even say the right words out of his mouth.

You looked at Suguru and Shoko, your eyes pleading. "Shoko? Suguru?"

Another silence. It's like something was pulling the strings of your heart, threatening to cut your lifeline. And it hurt so much when they couldn't even say something.

You heaved a gasp, trying to stop a sob to escape your lips. But you failed miserably as Satoru tried to pull you in his embrace. "Let me explain–"

You pushed him away furiously, eyes angrily glaring at him. "Explain? Explain what?! That what she said was true?!"

Satoru's hands balled in a fist, and he felt his eyes burning as you pushed him away from his touch. His heart aches when you look at him full of hatred, and hurt. He felt his world slowly crumbling apart when you ran away in a hurry.

You quickly called Utahime, asking her to pick you up as soon as possible. While Satoru stood there helpless, his feet glued to the ground. He looked at Suguru, his eyes searching for help.

All of you were equally shocked, and nervous.

"Fucking go after her, Satoru!" Shoko shouted as she pulled Jia's hair. "Fucking bitch!"

The latter cried, but Satoru couldn't care less as Suguru pushed him to move. As fast as he could, he ran outside the door of Suguru's house, walking past every dancing body, he didn't even care if he crashed into someone, he just wanted to get to you.

And when he found you walking by the sidewalk, his heart started crying at your panicked state. He approached you, holding your wrist to stop you from walking any further.

"Satoru!"

"Let's talk, please–"

"Let go of me!"

"Let's talk, baby. Let's talk this out." He pleaded desperately, hands grasping your shoulders to stop you from moving.

Your body trembled against him, hands covering your face as you tried to stop your tears from falling continuously. "I hate you."

"I know you do–"

"Fucking jerk."

"I know, I know–"

"Don't touch me!" You burst, pushing him away harshly. His heart crashed into pieces, his breath coming out shallow and slow. Just like you, he was crying just as bad. "I knew! I knew from the very start you were up to no good! Utahime warned me, my friends warned me! But fuck you! I thought you actually cared! I thought you loved–"

"I love you, baby..." He said, weakly.

"You lying skim! I thought you changed!"

"Please, baby, let's talk about this when we're not angry? Please?" He tried to reach out for you, but his heart felt like it was losing its strength when you back away.

"I don't want to see you–"

"N-no, you don't mean that..." His voice came out as a whisper, a desperate plea for you to listen to him. "I'll take you home, we'll talk, okay? I'll explain and–"

"There's no use, Gojo."

Cruel. How cruel of you to say his last name so coldly. It was a sign that Satoru refused to look at. A sign that you were tired, that you want to let this go already.

His beautiful blue eyes seemed to lose its life, the same way that he was losing you. One moment, you were there by his side, and now... you looked at him as if you wanted to get him out of your life.

And it hurt so bad. It hurt so bad when he tried to touch you, but you still furiously backed away.

"I love you." His voice cracked, looking at you weakly. His hands shake by his side, fighting the urge to reach out for you.

You breathed heavily, shaking your head at him as you said nothing back. You clenched your teeth, not wanting to let him hear your sobs. You're starting to pity yourself, of how stupid you had become. You should've listened to Utahime the first time.

December 14, 2023

Satoru had never felt this lifeless before. Even Shoko and Suguru couldn't help him as he refused to talk to any of them.

His eyes were searching for you everywhere in the cafeteria, but to his dismay, you never showed up the whole day, not even in your classes. He wanted to ask Utahime when he saw her walking down the hallways, but the girl only glared at him as she walked passed. And Gojo was just as helpless as ever.

He messaged and called you a few times, but you didn't answer. He wanted to go to your house, but he can't even find the courage to do it.

December 15, 2023

Satoru finally saw you after a day of absence. You looked tired, and he was mentally cursing at himself for making you like this. He was starting to hate himself, and he's not going to forgive himself anytime soon.

Satoru tried to approach you, but you didn't even dare look him in the eye. He bit his lower lip, trying his hardest to stabilize his breathing. Just like he usually does, he walks you to class, only a few steps behind this time.

Fine, he'll settle for this. He'll give you the space you needed first before anything else.

At the cafeteria, he didn't see you once again. That worried him as he left Shoko and Suguru to look for you. The first place he thought of was the library, and he was glad to see you there.

You glanced up from your book, feeling someone staring at you. And you were right as your eyes met with Satoru, and your heart ached as your brows furrowed at him.

You looked away, trying not to be affected.

All throughout the day, Satoru thought of you and your last interaction. Every time the memory flashed in his mind, he wanted to punch himself. Hurt himself twice as much.

He fucked up so bad, and he wanted to make it up to you.

So he finally had the courage to wait outside your classroom's door after his class, waiting for the professor to dismiss everyone. He didn't waste anymore time as he got by your side quickly when you walked out the door.

Your name rolled out his tongue slowly, and you stopped dead on your track.

"I'll t-take you home..." He stuttered, his eyes searching yours for any emotion. But your eyes were dead, not even a single anger, or love for him in there.

"I'm fine, Gojo. You can go away–"

"I'm not going away."

You turned to him furiously. It was like you two are back to square one, to the first time you two met, and no one should ever forget that Gojo Satoru was persistent. But this time, two hearts were breaking and in a need to mend.

"P-please, let's talk–"

You didn't respond as you walked away fast, but damn his legs for always being able to keep up with you. Despite how Satoru took the hint that you don't want to talk to him, he still didn't care. It didn't matter to Satoru if he couldn't take you home with his car, he'll walk with you instead, like how he used to.

He'll be quiet. He just wants to be with you.

December 16, 2023

You hated Saturday classes. And you hate it even more that Satoru Gojo was tailing you behind. Trying his best to get you to talk to him.

"Baby–"

"Don't call me that."

He coughed awkwardly, blinking his tears away. "You didn't eat lunch today again, let me take you–"

"Cut the crap, Gojo."

He gulped when you looked at him, with hatred in your eyes.

Maybe, just maybe he can settle for this. Look at him. Just look at him. At least look at him, even if you don't want to love him anymore. It's fine. He understands. Just look at him.

"Stop with the act already. I'm so tired of it. I'm so tired of you."

"I'm sorry..." He muttered against his breath. "But I can't. Not until you listen to me." Not until you take him back.

"There's nothing for you to explain anymore, Gojo. I've had enough, and I get it. I understand as bright as day that it was just a game–"

"It's fucking not." He gritted his teeth. As much as he didn't want to be harsh, he was so desperate in wanting you to lend your ears to him. "It wasn't a game for me. And I did love you. I fucking love you still. Yes, it was a bet at first, but I told Suguru that I wanted to stop. He knows just how much I love you. Shoko knows. Fucking everyone knows at this point. Why can't you just listen to me?"

He catches his breath as he finishes voicing out his words. But no, you were a little hard in the head. You wouldn't believe him that fast. You didn't want to hurt your heart again.

"I don't love you."

You didn't know what gave you the urge to say that. It wasn't really true, but the wrong words seem to be the only right words to cut it out.

If Satoru's heart is already breaking, he was sure it is now turning into ashes. You're a liar, he tried to convince himself. You love him, and he's not about to give up just yet.

December 18, 2023

You can hurt Satoru how much you want, but that will never stop him from loving and chasing after you.

Another frustrated sigh came out from you when he left a cookie on your table to your first class, with a note saying, 'I love you. Don't forget to eat.' with his name underneath and a heart. You didn't even know how he managed to put these on your table so early in the morning, and your heart just wants to surrender.

But no, you're not.

So, even if it comes out too heartless, you offered the cookie to the person next to you as you crumpled the note, throwing it away inside your bag so no one would see it.

During lunch, Satoru saw you at your usual table, and tried to sit with you. But you got up in a hurry, pulling Utahime who just got back from the bathroom with you.

Being angry at him is one thing, but avoiding him? No, he can't take that. He'd rather have you stay mad at him, scream and hurt him verbally, even slap him if you want, but giving him the cold shoulder was you telling him that he doesn't exist in your world anymore. Satoru's heart is barely living at this point.

Satoru cursed to himself, standing up and going back to Shoko and Suguru who looked at him with a sad smile.

"Give it time, Satoru."

But time doesn't seem to be on his side.

And fate doesn't get along with you on your most desperate days as you watched the rain poured down once again. It was like deja vu. Standing outside the building, waiting for the rain to stop so you can go home.

But the rain was falling a little too harsh, and you know it's not about to stop anytime soon. It was like the rain also had a turmoil within itself, crying heavily just the same way your heart did.

You hate yourself for always forgetting an umbrella as you take a step, lifting your bag to your head, as you let the rain soak your clothes. It's the last day of school today anyway, you're finally taking your Christmas vacation tomorrow, and it wouldn't hurt to get sick for a few days.

Unbeknownst to you, Satoru comes to the rescue at the right time.

He held an umbrella as he ran after you, being careful as he strides so he won't trip on his feet.

He called your name, stopping shortly when he finally got you under the umbrella and pulling you close by the waist.

"I'll take you home." He shouted above the rain.

Your body trembled in the cold, and Satoru was embracing you like he used to. He didn't even mind if you got his clothes wet. But you still have the guts to push him away. "No! I can go home by myself!"

"Stop being stubborn!" Despite holding you with one hand, his other hand holding the umbrella, he still managed to keep you on your feet, his hand squeezing your waist tightly.

"Gojo–"

"Stop it!"

"Let go of me!"

"You're going to get sick!"

"I don't fucking care!"

"No, I'll take you home–"

"Gojo Satoru!"

Satoru gave up as you writhed from his embrace. He dropped his umbrella, using both his hands to grab your waist, and kissing you in the rain.

His tongue was invading, seeking every corner of your mouth desperately. Fuck, he missed this. He missed you so much. And he didn't even care if the rain was slowly ruining his hair and clothes, as long as he had you right here in his arms.

It was a dangerous dance underneath the cold waters beneath the rain. Two lovers, hopelessly trying to heal their broken hearts. Their lips tangled together like it was their last chance to be like this again.

"Satoru..."

"I'll take you home..."

How did you let yourself become weak for him?

You handed him a towel as both of you entered your home. Despite how upset you are with him, you couldn't possibly just leave him wet by the rain and catch a cold. You were just being nice, you said to yourself. It's not because of your affection towards him, you're just being a helpful woman who still has a heart so you invited him into your house. Thats it, that's all there is, perhaps.

Before you can leave him, Satoru holds your hand, electrifying the two of you to stop you from your tracks. You tried to look at him in the eye, but it was impossible. Satoru doesn't even try to hide how much he's hurting in front of you, and that just doubles the pain that you're feeling right now.

"Let's talk..." He said weakly. "Please? I'm not leaving if we don't talk."

"Satoru, please, just let it go..."

"No," he shakes his head stubbornly. "You mean so much to me."

Your breath hitched as he pulled you close, cupping your cheeks with both hands as he leaned his forehead against yours.

"It's true, we did make a bet..." He closed his eyes, the words falling in his mouth felt like daggers shot straight to his heart. "And I hate myself for it. For being a prideful jerk who wanted to prove he can have whoever he wants, and hurting you in the process..."

Satoru breathed heavily, his hands rubbing circles on your cheek. "Before I knew it, I was down badly on my knees. I wanted you. I love you. I wanted to spend each and every waking moment with you. And I told Suguru, and Shoko, that I wanted to stop whatever game we agreed upon, so I can start loving you truthfully..."

"Satoru..."

"And I felt so alive, baby. When you told me you love me too, when you let me be your boyfriend, when you finally accepted my love for you. Fuck, I can die a happy man. I just... love you. I love being loved by you. I love it when you let me love you. I love it when you do nothing and it just drives me wild. I love it every time I see your eyes looking at me. I love hearing your voice, seeing you smile, and love it even more when you let me hold your hand! I love every single piece of your soul, and I want you. I want to always be with you. My heart aches for you, baby... please..."

He was crying. Oh, god, he was crying as he confessed everything to you. And you swear your heart wants to come out from your chest.

Your heart was swelling, he was mending your bruises, healing your scars in every word he uttered. Your tears were falling nonstop, and your hands quiver to place it above his.

"Satoru..." You sobbed, looking at his helpless blue eyes who'd been crying buckets as well. "I hate the fact that I love you so much."

Satoru heaved a gasp as he pulled you to his embrace, sealing you in a wet kiss. Somehow, it didn't even feel cold anymore now that you have your arms around him again.

His face settled on your neck, and he was catching his breath. He ran his hands in your hair, holding you tight as if he was afraid to let you go.

"Don't leave me again..."

"I won't. I promise." You let out a low chuckle. This time, you cupped his cheek so he could look at you. "I love you so much, Satoru. I'm so sorry for hurting you."

"I deserved it." He smiled. Finally, he was smiling at you. "And I love you more."

Satoru made sure he's not letting you escape this time. Everyday, he's going to make it up to you. He's going to tell you how much he loves you, and he's going to make sure you'll never even forget it until you fall asleep. He's going to love you like it's breathing, and he promised to himself he's going to love you until the next lifetime.

***

i know i said I'll do the part 2 of my Suguru fic, but im so sorry this was in my head for ages 😭 i promised ill start part 2 in a while... anyways, thanks for reading! its not proofread so im sorry for any typographical errors and spelling ^^

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atzloverr · 8 months ago

Text

Our unsaid truths - chapter 1

series masterlist

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Pairings: Seonghwa x reader, Wooyoung x reader, slight poly ot8 atz x reader

includes: smut, oral (f and m receiving), sub Wooyoung, gentle dom Seonghwa, threesome (f/m/m), poly ateez, reader is sick at one point, voyeurism, bf!Seonghwa, use of sir, good boy

When you and Seonghwa started dating, it was as if you got seven new best friends simultaneously. When your boyfriend had told you he had roommates, you never expected him to mean seven of them.

Even after only dating Seonghwa for a few months, you had already grown very fond of the boys, seeing them almost every day, with how often you hung out at their place.

Your relationship with Seonghwa had never been too strict. You wouldn’t call it a ‘no strings attached’ situation, but the strings were loosely connected.

When he first explained his relationship with his roommates, you felt shocked, but as soon as you got to know them all, it felt okay that your boyfriend had some ‘non-friendly’ relationships with them. Although Seonghwa had proposed it, you hadn’t gotten closer with anyone else than him for the time being. You chose to stay monogamous, even when he didn’t.

Sure, you could sometimes find yourself cuddling with Yunho, or exchanging a slightly flirty remark with San, but you hadn’t gone very far yet.

“So… Are you all in a relationship?” you asked when Seonghwa explained it to you for the first time. “Well, yes, but also no,” he looked around the room, and your confusion only grew.

“Not everyone is in a relationship with everyone, but most of us have some kind of connection. We haven’t put a label on it,” he explained, his large eyes looking into yours. You nodded slowly. “For example, I have separate relationships with Hongjoong and San, but they are not together. Although, San is still involved with Wooyoung, even though Wooyoung is also involved with both me and Hongjoong.”

You blinked as you took in the information. “Okay, I think I get it. But are they okay with you and me being…” you lowered your tone slightly. “Of course! They’re extremely open to me having another partner, and I’m sure some of them will probably get interested in you too…” he drifted off slightly.

“You see, in the beginning, it was just Hongjoong and Yunho, and I’m not even sure if they were ever labeled as boyfriends, but then when I started dating Hongjoong, I ended up getting interested in Yunho as well!” he said, seeming happy about the memory. “You don’t have to get involved with anyone else of course, and I understand if this’ll change how you view me…”

His sad tone made your heart sink in your chest. You knew that Seonghwa was truly a kind soul, so something like this could not make you dislike him at all. “Of course not!! I admit it might take me a while to adjust to it but… If you’re okay with it, I would still like to try this,” you smiled, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes lit up in joy before he threw his arms around you.

“Thank you so much, Y/n,” he said into your hair. “For being so understanding about all of this.”

So here you found yourself, a few months into your relationship, and you had not once regretted your decision in keeping the relationship going.

Seeing your boyfriend touch the others in such a casual but sensual way took time to get used to, but at this point you didn’t even bat an eye when he was with someone else.

You glanced out the window of the large dorm which was now empty, and you couldn’t help but miss the constant movement and noise, now that they had all gone off to work of school. You had managed to catch a cold, and Seonghwa refused to let you go to your own small apartment, convincing you that you wouldn’t take care of yourself properly.

On the Sunday night when San heard the news of you being sick, he immediately rushed into Seonghwa’s room where you lay in the bed, couching loudly. He too, had grown fond of you over these past few months.

“Oh my god, are you okay!?” he asked, worry lacing his high pitched voice. You smiled slightly, but didn’t get the chance to respond before another figure entered the room.

“What’s going on?” the voice called out. It was Mingi. He was wearing a bathrobe, clearly having just taken a bath. “Y/n’s sick!” San whined, pointing towards your completely covered form in the bed. Mingi gasped slightly, stepping closer to you.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. You giggled at his unusually serious tone. “No, Seonghwa got all the stuff I need,” you explained. “But thank you for your concern, Mingi.”

Mingi couldn’t ignore the way his heart fluttered at your use of his name. “That old worrywart,” San laughed, glancing at the medicine and tissues Seonghwa had set beside you on the bedside table.

“What are you guys doing here?” a deep voice echoed, making the two boys in front of you turn their heads quickly. “Checking in on your sick girlfriend,” Mingi deadpanned. “You don’t seem to be here for her right now,” San teased. You couldn’t help but let out a weak laugh at Seonghwa’s frustrated face.

“I was just telling the university she can’t come tomorrow,” he explained while pulling them out of his room. “What? But I think I can come tomorrow! It’s just a little cold—“ “Little? You’re running a fever and couching like crazy, you call that little?” he scolded. You sunk back into the pillows. “You have to take care of yourself, let yourself rest,” he said while closing the door, having shooed the other boys out.

As the bed slumped under his weight and his hand met your forehead again, you couldn’t help but feel like crying. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked concerned. You blinked, noticing the wetness pooling in your eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry.” You wiped your eyes. “It’s just so sweet that you’re caring about me this much,” you smiled, meeting his gaze.

He smiled a sad smile before leaning down to leave a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Of course. I love you,” he whispered. “I love you too, Hwa.”

Now you found yourself in the large couch, the rain pouring outside and some boring TV-show airing on the large screen. It still amazed you how these men had all this money.

To be honest, you were feeling like shit. You had a large blanked wrapped around your body, a fever running high and a sore throat that only seemed to be getting worse by the second. You didn’t even have the energy to get some tea, feeling stuck to your spot in the couch, where you had seemed to build up some warmth.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Y/n?… Y/n?” a soft voice called out, two hands meeting your shoulders. You felt yourself slowly regaining consciousness, your eyes slowly adjusting to the light room. You didn’t even find the energy to speak, only a hoarse sound escaping your throat as you turned your head away from the man trying to wake you up.

“Do you want me to take you to Seonghwa’s room?” he asked, voice still very soft and hushed. You whined slightly and nodded. You opened your eyes to reveal the man about to lift you up in his strong arms. Yunho.

You had already formed a type of special bond with the tall male. He never failed to make you laugh, and always seemed to be there for you when you needed him. Like right now, when he slowly tucked you into bed, softly asking you if you needed anything.

“Me and Mingi are the only ones at home right now, but please don’t be shy to text me if you need anything, okay?”

You nodded, and as much as you wanted to thank him for his kindness, you chose not to speak if not necessary. “Seonghwa will be home in about two hours, but if you need a cuddle buddy…” his gaze averted from yours, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile at him.

As he walked out of the room, leaving the door open just an inch, you used all the energy you seemed to have to call out to him.

“Yunho,” you said, your voice sounding foreign to both your ears and his. “Thank you.”

He smiled brightly before exiting the dark room, leaving you to fall into a deep sleep once again.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Even though your body was in desperate need for it, the constant shivers erupting through you made it impossible to even get a wink of sleep.

Just when you thought Yunho was about to get in, hearing a knock on the door, you were met with another familiar face.

“Wooyoung?” your voice called out, still not sounding like your own. “Hi there,” he said, closing the door behind him. You guessed it had been around thirty minutes since Yunho had come home then, having almost completely memorized their schedules from being with them so much.

You watched with tired eyes as he came closer to the bed, his work outfit making him look put together. You couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. Here you were, taking up space in their home, probably just being a big burden.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly. “Wait, no! Don’t talk! I don’t want you to strain your voice even more,” he insisted, interrupting you as you were about to tell him about how you were fairing.

He got closer to you, putting his cold hand on your forehead. He gasped loudly. “Your temperature is really high, Y/n. Let me go get a wet cloth—“ You stopped him from rushing away by weakly grabbing the hem of his shirt, causing him to immediately stop in his tracks. He looked down at you, eyebrows furrowed in worry. He didn’t miss the way your hand shivered, barely being able to properly grab his shirt.

At this point, you didn’t care what he would think, you knew what you needed right now. Wooyoung let out a shocked sound when you pulled him closer, your weak voice finally sounding out a few words.

“Cuddle me, please.”

His eyes widened. Your voice hadn’t come out demanding at all, rather desperate, like you needed him to survive. He couldn’t even think to say no.

His soft hand met your warm cheek, caressing it carefully. “Okay, just let me change into some other clothes.”

You whined slightly, but let him step away to grab one of Seonghwa’s pajama sets. He knew how careful the taller man was of his clothes, usually not letting anyone but you borrow them, but Wooyoung figured your boyfriend wouldn’t be able to fight against him when he knew the circumstances.

Wooyoung typed quickly on his phone, telling Yunho to come in with some tea and a wet cloth for you. Almost immediately after he clicked send, the sounds of the tall man’s footsteps could be heard as he made his way to the kitchen.

Wooyoung was in bed with you momentarily, sliding in comfortably under all of your thick blankets. You couldn’t help but cuddle into his chest when he lay down next to you. Cuddling with Wooyoung wasn’t something out of the ordinary, but you had never really been this close to him. You could smell his cologne when you buried your head into his neck, feeling his arms wrap around your waist.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

 “Hey, I brought the—“ “Shh!!”

Yunho looked at Wooyoung’s face dumbfounded, until he finally realized why he got shushed. You were finally asleep. You had managed to get lulled to sleep when in the arms of your boyfriend’s boyfriend, feeling his slender fingers play with your hair.

Yunho cautiously stepped closer, setting down the large cup of tea on the bedside table. He got the wet cloth he had prepared, and after Wooyoung slowly positioned you on your back, Yunho gently placed in on your forehead.

“Is you know who really okay with this?” Yunho whispered. Wooyoung rolled his eyes and smiled. “Yes, and besides, who is he to deny his cute girlfriend’s wishes? If she wants to cuddle me, I’ll consider it done!” Wooyoung whispered back. Yunho had to stifle a laugh at the younger’s words.

You let out a small sound in your sleep, knitting your eyebrows together, and Wooyoung immediately started to hold you again. Yunho could only smile fondly at you two before stepping out of the room, going to start preparing dinner.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

When Seonghwa found the two of you cuddled up in his bed, Wooyoung having fallen asleep as well, he couldn’t help but feel a hint of worry stirring in him.

While he did find the scene adorable, he also knew that Wooyoung could become very easily attached to someone, so if that was something you weren’t comfortable with, things would get complicated.

Wooyoung was one of the few in their unlabeled relationship who was involved with everyone, and Seonghwa didn’t doubt that Wooyoung had already developed feelings for you. He just hoped that he wouldn’t end up too crushed if you didn’t return them.

Ever since you shared that moment with him, things had started to change between you and Wooyoung. And while you might’ve thought so, you definitely weren’t the only one noticing.

The friendly cuddles Wooyoung always used to give you turned into lingering touches, his innocent smiles into lustful smirks, and the most prominent thing, he started showing jealousy.

Why was Seonghwa the only one who could be with you? Touch you? Kiss you? Of course, it was a question about consent, but why was everyone so hesitant to make a move on you?

You couldn’t deny the feeling of your cheeks heating up when Wooyoung creeped up on you from behind, wrapping his arms around you and eyeing Seonghwa from across the room. You couldn’t even read what he wanted. Was he just using you to try and flirt with Seonghwa, or was he truly interested?

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Aah~ My love, I’m close,” your boyfriend moaned in your ear, his hips slowly rutting deeply into you as small droplets of sweat started to drip from his forehead onto yours. Your whimpers and the sounds of hips slamming against each other filled the room.

Seonghwa had assured you that you didn’t need to be shy when having sex. All of his roommates would respect it and not be awkward about it. But with this whole new behavior Wooyoung had been showing, you didn’t feel the same type of safety anymore.  There was something so predatory about his stare, something so possessive about his arms when they wrapped around you. You felt like you were going crazy.

You couldn’t stifle the moans escaping you when you felt your orgasm approach, Seonghwa’s skilled fingers rubbing your clit until you both exploded with pleasure.

He collapsed on top of you, his lips meeting yours, muffling his own moans as he was hit with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

In a moment of silence, you heard an odd noise from outside the door. It sounded like the creaking sound when someone was about to enter the room. Surely no one was up by now?

Seonghwa seemed to hear the sound too, and without even getting dressed, got up from his position on top of you and made his way to the door.

You grabbed the blankets and pulled them over your bare body as he opened the door, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw next.

“Oh~ So this is what you’ve been up to, huh?” Seonghwa’s voice said in a teasing tone. You sat up slightly to properly see what was going on, just to be met by a sight you could only gasp at.

There Wooyoung was, sitting with his legs spread open, cock in his hand while biting his shirt, revealing his toned upper body. You blinked, looking up at Seonghwa’s smug grin as he grabbed Wooyoung’s chin with his hand. Wooyoung let out a lewd sound when being quietly eyed by the two of you.

“Now you,” Seonghwa started, pulling Wooyoung’s chin towards himself, making him crawl into the room. “Have some explaining to do.” He closed the door rather roughly, making both you and Wooyoung flinch. You met the younger boy’s gaze as he still kneeled on the floor. When you thought his eyes would be full of shame, they just showed pure signs of lust and desperation.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“I’m sorry Y/n, you’re just so beautiful and- and I—“ Wooyoung’s voice cracked, being interrupted by his own loud whimpers and whines. “Now tell her what you’re sorry about,” Seonghwa demanded from behind Wooyoung.

The sight in front of you was one you had never imagined to see. Your boyfriend was sat behind Wooyoung’s body, legs locking his in place as he slowly pumped the younger’s cock up and down in an almost hypnotic motion.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it.

“I’m sorry for— Agh!” Wooyoung moaned out when Seonghwa’s palm gently massaged his sensitive tip. He squirmed, but Seonghwa’s hand didn’t budge. Your thighs clenched together, and you couldn’t even ignore the wetness pooling in between your legs as Wooyoung continued talking.

“I’m sorry for listening to your moans when he fucked you and- and for fantasizing about it being me who was- Ahh~”

Seonghwa continued to stroke Wooyoung’s erect cock, and only quickened his pace. Your eyes met Wooyoung’s for a split second, before finally meeting your boyfriend’s.

Seonghwa’s eyes were so dark and sinful. It was as if the man who had been fucking you so gently earlier tonight was long gone. He kept his eyes locked on yours as he started biting and sucking on Wooyoung’s neck, causing said man’s moans to become even louder.

You still had the blankets wrapped around your body, almost feeling modest when the two in front of you were completely naked. You noticed the way Wooyoung started thrusting into Seonghwa’s hand, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

You could practically feel how close he was, and you could bet Seonghwa felt the same. Right when Wooyoung’s moans became the loudest they had ever been, his legs shaking with how close he was to cumming, Seonghwa’s hand suddenly ripped away from his aching cock.

“Wha— No,” Wooyoung struggled, whines and frustrated noises filling your ears. “Don’t cum.”

You felt yourself almost twitch at Seonghwa’s voice. Never had you heard this unforgiving tone of his, but you didn’t know if you would ever be able to live without it after this. Wooyoung thrashed around in his grip.

“Are you comfortable with touching him, Y/n?” Seonghwa asked. Your eyes widened as their gazes were suddenly on you, Wooyoung still chasing that orgasm that was rudely ripped away from him. “Yes,” you said without even hesitating. You may have not admitted it until now, but you definitely found Wooyoung attractive. You couldn’t wait to touch him, feel his touch on you.

“Use those beautiful hands on him, my love,” Seonghwa said, voice much gentler now. You decided to throw the covers off of your body, and you couldn’t ignore Wooyoung’s eyes taking in your form. “You’re so beautiful, I can’t believe I get to—“

“Did I tell you that you could speak?” Seonghwa said. Wooyoung blinked and looked down in shame. “No, I’m sorry sir.”

With a small nod from your boyfriend, you wrapped your hand around Wooyoung’s length, the precum smothered on it already making it lubed up for you. A sharp inhale followed by a high pitched whimper leaving Wooyoung’s lips was all you needed to know that it wouldn’t take him long to get close again.

You used both of your hands, pleasuring him rather quickly. When you focused on his reddened tip you noticed the way his body stiffened. Seonghwa’s fingers were skillfully playing with Wooyoung’s nipples, only adding to the sensations pulling him to the edge.

You once again saw the way his legs shook under your touch, his hips moving on their own as you continued.

“Stop.” The sudden command made you freeze, immediately pulling your hand away from Wooyoung. This time, he was even more frustrated. “No! Please,” he squirmed around, breath taking long to cool down again.

“Good boy, keeping it all in for us,” Seonghwa praised. Even when it was meant for the other party involved, you almost felt an ache between your legs.

“Y/n, look at me my sweet,” he called out, making your gaze snap up in confusion. “Are you comfortable with him touching you?”

You nodded eagerly, only feeling your excitement grow by the second. “Words, darling. I need words.”

“Yes, please let him,” you let out. He raised his eyebrow, amused, but soon loosened his grip on the man in his arms.

“Lie down,” he commanded. Even though he didn’t announce who it was meant for, it was clear to you that it was for Wooyoung. The tones he used differed so much, it was impossible to mix them up.

Wooyoung complied, lying down on the bed. You waited for a command for you, and you didn’t even know what to expect.

“Sit on his face, Y/n.” Your eyes widened, and suddenly you felt shy. “Yes, please sit on my face Y/n, I’ll do anything,” Wooyoung begged. This only earned a small spank to his thigh. “Again, pet. Did I give you permission to speak?”

Wooyoung looked down in shame, but you still saw that small smirk of defiance rest on his lips. “No sir. Sorry sir.”

You looked at Seonghwa, who gave you a reassuring smile. You slowly hovered over Wooyoung’s face, legs shaking slightly from your previous session with Seonghwa.

“Sit down darling. Don’t be shy,” Seonghwa said. He sat by Wooyoung’s legs, and kept them in place with his own.

You finally let yourself sit down on his face, and didn’t even have time to muffle the moan that you let out from the point of impact.

His lips and tongue started hungrily eating you out, making your knees almost give out underneath you. He was quick in his movements, and was such a contrast to Seonghwa’s usually teasing and slow demeanor.

He only stopped for a split second when Seonghwa started using his mouth on him, making him moan into your pussy.

“You do not stop until she comes, understood?” Seonghwa asked. Wooyoung pulled away from you slightly, mumbling a small ‘yes sir’. Seonghwa soon resumed his tongues movements around Wooyoung’s sore cock.

With how fast Wooyoung was going, mixed with how incredibly turned on you were by the entire scene, it didn’t take long for you to get close. It didn’t for Wooyoung either.

It seemed like right when you were about to cum, so was Wooyoung. He paused his movements right when you felt your orgasm approaching. Seonghwa had withdrawn his mouth from him, but put his hands on your shoulders to push you down on Wooyoung’s face.

“Don’t stop.”

Right then, you came all over Wooyoung’s face and in his mouth. You couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, but judging by Wooyoung’s expression of pure pleasure, he really didn’t mind.

As you slowly got off of his face, after having him lick up any excess juices, you collapsed beside him.

“What do you think, Y/n. Does he deserve to cum?” Seonghwa asked, pulling out something from his drawer. You felt mischievous, so you decided to just gently trace his jawline with your fingers as he panted in exhaustion. “Hmm, I don’t know, maybe…”

Wooyoung whined loudly, hands not knowing where to touch, therefore only grabbing the sheets in frustration. “Please, please,” he begged silently. Seonghwa suddenly threw Wooyoung’s legs into the air, putting them on his shoulders as he sat on his knees in front of him.

“I think you’ve been good enough today, making my girl cum so hard with your cute little mouth,” he said, putting two of his fingers beyond Wooyoung’s parted lips. Wooyoung sucked and licked them eagerly, as to prove that he indeed deserved to cum.

“Now, tell me Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said, a mischievous look in his eye. “Do you remember this?” he asked, showing something. You recognized it well, it was a vibrator that Seonghwa liked to use on himself a lot.

“Oh my-“, “Yeah, I bet you remember it, don’t you? That night, when I made you cum a dozen times with this vibrator deep in your hole. Oh, how cute you were, begging me to let you rest,” Seonghwa cooed. Wooyoung’s breath quickened at the memory.

“Is that what you’re going to—“

“No, no… Not tonight,” Seonghwa shook his head. “But I do just want to make you cum at least once with this one.”

The vibrator he was holding was big, and was clearly made to massage the prostate. Wooyoung nodded eagerly at the thought of being fucked with the large toy.

“I’ll even let you kiss Y/n while you take it, okay?” Seonghwa smirked. Wooyoung’s eyes lit up. “Yes, yes, oh my god thank you sir, thank-“

Wooyoung was shut up by your lips crashing on his. You had been wanting to do this for longer than you’d like to admit. Ever since that night when he came to your aid when you were sick, you had craved letting your lips meet, feeling his tongue against yours in a heated kiss.

As you continued kissing him, Seonghwa started to slowly push his fingers inside of Wooyoung. He moaned into your mouth at the sensation, and when another finger was soon added, he almost screamed into your mouth.

“Good boy,” Seonghwa said. His deep and smooth voice made you feel tingly inside, and you were sure it had the same effect on Wooyoung.

Soon enough, Seonghwa had managed to put the toy completely inside of Wooyoung, making him whine at the sudden stretch. Your kisses traveled down to his neck, trailing over the marks that Seonghwa had already made.

Suddenly, Wooyoung twitched when the vibration was turned on. His entire body started moving in sync with Seonghwa slowly fucking him with the toy. Wooyoung started to lose it completely when Seonghwa’s hand wrapped around his length once again. The toy deep inside of him, vibrating against his prostate together with the feeling of his lover’s slender fingers pumping him up and down made him shiver in pleasure.

“Oh, I’m gonna- Can I—“

“Yes, you can. Go ahead and cum for me. Cum for us.”

That’s what sent Wooyoung over the edge, his moans probably audible to everyone in the house, but neither of you cared. When he finally came, you licked the white liquid off of his stomach with your tongue, letting him bask in the afterglow as you trailed kisses up his toned body. Seonghwa did the same, slowly lying down next to Wooyoung and kissing his plump lips with delicacy and love.

In this moment, you felt as if everything was perfect. Wooyoung pressed up against your right side, Seonghwa to your left. You finally let yourself fall asleep with three last words leaving your lips, knowing that they were in fact meant for both of them.

“I love you.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Do you think they’re done?” Jongho whispered into Yeosang’s ear. They happened to share a room, right above Seonghwa’s, meaning they often heard the two of you at night. None of them minded, the two of you usually keeping it pretty quiet for the sake of everyone else, but tonight, being joined by the loudest of them all, those concerns seemed to be out of your minds.

“Yeah, it’s been quiet for a while now,” Yeosang answered, giggling slightly. “I can’t believe it happened. I never actually thought that Wooyoung’s feelings would lead to anything,” Yeosang stated.

Jongho hummed in agreement. “Well, I guess he was lucky they found him lurking outside of their room,” he laughed. The two exchanged a last kiss before finally letting sleep catch up with them as well, seeing as you were finally done for the night. They couldn’t even wait to see your flustered expression tomorrow morning, already planning on all the ways to tease you about it.

next chapter

masterlist

Hiii guyysss so that’s the longest smut scene I’ve ever written I think😭 I hope you enjoyed!!!

Sidenote: this started as a one-shot and has now become a series, that’s why this first chapter is longer than the others!!

#ateez #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez smut #ateez imagines #seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #yunho #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #seonghwa smut #poly ateez #ateez oneshot #ateez fanfic #seonghwa x you #wooyoung x you #wooyoung

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ggukivrse · 1 month ago

Text

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 03

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, pov switches (1), jk is an acts of service king and a pathetic simp for oc, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 5.5k

notes: i procrastinated the shit out of this chapter omfg, i’m so sorry for the wait. tysm to my bae isa @page-isa for beta-reading and providing me with concerts on call while i wrote lolol. likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated!! enjoy reading my loves <33

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⤷ chapter three — ivy

i could hate you now / it’s quite alright to hate me now / but we both know that deep down / the feeling still deep down is good

The knife makes a soft thunk against the cutting board as you slice through the last of the strawberries, bright red, juice bleeding out onto the wood. You scoop the pieces into a bowl with the others — kiwi, pineapple, blueberries, a few slices of watermelon. Colourful. Easy to share. Refreshing enough for the heat outside, you hope.

A headache throbs behind your temple. It’s been sitting there since you woke up, dull but insistent. Usually, you would've had a few painkillers in your purse for this exact situation, but you had been certain that you'd be fine on the trip.

You let out a soft sigh. If it weren’t for your own spectacular decision-making.

You tilt your head back gently, reaching up to rub your forehead with the back of your wrist, careful not to smear fruit juice across your skin. The cool tile under your bare feet helps. A little.

From the kitchen, you can just about make out the voices outside.

Laughter and chatter carries faintly. Someone shouts something you can't quite make out, and there's a burst of response.

You should be out there with them. You would be, on any other day. But you’re not risking it — not with your head pounding like this, like your brain is bruised beneath your skull. One hour under that sun, and you know you’ll spend the rest of the day curled up in the dark, miserable.

Well... at least, that’s the excuse you went with.

You haven’t talked to Jungkook since last night.

Not after you walked away, leaving him with nothing but the weight of his own words and the silence you wrapped yourself in.

'I figured… you’d be here.'

Like it was obvious. Like he still knew you. Like he hadn’t made the choice to not be part of your life anymore.

Last night, your anger had been sharp. You’d felt it in your jaw, your chest, your hands. But now, it’s dulled into something muddier.

You’d been telling yourself he’d moved on — that whatever the breakup had done to you, it hadn’t touched him the same way. That he was fine. Probably relieved. Probably already halfway into his next chapter, while you were still here, trying to rewrite your ending like it didn’t hurt. And maybe that assumption had made it easier. Easier to be mad. Easier to hate him a little.

But then last night… he said he came here for you. Like he missed you. Like you still mattered.

And that? That messed with things.

Because how are you supposed to stay angry at someone who walked away, then looked you in the eye like they never wanted to? How are you supposed to keep the space intact when he was the one reaching across it — gently, quietly, like he didn’t know he was doing it?

You’d built your resentment around the idea that he let go easily. That he wanted out more than he wanted you. But now, with the weight of his words still sitting heavy in your chest, the whole picture feels harder to hold. Blurrier.

Turns out, hate’s a lot easier when you think the other person never looked back. And you're clearly a weak link.

The sound of the sliding door pulls you out of your thoughts, and you don't have to look to know exactly who it is.

There’s a soft pad of bare feet on tile, a steady, unhurried rhythm you’ve heard a thousand times before. You keep your eyes on the bowl of fruit in front of you, pretending to rearrange a few pieces like it matters.

“Hey,” Jungkook says, his voice calm.

You don’t turn around. “Hey.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for you to feel it.

”You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” you answer, automatic. Then you exhale, conceding a little. “Just a headache.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him move closer. He’s wearing black swim shorts that cling slightly at the waist, water still darkening the edges. A loose white t-shirt hangs off his frame — a little translucent from where it’s stuck to his chest.

His hair’s damp, curls pushed back from his forehead like he ran his fingers through it and let it dry that way. He smells faintly like sunscreen and chlorine and the heat outside.

“Did you drink enough water?” he asks.

A laughing breath tumbles from your lips before you can stop yourself. You shake your head, mostly to yourself, and glance at him over your shoulder.

He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows why you're laughing.

“You say that every time,” you say.

“Because every time, it’s true,” he says, not missing a beat.

His tone is easy, but his eyes search your face like he’s still trying to make sure. You give him a look — not annoyed, just tired — and sip from the water bottle already in your hand.

“Yes,” you say. “I’ve had water. It’s probably nothing.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond right away. He just leans against the counter beside you, one hand bracing the edge. A droplet of water slides down the inside of his veiny forearm.

You pretend not to notice.

“You take anything for it?” he asks eventually.

You shake your head. “Didn’t bring any.”

He scoffs, low and amused. “Oh, so smart.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks. Really helpful.”

He grins — not wide, not smug. Just soft around the edges. Familiar. The kind of grin he probably doesn’t realise he’s making.

He reaches into the drawer next to you without asking, pulling it open with a scrape of wood on wood. You glance sideways, eyebrows pulling together.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking if this place is stocked like a normal rental or if we’re screwed,” he says, sifting through half-empty tea boxes, a roll of foil, batteries, and a mostly dead flashlight. “And… yeah. Screwed.”

You exhale through your nose, more of a puff than a laugh. “Should’ve figured.”

“You know what you need?” he says, straightening up. “Cold compress. Or a wet towel.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, stepping away and heading toward the sink. He grabs a dish towel from the rack, runs it under cool water, wrings it out with practiced ease.

He turns, holding it out to you — not pushing it into your hands, just waiting, giving you the option.

You hesitate.

You want to say no. You should. But your head throbs again, dull and pulsing behind your eyes, and maybe your pride’s not worth it right now.

You reach out, take it from him.

His fingers brush yours, just for a second. Your grip's not as steady as you’d like.

You fold the cloth once, press it to the side of your head, and close your eyes for a second. The coolness helps. Not enough, but it’s something.

When you open your eyes again, he’s still there, simply watching.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, but there's a small smile on his face. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes at him, but no further words leave your mouth.

He leans a little heavier into the counter, arms folded, eyes flicking over the kitchen like he’s killing time — like he knows you well enough to wait you out.

The kitchen settles into a soft hush, filled only by the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional burst of laughter from outside.

You keep your eyes forward, focused on nothing, the damp towel warming slowly in your hand. You can feel him looking — not staring, but thinking. Sitting on something.

He shifts his weight slightly, arms still folded across his chest. Then finally, he says, low and cautious, “Hey.”

You glance over, just barely. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to brace yourself.

“About what I said last night.”

You blink, eyes flicking back to the counter.

Jungkook keeps going anyway. “I didn’t mean to… dump that on you, or say it like that. I wasn’t trying to make things harder. I just… I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think.”

You let the silence hang a moment, long enough for the words to settle.

“It’s fine,” you say eventually, quietly. “I’d already forgotten about it.”

He nods, lips pressing together. “Still. I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer this time. Just give a small shrug, like it’s not worth talking about.

Another hush washes over the kitchen, this one heavier.

You both sit in it for a moment, like neither of you knows exactly where to go next, but he shifts slightly and clears his throat.

A beat passes. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he squints at the counter.

“So...” he says, dragging the word out just enough to be obvious. “Are you gonna tell me what’s in the bowl, or do I have to guess?”

The question is stupid. It’s clearly fruit. But it works. It’s light enough to crack the silence without pretending it wasn’t there.

You don’t say anything for a second. Just press the cloth a little firmer to your temple and exhale, slow.

“Fruit,” you say. "Strawberries, kiwi, watermelon, pineapple. Some other stuff."

Jungkook leans over to peek into the bowl, then reaches for the spoon. You slide it away before he can grab it.

He blinks at you, a beat of surprise. “Seriously?”

“I didn’t say you could have any.”

“Since when do I need permission?” he asks, brow raised.

You give him a flat look. “Since always. You just never listened.”

He grins like that’s not even close to a deterrent. “C’mon. I kept you from passing out on the kitchen floor. That’s at least worth a bite.”

You shift the spoon just slightly further out of reach, not smiling — not fully — but your mouth twitches like it’s thinking about it. “One bite.”

“I’m starving.”

“Should’ve thought of that before cannonballing off the deep end for an hour.”

He steps closer — not too close — but enough to peer over your shoulder again, dramatic and exaggerated. “You’re telling me I generously helped your migraine and you’re gonna gatekeep the fruit bowl?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine,” you mutter, sliding the spoon toward him with one finger. “You can have some. As long as you take the rest out to the others.”

He grabs the spoon like it’s a prize, already scooping a chunk of watermelon into his mouth. “Deal,” he says around it.

He chews slowly, gaze still fixed on the bowl, like he’s giving the fruit his full concentration.

Then he nods once, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s good.”

You say nothing, just shift the towel slightly against your temple, adjusting it where it’s starting to lose its chill.

He takes another bite — slower this time, as if he’s savouring the taste.

You glance over at him, just briefly. The light from the sliding door paints a soft sheen across his skin, catches in the damp ends of his hair. His profile is calm, unreadable. You know that look. He’s thinking about something he won’t say.

“You gonna take that out?” you ask eventually, nodding at the bowl.

He looks up like he forgot it was in his hands. “Yeah. Right.”

Jungkook lingers for a second longer than necessary, still holding the spoon. Then, finally, he turns toward the door.

Just before he slides it open, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

“If you still feel bad later… I can run into town, grab something.”

"I can take care of myself, Jungkook.”

"I— right. I didn't mean it like that." He lets out a sigh. "Just don't die, yeah?"

You nod, and the door slides open again, letting in a gust of sun and the very distant echo of your friends yelling over music.

You let out a slow breath and rest both elbows on the counter, head still heavy.

And even though the ache behind your eyes is still there — stubborn and dull — it’s softened now. Just a little.

Your headache is mostly gone.

Not completely — there’s still a faint buzz behind your right eye — but it’s somewhat bearable now. The dull kind of pressure you can forget about if you keep still and breathe slow.

What really helped, you think, was the nap. A quiet hour stretched out on the couch with the curtains drawn halfway closed and the cold cloth still folded gently against your forehead.

You don’t remember falling asleep. One minute, you were lying there, your arm slung over your eyes to block the light, and the next, you were waking up to the distant sound of laughter outside, the ache in your head a few degrees cooler.

The towel was still cold when you stirred. Not freezing, but fresher than it had any right to be after an hour against your skin.

You hadn’t put it back in the freezer.

You’re almost sure you didn’t move at all.

Which means… someone had to have changed it amidst your slumber.

You’re not sure how you feel about it. If it even happened. If it means anything.

It shouldn’t. You tell yourself that. It shouldn’t mean anything.

But something about it sticks in your chest.

You’d asked for space — not out loud, not exactly, but in all the ways that mattered. In how you walked away, in how you haven’t reached for him since. And yet… here you are. Picking apart the temperature of a towel like it holds any real weight.

You’re trying not to read into things.

Really, you are.

But it’s hard when the lines keep blurring.

Pretending in front of the others is one thing. A mutual act, a lie with rules and boundaries. But the quiet moments are harder — the ones where no one is looking. Those feel like the truth, leaking out in small, inconvenient ways.

And now here you are.

The beach is stretched out before you in all its sleepy, golden haze. You’ve only been out here for ten minutes; just long enough to settle on your towel and feel the sun warm the backs of your legs.

When you stepped out of the house, the last serve of a makeshift volleyball game had just hit the sand. Taehyung and Hoseok stood dramatically with their arms raised like they'd won the Olympics, while Jimin fell to his knees with an exaggerated groan, sand puffing up beneath him. Seokjin declared the whole thing rigged.

Now, the energy has dipped.

Yoongi is passed out with a bucket hat covering his face. Seokjin’s sitting near the cooler, sipping something canned and cold with his arm lazily slung around Haeun’s waist. Everyone else lies scattered across the sand

The air smells like sunscreen and salt. The ocean hums steady in the background, lapping up against the shore.

And beside it all — Jungkook is somewhere behind you.

You haven’t looked directly at him since you laid your towel down, but you can almost feel his presence.

You shift on your stomach, resting your cheek against your folded arms as you watch Ari walk toward the water, her ankles sinking into the wet sand with each step. The back of your neck is starting to warm. A little too much.

“You're gonna get sunburnt,” comes Jungkook’s voice, low and close behind you.

You don’t lift your head. Just let out a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he replies, not unkindly. “Do you really wanna deal with a migraine and a sun burn at the same time?”

You squint forward, not at anything in particular. The sun is still high, still hot. That tell tale sting is starting to spread across your shoulders, the heat clawing at your skin.

But still, you don’t move.

“I’m too comfortable,” you mumble into your arms.

Behind you, there’s a pause. A quiet snort. The soft click of a bottle opening.

“Then don’t move,” Jungkook says. “I’ve got it.”

You could say no. Could roll away, wave him off, insist on doing it yourself. But you don’t. Whether it’s the heat, the sleep still clinging to your limbs, or just the fact that resisting feels like more effort than it’s worth — you stay where you are.

You hear him kneel beside you in the sand, shifting his weight until his shadow falls across your back.

A second later, the first touch of sunscreen lands cool and smooth on your skin, right between your shoulder blades. His hands follow, spreading it across your back with steady, practiced pressure.

You tense at first, your body instinctively stiffening beneath the weight of his palms. But it’s not like you don’t know how he touches. You do. That knowledge is in your bones, no matter how much time has passed.

He’s methodical about it. No lingering, no hesitation — just slow, firm strokes. Across your shoulders. Down the curve of your spine. It doesn't feel like anything more than it is. It shouldn't.

Still, you keep your face turned away, your sunglasses hiding the part of you that can’t stop reading into this.

He’s just doing it to show the others.

His hand drags slightly higher, toward the back of your neck — just above where your bikini strap cuts across your skin — and slows.

His fingers brush lightly over the spot where your tattoo is inked into your skin: small, fine-lined, nothing dramatic. Just a single, understated flower.

His birth flower. A small tiger lily.

He’s quiet for a beat. Long enough that you notice.

It was years ago. You’d gotten them together after a night out with the group — a bit drunk and feeling impulsive. You’d been walking past a tiny tattoo studio near campus while on the way home, a place you’d both seen a hundred times but never gone into. And for some reason that night, you did.

It was an idea that made sense at the time.

He has your birth flower on the back of his neck too, low enough to hide beneath the collar of a hoodie. Yours a mirror of his, but a small bit higher.

You never talked about what they meant. Not out loud. They weren’t anything too special. Just... markers of time. Of who you were to each other then.

And now here he is, brushing sunscreen over it like he’s trying not to think about the fact that it’s still there.

You feel his fingers hesitate — just for a second — right over the ink. His thumb grazes the edge of it, subtle enough that you almost miss it. But you don’t. You feel everything.

Then he clears his throat softly and moves on, his hands smoothing down the rest of your back with the same quiet efficiency as before. Like nothing happened. Like it didn’t matter.

And maybe it doesn’t.

But the tension in your jaw says otherwise.

By the time he’s finished, your skin feels slick and protected, the burn averted. But something else lingers — not on your back, but under your ribs. Low and restless.

"Thanks," you mumble.

He lets out a small hum in response, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. For a second, you think he's going to say something, but instead, he scoots over to his own towel placed a few feet away from yours.

Minutes slip by in a blur of warmth and white noise.

You stay there, cheek pressed against the crook of your arm, letting the sun soak into your back. The sounds around you start to flatten — laughter, crashing waves, the thump of footsteps on sand — all melting together into something distant and slow. You’re not sure how long you lie there, half-awake, thoughts drifting somewhere between now and then, between what was and what isn’t anymore.

You don’t notice the shape that settles beside you until it casts a shadow across your towel.

“Wow,” Kiara says, dropping onto the sand with a dramatic exhale, “you’ve been so boring today.”

You lift your head slightly, squinting at her through your sunglasses. “Rude.”

“I’m serious,” she says, unbothered, propping herself up on her elbows. “You’re usually all over the place. But today?” She sighs. “Nothing. It’s been tragic.”

You snort, the sound muffled by your arm. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, nudging your leg lightly with hers. “You’re throwing off the group dynamic."

You laugh for real this time — small, but genuine — and lift yourself slightly off your towel. Your head feels better, the pressure dulled to a faint hum. Manageable.

"You are good though, right?"

“I’m fine,” you say, rubbing at your temple with the back of your hand. “Just needed a break.”

“Well,” she drawls, sitting upright, “if you’re feeling human again, please tell me you’ll play one more round of volleyball.”

You blink. “Volleyball?”

“Yes,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “We need even teams, and I’m tired of getting stuck with Taehyung. He's genuinely a lost cause.”

You hesitate, and she watches you closely. Then, with a tilt of her head, she adds, “If you're feeling well, that is. Jungkook said that you had a headache earlier. He told all of us to keep it down when he saw you walking out, so I figured you were dying or something.”

“Oh,” you say, voice a little thinner than you’d like. “Right.” You force a breath through your nose. “I’m okay now. The nap helped.”

“Good,” she grins, bright and unbothered. “Because I refuse to lose to Jimin and this asshole again." She glances over at Jungkook with narrowed eyes, and you hear him chuckle. "My dignity can’t handle it," she adds, voice dropping a tiny bit.

You laugh and push yourself upright, brushing sand from your arms. “Fine. But Kiara, if someone spikes the ball at my face, you'll be the one that ends up dead.”

She beams, grabbing your hand and pulling you up to your feet. “No promises, but sure.”

She lets go of your hand as soon as you’re steady, then turns and jogs toward Hoseok to try and convince him to play too.

You dust off your legs with a sigh, flexing your toes in the warm sand. The heat radiates up through your soles, grounding. The sun is relentless now, painting everything in gold and glare.

You glance sideways toward the towel a few feet away.

Jungkook is still there, stretched out on his back with one arm slung across his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun. From here, he looks peaceful. Like the ocean and the warmth and the quiet are all he needs.

You hesitate, then step closer.

“You playing?” you ask, voice light, careful.

Jungkook peeks one eye open, blinking up at you. “Nah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Too tired.”

You pause. Your first instinct is to roll your eyes. Maybe push. Maybe say something along the lines of 'Scared I'll beat you?'

But you don’t.

You open your mouth, but the words dry up before they form. Instead, you just give him a simple, “Alright.”

You turn toward the lazy line drawn into the sand (their version of a volleyball net), pretending you don’t hear the voice in your head asking why you even bothered in the first place.

It's not like you care.

You’re sitting on the edge of the pool, ankles skimming the surface, the pads of your feet just brushing cool water. There’s a half-empty glass of something fruity beside you on the tile. Hoseok’s cracking up mid-story, animated like always, throwing his arms out as he re-enacts some tragic college memory that has you clutching your stomach with laughter.

You’re glowing. Not in the cliché way — not some poetic, golden-hour kind of glow — but in that real, visceral way you used to around him. Like the air is lighter in your lungs when you’re surrounded by the people who get you. Like joy just leaks out of you without asking for permission.

And Jungkook?

He sits beside you. A little too close. Not close enough.

His legs are in the water too, knees bent, toes flexing every now and then as Namjoon speaks beside him, something low and thoughtful and typical of Namjoon — philosophy or music or that book he never shuts up about. Jungkook nods, murmurs something back, throws a quiet smile when Namjoon teases him for zoning out, but his attention never really leaves you.

You.

Laughing like you used to, shoulders shaking, head thrown back.

You reach out mid-laugh, fingers curling instinctively around Hoseok’s arm as you recover, and Jungkook’s heart does this pathetic little stutter in his chest. It shouldn’t matter. He knows that. Hoseok is family — your friend, his friend, everyone’s friend — and nothing more. But it’s the way you touch. So easy. So natural. So unguarded.

Like the version of you that still belongs to everyone else hasn’t changed.

The version of you he gets, though?

Guarded. Quiet. Careful.

And he deserves it. He knows that.

But still, it hurts.

It’s stupid, really. How he sits here, nodding along to a conversation he’s not even hearing, all while tracking your every laugh like it’s the air he breathes; like he’s parched and it’s the only thing that could quench it.

He doesn’t mean to do it. He tries to stop. But it’s been a month — just a month — and already he’s forgotten how to breathe in a world where your joy doesn’t belong to him.

Your fingers swipe at your eyes, wiping away tears from the laughter, and Jungkook can’t help but notice how your guard drops when you’re surrounded by them. How you’ve drawn a clear line around him, and only him.

You talk to everyone but him with that voice. The one that dances. The one he used to fall asleep to on long nights when sleep wouldn’t come unless your words wrapped around the edges of his mind first.

Now?

You barely look at him unless you have to.

Even now, you’re angled slightly away. Just enough to remind him that he lost access to something no one else even realises is sacred.

And he let it happen.

He chose this. And fuck, does he regret it.

It’s a strange kind of punishment — being near you like this. Close enough to hear your laughter, to count the freckles on your shoulders, to smell the sunscreen on your skin — and still feel completely shut out. He’s sitting in the middle of everything, surrounded by friends, summer heat, fading sun — and yet all he can think about is how badly he wants to reach for you, and how he can’t.

A splash breaks Jungkook out of his thoughts, followed by a sharp, familiar voice.

“Jimin, seriously, if you drop that in—”

“I’m not gonna drop it!”

He twists just slightly enough to see Jimin in the pool, chest deep, both arms stretched upward to keep Yasmine’s baby pink digital camera above the water. The strap is wrapped twice around his wrist, but he still moves like the thing’s made of glass, carefully navigating the shallow end of the pool.

He’s grinning, eyes curled into crescent moons behind the camera as he wades closer.

“Smile!” he shouts, voice echoing a little off the tile.

Jungkook barely has enough time to throw up a casual peace sign before the shutter snaps.

Jimin squints at the screen, adjusting the angle slightly before lifting the camera again.

“One more! The lighting’s really good right now.”

The sky is washed in that honey-orange haze that only happens for a few precious minutes before dusk. The pool reflects it all — golden ripples catching light, soft shadows stretching across the deck.

You sit still beside Jungkook, your laughter cooling into a smile. Your hand brushes your hair back absently, and it takes everything in him not to follow the movement.

Jimin lowers the camera again, brows lifting. “Wait, I wanna get one of just you two."

You hesitate, eyes flicking toward Jungkook for the briefest second. He meets your gaze and he can see the hesitance swimming in your mind.

But before he can open his mouth to tell Jimin that the picture isn't needed, you adjust your legs, turning slightly so your shoulder brushes his.

It’s not much. But it’s not nothing.

Jungkook lifts an arm, pausing for half a second, then lets his hand settle at your waist, fingers just grazing the curve of your side.

You lean into his touch, your shoulder slipping under his arm, your hand moving to rest on his knee, and Jungkook's heart trips. No warning, no rhythm. It just skips — sharp and stupid and immediate.

Because this feels familiar. And fuck, he’s missed this.

“Okay,” Jimin calls. “Say cheese!”

You smile.

Click.

He turns his head ever so slightly to sneak a glance at you, and his breath catches.

Your smile isn’t fake. Not forced. Not the stiff, polite kind you’ve been tossing his way when the group’s looking. It’s real — soft and bright, with your eyes crinkling at the corners and your nose doing that little scrunch it always does when you’re genuinely happy. Your eyelashes catch the light, casting faint shadows on your cheeks.

Click.

The sound barely fades before something reckless flickers in Jungkook.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, like he’s grounding himself, or maybe trying to stop himself from doing exactly what he’s about to do. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s not entitled to moments like this anymore.

But God, you’re right there. Glowing. Laughing like you used to. And it’s killing him.

He watches the way your lips part slightly after your smile, the way your eyes dart to the camera and then away again. You look happy — not with him, but still. And it’s that exact version of you he aches for. The one that used to look at him like that on purpose.

He should look away.

He should remember that you're not his anymore. That whatever you're doing right now — playing pretend, leaning into the role for the sake of everyone else — isn’t real.

He tells himself not to do it.

Tells himself to breathe. To sit still. To just let this moment exist without taking anything from it.

But he doesn’t listen.

He never could, when it comes to you.

So before he can think twice — before reason has a chance to claw its way back in — he leans in, slow and quiet and aching.

And presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s soft. A touch more than a breath, less than a second.

His lips barely linger, but it’s enough. Enough to remember. Enough to want

Click.

To his surprise, you don’t flinch or pull away.

You just… sit there. Letting it happen.

Jimin chirps something about the photo, already moving on, flipping the camera around to show Taehyung and Yasmine as they ask him to take a similar picture of them too.

But Jungkook barely hears them.

He can’t hear much over the pounding in his chest, anyway. Can’t think beyond the feel of your skin under his lips, the way your shoulder fit under his arm like it still belongs there. Like nothing’s changed.

Maybe that’s why his voice comes out quieter than he means it to.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Habit.”

You don’t look at him. But you don’t move away either. Your hand stays on his knee, almost as if you know that the second either of you move, the moment is over.

The air goes still between you. And for the first time all day, Jungkook lets himself breathe.

Not fully. Not the kind of breath that fills your lungs and clears your head. But something. Something real enough that it almost feels like hope.

Then you shift.

Just slightly.

Your hand slides off his knee, fingers brushing the fabric of his shorts as you pull away.

You stand up slowly, brushing the back of your hand across your cheek where he kissed you, like you’re wiping away sweat — or maybe just trying to reset the moment.

You don’t say anything. Just pick up your drink, half-finished and watered down by melted ice, and move toward Haeun and Ari near the deep end who welcome you with a small wave of their fingers.

Jungkook watches you go.

He should feel stupid. Regretful. Humiliated, even. But he doesn’t. Not really.

Because for one second — just one — you didn’t pull away.

You let him exist beside you. With you. Like maybe some part of you remembered, too.

And maybe that means nothing.

Maybe it was just muscle memory.

But maybe — maybe — there’s still something left to hold onto.

Even if it hurts.

Even if it’s only for one more week.

Even if all he gets now are seconds.

And he’ll take them.

Because when it comes to you, he always would.

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honeyhaeya · 23 days ago

Text

(🔐)🖇 ༘ ⋆"How to Date Discreetly"

' ╰┈ "the day that i met you i started dreaming"

' ' 박성훈 x fem!reader

🎧ྀི 'ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Kingston (Faye Webster)

♫⋆₊˚ ﾟ. 'ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ genre / tags: idol!sunghoon x idol!reader, ice prince x reckless rookie, secret & established relationship, enemies to lovers (kinda), fluff, smut (2nd part) – MDNI, angst (minor), a pinch of comedy ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: NSFW WARNINGS ON CHAPTER 2 (no smut on this part) ! smut, slight jealousy (m), language, detailed explicit scenes, angst (minor), reader on the pill (birth control), mutual hate that’s just actually horny confusion, mild hate (online), – ugh, theyre so in love, its intoxicating ✩‧₊˚ wc: 6472 –1/2 (mini series) ੈ♡ a/n: lol this is peak delusion. dont like, dont read. also, im open for constructive critisism but fact checks or logical expected outcome are out of the picture, come on yall, this is fanfiction. also, wtf. shit, i really made this? hoon is so fucking adorable, argue with me if you disagree :p . uploading part two tomorrow 5pm kst :) part two is up and posted *^★ playlist: kingston (faye webster), lowkey (niki), august (taylor swift), soft spot (keshi), always (daniel caesar), best part (daniel caesar & h.e.r.), almost is never enough (ariana grande & nathan sykes)

dating was never hard for you.

you breezed through high school with a boyfriend for every semester, each one a lesson in love. you weren’t heartless—you did like them. maybe not enough to cry after the breakups, but enough to smile while it lasted.

you were living the easy life. pretty, popular, and always in love with something… or someone.

but all of that changed on a thursday afternoon.

you’d just turned down a free meal from your friends (and it was their treat, ugh) because your sister texted you, “buy the skincare stuff i told you about. only from that store near the station. they run out fast.”

so there you were, dodging pedestrians, phone in hand, a bit annoyed, very hungry.

you sighed, glancing at your screen for the third time—no calls, no new texts.

and then you noticed her.

a woman, maybe mid-thirties, blazer and red lipstick, standing across the sidewalk and watching you.

your brows knit instinctively. weird. you kept walking.

but then she followed.

“excuse me,” she said, heels clicking as she caught up to you.

you turned. “uh… yes?”

she smiled, like she already knew you. “sorry if this is random. i’m a manager at (-) entertainment. and… have you ever thought of becoming an idol?”

you blinked.

“me?”

“you’ve got the face. the vibe. we’re recruiting trainees right now. it’s competitive, but i think you have a real shot.”

you stared. was this real? was she legit?

she pulled out a card, glossy and gold-trimmed. it looked expensive. official.

“call this number,” she said. “auditions are still required, but… i can pull a few strings.”

and just like that, she walked away.

later that night

you sat at the dinner table, card on your lap, phone in your hand, still processing.

“what’s that?” your sister asked, peering over.

“uh… a manager gave it to me,” you muttered. “she wants me to audition. to be a trainee.”

your mom nearly dropped her spoon.

your dad blinked like he misheard.

“a what now?” he asked.

your sister grabbed the card, eyes wide. “no way. (-) entertainment? they’re huge. that’s, like, the company.”

“it’s probably fake,” you said quickly. “i mean, i haven’t even danced in public before.”

your mom smiled gently. “if it’s something you’re curious about… we’ll support you.”

“what if i’m not good enough?”

“then you’ll try. and if it’s not for you, you’ll walk away knowing you tried.”

your sister nudged your arm. “do it, loser. if you debut, i can brag about you.”

you laughed, but your heart was pounding.

a few weeks later, you stood backstage after your audition, heart thumping, palms sweaty.

the evaluator handed your file to someone behind them.

“she’s raw,” the woman murmured. “but i like her. give her the green light.”

that night, you got the call.

you were officially a trainee.

you were late.

again.

you burst into the practice room, sneakers squeaking against the floor, hair sticking to your forehead. seven other trainees glanced up—some sympathetic, some smug. the trainer didn’t even look surprised.

but he did.

sunghoon.

he was leaning against the mirror, arms crossed, black sweatpants, white shirt clinging to him like he’d already been at it for hours. perfect posture. flawless control. and the most judgmental eyes you’ve ever seen.

“this is the third time this week,” he said flatly.

you rolled your eyes, dropping your bag. “thanks for counting, mom.”

a snicker echoed from someone in the back. the trainer sighed.

“five laps. now,” she barked.

you groaned and started running.

sunghoon turned to the trainer. “i don’t know why you waste time on people who can’t take this seriously.”

you stopped mid-lap, heart racing for a new reason.

“excuse me?”

he glanced at you, cool and unbothered. “you heard me.”

“you don’t even know me.”

“i don’t have to. it’s obvious.”

you wanted to throw your shoe at him. or maybe yourself—how dare he look like that while being such an ass?

“you know, not everyone got trained with a silver spoon in their mouth,” you snapped. “some of us have to catch up.”

his jaw clenched. oh. that got to him.

“then maybe catch up quietly.”

later that week

“again!” the vocal coach yelled. “you're off tempo!”

you bit your lip, trying to hide how winded you were. sunghoon stood beside you, breathing steady, voice perfect, hair annoyingly perfect.

when the session ended, you stayed behind, muttering the chorus under your breath, trying to fix it. your body ached, throat dry.

“you’re holding your breath wrong,” he said suddenly.

you jumped. “oh my god—can you not sneak up like that?”

he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded again. why was he always doing that?

“i’m not sneaking. you’re just slow.”

“and you’re just insufferable.”

he walked over, stopped behind you.

“breathe here,” he said, lightly tapping your stomach. “not up here.” he tapped your chest.

you tensed. “if you’re going to insult me again, don’t bother.”

he sighed. not annoyed. tired. softer than you expected.

“look. i don’t think you’re bad. i just think… you’re distracted.”

you turned, suspicious. “and what would you know about me?”

he shrugged. “nothing. yet.”

your heartbeat did the most annoying little skip.

“for next week’s evaluation,” the trainer said, scribbling on the board, “you’ll be performing in pairs.”

groans. whispers. panic.

sunghoon raised his hand, calm as ever. “do we get to choose partners?”

the trainer gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“no.”

and then she said your name.

and then she said his.

dead. silence.

sunghoon’s head snapped toward you. you were already staring, wide-eyed, mouth open like someone just told you santa wasn’t real and sunghoon would be your new stepdad.

“what?” you said.

“no.” he said at the same time.

the trainer arched a brow. “you two clearly have chemistry.”

“hate-mistry,” you muttered.

“professionalism, park,” she said. “and you, too, y/n. if either of you screws this up, you’re both out of the showcase.”

that shut you up real fast.

day one of practicing together

you stood at the center of the room, arms crossed, glaring at him.

he mirrored you, looking about three seconds from snapping.

“you need to follow my lead,” he said.

“and you need to drop your ego.”

“i’ve been training for years.”

“cool, i’ve been dancing since i was five.”

“not the same.”

“let’s find out.”

music blasted through the speaker—some upbeat, sexy number that had no business making this situation worse.

and yet—you kept up. every move. every beat. matching him step for step, hips snapping, body sharp. when you spun and ended up right in front of him, close enough to feel his breath—

he blinked. stunned. just a little.

you smirked.

“not bad,” you said.

his ears went pink.

day three

you both ran the routine again. and again. until sweat dripped from your jaw and your hair clung to your temples.

the trainer clapped slowly from behind.

“didn’t expect that,” she said. “y/n—your control improved. and sunghoon, i’m glad you finally look like you're dancing with someone instead of against them.”

your lips twitched.

he side-eyed you. “don’t let it go to your head.”

you grinned. “you’re just mad i’m good.”

he didn’t respond.

later, as you wiped your face with a towel, he walked over—less guarded. still annoyingly perfect.

“you really haven’t trained before?”

you shook your head. “just picked things up. why?”

he hesitated.

“…you’re a fast learner.”

you looked up, surprised.

“and you don’t hesitate. most new trainees wait for permission to mess up.”

you blinked. “…was that a compliment?”

he smirked, turning away. “no.”

(yes.)

the music cuts. your breath is caught somewhere between your chest and throat. sunghoon’s hand is still on your waist. your head is tilted back, lips just barely parted—and his eyes are on you. unreadable.

nobody moves.

"are they dating or something?" someone whispers too loudly.

"wow?" another trainee mutters.

the trainer exhales like she just witnessed art.

“that…” she starts, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “was beyond what i asked for.”

you try to catch your breath. your body still buzzing from the adrenaline. from the dance. from him.

you don’t look at sunghoon when you mutter, “told you i wasn’t just a pretty face.”

but you feel it—how his grip on you lingers just a beat too long before he lets go.

you’re surrounded before you can even step off the floor. compliments, questions, stares—all of it buzzing in your ears.

“that was insane—”

“i didn’t even know she could dance like that.”

“how did they sync so well?”

“isn’t she new?”

you brush past it. you’re used to attention, sure. but this? this is different. this is real.

you find your way to a bench, just as someone flops down next to you.

“you’re kind of a show-off,” yeonjun says, nudging your arm.

you scoff. “jealous?”

“nah, just impressed. you looked like you were born on stage.”

you grin. “thanks.”

he pauses. “...but dancing that close to sunghoon? bold move.”

you roll your eyes. “wasn’t like i had a choice.”

across the room, sunghoon watches. sighing.

“you good?” jay asks, sipping his water bottle.

sunghoon’s averted. “he’s touching her.”

jay raises an eyebrow, finding you and a man together on a bench. “you mean yeonjun?”

“who else would i mean?”

jay blinks. “you do realize you sound like a jealous boyfriend right now?”

sunghoon scoffs. “i’m not jealous.”

“sure.”

“i’m not,” he repeats, harsher this time.

you pass by just in time to catch that last line.

you freeze. look back. sunghoon doesn’t see you.

but now you’ve seen him. and something about that look on his face—it doesn’t match the version of him you’ve built in your head.

your knee twinges wrong during a routine—small misstep, sharp sting. you hiss, stumble, fall back on the floor.

the door creaks open.

you tense—expecting a trainer or staff. instead, it’s sunghoon. of course it’s sunghoon.

“what the hell are you doing here alone?” he asks, stepping in.

you glare. “i could ask you the same thing.”

he walks over anyway. crouches beside you. “you could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

“i didn’t,” you mutter, but the way you’re holding your leg says otherwise.

without another word, he grabs the first aid kit from the wall. wraps your knee like he’s done it a hundred times before.

you watch him. confused. curious. quiet.

“…you really care about this, huh?” he says eventually, not looking at you.

“about what?”

“training. performing. dancing.”

you shrug. “is that surprising?”

“a little.”

“why? because i don’t break my back trying to look perfect in front of the trainers?”

“because you make it look easy.”

you pause. “it’s not. i just don’t let anyone see when it’s hard.”

that makes him glance at you. just for a second. then—

“…you’re good, you know.”

you blink. “what?”

“you’re good. at this. i just didn’t want to admit it before.”

you laugh, breathless. “was that… a compliment?”

he stands up, tossing the bandage wrapper in the bin.

“don’t get used to it,” he mutters.

but he doesn’t leave.

and neither do you.

sunghoon was irritated. no—scratch that. he was pissed.

you were laughing at something yeonjun said, all wide-eyed and glossy-lipped, head tilted back like he just told the funniest joke in existence. maybe he did. maybe he didn’t. either way, hoon didn’t like the view from across the room.

he wasn’t sure what ticked him off more—the way your fingers brushed yeonjun’s arm, or the way yeonjun let them.

“you good?” jay asked beside him, noticing the stiff jaw, the tight grip on his water bottle.

“fine.”

a lie.

jay wasn’t stupid.

“you’ve got a weird definition of fine if it includes staring daggers at yeonjun’s face.”

sunghoon didn’t respond. just looked away. jay chuckled.

“she’s cute, huh.”

hoon scoffed. “please. she’s a walking red flag.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. too bold. too flirty. i don’t get how she always gets praise like that.”

jay grinned knowingly. “you mean, praise like she danced better than you yesterday?”

sunghoon gave him a flat look. jay laughed again. “man, just admit it. you like her.”

what he didn’t know was that you were behind the door, holding your breath. oh, you heard that. every word.

so the next day? you stepped on the gas.

“sunghoon,” you greeted, your voice all sugar and sin. “nice to see you glaring at me from across the room again. missed my face that much?”

his eyes narrowed. “you wish.”

“oh, i know you do,” you said with a smirk, stepping just a little too close. “you get jealous so easily. it’s kinda cute.”

“you’re delusional.”

“mm, maybe. but i’m also winning this little game we have.”

“what game?”

“oh, so you do admit we’re playing one.”

he didn’t answer. you leaned in, lips near his ear.

“catch up, sunghoon. or i’ll flirt with someone else again.”

the hallway was dark except for the faint glow bleeding under one door.

you already knew it was him.

you hesitated, then knocked—lightly, like a whisper.

inside, the music wasn’t playing. just silence. and when you opened the door and peeked in, you found him sitting with his back against the mirror, sweat-drenched shirt clinging to his skin, eyes heavy like they hadn’t rested in days.

he looked up. tired. annoyed, maybe.

“what do you want?”

you raised a brow. “aw, you missed me that much?”

he didn’t laugh. just huffed, dropping his head back against the mirror.

you walked in anyway.

“heard your team’s debut’s getting real close,” you said, plopping down next to him on the floor, knees brushing. “congrats.”

he didn’t respond.

you looked at him sideways, voice gentler now. “you okay?”

he nodded, but his fingers were twitchy—fiddling with his rings, bouncing his knee. anxious.

“you don’t look okay.”

he let out a breath. it shook a little.

you leaned forward, peeking at his face. “when was the last time you even slept?”

“don’t remember.”

you reached into your bag and tossed him a mini water bottle. “hydrate, superstar.”

he caught it, glanced at you. “why are you even here?”

you shrugged. “i could say i was worried. or that i heard music earlier and came to see what you were working on.”

you paused. “but honestly? you looked like a kicked puppy lately. i thought i’d put you out of your misery.”

he snorted. actually snorted.

progress.

you beamed. “there it is! that cute little laugh.”

“wasn’t a laugh.”

“was a laugh,” you said firmly. “i have excellent ears. dancer ears. and that? that was a giggle.”

he shook his head, hiding the smile pulling at his lips.

you fell quiet for a bit. then, in a softer voice:

“must be scary. having everything come at you at once. pressure. cameras. fans. and barely anyone who really knows what you’re going through.”

his jaw tensed.

you leaned your head back, mirroring him.

“i think about it sometimes. how that might be me in a year or two. training ‘til i drop. debuting and... still feeling alone.”

you glanced at him. “but hey. at least you’re not alone right now, right?”

sunghoon turned to you.

your face was relaxed. you weren’t being kind out of pity. this wasn’t charity. it was just... you.

for a second, he forgot about everything else.

“you’re really annoying, you know,” he mumbled.

“and yet you look like you’d die without me.”

he looked away, but not before you saw the smile he tried to hide again.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the hallway was loud again. busy. debut-season chaos in full swing. managers barking schedules, stylists dragging suitcases, trainees practicing lines and formations in every corner.

you stood off to the side, sipping banana milk like you were just background noise.

“look alive, rookie,” someone called, nearly bumping into you.

you gave a lazy salute. “yes sir.”

just another day of not being noticed.

sunghoon passed by with his group—a cluster of stylists, staff, and busy energy. he didn’t look your way.

not that you cared.

but you didn't see the way he glanced back at you.

“people come and go,” you muttered, raising your banana milk like a toast. “that’s showbiz, baby.”

and then you tripped on a suitcase a stylist must've left there, you didn't see or too distracted to notice.

the banana milk went flying. your knees nearly kissed the floor. and when you looked up—sunghoon was right there.

of course he was.

he blinked down at you, eyebrows raised, and said nothing.

you, sprawled like a tragic mop, just smiled. “hi.”

he blinked, eyebrows raised. “you good?”

you held up the now half-empty drink. “well, the banana milk isn't.”

he bit back a smile. “that’s your third time tripping in front of me this month.”

you raised a brow. “you count my embarrassments now?”

“it's starting to feel intentional.”

you got up, brushing yourself off. “please, if i were trying to get your attention, i’d go bigger. maybe a cartwheel. or a dramatic monologue.”

“the floor dive was convincing.”

you smiled. “i like to keep it original.” then, a little quieter, “you’ve been busy lately.”

his smile faltered just slightly.

you waved it off. “no, seriously. you’ve got fans and press and a glam team. i’ve got... banana milk.”

“sounds like a solid support system.”

you laughed, but your smile faded when he glanced down the hall. his team was already moving.

“you should go,” you said. “hair and makeup’s waiting.”

he hesitated. “you sure?”

you nodded. “go be famous.”

he looked at you like he wanted to say more. but then he just nodded, and walked away.

you watched him leave. then looked down at your shoe.

still sticky.

“tragic,” you whispered.

a few days later

the vending machine blinked angrily at the girl in front of it.

the girl—probably thirteen, maybe fourteen—had her tiny fists clenched and was glaring up at the machine like it had insulted her ancestors.

you crouched beside her, trying not to laugh. “did the evil robot eat your money again?”

“yes!” she huffed. “i pressed the peach drink but it gave me black coffee! that’s not even close!”

you gasped, clutching your chest. “that’s betrayal. you’ve just been betrayed.”

“i don’t even like coffee! It tastes like burnt sadness!”

you dramatically nodded. “we must avenge you.”

she grinned. “you think I can sue?”

“only if you’ve got a lawyer. or at least a really angry eonni (older sister) .”

she tilted her head. “you’ll do.”

at that moment, you kicked the machine gently (totally just a little tap, you’re not trying to go viral for violence). and... silence. the drink didn't fall. awkward.

the little girl snorted, holding her laugh with all her might.

you smiled, laughing under your breath and kicking the vending machine again, a little love tap and—miraculously—the peach drink clunked down into the bin.

both of you screamed.

“victory!!” “you’re a vending machine master!”

you laughed. “told you i can save you.”

a low chuckle behind you made you freeze.

you turned, slow-motion style, to see sunghoon standing there with a water bottle. heeseung stood beside him, sweaty from practice and grinning.

heeseung gave a thumbs-up. “iconic vending machine diplomacy.”

sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “burnt sadness, huh?”

you stood up straight. “i—she didn’t mean—”

“she meant it,” the girl said proudly, sipping her drink. “she says it tastes like regret in a cup.”

you stared at her, betrayed. “you were supposed to have my back.”

sunghoon laughed. like, really laughed. the kind that made your stomach twist a little.

“didn’t know you were mentoring now.”

you shrugged. “somebody’s gotta fight for the little ones. didn't know you were keeping tabs on me now.”

heeseung grabbed his drink, still chuckling. “i’m hanging out here more often.”

sunghoon lingered, eyes still on you. “you’re good with kids.”

you blinked. “oh.”

he smiled, soft and small, before heading off. “try not to start a vending machine riot next time.”

you stood there, stuck.

the girl tugged your sleeve. “...you like him, huh?”

you looked down at her. “no idea what you’re talking about.”

she narrowed her eyes. “peach tea never lies.”

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

“i feel like i keep seeing her everywhere lately,” sunghoon said later, on their way back to the practice room.

heeseung gave him a look. “more like you keep noticing her.”

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. just stared ahead, thoughtful.

heeseung nudged him. “you’re smiling, dude.”

sunghoon wiped the smile off his face immediately. “no, i’m not.”

“you’re so obvious.”

he didn’t say anything for a while.

but later, he’d find himself glancing down hallways a little more. wondering if banana milk girl would be there.

just... wondering.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

you hadn’t cried in weeks. not since training got serious.

but tonight? the moment the studio door clicked shut behind you, the tears came.

your hands were sore. your voice was gone. and no matter how hard you trained, you still felt behind—like everyone else had a head start and you were just catching up, slipping on a treadmill that wouldn't stop.

the mirror felt cruel. it always did when you weren’t at your best.

and then—

a knock. soft, careful.

you wiped your face fast, spinning around like nothing happened. “practice room’s full. try the one on the second floor.”

“already did.”

your breath hitched.

sunghoon stood in the doorway, hoodie pulled over his head, cap low. casual. unbothered. he should be prepping for stage performances, meetings, shoots—life after debut.

but he was here.

you blinked. “aren’t you like, super busy?”

he shrugged, stepping in. “don’t tell my manager.”

you let out a small laugh. it cracked.

he sat beside you like he belonged there. like no time had passed.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he said softly.

“i’ve been busy.”

“so have i.”

you didn’t say anything.

he nudged you. “talk to me.”

you bit your cheek. “what’s there to talk about?”

he looked at you, really looked at you.

“you’re scared.”

you looked away. “i’m not.”

“you are.” he reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered just a second longer. “i was too.”

you met his eyes. they weren’t teasing or smug. just... warm.

“hoon, i’m the last trainee to enter and they expect me to keep up with girls who’ve been doing this for years. i feel like i’m constantly proving that i deserve to be here.”

“you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“except everyone.”

he took your hand—held it. his thumb brushed yours like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

“you think i didn’t feel the same before i debuted?” he asked, voice hushed. “you think i don’t still feel like that sometimes? like i’m faking it, or like i’m not enough?”

you stared at him.

“you’re more than enough,” he said. “you were the only one who saw me before all this. let me be that for you now.”

and just like that, the tears were back. but you didn’t hide this time.

you leaned into him. he let you. his arms came around you like a shield, like home, like this was always meant to happen.

“this doesn’t mean i’m falling for you or anything,” you mumbled into his chest.

he smiled against your hair. “sure. and i’m not hopelessly in love with you either.” it was a lie.

ONE MONTH LATER

your body ached. your shirt clung to your back. the playlist on the studio speakers had looped for the third time now, but you weren’t done yet. not even close.

you wiped sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, hair tied up haphazardly like your last brain cell had done it for you. two turns, down, pop—reset. again.

then the studio door opened.

you blinked, already preparing to snap at whoever thought now was a great time to interrupt—only to freeze.

sunghoon.

cap on. mask half-down. that dumb post-debut glow still clinging to him like glitter. he looked like a k-drama lead showing up in your lowest moment with no right to be that good-looking.

you squinted. “are you... lost?”

he didn’t smile.

he stepped in, quiet. closed the door behind him. took a breath.

“go on,” you said, gesturing vaguely at your unfinished choreo. “you came to judge my pirouettes or what?”

he scratched the back of his neck. “actually…”

pause.

“i wanted to ask you something.”

you raised a brow, waiting. arms crossed. heart racing.

“do you...” he hesitated, then stepped closer. “wanna go out with me?”

you blinked.

was he out of his damn mind?

you looked down at yourself. hair in chaos. sweat-drenched shirt. left sock halfway sliding off. “like... right now?”

he laughed softly, but there was a nervous tremble to it. “no. i mean... soon. when you’re free. like, a real date. just us.”

you stared at him. the air felt too quiet.

he looked serious. almost nervous. not like the usual sarcastic, biting sunghoon who annoyed you daily—this was the one who held your hand when no one else was looking. the one who showed up when you were breaking.

you let out a long sigh, walking past him to grab your water bottle. you took a sip. gave him a look.

“sunghoon,” you said flatly, “you realize i’m one month away from possibly debuting through a televised hunger game for trainees, right?”

he gave you a sheepish smile. “yeah.”

“and you’re busy being an idol or whatever.”

“also yeah.”

you raised an eyebrow. “then why now?”

he didn’t flinch. “because I like you.”

…

you stared at him. like, really stared. and god—he was really standing there. asking you out while you looked like a dehydrated noodle. and it should’ve been dumb. it should’ve been ill-timed.

but he meant it. that was the stupid part.

you sighed again, dramatic. wiped your face.

then, you looked up at him with a small smirk.

“fine,” you said, shrugging. “one date.”

his eyes lit up.

“but if it sucks, I’m ghosting you.”

“deal.”

you narrowed your eyes. “and you’re paying.”

“always.”

“and no kissing—unless I say so.”

he grinned. “so you will say so.”

“shut up,” you muttered, tossing your towel at him—and missing.

ONE WEEK LATER

first secret date

you almost laughed when you saw him.

cap pulled down low. hoodie up. mask on. sunglasses too. like he was about to rob the convenience store instead of take you on a date.

he looked left, then right. then spotted you.

and you—well.

you were in simple jeans, a tucked white tee, lowkey makeup, and your hair done just enough to look effortlessly good. no flash. no glam. just enough to look soft and gorgeously dangerous.

sunghoon blinked under his cap. “wow.”

you tilted your head. “wow?”

“i thought we said casual.”

you smirked. “i am casual.”

he blinked again. “casual doesn’t usually knock the air outta someone’s lungs.”

you bit your lip to hide the smile. “then breathe better.”

he laughed under his mask, tugging it down slightly as you both started walking. he had chosen a small side street near the han river, early evening, sun soft in the sky. not too crowded. not too exposed.

it wasn’t fancy. no candlelit tables. no bouquets. just two kids sneaking time together between a debut and a dream.

and somehow, it was perfect.

“are you really allowed out?” you asked, nudging him. “i don’t wanna be the reason you get exiled from your group.”

he scoffed. “i’ve snuck out for worse.”

you squinted. “like what?”

“like ramen.”

you cackled. “you’re risking your career for cup noodles?”

“if they’re spicy enough, yeah.”

you rolled your eyes, but your hand brushed against his as you walked. he noticed. he didn’t say anything—but he didn’t move it away either.

you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

later, on a park bench near the river

you sat next to him, knees barely touching. the sun had dipped lower now, painting the water gold.

he was quiet.

so were you.

until—

“you know,” he said, “i wasn’t sure this would work.”

you looked at him.

“i’m busy. you’re about to be busier. and all the pressure—fans, survival shows, cameras…” he exhaled. “we’re barely even normal people anymore.”

you nodded slowly, biting your lip. “so… why’d you ask me out then?”

he looked at you.

“because even when I’m not sure about anything else… I’m sure about you.”

you blinked.

okay. rude.

he was not allowed to drop lines like that while you were emotionally vulnerable, sweaty from practice last night, and wearing your second best sneakers.

you tried to play it off, heart punching your ribs. “you’ve been practicing that in the mirror, huh?”

he grinned. “nah. you’re just that inspiring.”

you stared at him, lips twitching.

then, casually, you reached over and hooked your pinky with his.

that was it.

that was all.

he squeezed gently.

after the date — back at the dorms

you got a text. just as you slipped into the trainee dorm’s hallway.

sunghoon: home safe? you: just got in. you? sunghoon: still outside. walking around like a loser who just got his crush to say yes you: you are a loser. but like. a cute one i guess sunghoon: say that again i’ll screenshot it you: goodnight, hoonie sunghoon: night, pretty girl.

you stared at the screen, face flushed.

then threw your pillow at the bed and let out a scream into your blanket.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

you barely made it through the last eight-count. your legs were jelly, your ponytail was falling apart, and your throat was screaming for water—but more than anything, your brain was fried. you didn’t even notice someone step into the practice room until you heard a low, familiar voice.

“psst. trainee of the year.”

you turned, and there he was.

sunghoon.

with a hoodie pulled up and a mischievous glint in his eye… holding a snack-sized bag of chips and a chocolate bar like they were illegal contraband.

you blinked. “hoon—what are you doing here?!”

he smirked. “looking out for someone who forgot how to rest.”

“i’m on a diet,” you whispered, eyeing the chocolate like it was your long-lost lover.

he stepped closer. “then pretend i didn’t bring snacks. just come with me for five minutes.”

you followed him to the vending machine hallway—dead center between the boys’ and girls’ dorm floors. no cctv. no trainers.

just buzzing machines, flickering fluorescent light, and the sound of your heart thudding louder than it should.

he leaned against the wall, opening the chocolate and breaking off a square.

you stared at it.

“i said i’m on a diet.”

“i said i don’t care.” he offered it again.

you took it. obviously.

a beat of silence passed. then another. you sighed.

“i’ve never dated someone in secret before,” you mumbled, fingers fiddling with the wrapper. “do you think it’ll work out?”

sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

“I’m actually an expert in secrets…” he said, tone suddenly lower, softer.

he leaned in, closing the already-small space between you.

“...especially dating.”

your breath hitched.

he was close—too close—his scent all cozy detergent and warm skin, his lips ghosting a little too close to your cheek.

“i’ll teach you how.”

you were in the middle of laughing—like, full-on cracking up with the other trainees in the dance room. someone made a joke about one of the trainers being secretly in love with their reflection, and you had tears in your eyes.

you didn’t even realize your phone buzzed until you were finally alone, tying your hair up again, everyone else already off to shower or sleep.

sunghoon: u free? sunghoon: dance room. come before i fall asleep on the floor.

you stared. then blinked. then immediately bolted.

the second you opened the door to his group’s practice room, you saw him sitting there on the floor, back against the mirror, head tilted up like he’d been waiting hours.

he looked up.

“hey.”

just that one word and you were melting. it’s been weeks. actual weeks. and yet, there he was—same hoodie, same tired smile, same boy who made you forget how to breathe.

you walked in slowly. “so you miss me, huh?”

he scoffed, but the smile said it all.

“i’m not gonna lie. i might’ve forgotten what you looked like.”

“rude.”

“well, i remember now.” his eyes swept over you.

you rolled your eyes, trying not to combust.

you sat next to him, shoulders barely touching, and it was quiet for a second. not awkward. just… warm.

“you’ve been working hard,” you said quietly.

“you too,” he murmured. “i see it in the practice logs.”

you raised a brow. “you stalk me?”

he smirked. “maybe.”

he stood up a little while later, stretched, then turned to you again.

“come here.”

“why?”

“just—” he waved you over.

you got up, brushing imaginary dust off your sweatpants. “if you prank me, i swear—”

“i’m not. just come.”

he walked backward, tugging you gently by the wrist until you both slipped behind the tall mirror divider that split the practice room—probably put there for storage or stage simulation. barely any light. no one would check there.

you opened your mouth to ask what is this, but he was already leaning in.

and then—

footsteps.

two voices. familiar.

heeseung. jake.

you froze. sunghoon cursed under his breath, then pulled you closer—closer—until your back hit the mirror and his body shielded you completely.

your heart did a full somersault.

“shhh,” he whispered, breath fanning across your ear. “they’re just grabbing their stuff.”

heeseung’s voice echoed faintly. “you think sunghoon left already?”

“probably. dude’s always staying too long.”

you held your breath, heartbeat racing. he was so close. his hands rested on either side of your head, and he kept glancing down at you like he might actually—

once the door shut and the voices faded, silence fell.

you stared at him.

he stared right back.

then he grinned.

“i wasn’t gonna kiss you, you know.”

“…right.”

“…but now i kind of want to.”

you raised a brow. “you sure about that? we haven’t even had a second date.”

“so?” he whispered, leaning in again. “we’re behind a mirror. does it count?”

you were this close to shoving him playfully, but your breath hitched when he tilted his head just enough.

his lips brushed yours.

soft. tentative.

dangerous.

but then you kissed him back.

just once. quick. stupid. electric.

you pulled away with a shaky breath. “you’re so annoying.”

“you like it.”

“i hate it.”

he grinned. “i’ll teach you how.”

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the call started with you lying flat on your bed, hair down, face fresh from a shower, hoodie oversized and barely clinging to one shoulder.

“you look tired,” you mumbled, frowning into the screen.

sunghoon was on his dorm bed too, hair pushed back with a headband, cheeks still flushed from rehearsal. “you look pretty.”

you blinked. “that’s not the point—”

“but it’s true,” he said, smiling. “also. i am tired. i miss you.”

you flopped your head dramatically against your pillow. “ugh, i miss you too. stupid idol schedules.”

he laughed. then sighed. then just stared at you for a second longer than necessary.

the silence was comfortable. until your phone buzzed.

you glanced at the notification. trainee gc.

someone: you looked cool in practice today someone else: your form’s improved a lot lately and then: wanna hangout sometime? just chill, talk about training n stuff?

sunghoon raised a brow. “who’s that?”

you snorted, a little too amused. “hm? just the group chat.”

“your phone’s lighting up a lot,” he said, too casually.

you tilted your screen to the side, showing the flood of not-so-subtle messages.

sunghoon squinted. “that guy. the one who complimented your jumps last time. he’s the one who sent the hangout thing, right?”

you blinked slowly. “hoon. are you jealous?”

“no,” he lied, immediately, like a liar.

“you so are.”

“i’m not,” he repeated, suddenly invested in adjusting the blanket on his lap.

you smirked. “you’re sulking.”

he didn’t respond.

“hoon~”

“i’m just saying,” he said, voice all pouty now, “he doesn’t even stretch properly before practice. what does he know.”

you wheezed.

“oh my god.”

“i’m just—i’m just watching out for you, okay?” he said, flustered, biting his lip. “i don’t like how they act around you.”

you rolled onto your back, giggling into your sleeve.

“you’re adorable.”

“no, i’m serious,” he grumbled. “i can’t even talk to you in public, but they’re out here throwing compliments like confetti.”

you peeked at the screen again. his lips were pursed. eyes narrowed. sulk level: maximum.

you reached out like you could actually pinch his cheek through the screen.

“you know you’re the only one i want to hear compliments from, right?”

his gaze softened.

“...really?”

“really,” you said, smiling. “but also, you’re kinda hot when you’re jealous. not gonna lie.”

he hid his face in his hoodie.

“stop.”

“never.”

you grinned.

“hoooon,” you whined through the screen, “can’t you just teleport here? like now? please? i’ll pay.”

he snorted. “what with? ramen and protein bars?”

“yes.”

he smiled, soft and lazy, eyes crinkling. “i wish i could.”

“me too.”

your voice had dropped, just a little. tired. yearning. and his fingers twitched like he wished he could reach through the screen and pull you into his chest.

but then—

“hyung! dinner’s ready!”

jungwon’s voice, right outside his door.

sunghoon groaned, rolling onto his side with a quiet, “just five more minutes!”

“are you still on call with y/n?” jungwon asked, then cracked the door open like he already knew the answer.

sunghoon quickly angled the phone to his chest, like a whole dad caught texting his crush in middle school.

but jungwon just leaned in and waved toward the screen. “hi, y/n!”

“oh my god,” you said, hiding your face with a hand, laughing. “hi wonnie.”

then sunoo appeared in the hallway too, leaning over jungwon’s shoulder. “tell her i say hi too!”

“i did already!” jungwon argued.

niki popped in last, chewing on something. “you’re not slick, hyung. we all know you’ve been heart-eyes emoji for like, three months now.”

sunghoon nearly died on the spot.

“get out,” he hissed.

“we’re going,” sunoo grinned. “but don’t kiss through the screen or anything. the wi-fi’s lagging.”

and they vanished.

you wheezed. “your roommates are literally chaos.”

“they’re menaces.”

“but cute menaces.”

“fine,” he mumbled, trying not to smile again. “but i’m the cutest, right?”

“you’re the cutest and the hottest.”

“and you’re the reason my heart’s doing cardio without moving.”

you blinked. “that was so cheesy.”

“i know,” he grinned.

a few nights later – secret car hangout edition

he picked you up in a manager’s car, hoodie low, cap on, mask covering most of his face. when you slid into the front seat, your eyes met and for a second neither of you said anything.

then you both burst into giggles like schoolkids sneaking out past curfew.

“you’re insane,” you whispered, shutting the door.

“you’re prettier in person,” he whispered back.

“you’re biased.”

“i’m in love.”

you froze. blinked. stared at him.

he blinked back, wide-eyed. “i mean—i—i said that out loud, didn’t i.”

you bit your lip, suddenly warm.

“yeah,” you said. “but… same.”

his hand reached for yours between the seats. fingers laced. thumbs brushing.

you two just sat there for a while. soft music playing. headlights passing. the world rushing around you, but in here, time stilled.

“you’re leaving again tomorrow?” you asked.

he nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “fanmeet. then music show. then filming.”

“you’re everywhere.”

“except here,” he murmured. “with you.”

your heart tugged.

“then make the most of tonight.”

he turned to look at you.

eyes locked.

“yeah?” he whispered.

you nodded.

then you climbed over the center console like it was nothing, and next thing you knew, you were on his lap, hoodie and all, faces close, lips brushing. giggling quietly, almost getting caught when a van drove past and made the headlights flash inside.

you kissed like the world didn’t know.

you laughed like no one could hear.

and when he pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm, he whispered—

“i’ll teach you how.”

then just like that, you two were back to kissing. he kept a hand on your chin to angle your head in the perfect position. his tongue slipping in your lips, tasting you like he'll never get a chance to again.

and that's when you two made out recklessly in the car, breath heavy, and in love.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the survival show started before either of you could even process it.

you were waking up at 5 a.m., rehearsing until midnight, crash-napping in dance studios, living off energy drinks and willpower.

sunghoon was across the world—london, tokyo, la, award shows, en-oclock, fanmeets, and endless nights of soundchecks.

the phone calls slowed.

the messages became one-word replies.

then one-sided.

then nothing.

but not because you stopped caring.

it was just life.

it was debut season.

dreams were happening in real time.

you both were flying so fast that you didn’t even realize you were flying past each other.

months later

you were back. not just in seoul, not just in the same time zone—but here.

and you were debuting.

you made it into the final group.

four girls. you were the visual, the ace, the one people couldn’t stop looking at.

and the moment you saw his name pop up on your schedule—same venue, different floors—you knew.

you had to see him.

so you did.

your steps were slow but steady. nerves in your chest like fireworks waiting to go off.

he looked up when you entered the hallway. paused.

you smiled.

his mouth parted. just a little.

then you ran—fast, too fast—and wrapped your arms around his middle like you were afraid he’d disappear again.

his arms came around you instantly. like muscle memory. like home.

“i made it,” you whispered into his chest, voice trembling.

he didn’t say anything at first. just held you tighter.

then—

“i know,” he said quietly.

you blinked up at him.

and he smiled, eyes a little glassy, cheeks a little pink. “i saw every performance.”

you laughed through your tears. “you did?”

“mhm.” he nodded. “even the boot camp episode. and your level test. and the one where you cried after your vocals cracked—”

“shut up.”

“i cried too.”

“shut up.”

“i saved the fancam.”

you slapped his shoulder, but your grin couldn’t be wiped off.

“and i saw yours,” you whispered, pressing your palm to his chest like you could feel all the places he grew while you were away. “every award. every encore. every fancam. you were so… amazing.”

“you too,” he murmured. “we both made it.”

and for a second, it didn’t matter that the world was watching.

that you had bodyguards and managers and contracts now.

that there were rules and rumors and cameras always watching.

because right here, in this small hallway of a massive building—

it was just the two of you again.

“missed you,” you said.

“teach me how to get over you,” he whispered.

and you shook your head.

“no,” you whispered back. “i’ll teach you how to keep me.”

a/n: posting part 2 tomorrow 5pm kst ! if you want to be tagged, please reblog so you can be added (that would help me much too hh). i already have a reserved taglist, so if you want to register, just click my forms :>> loveyallsosomuchh

chapter 2 is posted !

taglist: @kpoplover-19 @kpoppiesofinternet

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yslgreen · 1 month ago

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The Tides Between Us

Part 1 | Part 2 Pairing: dbf!Joel x fem!Reader | dbf!Tommy x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The Millers’ beach house was supposed to be a fun getaway : a week of sun, drinks, and celebration for Joel’s 50th birthday. But after that night with Joel, everything’s suddenly… awkward. Joel is cold and distant, because Joel knows better. He won’t cross that line—not with his best friend’s daughter, not when you’re half his age. He’s made his share of mistakes, but this won’t be one of them. But Tommy? Tommy’s never been one for restraint, all too willing to take what Joel won’t.

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI (smut not yet in this chapter, but will happens !), no outbreak au, no ellie, dbf!joel, dbf!tommy, age gap, no use of y/n, angst and tension, forced proximity

A/N : I really wanted to write something with a bit more plot this time, so here we are! This is a multiple-chapter story—probably less than ten chapters. No smut… yet. Don’t worry, there will be. I’m just building up the tension first. The main pairing is Joel x Reader, but there will definitely be some Reader x Tommy moments too because, honestly, I’m greedy like that. I just love both Miller brothers way too much.

Here on AO3 | Wc : 6.4 k

The music in your headphones is loud—too loud, probably. The kind of volume your dad would raise an eyebrow at, launching into that familiar warning about hearing loss and how time has a way of collecting the debts you don’t think about when you’re young. Usually, you’d listen. Not just because he’s right, but because you’re the kind of daughter who tries to be considerate, who keeps him company on long drives, who fills the silence so he doesn’t feel it.

But not today.

Today, you let the music drown everything out. The hum of the car, the crash of the waves in the distance, and even your dad’s occasional small talk that you only half hear. You haven’t spoken much the entire drive. Not because your dad hasn’t tried—he’s been talking on and off for hours about the weather, the beach house, and how crazy it is that Joel’s turning fifty in a few days. You nod when it feels like you should. Offer the occasional "mm-hmm" or "yeah." But you keep your eyes out the window, your fingers curled tight in your lap, and your headphones firmly in place—like they might be enough to block out not just sound, but everything else too.

Your dad, thankfully, doesn’t push. He’s too busy grinning at the open coast, tapping the steering wheel in time with a rhythm only he can hear. He’s excited—really excited—to be here. Like this trip is nothing but sun and friends, and easy laughter. And you? You just wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“Almost there,” your dad says, glancing over with a smile.

Outside the car window, the coastline blurs past. Blue and white and gold. Waves breaking gently against the sand. You press your forehead to the window, the glass warm against your skin. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you're somewhere else. You wish you were. You’d almost asked to stay home. Almost faked a reason. Work, a sudden cold, anything. But it’s Joel’s birthday on Saturday, and this trip to the Millers’ beach house has been set in stone for months. There was no getting out of it.

Not without raising questions.

And the last thing you want is to talk about what happened.

The music shifts, softer now. Your playlist seems to know exactly when to turn cruel. You close your eyes, leaning your head back against the seat, hoping the hum of the road and the thrum of the bass will pull you under. Just for a little while. Just long enough to forget where you’re going.

The gravel under the tires changes the sound of the road, and your eyes open before you even think about it. When you open your eyes, you take in the familiar sight. The beach house comes into view, just beyond the trees like something out of a postcard: weathered wood, wraparound porch, soft white trim. It hasn’t changed much since the last time you were here. A fresh coat of paint, maybe. Some upgrades—knowing the Miller brothers, they've probably fixed a few things over the years.

You wish your dad would keep driving, just keep going past the house and back to Austin. Anywhere but here. Of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he steers the car toward the driveway, where two trucks are already parked. The sound of the tires crunching on the gravel must’ve reached inside the house, because two figures are already waiting on the porch, silhouettes outlined against the fading light.

For a split second, you wonder just how easy it would be to push your dad out of the car, slam the door, and drive away. How much of a scandal would it cause? How far could you get before you couldn’t hear the waves anymore?

But you don’t. Of course you don’t.

You take off your headphones and dare to look toward the men. You see them—Joel and Tommy—waiting. Joel stands with his arms crossed over his chest, broad and unmoving. Tommy leans against one of the porch railings, more relaxed, smiling. Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The car shuts off. “C’mon, kiddo,” your dad calls, already out of the car and waving toward his old friends with that easy, familiar enthusiasm.

You sit frozen in the passenger seat a moment longer. There’s no going back now. You’re here. You open your door, and the smell of the salty air hits you, sharp and bracing. It feels like it might help you breathe a little easier. You trail behind your dad toward the porch, where he’s already wrapped Tommy in a hug, already launching into a story about the drive down and how damn good it is to finally be here.

You glance at Joel, standing slightly apart, arms still folded across his chest like a barrier. “Hey,” you say, quietly, forcing the word out past the knot in your throat. You try to make it sound casual, normal. Like your skin isn’t prickling. Like you didn’t spend the entire drive rehearsing what you’d say to him, and none of it was that one-word greeting.

His eyes flick to yours. One second. That’s all it takes. One second, and you know you shouldn’t have come.

Because in that second, everything that happened two nights ago is right there in the look he gives you—unspoken, sharp, heavy. It lands like a punch to the ribs. His expression doesn’t change, but it doesn’t have to. You feel it. He gives you a nod, barely a dip of his chin, tight-lipped, polite. Like you’re a stranger. Someone he met once and forgot the name of. No recognition. No warmth.

Just distance. And it was your godamn fault.

You go still, your fingers curling into your palms. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or shame or some awful combination of both, but you know you hate it.

Joel turns to your dad, clapping him on the back, saying something about how good it is to see him. His voice is steady, casual, even warm. Like he didn’t just look at you like he wished you weren’t here. Like he didn’t flinch from the sound of your voice.

You stay where you are, a half-step behind the moment, behind the laughter and ease, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands or your face or your heart.

Luckily, you don’t have to think too long—one strong arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into a side hug before you can even react. Tommy smells like sun and cedarwood, familiar and warm.

“There’s my girl,” Tommy says warmly, ruffling your hair with the same easy affection he’s always had. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Tommy,” you reply, nodding, grateful for the warmth, for the normalcy, even if it’s only from one of the brothers.

“Been too long,” he says with a chuckle, pulling back just enough to give you a full look. “What’s it been—two years?”

“About that,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

“Yeah, last time was your college graduation party, right?” Tommy grins, shaking his head.

“Surprised you remembered,” you tease, raising an eyebrow. “You were pretty torched.”

Tommy chuckles, looking at you with mock offence. “Let’s not act like you weren’t taking as many shots as me.”

“Well, it was my party,” you say with a smirk. “Couldn’t let you steal the spotlight.”

He laughs, a warm sound that takes some of the tension out of the air, and you both linger in that easy familiarity you always had.

He glances toward the car. “You got a bag?”

“Yeah, let me grab it,” you reply, starting to step toward the car.

But Tommy, always the gentleman, is quicker. He’s already walking toward the backseat, reaching for the handle before you can even move. “Let me get that for you,” he says with an easy smile, pulling it out before you can even protest. You raise an eyebrow but can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “Least I can do,” he adds, looking at you with that teasing glint in his eyes.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Aw, well, thank you,” you reply, playing into the gesture with a hint of reverence, enjoying the ease of his kindness. “Such a gentleman.”

Tommy shrugs nonchalantly, his grin widening. “Hey, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” With one hand firmly holding your bag, his other hand gently finds its way to your back, nudging you lightly forward. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

You step inside, your footsteps muffled by the worn wood floors, and the familiar scent of salt air and pinewood fills your senses. The Millers have had this house for over a decade now, and over the years, they’ve poured their hearts into turning it into something more than just a beach house. It’s a home.

The once rustic, weather-beaten cottage has transformed into a warm and inviting space—still weathered, still with a bit of that old charm, but now it feels polished, lived-in. The wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, giving the place a rustic yet comfortable feel. A couple of large windows allow the sunlight to flood in, casting soft golden hues across the room, making everything feel just a little bit cozier.

You take it all in, feeling that pang of nostalgia as your eyes drift over the old pieces that have remained untouched—the faded armchair in the corner, the rough-hewn wooden table where you remember so many evenings spent laughing with Sarah.

Tommy sets your bag down on the couch with a gentle thud before heading toward the open space that leads into the kitchen “You want a drink?” he calls over his shoulder, his voice light.

“I wouldn’t say no to a glass of water,” you reply, the heat still hanging in the air, even though it’s mid-September. It’s not the oppressive heat of Austin, but it’s enough to make you long for something cool.

You follow him into the kitchen, but as you step through the doorway, you freeze. Your dad and Joel are standing against the counter, beers in hand. The casual chatter between them is normal, but the moment you walk in, the air changes.

Joel doesn’t look at you. He shifts his weight, takes a sip from his bottle, and stares somewhere to your left—out the window maybe, or at nothing at all. It’s purposeful. Calculated in the way only Joel Miller can be. You see the clench in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, the way he keeps his eyes away from yours. And it stings.

Because usually, he’d be the one to welcome you into the house. He’d tease you for probably sleeping the whole ride down, ask what you’ve been up to, and how work’s been treating you lately. He would’ve welcomed you in with his usual gruff but warm presence,and he’d smile—really smile—and say something like, "Glad you made it, sweetheart." And you’d pretend to roll your eyes just for show, even though it always warmed you, always meant more than it should have.

You force yourself to keep moving, your steps steady, your hands a little too tight at your sides. The kitchen feels like a space too small now, the air thicker than it should be. You try to ignore the ache in your chest, pretending like it doesn’t bother you as you walk toward the counter where Tommy’s already filling a glass with water.

“Want a beer instead?” Tommy asks, flashing a grin as he nods toward your dad and Joel, both already halfway through theirs.

“Water’s fine,” you say, taking the glass from him with a faint, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

Tommy raises a brow, his voice playful. “You, turning down a beer? That doesn’t sound like the girl who drank me under the table last time I saw her. You’re sick or something?”

You huff a quiet laugh, about to come up with some clever response, something light to match his tone, but your dad beats you to it, speaking over his bottle rim like it’s just a casual joke.

“Let her be,” your dad says with a laugh. “She’s probably still hungover from a couple of nights ago, right? Should’ve seen her—had to spend all of yesterday holed up in her room.”

You freeze—not visibly, not in a way anyone might call out—but inside, everything goes tight. That night. Two nights ago. You don’t even have to look at Joel to know he heard it too. You do anyway. Your gaze flicks toward him before you can stop it.

You catch the slightest shift in his posture. He’s still leaning against the counter, but now his jaw is clenched tightly, his whole body radiating tension. He takes another sip of his beer, like it might somehow drown out the memory of what just resurfaced. The one you both want to forget, but can’t.

How are you going to survive this week with him acting like you barely exist? The thought tightens your chest, leaves you cold, but you can’t blame anyone but yourself. You’re the one who decided to ruin everything. You were the one who let it all spiral out of control

You force a smile, trying to sound nonchalant. “Let’s just say that,” you reply, keeping your voice casual despite the tightness in your chest. You need to get out of this kitchen—out of this space, away from Joel—and fast. “I should take a nap again, actually,” you add, hoping the excuse sounds believable enough.

Tommy quirks an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his gaze. “That bad, huh?”

You nod, even though it's not the hangover you're running from, “Yeah,” you mumble, already taking a step toward the door. “I’m staying in Sarah’s room, right?”

Tommy gives you a nod. “Yeah, let me show you.”

You raise a hand, shaking your head lightly as you start to walk away. “It’s cool, I remember where it is. Thanks, though. See you in a bit.”

Tommy doesn’t press, letting you slip past him. Your dad’s voice drifts in from the kitchen, making some lighthearted remark about something you don’t quite catch, but it doesn’t matter. You can barely focus on anything but the knot in your stomach.

You grab your bag off the couch, feeling its weight a little heavier than you expect. You take the stairs two at a time, eager to get as far away from the kitchen, from them, as possible. The rhythmic thud of your footsteps echoes through the house as you push yourself upward, hoping that getting out of their sight will ease the nervous beating of your heart. As you head upstairs, you feel the weight of someone’s gaze lingering on you. You don’t pause long enough to figure out whose it is.

The room looks just as you remembered it. The large bed, a quiet space that’s only yours until Sarah arrives in a couple of days. After retrieving your headphones from your bag, you toss it on the floor, not caring where it lands. You fall onto the bed with a soft thud, immediately pressing play on whatever music was playing earlier. The familiar hum of the song slips into your ears, the first few notes trying to drown out the thoughts clawing at your mind.

You close your eyes and try to focus on something—anything—that isn’t that night. But you can’t escape it. You can’t forget it.

You still see him outside the bar, waiting for you like he had so many times before—leaning against his truck, arms crossed, that soft smile pulling at his mouth when he saw you. You still hear the low rumble of the engine, still feel the warmth inside the cab, the way his presence always seemed to fill the space beside you.

The ride had felt so normal at first. Comfortable. Familiar. You’d been drunk—more than you wanted to admit.

“Shouldn’t drink so much, sweetheart,” he had said, voice low, gently teasing. And God, you wish you’d listened. Because if you had, you wouldn’t be hiding in your room right now, trying to forget the way everything went wrong the moment his truck pulled into the driveway.

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow like it might push the thoughts out for good. You try to think of anything else—what the ocean looked like on the drive down, how Tommy hugged you, how the sun felt on your arms earlier—but it’s no use. Eventually, sleep takes you, but it’s restless, fragile. Even in your dreams, Joel's voice follows.

You’re pulled from sleep by the sound of knocking—soft, measured, just persistent enough to cut through the low hum of music still playing in your headphones. It takes a second for your eyes to open, longer for your brain to catch up. The room is dim, cast in the fading blue light of early evening, and for a moment, you forget where you are, the comfort of the bed unfamiliar.

“Yeah?” your voice croaks out, rough with sleep as you tug the headphones off and let them fall to your collarbones.

The door opens a crack, and Tommy’s voice follows—low, familiar, gentle in the way people speak when they know you’ve just been asleep. “Hey. Dinner’s ready. You hungry?”

You blink at him, still caught between dreaming and now. Part of you wants to say no—the idea of going back downstairs, of seeing Joel sit in your chest like a weight. But your stomach decides for you, a low, traitorous rumble breaking the silence.

“Kinda,” you mutter, sitting up and brushing a hand through your hair, trying to shake off the sleep.

Tommy leans casually against the doorframe, his smile easy as his eyes flick over you. “You look like hell,” he teases, not unkindly, nodding toward your mess of tangled hair and sleep-flushed cheeks.

You roll your eyes. “Thanks.”

He grins, unfazed. “Still pretty though.”

You pause, caught off guard. Tommy’s never been shy about giving out compliments, always quick with a warm word or a wink, the kind of guy who says what he thinks without thinking too hard about what it might mean.

You manage a soft, awkward laugh, brushing a hand through your hair again just to have something to do. “You’re full of shit.”

“Maybe,” he says with a smirk, “but I’m not wrong. Come down when you’re ready—we ordered pizza.”

You nod, offering a quiet, “Okay.”

Tommy gives you one last glance before disappearing down the hall, the door left slightly ajar behind him. His footsteps fade, and the house slips back into silence, save for the muffled hum of conversation and music downstairs.

You sit there for a while longer, staring at the wall, your heart beating just a little too loudly in your chest. You don’t want to face Joel. But you’ll have to. You can’t hide in this room for the rest of the trip. No matter how badly you want to.

The low hum of conversation grows louder with each step as you head downstairs, laughter spilling from the dining room into the hallway. You square your shoulders, pull on your best game face, and step into the room.

The three men are already seated around the table, mid-conversation, half-empty beer bottles and scattered plates marking the relaxed chaos of a shared meal. The last seat is next to Tommy, right across from Joel.

Of course.

You slip into the chair quietly, murmuring a soft “Hey” to no one in particular. As you glance up, your gaze catches Joel’s for just a second, just long enough for your heart to skip a beat before he looks away quickly, his expression unreadable.

“Here’s my sleeping beauty,” your dad says with a grin, his voice light as he opens one of the pizza boxes, the aroma filling the air. He slides it to the center of the table. “Thought we lost you to that nap.”

You manage a smile, tossing in a half-hearted eye roll. “Just resting my eyes.”

“To think you’ll still be able to sleep in a few hours,” he adds playfully. “Ah, to be young.”

Tommy reaches over, taking your plate and effortlessly piling a few slices of pizza onto it. You murmur a quiet “thanks” as he slides it back toward you, but just as your fingers hover above your plate, Joel’s hand moves with surprising speed. Without a word, he plucks one of the slices off your plate and adds it to his own.

Tommy raises an eyebrow toward his brother, a curious look flickering across his face, but Joel doesn’t even spare you a glance as he responds, his voice matter-of-fact: “She doesn’t like mushrooms.”

It’s such a small thing. So trivial. But somehow, the fact that he remembered something like that, something so insignificant, makes your breathing a bit heavier. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the flutter of emotions. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but somehow, it is.

You force your attention back to Tommy, who’s now looking at you, waiting for confirmation. “Yeah,” you say, trying to shake off the sudden tightness in your chest, “I still don’t understand why anyone would like them.”

“Been picking them out of her plate forever,” your dad chimes in with a grin, shaking his head. “You’d think that with age she’d learn to like them.”

You shrug, grabbing your plate and resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “You should be happy. More for you guys, right?”

Your dad chuckles, pointing his slice at you like it’s a moral victory. “You’re right, hon. More for us. Well, more for Joel right now.” Joel doesn’t say anything, just takes a bite of the slice he stole from your plate, indifferent.

Your dad reaches for another slice, glancing across the table. “So, when’s Sarah joining us?”

“I'm picking her up early Saturday morning,” Joel says, and there’s an instant softness in his voice, that particular warmth that only shows up when he talks about his daughter. A quiet pride you’ve always found yourself drawn to.

“Great!” your dad says, lighting up. “You know what you wanna do Saturday night? Anything planned to celebrate your birthday?”

Joel shrugs, lips tilting just slightly. “Nothin’ fancy. Barbecue, some beer. Keep it simple.”

Tommy snorts. “You say that every year, and every year you end up grilling enough to feed half the damn neighborhood.”

Joel smirks. “That’s ‘cause your ass keeps inviting everyone.”

The table bursts into easy laughter, and you join in, trying your best to seem casual. Like nothing’s wrong. Like your heart isn’t hammering a little too hard in your chest every time Joel lifts his eyes—though he still hasn’t looked at you once.

“Can’t believe you’re turnin’ fifty,” Tommy says, shaking his head like it’s the most unbelievable thing in the world.

Fifty.

The number echoes louder in your head than it should. Joel will literally be twice your age on Saturday. Not that you’ve counted. Not that you’ve done that math more than once. Not that it ever mattered when you looked at him.

Joel huffs a soft breath through his nose, unbothered. “Believe it. My back sure does. It’s gonna be your turn soon anyway,” Joel adds, tipping his head toward Tommy with a smirk.

Tommy snorts. “Still got a few years to enjoy before I hit the old man club, thank you very much.” He lifts his beer in mock celebration. “To youth.”

“To denial,” Joel mutters, earning another laugh from your dad.

You smile automatically, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze drifts back to Joel—again—before you can stop yourself. He still isn’t looking at you. His jaw’s tight in that way you’ve started to recognize, and his eyes stay fixed on his plate like there’s something deeply fascinating about pepperoni and mushrooms.

If everything was normal, if that night hadn’t happened, you’d have already jumped in—teasing him about his age, asking if you need to start talking louder so his old ears can hear you, calling him old man like you liked to do. You would’ve leaned into the way he always gave it right back to you, sharp and playful. But now the words stay stuck behind your teeth.

The rest of dinner unfolds quietly, the conversation staying light and safe. You barely speak, and when you do, it’s only to your dad or Tommy—never to Joel. He mirrors you perfectly, carefully steering clear of any moments that might force a glance or a word between the two of you. It’s almost surreal how easily you both slip into this unspoken truce, acting like strangers sharing a meal rather than two people who have known each other for years—two people who, until just a few days ago, would have been playfully teasing each other about nothing and everything.

When everyone finishes eating, you seize the chance to escape the table. You gather the plates, insisting you should at least help with the dishes since you didn’t contribute much during dinner. Your dad waves off your concern with a grin. “Ordering pizza doesn’t need much help”, but thank you when you insist. In the kitchen, you drop the plates into the sink and turn on the water, letting it run warm as you grab the sponge. You’re grateful for the simple task—scrubbing at dried cheese and crust instead of sitting in silence across from Joel. It’s a relief to be doing something, anything.

You barely hear the footsteps behind you before a voice speaks up, low and easy.

“You rinse, I dry?”

You glance over your shoulder to find Tommy standing beside you with a dish towel in hand and a smile on his face. You smile back, grateful it’s him and not—

“Deal,” you say softly, passing him the first rinsed plate.

You fall into an easy rhythm, the clinking of ceramic and the soft splash of water filling the space between you. If Tommy noticed how quiet you were during dinner, he doesn’t mention it. He just dries the plates with casual efficiency, stacking them neatly beside him.

“How’s work been?” he asks, as you pass him a glass. “It’s nice you got some time off to come out here.”

You nod, rinsing off the soap. “It’s been good. Busy. I had a bunch of vacation days piling up, figured I should finally use them.”

“Glad you did,” he says with a smile. “It’s nice having everyone together. Joel won’t admit it, but I know he’s real damn grateful you came.”

Your hands pause just for a second under the running water before you force a casual nod. “Yeah. It’s nice.” You try to keep your voice steady, your expression neutral.

Tommy doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just gives you the grace of pretending not to. He moves on easily, drying another plate.

“Can’t wait to see Sarah,” you add, maybe a little too quickly.

Tommy grins. “You and me both. She’s been goin’ on about this trip for weeks. I think she’s more excited to see you than us old guys.”

You laugh softly. “She actually texted me earlier, asking if we’d gotten here yet. Said she wishes she was already here.”

“Damn shame she couldn’t cut out a few days early,” Tommy says, shaking his head.

You gasp, mock-offended. “You want her to skip class? She just started college, Tommy. What kind of terrible influence are you?”

Tommy smirks, tossing the dish towel over his shoulder. “Fun’s part of the college experience, ain’t it? I’m just helpin’ her get the full package.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Yeah, pretty sure skipping class and listening to her drunk uncle isn’t in the college brochure.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Drunk uncle? You wound me.”

“If the shoe fits,” you shoot back with a grin.

Tommy leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms with mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m not just the guy who got too drunk at your graduation party. I’m a man of many facets.”

You scoff. “Says the man who once tried to convince me tequila was a form of hydration.”

He holds up a finger. “In my defense, it was very hot that day. Heat stroke was a real threat.”

You both break into laughter, the sound echoing off the kitchen tiles, easy and warm. Tommy was in his forties, but he’s never once treated you like a kid—not since the first time you met him, back during your freshman year of college, when you came out to the beach house for the first time. From the second you met him, it had just clicked. He’d made you laugh within five minutes, offered you a beer ten minutes after that, and by the end of the first night, you were already teasing each other like old friends.

You didn’t see each other often—vacations, holidays, the occasional long weekend—but it didn’t matter. Every time Tommy was there, you knew it was going to be a good time. He was your friend—older, sure, but a good one. One you were glad to have around for the next few days.

As if reading your thoughts, he nudges you gently with a grin. “Anyway, you’re gonna be stuck with us for the next few days until she arrives. Be nicer, and I just might keep you company,” he teases.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Keep me company, huh? Sounds like a threat wrapped in a promise.”

“Rude,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Come on, what else are you gonna do without me? Go fishin’ with your old man and Joel?”

You keep scrubbing the dishes, hoping not to freeze every time you hear Joel’s name.

“Why, because you’re not gonna go with them?”

“Not if you ask me to stay with you.”

You glance at him, smirking. “You don’t like fishin’, do you?”

“Can’t stand it.”

“So I’m just your excuse, huh?” You grin.

He shrugs with a smirk. “I’d say it’s a mutual arrangement. But hey, what did you have planned for the next few days anyway?”

“Goin’ to the beach,” you say, nodding toward the sea outside like it’s the most obvious plan in the world. “Tan next to the pool, maybe?”

Tommy grins, shaking his head. “Great. You’re definitely gonna need help with sunscreen.”

You scoff, “I’m not a kid, I can handle that myself.”

He leans in a little, voice dropping just enough for you to notice. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help you anyway.”

You shoot him a look, catching that familiar smile tugging at his lips—the one that’s always there, warm and easy. For a moment, you wonder if there’s something more behind it than just friendly teasing. Your eyes linger on him, taking in the way his brown eyes hold yours, steady and something just a little softer. His dark curls fall just so, still thick and mostly untouched by grey—unlike Joel’s salt-and-pepper hair. You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself before your thoughts drift too far toward the older Miller brother. Forcing your eyes away, you focus on the last few dishes in the sink, grateful for the distraction.

“Stop slacking off and keep drying,” you order with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, flashing you a grin before picking up another plate.

You roll your eyes at the “ma’am” and reach for a spoon sitting in a used coffee mug in the sink. Without thinking, you dip it too fast under the running water—and a splash flicks out, dribbling over both of you. Mostly Tommy, who blinks in surprise as droplets trickle down his cheek.

He looks up at you, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Is that how it’s gonna be?” he teases, one brow arching.

Before you can even open your mouth to protest, he scoops up a handful of water and flicks it right back at you. You yelp, startled, and duck just as the splash hits your cheek and drips down your neck.

“Now it’s on,” you warn, readying your own counterattack.

But before you can move, the fridge door swings open. You hadn’t even heard Joel come in. He grabs a beer, his eyes flickering between Tommy and you—mostly settling on Tommy, like he can’t quite bring himself to hold your gaze for more than a second. The tightness in your chest returns.

“You guys know there’s a dishwasher, right?” Joel finally speaks. You hadn’t expected him to say anything.

Tommy just chuckles. “Eh, where’s the fun in that?” he replies, shrugging.

Joel says nothing, only giving a brief nod before heading back to the dining room with your father. Tommy’s gaze flickers between Joel and you, then back, like he’s about to say something—but he doesn’t.

“Let’s finish this,” he says finally, breaking the quiet.

You both fall into a comfortable rhythm, moving through the last dishes with easy motions. Tommy starts talking about the perfect weather forecast for the weekend. “Perfect to get that tan going,” he says with a grin just as you finish rinsing the last plate.

You can’t help but smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a bit. It’s good to have Tommy here. Its easy with him.

After talking a while longer in the kitchen, he finally says goodnight, rubbing the back of his neck and explaining he arrived early this morning and really needs to catch up on sleep.

When he asks if you’re heading to bed too, you shake your head and tell him you’re going to stay up a bit longer, wanting to steal some quiet time before the next day. He smiles warmly, that easy grin that always makes you feel a little lighter, and says again how glad he is you’re here.

You watch him disappear up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading away. For a moment, you stand there, listening to the quiet hum of the house settling down for the night. Then your gaze drifts outside to the small terrace just beyond the kitchen door, which leads to the pool, and beyond that, the beach.

Without really thinking, you step outside and settle into one of the lounge chairs int the corner, your eyes immediately drawn to the distant horizon where the ocean meets the night sky. The slow, rhythmic crash of the waves reaches you, barely visible but clearly heard. The salty air is cool against your skin, carrying the scent of seaweed and the faintest hint of summer.

You lean back, letting the chair cradle you, the steady rise and fall of the waves becomes a steady rhythm to anchor your thoughts. You stay there for a long while, watching the dark water shift and shimmer under the moonlight, letting the night wrap around you like a soft blanket.

Your moment of quiet is broken when the door creaks open, and there he is—the source of your anxiety—stepping out into the night air. Joel takes a few slow steps forward and leans against the railing, his gaze fixed out toward the dark sea. He doesn’t see you—thankfully.

You watch him without really thinking, as you always do when the chance comes. The way the salt-and-pepper strands of his hair catch the cool ocean breeze, tousled just enough to soften his usually rugged look. His broad shoulders ease into the lighter, softer fabric of the button-down shirt he’s traded for the familiar flannel—something different, but in a good way. You find yourself wishing things were normal enough for you to have said it the moment you arrived: Lookin’ good, Miller.

Your eyes stay fixed on his profile as he pulls a cigarette from a pack, lighting it with practiced ease. The small flicker of flame dances over his sharp features, momentarily illuminating the shadows on his face. It’s been a while since you saw him do that.

“I thought you quit smoking,” you say before you can stop yourself.

You immediately catch the way he freezes at the sound of your voice—his shoulders stiffen, the casual ease he carried just moments ago vanishing in an instant. Maybe you should’ve stayed silent, but you knew he would’ve noticed you sooner or later. You watch as he hesitates, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he finally turns around.

You wait, the silence stretching between you, expecting him to say something—anything. Maybe a sharp comment about why he’s out here, smoking, when you both know he promised Sarah he’d quit over a year ago. “Stop smoking or I swear, I’ll do every drug I can find in college.” You’d been surprised it actually worked. You hadn’t seen him with a cigarette since.

But he just stands there, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp and unreadable. For a moment, you want to shrink back, disappear into the shadows of the terrace. There’s a hardness in his gaze, icy and distant.The kind that clearly says you’re not welcome here.

This is the first time all day he’s really looked at you, not the quick, passing glances. Usually, when Joel’s eyes meet yours, it stirs something warm beneath your skin, a familiar comfort. But tonight? It sends a different kind of shiver, one that sinks deep and unsettles you. You see the quiet judgment in his eyes, the disappointment.

You hesitate but force the words out. “Can we talk?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a long, slow drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling around him. His jaw tightens as he exhales, the ember glowing brighter for a moment before he flicks it off the railing with a sharp motion.

“Nothing to talk about,” he says coldy. There’s no warmth. No hesitation. No trace of the Joel you knew. Without another word, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot, his eyes not even meeting yours as he turns away.

You watch him disappear through the door, the image sinking deep into your chest. Somehow, it pulls you right back to two nights ago, when all you could do was stand frozen, helpless, as he walked away from you. That same ache rises now, the desperate urge to call him back, to stop him before he is out of reach.

But just like then, you don’t move. You don’t say a word. Because you know, deep down, this mess is yours. You’re the reason he doesn’t want to stick around—because you couldn’t keep the way he makes you feel under control. Because you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting what you couldn’t have.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #dbf!joel #joel miller x you #joel the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel tlou #tommy miller #tommy x reader #millers brother

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mydearzero · 1 month ago

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The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader | Chapter 2 - Keep Him Happy

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter.

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, no warnings apply for this chapter.

A/N: Wow chapter 2 only one day later? Crazy! I already promise that's not a rate I'll keep up, lmao.

Read it on AO3 Chapter 1

1.5K words

So, Bob was not, in fact, a child. He was a grown man who seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself. His face was somewhat youthful, so you weren’t sure exactly how old he was, but you’d wager it was older than you.

“Why is it exactly that you need a babysitter?” You asked directly. No use beating around the bush. You ignored the whole flashback memory thing, guessing you’d be enlightened with the details when the rest of the team came back. It wasn’t exactly a fond experience.

“Well, I wouldn’t say babysitter… It’s just, uh… best to not leave me to my own devices, I guess,” he shrugged. You nodded awkwardly, not sure what to make of the situation. The promised pay was good, you wouldn’t actually have to take care of him, just keep him company. It didn’t seem like a bad deal.

But even then, he was obviously unstable. Maybe what he needed was a mental health professional, not a ‘babysitter.’ You were probably just a temporary solution.

You sat in an awkward silence for a while, sipping your drink every now and then trying to think of a lighthearted topic to entertain him with. “So… Tell me about yourself, Bob.”

“Well, I’m… Bob. Short for, uh, Robert, as you might’ve guessed,” Bob nodded. You sighed inwardly, this was going to be tougher than you expected. Children were usually a lot easier, willing to tell you all of their and their parent’s business. Cats were even better, no need for talking. Bob was going to take some work.

“How’d you end up here, with these people, I mean?” You wondered. He seemed normal enough, but obviously the ‘New Avengers’ cared about him enough to try and keep him out of harm's way and around their building.

“It’s kind of a funny story, really. One second I’m in Malaysia in some lab for a medical study, the next I wake up in this bunker with these guys trying to kill each other…”

You squint your eyes in question. “That is… Funny?”

“Yeah now that I’m putting it like that it doesn’t sound very funny, does it?” Bob chuckled. It seemingly broke some of the tension. He asked you a few questions about yourself and your contact with Alexei.

“He seems very sweet,” you concluded. Bob agreed, letting you know the man definitely had his heart in the right place, though sometimes a bit overenthusiastic.

He told you about the rest of the team, and you noticed he was inconspicuously perceptive. He went one by one, wasting time by talking about the people surrounding him most days.

“Yelena looks really tough, and she is! But she’s really a big softie,” Bob spoke of her very fondly, a twinkle of adoration in his eyes.

“Ava’s a bit of a tough nut to crack, but she has a really good sense of humour. She’s a bit more reserved, but really has your back when you need her. She’ll deny it, though.”

You poured yourself another glass of soda, offering Bob one as well. He declined but thanked you for the offer to a degree which dazed you. You took a mental note of the skittish demeanour.

“John’s an asshole. Can’t really put it anyway else. He’s here, he’ll show up for the others, but… I can’t really say I’ve come to like him like the others. I’d put it as toloration. I mean he has a history… But who doesn’t? Doesn’t give him the right to be a douche, you know?” He obviously had a strong sense of righteousness, and John did not fit into that picture.

“And lastly there’s Bucky, but I’m sure you know about him. Congressman and such. He’s not around here much. He tries to be, but I feel like he’s still a bit wary of the team. Part of me thinks he just doesn’t want to get attached, which I can understand, given his past…” Bob looked out the window, seemingly lost in a deep thought. His eyes glazed over and an overwhelming sadness overtook his face. It’d gotten dark in the time you’d been here, the city skyline lit up with artificial lighting.

“Whatever you do, try to keep him happy, distracted and away from danger.” Yelena’s words echoed in your head. There was likely a good reason for the particular instructions.

“Well, Bob, thank you for opening up and telling me about them. I feel like we’re likely gonna be spending some more time together, so I really appreciate that you feel safe enough to share,” you smiled, distracting him from his spiralling thoughts.

Bob smiled before looking a little confused at his own actions. You felt like he might’ve maybe shared a little more than he’d intended.

You were racking your brain for another topic to talk about when the elevator doors opened once again. Bob deflated, hunching in on himself and making himself visibly smaller. You hadn’t even noticed how his posture had opened up during your conversation.

It was Yelena and Alexei, joking with each other in, was that Russian? They walked in as if they hadn’t just fought off whatever it was that had ransacked the subway and blasted itself into the building. You looked at them expectantly, waiting to finally get an explanation.

“Ah, right, babysitter. It’s quite late, maybe you should head home?” Yelena suggested, cracking her neck while unloading a few weapons on a side table like she was dropping off her keys after coming home from the office.

“Was this just a one time thing, or will I be coming back?” You wondered. You could use the money.

“That depends… Bob? Do you like her?”

Bob spluttered and gaped at Yelena, unsure of how to answer. “I– I mean, yeah, she’s– She’s nice. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“We can find different babysitter if you want. Many more on the app,” Alexei chimed in as he huffed and puffed, trying to get his suit off in the middle of the living room. It looked more like he was doing a form of experimental yoga.

“No, no. This one’s fine,” Bob winced. You’d really have to come up with a different title than ‘babysitter’ if this was going to become a lasting thing.

“Good, then she stays. Ava and John are debriefing Bucky. It was just some lowlife with some experimental tech, but man, whatever he was shooting with stung like a b–”

“Lena, language, we have guest,” Alexei shushed her. Yelena rolled her eyes in response.

She nodded her head at you, motioning for you to come with her. You shot Bob a quick glance, who gave you a tight lipped smile but seemingly encouraged you to go with her.

Yelena took you to a smaller separate sitting room and offered you a glass of whiskey, which you refused. “No drinking on the job,” you laughed.

“So, you’re probably wondering, why does a grown man need a babysitter? Well, I’m gonna explain. But first, what did Bob tell you?” she started, sitting down next to you and leaning on the back of the couch, resting her head in her hand. You mimicked her relaxed posture, putting a leg up on the couch.

“Not much, really. He told me a bit about you guys and how you met. He mentioned something about a medical study in Malaysia, but other than that nothing too memorable.”

“Did you happen to shake his hand?” Ah, there it was. Yelena could tell by your expression the answer was yes.

“Yeah, it happened to us, too. You see, Bob… He’s very strong. Stronger than all of us combined. But he’s not stable. He’s a bit of a grey area in the team. We keep him around because he’s nice, of course, but also because we can’t risk anybody else trying to get on his good side and abusing his trust.” She took a sip of the whiskey, relishing its taste before continuing.

“We’re still not really sure what his powers are, and it’s also not up to me to disclose all of the information besides the basics. All I can tell you is that we can’t risk taking him into the field, but we also can’t risk leaving him alone for too long. His abilities are closely tied to his mental wellbeing. It sounds a little degrading to describe it this way,” Yelena winced. She evidently had very conflicting feelings on the topic. You understood it must be difficult, wanting to keep him out of harm’s way without babying him.

“But it’s really a matter of keeping him happy and distracted when it’s necessary. He needs help, a lot of it, but we just haven’t had the time to figure out how to go about it. So for now, this is it. I’m sorry for all the confusion, but with a ‘job’ as unpredictable as ours, this is the reality. Can you handle that?” Her gaze was piercing, as if she was trying to read every single thought crossing your mind.

“You care about him deeply,” you observed.

She gave a fond smile. “I do.”

“Then I think I can handle it. As long as I don’t have to lie to him or beat around the bush, I can do my best to keep him company and help wherever I can. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all we ask.”

It was settled, then. You were hired.

Chapter 3

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki

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wakebymoonsleepbysun · 5 months ago

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Untitled Doey X Reader Ch 1

Update: Now on ao3, updates will be posted there (and linked via tumblr) -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/63346465/chapters/162287860

So uh. Decided to do this. I'll put it up on ao3 eventually (with slightly more editing maybe), probably sometime after I get chapter 2 written. And after I figure out a title.

Summary: After the destruction of the Playtime Co factory, Doey finds what little remains of himself falling through the cave systems and into a river, where he's brought practically to your door.

----

Doey had been so sure he’d been killed.

He’s died three times after all. It’s a familiar feeling.

Darkness. Numbness. A chilling cold that reaches through his body and wraps around his very consciousness, pulling him down…down…down……

Surely this time he won’t be pulled back. Who’s left to even try? The Doctor’s dead, Doey’s family at Safe Haven are all dead…whatever few remain alive in the factory’s underbelly are probably close behind, if Poppy has anything to say about it.

Doey’s not sure how much time passes between that thought and the explosion. A minute? An hour? A week? A year?

He’s not formed enough to see, nor to hear. But he feels the depths of the factory, of the very caves themselves, shudder and then quake as a fierce explosion rips through the labs. Fire and smoke rush through the lab, then the prison, then Playcare, and finally the factory proper, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

Not everything is burned. Much of the lower levels are made of steel and rock, after all. The heat that does pass over the puddle of dough that had once been Doey is intense, and would probably leave humans and plush toys singed, but it only serves to dry Doey out ever so slightly. Not enough to make much difference though. He’s still too weak and liquified to pull himself together, assuming he could even care to try such a thing.

Silence settles over the factory and the caverns below. Once again Doey is not sure how much time passes before the peace, if it can be called that, is broken.

Something, some support or load bearing wall, finally gives way somewhere in depths, starting a chain reaction, and the whole wretched place begins collapsing in on itself, just as Poppy had wanted. What the fire had spared the collapse does not, and the floor below Doey slants, causing him to slide along it as gravity takes hold.

He doesn’t even try to stop himself from spilling down through the caverns, the bits of dough that still contain hints of who he used to be rolling and tumbling down the crevices. Even the unpleasant sensation of sliding into a frigid underground river can’t motivate him to try and re-form his body.

Doey fades in and out of consciousness, each time wondering if he’s fading in and out of existence. The water eventually warms, and Doey’s aware of occasional glimpses of light as the river carries him out of the underground.

After awhile, the rushing river fades into a shallow, trickling creek. Doey’s dough bumps numbly along the smooth pebbles of the creek bed for a time until getting caught on a fallen log.

He can almost muster the strength to be surprised that he’s made it out of the factory. Almost. But he can’t imagine he’s meant to survive much longer.

So he waits. Waits to sink just a little bit further into the cold, to sink far enough that he won’t be pulled back ever again.

Time continues to pass. Several days, maybe even several weeks. He still can’t bring himself to stay conscious long enough to mark time, but it goes from dark to light and back again more times than he can count.

He lets the days pass, feeling the creek wash over him. He begins to hear again, just a bit. It’s muted from where he is beneath the water, but he can still make out some noises. So he contents himself with listening to the babbling of the creek, the chirping of birds, and the wind through the leaves. He thinks he’s in some kind of forest. How far from the factory he is, how far away from anything he is, he can only guess.

Maybe this is what death is. A drifting, vague awareness…barely aware of his own body, his own senses, but just feeling the world pass by around him.

It’s not terrible. Certainly not the worst thing he’s been through.

Doey has just enough time to adjust to his new existence when he hears something he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

Voices.

Hiking through nature is always the first thing people seem to want to recommend to you when they sense you’re dealing with some kind of struggle. Especially those who realize you live on a few acres of mostly forested land.

To be fair, they aren’t entirely wrong…though admittedly you do find it a bit tedious to be recommended the same thing over and over when it’s already been a habit of yours for a few years.

Especially when you hadn’t asked.

But what are you to do when your main source of stress actively--physically--follows you on said hikes?

Ethan Barlowe, who owns the acreage just to the west of yours. You’re not sure how long he’s owned it, but it’s at least a few years more than your family’s owned your plot of land.

He’s roughly middle-aged, a bit older than your parents would have been, you think. He’s taller than you and decently fit, usually wearing some combination of flannel and denim. His face has the slightly weathered look of one who’s spent most of their life outdoors.

“They can even divide up the plot so you can keep your house right where it is,” he’s saying. “You don’t even have to move!”

A sales pitch you’ve heard dozens of times before…and it’s no more compelling today than it had been six months ago.

“Ethan, I said no,” you say for what feels like the millionth time.

“Oh come on! It’s not good for a kid your age to be living alone, without even any neighbors,” he protests.

You give him a deadpan look. Do you point out that, at twenty-four, you’re not exactly a “kid” anymore? Or tell him he’s currently doing a terrible job of selling you on the idea of neighbors in general?

“Look, I’m sure your dad would have rather the house itself stayed with you, even if the land doesn’t.”

That’s a new one.

You stop so abruptly he almost crashes into you. “I think I knew him better than you, Ethan,” you say tightly.

“In some ways, but--”

“In every way!” you shout, actually causing his eyes to widen for a brief second as he takes a step back.

It’s that shout that attracts Doey’s attention. He’s so used to intervening in fights in the Playcare as Matthew, then in Safe Haven as Doey, that it doesn’t even occur to him to do differently now. He immediately begins re-forming his body, listening closely to the conversation as he does.

You suck in a shaky breath. “Get off my property. Don’t ever come here again,” you say coldly.

Ethan stares at you in stunned silence for a moment before scoffing and shaking his head. “You can’t do that. Your dad and I had an agreement about the pond--”

“Yeah, and that’s done,” you say tersely. “Now leave, or I’ll be calling the cops.”

Ethan scoffs. “Right, because you have such a great track record with them,” he sneers.

Doey’s body reforms, and he realizes with a surge of dread that there’s not nearly as much left of him as he’d been assuming.

He’s barely six inches tall!

He’s not sure what he’s going to do now…although, in retrospect, he’s also not sure what he would have done before. You and Ethan would have been too shocked by the nine-hundred pound dough creature for Doey to have done anything in the way of mediating or intervention.

…Though it definitely would have ended the argument.

You and Ethan are a few feet away, on some kind of dirt path. The type that seems to be formed from repeated hikes rather than a deliberate attempt at making a pathway. The path runs alongside the creek, and Doey currently stands hidden in some tall grass and reeds that grow at the edges of the water.

The surrounding area is dominated by the rusty browns of late autumn, the yellows and oranges have faded away as the leaves begin to fall.

Doey’d been down in the factory for so long he’d nearly forgotten that seasons even exist.

“Th-That doesn’t matter!” you protest, though the uncertainty in your tone is clear.

“Doesn’t it? You really think they’ll believe some hooligan kid over me? I got a clean slate, kid,” Ethan smirks, stepping towards you.

Your eyes widen at his menacing tone, and now it’s your turn to step back.

Doey can’t help but glower at the implied threat. He generally tries to not pick sides, but if he were to pick a side, it certainly wouldn’t be Ethan’s.

Ethan grabs your wrist, pulling you towards himself as he glares down at you, and you’re suddenly very aware that you’re out in the woods alone. The only nearby houses are yours and Ethan’s, and you left your cellphone at home.

It’s all Doey can do to keep silent as he tries to come up with a plan. If he were his proper size, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself rushing forward and putting himself between you and Ethan.

“Now listen, kid. There’s no way you’re making enough to keep this place. You think you’re fine to coast along on that little nest egg your dad left, but it’ll be gone before you know it. Trust me. I know how the world works. I’m doing you a favor.”

“L-Let go…” you finally manage to utter a meek protest.

Ethan’s gaze hardens, his grip only tightening when you try to pull away.

Doey’s eyes narrow as he resists the urge to let a low, angry growl at how this man’s treating you. If he thought running at the man only to be effortlessly kicked back into the creek would somehow help you, he’d certainly do it, but…he’s not convinced such a gesture would help.

In a split second, the solution comes to him. Well, a solution, anyway.

He steps back into the tall grass, hiding himself.

“Hey, what was that?” he calls out. He pitches his voice up slightly, hoping it sounds convincing as a second person, and answers, “Dunno, sounded like yelling?”

Ethan blanches and quickly drops your hand, taking a few hasty steps back.

Doey grins. The plan’s working! Switching back to his normal voice, he calls out, “Hey, everyone okay over there?”

“Perfectly fine!” Ethan quickly calls out. He clears his throat awkwardly, his eyes darting to you. His brow lowers in a warning glare. “Think about it, kid,” he says quietly.

With that, he turns on his heel and leaves, heading down the dirt path while you stare after him.

Doey pumps his fist in a silent cheer. That went perfectly! Better than he thought it would, in fact. He’d been hoping Ethan would simply cool it with the intimidation if he’d thought there could be witnesses. Him leaving entirely had been but a distant hope.

Once Ethan rounds the corner and disappears from view among the trees, your gaze snaps towards the voices. They’d sounded close…so close you’re surprised you don’t see any sign of the ones who’d spoken.

“Hello?” you call out, walking towards the creek.

Doey’s smile vanishes and he tenses. He hadn’t considered the possibility that you or Ethan would try to find the source of the voices.

“Who’s there?” you call. You walk forward, the edge of the shallow creek lapping at your boots as you stand only inches from Doey’s hiding spot. “N-Not that it’s…a big deal, but…whoever you are, you…you do know this is private property?” you call out timidly, only to wince at how meek you sound. You’re not exactly feeling confident about protecting your land from intruders at the moment…

Doey flinches. Shoot. Maybe tricking you into thinking there were two more people wandering your property without your knowledge or permission hadn’t been the greatest idea.

“Um, we um, won’t be staying long!” he calls out hastily.

You frown. Why did they sound so much more nervous now? Are they up to something? Or just fretting over their (presumably accidental) trespassing?

And why did their voice sound so close…and so low to the ground? Sound can carry oddly in the forest sometimes, but usually people sound further than they are, not closer…

“You’re not…lost or something, are you…?” you ask.

Something about the simple question tugs at his heart--or whatever mass of clay in his chest serves as such.

Because, he realizes, he is lost. In every sense of the word. More than he’s ever been in his entire life.

He lifts his gaze to you, watching as you continue to glance around for the source of the voice, your brow knit in worry. Worry for yourself, at the prospect of unknown strangers wandering around on your property? Or worry for said strangers, lost in the woods?

Doey could show himself and ease both worries, but that might just cause a whole new set of problems. Not for Doey, of course…unless you have some freezing gas on you, it isn’t as if you can really hurt him. So whatever your reaction, he’ll be no worse off than he already is.

He doesn’t want to frighten you…Many children in the factory, and even adults sometimes, had been frightened of him, especially at first glance. While his height is about average as far as Bigger Bodies go, he’s one of the more stoutly build ones, and his lack of fluff and fur make him a bit less approachable than many of the other Bigger Bodies.

There’s a reason Doey the Doughman was usually portrayed as tiny in the commercials.

…Actually, that’s about the height he is now. So maybe the sight of him won’t be that startling to you after all.

“H-Hello?” you call out, pulling Doey from his thoughts as he realizes he’s been silent for several moments.

“Yeah! I-I’m here!” he says quickly.

“Where?” you ask, still glancing around, clearly looking for someone closer to your own height.

Well. Time to see if he’s going to be punted into the creek. “D-Down here.”

You glance down, seeing the tall grass part. A small blue figure peeks out. You don’t for a minute assume this little thing is the owner of the deep, resonant voice you’d been hearing. You don’t think the figure itself has any sort of voice…it just looks like a little toy made of colored dough. It looks familiar, but you can’t quite place it.

You crouch down for a closer look and Doey scoots back nervously. He’s…really not used to being towered over like this. But he forces a small, awkward smile, lifting a hand in the wave. “H-Hiya!”

You hadn’t expected the figure to move so fluidly. Even his face and eyes change shape as he speaks, and there’s a slight wobble to his round belly and big arms as he moves that a mere remote-controlled toy wouldn’t have.

He’s REAL.

The abrupt realization causes you to squeak in surprise, stumbling back. Your boot catches on a rock and you fall sideways into the creek. As you try to catch yourself, your hand hits the pebbly creek bed, causing a bolt of pain in your wrist.

The creek’s only about four inches deep, but falling onto your side and then thrashing about as you try to scramble away from the creature has left you completely soaked.

Doey winces. Evidently the sight of him is still shocking, even at this size.

But…he supposes you’d’ve never seen anything like him. Unless maybe you’d gone on a tour of the Playtime Co factory as a kid, but even then…grownups almost always dismissed the living toys as some kind of animatronics, sophisticated puppetry, or other such illusion.

Did anyone outside of the factory even realize that living toys had been in existence for…decades now?

“S-Sorry, pal…didn’t mean to scare ya,” he says, holding up his hands. He slowly approaches you, much the way he would have a frightened child in Playcare…despite you being well over ten times his size. Not to mention an adult.

“Wh-What…a-are you?” you manage to stammer out. Your eyes are locked onto him as he moves towards you, but manage to resist the urge to scramble back any further.

“The name’s Doey!” he says, puffing his chest out slightly. He reaches up to remove his hat, only to find it missing. Of course, there’s no way it would have stayed with him on his involuntary journey. Pity…he liked that hat.

But the problem is easily remedied.

He forms a new hat in his hand, this one the same light blue clay as his upper body instead of the darker blue plastic of his old accessory. Hat in hand, he brightens and takes a bow. “Doey the Doughman!” he finishes, placing the clay hat atop his head.

Doey grins up at you, watching your look of fear fade to curiosity. He can almost see the tension--some of it, at least--leave your shoulders as you relax ever so slightly. You clutch your injured wrist to your chest, canting your head as you regard him.

His kind tone and jovial nature seem to be winning you over, just as they’ve won over so many orphans and factory visitors (and even a few staff) before.

“Doey the Doughman…?” you repeat. You suddenly double take, blinking rapidly as you finally place both the name and his appearance. “A-As in…Doey-Dough?”

“Yep! That’s me!” he says proudly. “And what’s your name?” he asks in the gentle yet exaggeratedly eager tone of an adult trying to get an answer from a very shy child.

“Um.” You’re still reeling from being in the presence of some kind of…talking clay creature, so it actually takes a moment to process and answer the question. But, after a moment, you manage to speak your own name, mostly without fumbling. Mostly.

“That’s a nice name!” he says kindly, his eyes closing into happy crescents as beams up at you. His smile fades slightly, his expression growing concerned. “But that looked like a nasty fall. You alright?” he asks gently.

“Y-Yeah, I um…just tweaked my wrist a bit…” you say distantly.

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. He’s so small…not to mention being made of sculpting clay. It’s hard to imagine such a creature is even capable of doing you harm, and he’s certainly not acting like he wants to.

You’re just about to extend your arm to him when he lets out an embarrassed laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, but you’d probably wanna get out of that creek first, huh?”

Despite your shock, you manage a small laugh at the quip. Not only because you’d managed to forget you were even sitting in a creek, but…well, Doey’s laugh is more than a little infectious.

“R-Right…” you manage. You pull yourself out the creek, taking a few steps to find one of the larger, flat rocks beside the creek to sit on. You don’t take your eyes off Doey for even a second. Not because you think he’d do anything, but…this whole thing feels so surreal, you can’t help but wonder if he’d disappear entirely if he left your line of sight.

You’re debating if you should offer him a hand up, but to your surprise he stretches his arms high above his head (nearly a whole two feet) and grabs onto the edge of the rock, pulling himself up effortlessly.

“Now, let’s have a look, huh?” he asks, holding out his hands.

“I-I think it’s just a sprain…and not even a very bad one…” you say, holding out your wrist to let him examine it.

“Well that’s good!” he says earnestly, taking your wrist in his hands. Holding a human wrist that’s almost as big around as him is a bit jarring, but he doesn’t let that show as he checks over your injury.

You’re surprised that his hands actually give off a bit of warmth. Not much, but more than you’d expect from clay that’s been sitting out in the autumn chill. It also has a bit more give than you’d expected. Not quite as soft as human hands, but just slightly squishy, similar to putty or clay that’s been worked for awhile.

He holds your wrist in one hand, using the other to carefully move your hand up and down, watching you closely for any signs of pain.

“S-So um, where’s the other one?” you finally ask.

He glances up at you blankly. “Other? Oh!” He laughs, shaking his head. “Just me,” he says. “Figured one witness might not be enough to drive the guy off, but two probably would be.” He releases your wrist, giving your hand a light pat. “You’re all set! Just be careful with it for a couple days.”

You’d been too surprised at just the existence of this creature that you hadn’t had time to ponder the reasoning for what he’d been doing. But as you do, you cant your head in confusion. “Why’d you want to drive him off?”

Doey seems surprised at the question, mimicking your head tilt as he looks up at you. “Because he was bothering you.” He pauses, wondering if perhaps he’d misread the situation. “...Wasn’t he?”

You grip your sore wrist, lightly rubbing at it. “Well…yeah, but…you just…decided to help me? A stranger? For no reason?”

Once again he meets your confusion with his own. “It’s not for no reason…I don’t like seeing people get picked on…”

“But isn’t it dangerous for you? What if he’d seen you?”

He blinks, momentarily surprised at your concern, but then grins up at you playfully. “Worried about me? A stranger?”

You pause a moment, then give a slightly sheepish laugh. “Heh…point taken…”

“Besides…I’m pretty durable,” he says, placing a hand on each side of his head and briefly squishing it like a bouncy ball.

You don’t find the action as amusing as Doey’d hoped you would. You blanch slightly, giving a slight shake of your head that looks more like a shudder. “This…This is impossible…” you say in a small voice.

His grin falters a bit. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that the wonder and whimsy of a living toy is easy to accept as a kid in a toy factory…less so as an adult out in the woods.

“Where did you come from? And why are you just…out in the woods like this?” you ask. Despite the situation, there’s a note of concern in your voice at the thought of the little guy out here alone. Even if he does insist he’s quite durable.

Some fragments of Kevin and Jack stir unpleasantly at the questioning, but Doey manages to quickly still them. He’s not sure how much he should tell you…how much he could even stand to tell you. But he’s not partial to lying, and some amount of explanation would probably put you at ease.

The slight pause before he speaks is barely noticeable. “I’m from the Playtime Co factory, of course!” he announces cheerfully.

You frown. “The one that was demolished?”

His face falls. “...Demolished?”

Not demolished! Lies. Destroyed. By mean Poppy, mean Doctor, mean employee…HURTS. HURTS US.

Doey shudders, staggering back and wrapping his arms around himself. “We’re okay…you’re okay…” he mumbles to himself. To all the pieces of himself.

His pained expression pulls at your heart, pushing aside the impossibility of the situation. You suddenly realize that whatever journey he’d taken from the now-demolished factory to way out here was probably not a pleasant one.

“I-I’m sorry!” you say quickly. You reach forward, cupping a hand beside him to steady him, though not touching him. “I…I shouldn’t pry…you don’t have to tell me if…it’s painful…”

To your surprise, he slumps against your hand, a dejected look on his face. He’d seemed so bright and cheerful a moment ago…you guess you’d bumped up against quite the wound to have his mood do such a turn.

Well…you can certainly relate to that.

Doey’s not even looking at you as he stays slouched against your hand, hugging himself and occasionally muttering things you can’t quite hear.

He’d managed to slip into his old role of protector and caretaker when he’d stepped in to help you. Calming you down and easing your apprehension had been much like his time before the Hour of Joy, when he’d play with the kids of Playcare. He’d always been good at making kids feel safe…and he’d been relieved to see those techniques could work on you, even if you’re an adult.

He could almost pretend it was the old days. The setting had changed a bit…and you may not be a child, but you still needed protection from bullies and comfort for only minor, very manageable injuries.

Nothing perilous.

Nothing life threatening.

He could still be the protector, the caretaker…just as he had back when the crown had been lighter.

“Um…Doey?” you prompt gently, pulling him out of his spiral and causing him to blink up at you in confusion.

He pulls away from your hand, his own hands fidgeting awkwardly as a halfhearted smile returns to his face. “Yes?”

“You don’t have to answer if you’d rather not, but…is…is there somewhere you’re going? Somewhere I can help you get to?”

Doey’s eyes widen slightly as he’s caught off guard at the question. He laughs, waving a hand. “Oh, no no, pal, you…you don’t gotta do anything for me!”

“You didn’t have to do anything for me,” you counter. “Besides, maybe it’s…none of my business, but…the woods doesn’t seem like a great place for a little guy like you…” As you speak, a poorly-timed (or well-timed, perhaps) gust of wind cuts through the trees, making your already chilled, wet clothes positively frigid. You shiver, puffing warm air on your hands and rubbing them together. “And I think it’s going to be cold tonight…they say it’ll snow this weekend…”

Doey’s not technically capable of changing color, but you swear the blue clay of his face gets a couple shades paler as a look of pure dread crosses his face. “Well I’m…I’m not…heading anywhere…” he finally says.

“Then…would you like to come with me?” you ask, holding out your hand again.

“With you? To where?”

You laugh awkwardly. Maybe you could have phrased your offer a bit more directly. “My house,” you say.

Doey sputters in surprise, at a loss for words. “Y-Your…house?” he finally manages. “I…you’d…take me in? Just like that?”

“You did help me,” you say. “And I wouldn’t feel right leaving you out here all alone…” you add, your expression softening.

His hands fidget nervously as he glances at your open palm beside him. “If it’s…really not too much trouble…” he says, resting his hand atop one of your fingers.

You smile, shaking your head. “It’s really not,” you say kindly.

He hesitates once more, then finally climbs onto your hand. “Th-Thank you…” he says softly…almost somberly, in fact.

You slowly lift your hand, cupping your free hand near him protectively. You carefully slide off the rock and begin the walk home.

Doey’s a bit of an enigma--in more ways than one. You should be reeling from his mere existence. Maybe you’re just in shock or something, and the staggering reality of a living clay toy will hit you like a brick wall later on.

You suppose you’ll just have to hope it’s a bit gentler than that.

But what’s mainly on your mind at the moment is his behavior. He’d seemed so at ease when you’d first encountered him. Almost more concerned about you than himself. But mentioning the demolition of the factory had shattered that.

You reach the same conclusion you had earlier--whatever circumstances had led a lone, sapient toy to be lost in the woods--so lost and alone he can’t even suggest a place for you to take him--can’t be good.

You keep the hand he’s seated in close to your body, cupping the other hand near it to keep him from falling. Not that you’re walking anywhere near quick enough for that to be a real concern. He’s actually a little surprised at just how carefully you hold him, even after being told he can’t be hurt.

“So um,” he begins hesitantly, wanting to fill the silence. “Does that guy bother you…often?”

“Ethan?” you ask. “It uh…depends on your definition of ‘often’, I guess, but more often than I’d like. He’s my neighbor. He’s been coming by during my walks to try to talk me into selling my land…I guess I’ll just have to change what time I go for walks.”

You’ve already tried that three times now. The first time had brought you a couple weeks of peace. The second had brought one week. The third had brought even less.

“He wants to buy your land?”

You shake your head. “Not exactly. He has some…housing developer or something that he’s in touch with. He wants us both to sell our properties together for a subdivision. I guess they’ll pay more if they know they can get both properties? I don’t…really know all the details,” you admit. “I haven’t been interested in finding out. I just know that I want to keep this place.”

“Is there anyone you can ask for help? A parent or a counselor, maybe?”

You quirk a brow at the “counselor” suggestion…but if he was in the factory, maybe he’s just more used to talking to children? He probably just doesn’t know what options adults out in the real world have at their disposal.

“Well, I don’t have a counselor, and both my parents passed away,” you say simply.

“Oh…you’re an orphan?” he asks, looking up at you sadly, gently resting a hand against one of your fingers in what you assume must be meant as a comforting gesture.

“Er, not exactly? Dad only died a few years ago…I was an adult,” you clarify. “People usually only say ‘orphan’ if you’re still a kid.”

“Do they? I…I hadn’t realized…” he admits thoughtfully. “Still, though…” he adds, looking up at you worriedly, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

It’s the same unspoken question that always seems to hang after you tell people your parents are dead. A question you usually brush off with some platitude about being fine and just trying to live a life that would make them proud before steering the conversation away.

But…Doey’s sadness seems so genuine. Not that you think other people fake it per se, but a lot of them seem more awkward about the potential landmines they might step on or just at a loss for words, but…Doey seems like he’s actually more concerned about you rather than any sort of social etiquette.

He’s probably worked with orphans before, you realize. There was some sort of adoption program or orphanage associated with Playtime Co. You don’t know all the details, but maybe Doey had worked with those kids?

You smile sadly. “I’m alright. They’re at peace. And I’m um…getting there,” you say. Usually you just say you are at peace, but something about his earnest sympathy invites honesty. “I just um…try to do right by their memories, y’know?” you add.

Doey’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’d be very proud of you. You’re very brave, you know,” he says. It’s a line he’d repeated hundreds of times to hundreds of orphans in the Playcare, and then in Safe Haven. And he’s meant it every time, including now.

You, though, are not used to being spoken to so warmly, so soothingly about the matter. Even your grief counselor had been…well, not cold but…she’d had a job to do, you suppose, so her tone and manner had seemed more…distant, than the way Doey’s been speaking to you.

It catches you off guard, to put it mildly.

You glance away, clearing your throat and pretending to scratch at a spot on your cheek so you could wipe away a stray tear without Doey noticing. “R-Right, th-thanks…” you mumble hoarsely.

It’s been years since you’ve gone to pieces in front of anyone, and you’re not going to break that streak now.

Doey frowns at your reaction. It hadn’t been quite the one he’d hoped for.

You force a smile at him, not wanting him to think you’re upset with him. “Sorry. It’s just…been a busy day. I’m a bit…um…tense right now, I guess,” you say in a flimsy attempt waving off your reaction.

“You don’t gotta apologize, pal!” he says easily, patting your hand.

You emerge from the forest and begin crossing the small patch of grass that surrounds your house, serving as the lawn. You tilt your head towards your home and Doey follows your gaze.

“We’re just about here,” you say.

Doey peeks over your fingers, following your gaze towards the house. It’s one story tall, and…well, it’s hard for Doey to guess much more of that. He thinks it’s slightly bigger than Matthew’s old home but slightly smaller than Jack’s, but between his new size and how hazy those old memories are, even that rough guess is hard to put much stock in.

You enter through a small side door that opens into a mudroom. You kick off your boots and step onto the kitchen. “Do you mind waiting here while I change? I can show you around a bit more once I get into some dry clothes,” you say.

“Of course!” he says easily.

You make as if to set him on the counter, only to pause. “Um, would you rather be on the counter or the floor?” you ask.

He looks amused at the question, chuckling. “Eh, you can just toss me wherever,” he says playfully, waving a hand.

You laugh, shaking your head as you set him carefully on the countertop. “I’m not going to toss you, Doey!”

Once again, something in him warms as you take far more care with him than you need to.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” you say, heading to your room on the other side of the house. You lift your hand in a small wave, which Doey returns with his usual large grin.

Once you’re gone, he glances around the kitchen. It doesn’t look much different from any of the kitchens Matthew, Jack, and Kevin had glimpsed in their time before coming to Playcare. Off-white laminate countertops and floors, brown wooden cabinets, flowery wallpaper that’s peeling in a couple places, and the usual assortment of appliances.

You change quickly, not wanting to leave Doey alone for too long. You’re still pulling on your hoodie when you re-enter the kitchen. “Are you cold at all?” you ask. “Do you need like…a blanket or anything? Something to eat?” You pause. “Erm, do you eat?”

Doey’s expression goes slack for a moment and you’re not sure what to make of the reaction, but clearly the question has struck something in him.

“I um! YES--NO!!” He cuts himself off so abruptly it almost sounds like he’s being silenced by someone else. “YES--SOMETIMES!!” He clutches at his head, clenching his eyes shut. After a moment he seems to relax, running his hands down his face to reveal an utterly exhausted expression. Somehow it even looks like he has bags under his eyes.

“Hey, it’s alright…just relax…” you say gently. You reach out to put a hand against him, only to pull back without touching him. You’re not sure if being patted by a hand nearly as long as him would really help with the whole relaxing thing.

“S-Sorry…” he mumbles, looking away shamefully at his outburst. “I um. I…I forgot how hungry I am. I…I usually just…try not to think about it.”

“So you do eat…” you say. “And it sounds like you haven’t in awhile…?”

“I…don’t have to. I’ve gone months without eating. It doesn’t seem to matter. The hunger is…it’s just a feeling. I can tune it out most of the time,” he says, not meeting your eye as he wrings his hands.

You pull back in surprise. “Doey, I’m…I’m not going to make you go hungry!” you protest, aghast.

“But…it’s just…food’s not free, right?” he asks hesitantly, finally lifting his gaze to you.

“Well, no…” you admit. “But it’s not gold bars and diamonds, either.” You smile gently. “Besides, you’re six inches tall…I doubt you eat more than I do,” you say lightly.

He gives a sheepish smile and nervous laugh, which you chalk up to general nervousness. “Heh…right…”

“I was about to make dinner…I usually make enough for a couple meals, so it’d be no trouble to fix you a plate. Whatever you don’t finish can be breakfast tomorrow. Anything in particular you like?”

Doey briefly pulls a face as if he’s literally biting his tongue to keep from speaking…though you’re not sure if he actually has a tongue. “Um. Wh-Whatever you’re eating is fine. Doesn’t have to be anything special, I…I can eat just about anything…”

He hasn’t liked any of the “food” he’s had in years. Not since Hoppy found that last box of candy up in Playcare…and even then, it had expired years before she’d found it. But easing the hunger, even for a moment, had always been such a relief that he’d actually started to forget that flavor is even a factor in food.

You rest against the counter, debating whether to press the issue. After a moment you decide not to. “Mac and cheese?” you offer.

He gives a sigh of longing that sounds halfway like a sob. “Y-Yes. That…that sounds wonderful.”

“Then mac and cheese it is,” you say warmly.

You begin the prep work, letting the conversation lapse as you wonder at your strange new guest. You’ve barely scratched the surface of who and what he is, but it still breaks your heart how reluctant he is to accept any sort of hospitality from you…especially with how readily he’d stepped in to help with Ethan.

It’s possible he just naturally has a very giving and self-sufficient personality, but you can’t help but wonder if someone, or several someones, in his past had made him feel just…undeserving.

The boxed mac and cheese you make is a family-sized meal, so even scooping out two full portions for yourself and Doey leaves plenty for tomorrow’s leftovers.

Doey’s eyes widen at the sight of the full bowl. He tries to utter a protest--you don’t need to give him that much, that just half a bowl would be more than enough, but fragments of Kevin and Jack bubble to the surface, silencing him as their hunger roars within him.

You take the bowls to the table before returning for the silverware. You’re not completely oblivious to Doey’s inner turmoil, but you don’t even come close to guessing the extent of it, assuming he’s just a bit shy about accepting your hospitality.

As you’re reaching for forks, you pause. The forks are longer than Doey himself…would he be able to use one? You open the other drawer, grabbing the smallest measuring spoon you have. It’s still a bit big--but trying to eat mac and cheese with a garden trowel is still easier than eating it with a pitchfork, you suppose.

You set the silverware on the table and return to the counter to get Doey. Before you can, however, he leaps from the countertop, causing you to let out a wordless cry of protest, scrambling to catch him.

He lands with a splat, his lower body flattening against the floor. But before you can even wonder if such an act is painful, he bounces back up, his lower body rounding back out so quickly his feet actually leave the floor for a second.

Doey gives a sheepish giggle at your fretful look. “Eheh…sorry pal, didn’t mean to scare you.” He winks, waggling a finger at you playfully. “I did tell you I’m durable, though,” he reminds you in a slightly teasing tone.

You feel your cheeks warming with embarrassment. “R-Right…it’s um…just a bit jarring to see, is all…”

“Well, I’ll be sure to warn ya next time then,” he chuckles.

You hold out a hand, assuming he’ll still need help getting onto the table. He laughs again, shaking his head as he walks past you. “You don’t need to carry me around either, much as I appreciate the offer,” he says.

Not that he’d minded being held, but…well, it’s probably not something you’d choose to do if you were aware of just how mobile Doey is, even at his smaller size.

You get to your feet as he walks past you. “Oh um, alright…” you say, figuring he knows what he’s talking about.

And indeed he does, for he stretches his arms upward, gripping the side of the table. He then lifts himself so quickly that his momentum carries him over the edge. He rolls as he lands, ending up sitting atop the table facing you. He grins widely, giving you a thumbs up.

“Heh,” you laugh weakly, returning the thumbs up before taking your seat. He’s more physically adept than you’d initially assumed…maybe his time in the forest hadn’t been as harrowing as you’d thought.

Doey manages to keep the more impulsive fragments within him in check. It’s incredibly difficult to pick up the little measuring spoon and eat with anything resembling decorum, but Doey manages to convince Jack and even Kevin that good manners will get them more meals. You’re not going to want to keep making him food if he splatters it all over the table and walls, or even if he just grosses you out with poor mealtime etiquette.

Jack is pretty easily swayed by this argument, as it matches up with his childhood memories from home. Kevin is less convinced--he wants to take all he can before you change your mind, but he’s overruled, and even he can’t completely discount how readily you offered the meal even knowing Doey doesn’t technically need it.

Still, while his manners are far more polite than not, he doesn’t even come close to hiding how much he’s relishing the meal. Each bite causes him to emit a happy little hum at the delicious flavor--oh how he’s missed flavor--and occasionally do a little bounce or kick his feet as he savors the taste.

You try not to react at first, not wanting to make him self-conscious, but eventually a small giggle escapes you, causing him to flinch sheepishly, giving you an apologetic smile.

“S-Sorry, it’s…it’s just very good!” he says with an awkward giggle.

“No sorries!” you say quickly, waving a hand. “I’ve just never had anyone enjoy my cooking nearly that much. If anything, it’s flattering!” you assure him lightly.

Well, that’s a relief, though Doey’s still not convinced flattery would be the first thing on your mind if he allowed himself to eat as greedily as he wants to.

He only eats a little more than half his portion. Not quite enough to fully quiet his long hunger, but enough to appease the fragments of Kevin and Jack. He doesn’t want to appear greedy, and despite your earlier comments, he can’t help but feel he’ll quickly wear out his welcome if he eats as much as a human, especially at his small size.

It’s still a far better meal than he’s had in over a decade, though.

“Mmm…that hit the spot,” he sighs contentedly, laying back on the table. His belly is noticeably distended, to a degree that would be concerning for a human. You debate asking him about it, but decide against it. He seems happy and content, and despite how jovial and even playful he seems a lot of the time, you’ve also seen how quickly that can turn.

Again, you can relate.

“Thank you, by the way,” he says in a more somber tone as he lays back, staring up at the kitchen ceiling. “F-For dinner, and…e-everything…”

“Thank you for helping with Ethan.”

He gives a vague hum of affirmation. “Didn’t do much…Should help with…the dishes…” he mumbles.

You quickly stash the leftovers in the fridge and return to the table. “Doey? Are you alright?” you ask, letting a bit of urgency slip into your tone.

His eyes are closed, his hands folded atop his belly. “Hmm?” he mumbles tiredly.

“You’re…um, you’re just falling asleep, right? Do you…need anything?”

“Mm-mm,” he mumbles. “Just sleepy. Haven’t really…slept in awhile…”

Your brow knits at the statement. Does he mean that literally? Or just that he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in awhile? Or is sleep “optional” for him the same way food seems to be?

“Well, why don’t we get you somewhere more comfortable, then?” you offer.

He doesn’t answer, but you faintly hear the sound of the slow, steady breathing of someone fast asleep.

You don’t want to leave him on the table. You’re not sure how much ergonomics matter to a little dough man, but…surely a bed would be more comfortable? If only mentally.

You gently scoop him up, cradling him in both hands. He stirs slightly, but gives no indication he’s really awake or aware of what you’re doing.

He feels slightly heavier than he did before. Or maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, and you just expect him to feel heavier after that meal.

You carry him to the rarely-used guest room, gently setting him down on one of the pillows. You pull the blanket up slightly, covering him up to his waist. Covered enough that if he gets cold at night he can find the blanket and tuck himself in more, but not so covered that he’s liable to get lost in the (to him) huge blanket.

You lean against the wall beside the bed, watching him for a moment. You can barely believe he’s even real. Part of you thinks you’ll just wake up tomorrow and realize it was all some silly dream.

But…you hope not.

“Goodnight, Doey,” you say softly, finally heading out of the room, turning off the light on your way out.

You wonder if taking him in like this, letting yourself get attached, is really a good idea. You don’t know much about who he is, and you probably know even less about what he is. You don’t know what he might want or need, or what he might do. What he could do.

Then again…he’s a six inch toy made of dough. How much trouble could he really cause?

#poppy playtime #doey the doughman #ppt doey #ppt doey the doughman #poppy playtime doey #poppy playtime doey the doughman #doey x reader #doughey the doughman x reader #canon x reader #x reader #my writing #i am cringe but i am free #doey is an adult #will be romance later #<- last two tags added later for clarity #sorry if anyone got the wrong impression #i thought the x reader (instead of & reader) made it clear that it was romance but i guess that's more of an ao3 thing #doey second chances

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svt-luna · 2 months ago

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𝜗℘ DRIVE YOU INSANE

❛ 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺. 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺. 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪'𝘮 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦— 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪'𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶— 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘰. ❜

timeline: 2025

synopsis: After weeks of mutual teasing and denial, Jeonghan and Luna’s secret plan to surprise each other with bold hairstyle changes ignites a night of explosive passion, proving they know exactly how to drive each other insane.

wc: 17.7k

warnings: 18+ mdni, mature content, sexual content, smut, cursing, sexual tension, flirting, pet names, some domestic moment before the craziness, piv sex, unprotected sex (girly pop is on birth control), teasing, dirty talk, degradation, bratty!Luna, soft dom!Jeonghan, Jeonghan is mean af, implications of a threesome, edging, oral sex, cunnilingus, fingering, blowjob, hair pulling, dry humping, riding, choking, spit play, they are both freaky af, pure filth!

i know it’s been awhile since i wrote smut so please excuse me. i also apologize for taking so long to write another smut 😩 this was requested by majority of you guys when i opened these polls (poll 1) & (poll 2). i also want to remind everyone to please read the warnings and the disclaimers— i don’t need anyone commenting or messaging me acting like saints as if they were blind to the handful of disclaimers and warnings i have before explicit contents. other than that, enjoy!

Disclaimer: The following chapter contains explicit sexual content and mature themes. It is intended for adult readers only. If you are under the legal age or find these subjects uncomfortable, it is advised for you to refrain from reading further. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ writings masterlist

Luna started it.

Well… technically, Jeonghan started it.

But if anyone were to ask how this entire thing spiraled, she’d probably say, “He started it,” only to follow it up with an eye roll and a mumbled, “Okay, fine. I started it.”

She never meant to provoke Jeonghan… but she did.

Oh, she absolutely did.

She knew she did.

She knew it the second the thought crossed her mind— knew it from the very moment she said the words out loud— and yet, she still did it.

She wasn’t slick. Not even a little. She wanted a reaction from her fiancé.

And that’s exactly what she got.

It all started with a normal schedule.

A typical day in the life of Luna.

She had been offered a new photoshoot, one of many in the past few months— but this time, it was for Cosmopolitan magazine. She accepted the offer like she always did, gracefully, with gratitude, thanking the magazine’s editorial team and promptly sitting down with her own styling and management teams to discuss the shoot.

They bounced around concepts, discussed moods and color palettes, and swapped reference photos for poses and lighting.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. It was just a shoot. Another one she’d file into her endless archive.

But then… the creative team dropped the concept: sexy and couture. High fashion, daring, sultry. They wanted something new. Something bold. Something from her they hadn’t seen before.

That’s when her hairstylist lit up, practically jumping with excitement.

“Let’s do a hair color change!” her head stylist said immediately, clapping her hands together like she’d been waiting for this very moment. “Something fiery… something fierce… What do you think, Jiyeon-ah?”

Luna hesitated.

Unlike most idols— or even her own members— Luna rarely bleached or dyed her hair.

Since debut, she had only gone for bold colors a handful of times. While the others jumped from platinum blond to pastel pink, from icy blue to silvery grey, Luna remained grounded in her earthy tones: dark brown, jet black, soft chocolate— sometimes she’d go blonde. Occasionally she would play with wigs— high-quality ones custom-made for her head size— but that was usually the extent of her transformation.

Wigs were easier. Faster. Less painful.

Her natural hair? That was sacred ground. Which was one of the main reasons why her hair wasn’t dead yet— it was healthy as ever and she’d like to keep it that way.

Because of this, Luna dyeing her hair had become a phenomenon.

An inside joke, even.

Colored Hair Luna was like a rare Pokémon— rarely seen, deeply desired.

Fans had begged and pleaded for her to go pink, white, blue, anything for years. Every time a comeback would drop, hashtags like #LunaHairChange trended in multiple countries, only for her to appear on screen with the same silky black strands.

It was hilarious, really.

So when her stylist began talking about colors and looked ready to pull out the wig catalog, Luna simply leaned back in her seat, lips curled in an unreadable smirk.

“I want to go red,” she blurted, calm and decisive.

Everyone paused.

Her stylist blinked. “You mean… like a wig? Yeah! You haven’t d–”

“No,” Luna said smoothly, voice confident and clear. “I want to dye my hair this time.”

Her team collectively straightened in their seats.

“I want it to be dark red— wine red,” Luna continued, eyes glittering with a plan. “Just like my hair during ‘Rock With You’. Exactly like that.”

Her head stylist looked stunned for a second before she nodded, already thinking logistics. “We can prep the swatches and check the damage level of your strands. If it gets too intense, we’ll stick with the wig route—”

“No need,” Luna interrupted, shaking her head firmly. “I want to dye it. Properly. No wig.”

Her stylist sat back, brows raising, and Luna just smirked to herself as her manager scribbled things into the schedule.

And that’s when it started.

Because Luna knew exactly what she was doing.

The red hair wasn’t for the concept.

The red hair wasn’t for Cosmopolitan.

It was for Jeonghan.

Because her fiancé had been testing her patience for weeks.

Ever since his enlistment began and he was assigned to social work duties, Jeonghan had fallen into a strict 9 to 5 schedule. By the time he got home, he was drained— physically and mentally— and Luna understood that.

Of course she did.

She never blamed him for being tired. She let him sleep in, made his meals on the weekdays when her schedule allows her and on weekends, didn’t pressure him when his body craved rest instead of affection.

But.

She was a woman. A woman in love. A woman with needs.

And lately, Jeonghan had been ignoring those needs.

With a damn smile, no less.

Whenever she tried to initiate anything even remotely steamy, he’d gently push her away, kiss her on the forehead, and whisper that stupid line—

“I’m tired, my moon.”

And then, always, always, the smirk.

He thought she didn’t notice it.

That tiny quirk of his mouth. That mischievous gleam in his eyes. The way he’d saunter off as if he didn’t just leave her hot and bothered and burning.

The worst part? He enjoyed it.

He was testing her. Teasing her. Playing his long, slow, evil game.

One time, she had leaned against him, fingers slipping under his shirt, nails brushing against his abdomen— and just when his breath hitched, he caught her hands, shook his head like a teacher scolding a child, and said, “Nope. Not tonight, baby.” Before smirking.

Another time, she kissed down his jawline, whispered all sorts of filthy little promises in his ear, and just when she thought she got to him, he cupped her cheeks gently between his palms, kissed the tip of her nose, and said, “Tired, Nana-ya.”

Smirking.

Every single time.

Well.

That was about to change.

Because if Jeonghan wanted to play with fire, Luna was going to set the whole house ablaze.

And finally after days of waiting— it was officially shoot day.

The first light of Saturday morning filtered softly through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room where Jeonghan and Luna lay entwined in slumber.

Their bodies were a tangle of limbs beneath the cozy duvet. Jeonghan’s head rested in the crook of Luna’s neck, his warm breath fanning over her skin with each rhythmic exhale. His arm draped possessively over her waist, anchoring her to him even in sleep.

Since Jeonghan’s enlistment, a subtle shift had occurred in their daily routine. Luna had taken it upon herself to rise earlier than him, ensuring he had a hearty breakfast before his demanding days. Even on weekends, when his schedule was mercifully clear, she found solace in maintaining this ritual— a small act that tethered her to a sense of normalcy amidst the changes.

As the morning light grew brighter, Luna’s eyes fluttered open. She remained still for a moment, savoring the warmth of Jeonghan’s body pressed against hers, the steady cadence of his heartbeat a comforting melody against her back. A soft smile graced her lips as she gently traced her fingers over the arm encircling her waist, committing the sensation to memory.

Carefully, she began to disentangle herself from his embrace. The movement was slow, deliberate, each shift calculated to avoid disturbing his slumber.

Yet, Jeonghan was a notoriously light sleeper. As soon as she attempted to slip away, his hold tightened instinctively, a low, groggy murmur escaping his lips.

“Baby…” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, the sound vibrating softly against her skin.

Turning to face him, Luna cupped his face tenderly, her thumbs brushing over his jawline. She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Shh,” she whispered soothingly. “Go back to sleep, Han. You need the rest.”

Jeonghan’s eyes remained closed, but a contented sigh escaped him as he nuzzled deeper into her touch.

Luna continued to stroke his hair, her fingers threading through the silky strands, occasionally pressing feather-light kisses to his forehead and cheeks.

Gradually, his breathing evened out, signaling his descent back into restful sleep.

Satisfied, Luna carefully extricated herself from his embrace, ensuring the duvet remained snug around him. She stood, pausing for a moment to watch the serene expression on his face before tiptoeing out of the bedroom.

In the bathroom, she went through her morning routine with practiced efficiency— washing her face, brushing her teeth, and tying her hair up into a loose bun. The cool water invigorated her senses, preparing her for the day ahead.

With one last glance at her reflection, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

The house was enveloped in a tranquil silence, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards beneath her feet.

Luna moved with quiet purpose, gathering ingredients to prepare a traditional Korean breakfast. She decided on miyeok guk— seaweed soup.

She soaked the dried seaweed in water, watching as it expanded and softened. In a pot, she sautéed thin slices of beef with minced garlic until the meat browned and released its savory aroma. Adding the rehydrated seaweed, she poured in water, allowing the mixture to simmer and meld into a flavorful broth. A dash of soy sauce and a pinch of salt completed the seasoning.

As the soup simmered, Luna prepared a pot of steamed rice, the grains cooking to fluffy perfection. She arranged an assortment of side dishes— including kimchi, seasoned spinach, and pickled radish, adding color and variety to the meal.

The kitchen filled with the comforting scents of home-cooked food, wrapping around her like a warm embrace.

About thirty minutes later, as she ladled the soup into bowls, Luna’s keen ears picked up the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps approaching from behind. Jeonghan was attempting to be stealthy, but she knew his movements all too well.

The faint padding of his feet ceased just as she felt his presence lingering near the doorway.

Without turning around, a playful smirk tugged at her lips. “Are you just going to stand there and watch me?” she inquired, her tone light and teasing.

A soft chuckle resonated from the doorway. “With hearing like yours, it’s no wonder I can’t surprise you,” Jeonghan quipped, his voice a melodic blend of amusement and affection.

Finally turning to face him, Luna found him leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants. His hair was tousled from sleep, and a lazy smile played on his lips.

“Dolphin,” he teased, referencing her acute hearing— a nickname he’d bestowed upon her, much to her chagrin.

Rolling her eyes with a chuckle, Luna shook her head. “You were just loud,” she retorted, returning her attention to the meal.

Jeonghan pushed off the doorframe, his bare feet making no sound as he crossed the kitchen to stand behind her. His arms encircled her waist, pulling her gently against his chest. The warmth of his body seeped through the thin fabric of her shirt, eliciting a contented sigh from her.

“You always take such good care of me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Jeonghan’s hands were warm against the curve of her waist, fingers splayed over the thin cotton of her sleep shirt as he lazily traced idle patterns with his thumbs.

Luna continued to stir the soup, refusing to let his presence distract her too easily— even if the feel of him behind her, loose and clingy, already made her heart flutter.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured again, this time lower, closer to her ear. “It’s almost unfair how well you know me.”

“You say that like I don’t have more than ten years of experience,” she mused, trying to keep her voice light, though his lips grazing her ear sent a shiver right down her spine.

“Mmm… more than ten years and counting.” He dipped his head lower, his nose brushing the side of her neck. “Still doesn’t explain how you can hear my footsteps from the hallway like some kind of sonar assassin.”

“Maybe I’m just that good,” she replied casually, using a ladle to stir the soup once more. “You forget I actually have superpowers while you… a failed ninja.”

Jeonghan chuckled, his breath teasing the fine hairs on her neck. “You mean a sexy ninja.”

Luna huffed out a laugh, shaking her head with a smile as she replied, “A clumsy one, at best.”

His arms tightened around her waist in mock offense, but his teasing never ceased. “You wound me,” he muttered dramatically before placing a slow, deliberate kiss just beneath her jawline.

She hummed under her breath, a warning and a dare in one. “Hannie…”

But Jeonghan pretended not to hear it— or, more accurately, he chose not to care.

His lips trailed along her skin with unhurried affection, brushing over her neck, down the slope of her shoulder. He eased her shirt collar aside just slightly with the tip of his nose, exposing more skin to his wandering mouth.

Soft, innocent kisses turned into gentle nips. A tender bite at the edge of her collarbone made her flinch slightly. His tongue followed, smoothing over the sting, and she exhaled slowly through her nose, gripping the wooden spoon in her hand a little tighter.

“Yoon Jeonghan…” she warned again, this time quieter, shakier, a low breath caught between amusement and restraint.

He just hummed in acknowledgment, still not listening. His mouth continued its lazy exploration, alternating between lips, teeth, and tongue. His movements were slow, teasing, nonchalant— like he had all the time in the world to taste her skin and none of the intention to stop.

“You’re distracting me,” Luna said, her voice a little strained now as she tried to focus on the soup and not the warm mouth driving her mad.

“That’s the point,” Jeonghan murmured against her clavicle. “You’re too good at multitasking anyway. I’m just evening the playing field.”

She rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see it, biting down a smirk as she said, “You’re such a menace.”

“I try.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he said smugly, nipping once more at the sensitive skin just above the curve of her shoulder, eliciting a soft gasp from her.

Luna doesn’t know if Jeonghan was just testing her patience once more so that he can pull away and piss her off or he finally gave up the chase… nonetheless… she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

She pressed her lips together, determined not to let him get to her, not yet— not when her plan was already in motion.

Jeonghan didn’t know it, but today, he wouldn’t get to win the game he started.

Not until she came back home. Not until tonight. Not until after the shoot, when she’d walk through the front door with a brand new hair color that she knew would absolutely wreck him.

Not until she was the one to leave him speechless.

So she bit back her laugh, steadied her breath, and finally turned off the heat, the soup now perfectly done.

Without warning, she stepped out of his arms, smoothly gliding out of his grip and walking over to the table with quiet purpose.

She didn’t look back, but she knew he was watching her. Could feel the weight of his gaze crawling down her back.

“You gonna keep staring or are you going to help me set the table?” she asked casually, placing the dishes down, a hidden smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Jeonghan blinked, once, twice, his mouth slightly ajar as he processed the sudden shift. “…Right. Breakfast,” he muttered, finally moving, still watching her like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

She didn’t rush him. Just hummed to herself, soft and nonchalant as she arranged everything with practiced ease.

Jeonghan returned a few seconds later with the chopsticks and spoons, setting them down in neat pairs. He slid into the chair across from her, still eyeing her with mild suspicion as she poured them both a cup of water.

“Something’s different about you today,” he said finally, narrowing his eyes at her.

Luna shrugged, picking up her spoon. “It’s the photoshoot. I’m excited.”

“You’ve had shoots before.”

“Not a Cosmopolitan cover shoot.”

“Fair,” he conceded, picking up his spoon. “So, what’s the schedule like?”

She smiled and stirred her soup gently. “Pretty straightforward. I have to be there by 10. Makeup, hair, wardrobe— the whole prep process will probably take two hours. The actual shoot is set for the afternoon, maybe three to four hours depending on how quickly we get the shots. I should be back by early evening if everything goes smoothly.”

Jeonghan chewed slowly, nodding thoughtfully. “So dinner time?”

“Maybe a little before,” she said, sipping on her soup. “But yeah, dinner’s safe.”

“Good. I’ll wait.”

She arched a brow at him. “You make it sound like I’m going off to war.”

“You kind of are,” he said, lips quirking. “Fashion war. Lights, cameras, fake smiles and all.”

“Oh, I’ll be smiling alright,” she said, voice breezy as she dipped her spoon again. “Just not fake.”

He gave her a suspicious look. “You’re hiding something.”

“Me?” she blinked innocently. “Never.”

“Jiyeon-ah…”

She giggled into her spoon. “What about you? What are your grand plans today?”

Jeonghan shrugged, leaning back in his chair as he picked at his rice. “Nothing crazy. I’m yours for the day. No schedules, no plans. Just gonna chill. Might read, nap, annoy you with texts until you come home.”

“You sound like a golden retriever.”

“Better than a dolphin,” he shot back with a wink.

She snorted. “Okay, that one’s fair.”

There was a lull in the conversation as they both ate for a moment, the quiet comfortable. But Jeonghan’s eyes kept drifting back to her, narrowing slightly, like he was trying to read between the lines of her calm exterior.

Like he could sense something was coming— but not quite place it.

And Luna? She just kept eating her soup, smiling to herself with every spoonful.

Because tonight, she knew exactly what she was coming home with.

And Jeonghan?

He had no idea.

The clinking of silverware and quiet chatter faded into the background as breakfast came to a close. Jeonghan had washed the dishes without being asked— though with dramatic flair and playful complaints— while Luna disappeared into the bedroom to get ready.

The minutes ticked on, and Jeonghan stayed nearby, pacing around the living room with his phone in hand, every few seconds glancing toward the hallway where she was.

When Luna finally stepped out, dressed comfortably in wide-leg jeans and a white button-down tucked at the waist, her hair pulled into a low bun for the salon prep, Jeonghan immediately zeroed in on her. His lips formed an exaggerated pout as he crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“Do you really have to go?” he drawled, wrapping both arms around her the second she was within reach.

“Yes,” Luna said with a sigh, draping her arms around his shoulders. “You’ve asked me that three times already.”

“I thought maybe the answer would change,” he murmured, burying his face in the side of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. “Just stay. Call in sick. We’ll lie in bed all day and watch bad dramas.”

“You hate bad dramas.”

“I’d suffer through them for you.”

She chuckled softly, trying not to melt into him. “It’s Cosmopolitan, Jeonghan. I’m not missing this shoot.”

He groaned dramatically and pulled her even closer, his hands splayed across her lower back. “You’re so cruel to me. Leaving me all alone in this cold, heartless house.”

“It’s literally twenty-two degrees inside.”

“My heart’s colder without you, Nana-ya,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“Yoon Jeonghan,” she said with a firm laugh, “if I don’t leave in the next five minutes, I will be late, and I’ll blame it entirely on you.”

He leaned back just enough to look at her, brows drawn like a child being scolded. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.” Her voice softened, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “You can wait a few hours, right?”

Jeonghan tilted his head into her touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”

“I know,” she whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

He kissed her back slowly, savoring it, like it might need to last him all day. His hands refused to let her go, tightening around her waist until she gently tapped his shoulder in warning.

“Han…” she muttered against his lips, a mix of amused and stern. “I’m serious.”

“Just one more,” he murmured, stealing another kiss, then another— until she laughed into it and pushed at his chest.

“Okay, okay, I’m going!”

“Cruel woman,” he muttered again with a reluctant sigh, finally letting her go as she backed away toward the door.

Luna paused at the entrance, slipping on her shoes and turning to blow him a quick kiss. “Text you when I get there!”

“You better,” he called after her. “And don’t forget— I want updates! Pictures! Selfies! Live commentary!”

“I love you!” she replied with a laugh, ignoring the last part completely.

“I love you too… but– Jiyeonie!”

But she was already out the door.

Thankfully Luna arrived on set right on time, just as the stylists were setting up and the production crew began final lighting checks. The studio smelled like hot lights and hairspray— familiar, sterile, and oddly comforting. Stylists welcomed her with warm greetings and she was ushered to the styling station in the back corner where the magic would begin.

But today wasn’t like other shoots. Today, she wasn’t just getting her makeup done or hair curled.

Today, she was changing everything.

“Ready?” the hairstylist asked as Luna sat down in the black leather chair.

She caught her own reflection in the mirror— bare-faced, calm, but undeniably excited. “Let’s do it.”

The stylist pulled on gloves and began mixing the bleach, the sharp chemical scent hitting Luna’s nose almost instantly. She blinked, the smell both foreign and achingly nostalgic.

It had been years since she’d bleached her hair. Back then, it was just business. This time, it was personal.

As the bleach was applied, it burned. Not unbearably— but enough to make her scalp tingle and her eyes water just slightly.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t complain.

Luna’s pettiness was stronger than the sting.

Jeonghan deserved this surprise.

She imagined his face when he saw her later. How his breath would hitch. How he’d probably go quiet. Or maybe say something infuriatingly flirty just to hide how hard he was staring.

That image alone kept her rooted in the chair, even as the bleach sat and processed, lightening her strands to a pale gold.

After rinsing and drying, the red dye was mixed— rich, deep, and dark like a full glass of wine under candlelight.

As they applied the color, she couldn’t stop the giddy flutter in her chest. This wasn’t just for the shoot. This was her own kind of rebellion. Her statement. Her secret gift to the man waiting at home.

By the time it was rinsed and styled, she was a completely different Luna in the mirror.

Blood-red hair tumbled past her shoulders in soft, styled waves, the color catching the studio lights like fire in motion.

She grinned. Perfect.

She was moved to makeup next, where the team worked quickly to match her new hair with bold choices— warm-toned eyeshadow, thick lashes, and a glossy red-brown lip.

Every minute brought her closer to showtime, but as she sat idle in the chair, she took out her phone and messaged the one person who mattered most.

luna: Almost done with hair and makeup.

Jeonghan’s reply was immediate.

angel boy: Show me.

She grinned.

luna: It’s a surprise, my love

angel boy: Just one photo. Please?

luna: Nope. You’ll see tonight.

angel boy: You’re killing me, Jiyeonie

luna: You’ll live.

angel boy: I’m literally dying. My soul is leaving my body.

Luna giggled, biting her lip as the stylist applied highlighter to her cheekbones.

luna: Be patient, pretty boy.

angel boy: You’re evil. Gorgeous and evil.

luna: You love me.

angel boy: …

angel boy: Damn right I do.

She locked her phone with a smug little smile just as the stylist finished her last touch-up.

Then, it was time.

The set was vast and dynamic, decked out in sleek props and dramatic lighting. There were racks of designer clothes on one side— Miu Miu, Saint Laurent, and Valentino— all selected specifically for this cover shoot.

Luna slipped into each look one by one, letting the stylists fasten, zip, and adjust every detail.

A black silk gown with a low neckline. A red structured suit with exaggerated shoulders. A white dress draped in crystals.

Her new hair framed her face like art, cascading down her back or thrown over one shoulder with every outfit change. The photographer guided her into poses, but Luna didn’t need much instruction— her body moved on instinct, like she’d been born for this. Every turn of her head, every glance over her shoulder, every soft parting of her lips was deliberate.

The camera loved her.

And she knew her fiancé would too.

As the flashbulbs burst and the stylists cooed in approval, Luna only thought of one thing— Wait till he sees this.

By the time the final photo was taken and the camera shutter gave its last snap, Luna was buzzing.

The Cosmopolitan team applauded her with genuine admiration, and more than one stylist gushed about how the red hair had transformed the shoot.

“You really brought it to life,” the photographer had said, shaking her hand with a wide grin. “This is going to be one hell of a cover.”

To top it all off, the fashion director— impressed by her professionalism and poise— offered her a surprise token of appreciation: “You get to pick one look from today’s shoot to keep. Anything you want.”

Without a second thought, she chose the little black dress. Elegant yet minimalistic, with a backless curve that dipped just low enough to tease without screaming for attention.

Luna thought of Jeonghan immediately when she saw herself in it.

Everything was going her way.

Her hair still curled in soft waves down her back, makeup perfectly intact even after hours under the lights. With her little black dress on, her heels clicking on the studio floor, Luna exited the building with the kind of satisfaction that came from knowing the day was hers.

The drive home was quiet— just her and the soft hum of the car, fingers occasionally brushing through the blood-red strands that now framed her face. Her lips curled every time she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror.

She imagined Jeonghan’s face the second he laid eyes on her.

God, he’s going to lose it.

When she finally pulled up to their house, the sun had dipped low behind the horizon. The sky was painted in strokes of lavender and dusk-blue, casting the house in a golden glow. She eased the car into the garage, careful with the dress bag slung over the passenger seat, and shut the engine off.

Her heels clicked against the garage floor, muffled when she stepped into the house. The front door closed behind her with a soft thud, and immediately, she noticed how still everything was. No sound of the TV, no clattering in the kitchen.

“Hannie?” she called out. “I’m home!”

Silence for a beat.

Then—

“In here!” his voice called out faintly, muffled by distance. “Bedroom!”

Luna giggled to herself, already picturing him sprawled out like a cat, refusing to move even though he’d probably been waiting all day for her. She dropped her handbag on the couch and kicked off her heels near the entryway with a sigh of relief. Fingers ruffling through her curls to fluff them up, she dashed up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time like a schoolgirl with a secret.

At the top, she slowed her pace, heart beating faster— not from the stairs, but anticipation. She reached their bedroom and leaned against the doorway, one shoulder pressed into the frame.

There he was.

Jeonghan was sprawled out on their bed in a loose white shirt and grey sweatpants, ankles crossed and phone held lazily in both hands above his chest. His head rested on a pillow, his hair slightly tousled as if he’d just woken up from a nap.

“Seriously,” he was saying mid-sentence, without looking up. “I’m hurt you didn’t send me pictures, Nana-ya. You’ve been suspiciously secretive all day, and I’m starting to think—”

He stopped.

His eyes flicked toward the movement in his peripheral.

And when he saw the color red.

Jeonghan’s head snapped to the side so fast, Luna swore it nearly detached from his neck.

Their eyes met.

Luna smirked. One eyebrow raised, lips curled into a smile far too smug to be innocent.

Jeonghan sat up instantly, phone dropping to the mattress as his eyes trailed over her slowly, deliberately, from head to toe.

He blinked once.

Twice.

Then—

“Holy fucking shit, Bae Jiyeon.”

Luna giggled.

“What the— fuck, Jiyeon-ah— holy mother of fuck,” Jeonghan whispered like he was talking to himself, his mouth hanging open as he took her in. “You— what— fuck, you’re gonna kill me. What is wrong with you?”

She stood there wearing the little black dress. It hugged her like it was sewn onto her body, dipping low in the back and hugging the curves of her hips like second skin. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders like wine, glowing under the bedroom light. She had one hand resting on her hip, the other pushing her hair off to one side with a soft flip that made his jaw clench.

“Is this why you wouldn’t send me a photo?” he said, still stunned, running a hand down his face. “God, you’re unreal.”

“Mm,” she hummed, pushing off the doorframe and stepping further into the room with slow, deliberate steps. “You were being impatient.”

“You teased me all day, and then you show up looking like that?” Jeonghan pointed at her like she’d personally offended him. “That’s illegal. That should be illegal… God– you should be illegal.”

Luna laughed, moving closer to the edge of the bed. “You like it?”

“Like it?” he scoffed. “You look like a Bond girl who just killed the villain, stole the diamonds, and is walking out of the fire without a scratch.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Damn.” He sat up straighter, elbows resting on his knees now as he leaned forward to get a better look. “I mean— I can’t even look at you directly right now. That shade of red? That dress? That smug little look on your face? I’m actually losing my mind.”

She swayed her hips a little, standing just out of reach. “Good.”

Jeonghan groaned like he was in pain. “You’re actually evil.”

Luna tilted her head. “And yet you love me.”

“Painfully.”

They locked eyes for a long moment.

Then—

“That better not be a wig, baby,” Jeonghan said suddenly, voice low and serious. “I swear, if you ripped that off your head right now, I’d actually cry.”

Luna burst out laughing, one hand on her stomach. “It’s not a wig!”

“Swear it.”

“I swear.”

“Let me pull on it.”

Yoon Jeonghan was dead serious.

“You can, if you want,” she said, inching even closer until she stood right between his knees. “Go ahead. Confirm it yourself.”

He looked up at her, still in disbelief. “You did this for me?”

“I did this for me,” she said, voice softening. “But also… yeah. I knew you’d lose it— that was the plan.”

“Oh, I’ve lost it,” Jeonghan muttered, reaching up to toy with the ends of her hair, eyes never leaving hers. “I’m never going to be normal again.”

Their chemistry sparked like a lit fuse, electric and heavy in the air. She stood there with a proud little smirk while he looked up at her like she’d personally rewritten his definition of beauty.

“You look insane, Nana-ya.”

She raised a brow, smug. “Drive-you-insane insane?”

“Drive-me-to-church-and-pray-for-forgiveness insane.”

She laughed, leaning down a little, their faces inches apart. “You sure you can handle this?”

Jeonghan grinned slowly, hands slipping up the sides of her thighs. “I’m the only one that can handle you, angel face.”

Their breaths mingled in the space between them, the tension simmering, unspoken, but felt in the air— thick and magnetic.

Neither moved. Neither needed to. Not yet.

Because this wasn’t just a reveal.

It was the beginning of something far more dangerous.

The kind of danger that made your heart race and your breath hitch.

The kind that made you feel alive.

Jeonghan's hands slid up her thighs, fingers tracing the edge of her dress, inching closer to the apex. Luna felt her body respond, a shiver running down her spine as her nipples hardened under the thin fabric. She knew he could see the effect he had on her, the way her breath hitched and her eyes fluttered shut.

"Fuck, baby," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "You're so goddamn beautiful."

She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze.

"You're not going to touch me?" she teased, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeonghan's eyes darkened, a wicked glint in them. "Oh, I'm going to touch you, my love. I'm just enjoying the view first."

His hands moved higher, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She gasped, her body arching slightly as a wave of pleasure washed over her. He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent a shiver down her spine.

Jeonghan’s fingers glided up the sleek curve of Luna’s spine with maddening slowness, like he had all the time in the world to savor this— because he did.

Luna was finally home, finally in front of him, in that dress with that hair, and Jeonghan didn’t care if the world outside came to a halt; he wasn’t letting this moment rush past him.

The pads of his fingers ghosted over the nape of her neck before slipping into her freshly dyed, wine-red hair— so rich, so vibrant it glinted like blood in the low bedroom light.

His touch was reverent at first, delicate even, but then his fingers tightened into a gentle fist, gripping the strands and tugging with just enough force to test it.

Her scalp tingled, and a teasing smirk painted her lips when her hair held firm.

“Told you,” she murmured smugly, eyes glinting with mischief.

Jeonghan groaned, deep from his throat, and his head fell back dramatically. “Fuck,” he cursed like he was being punished, like her existence in that moment was a sin he gladly wanted to be ruined by.

And before Luna could shoot back a reply, Jeonghan’s hand slid to her jaw, guiding her face to his with a kind of desperation that stole the breath from her lungs.

Their mouths crashed together, lips molding perfectly like two puzzle pieces that had always belonged. It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was urgent, consuming, a week’s worth of tension and teasing combusting all at once.

Luna’s hands flew up to clutch his shoulders, nails digging lightly into the muscle there as he pulled her with him, sliding her up the bed without ever breaking the kiss. She gasped into his mouth when her knees straddled his lap, and Jeonghan took full advantage, slipping his tongue between her lips to taste the lingering sweetness of her lip gloss and something distinctly her— a flavor he was sure he’d never get tired of.

“Fuck—” he whispered against her mouth, one hand gripping her waist tightly while the other remained tangled in her hair. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”

Luna let out a shaky breath, her forehead pressed against his as she smiled through half-lidded eyes. “Pretty sure I do,” she whispered, nipping at his bottom lip playfully.

He growled at that, deep and low, his hips shifting beneath her slightly. “This what you wanted, huh?” he muttered, lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “Dye your hair red, put on that dress, come home smelling like a damn fantasy—”

“All for you,” she murmured, trailing her fingers up the nape of his neck, curling them into his hair. “Only for you, Jeongie.”

Jeonghan kissed her again— hotter, deeper, like he was trying to memorize every angle of her mouth.

Their lips moved in perfect rhythm, soft gasps and slick sounds echoing off the walls of their shared bedroom. His teeth grazed her lip, his tongue swept against hers, and she moaned softly into his mouth, gripping his shoulders tighter.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered in between kisses, letting his lips fall to her jaw, then to the column of her throat where he left open-mouthed kisses, each one trailing hotter than the last.

“And you’re still overdressed,” Luna teased breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slid along the curve of her hips.

Jeonghan chuckled darkly, teeth grazing her skin. “Don’t tempt me,” he warned, voice rough, gravelly, intoxicating. “You already came home looking like a dream and now you’re sitting on my lap talking like that—”

“Talking like what?” she said innocently, tilting his face back up to hers with a finger under his chin.

“Like you don’t know I’ve been going crazy waiting for you all damn day,” he whispered against her lips. “Like you don’t know I’ve been thinking about this since the second you left.”

Luna smiled softly, her expression warming with affection even as her tone stayed playful. “Then I guess you better make up for lost time.”

Jeonghan stared at her for a beat— completely, utterly in awe.

And then he kissed her again.

The kind of kiss that promised trouble. The kind that tasted like devotion, mischief, lust, and love wrapped in one.

Their laughter and whispers tangled in the air as their kiss deepened, as hands explored familiar territory with the kind of reverence that only came from years of knowing each other inside out.

Luna wanted this.

No— she planned for this.

Every second of it, every angle, every strand of her newly dyed hair, every carefully calculated move that led up to her straddling her fiancé in the dim lighting of their shared bedroom— it was deliberate.

She knew exactly what she was doing the second she texted him teasingly from the makeup chair, dodging every single one of his pouty pleas for a photo. She knew it when she slid into that sleek little black dress before leaving the shoot, already hearing his reaction in her head.

And she definitely knew what she was doing the moment she pulled her hair tie off in the garage, letting her freshly curled red hair tumble dramatically over her shoulders like she was the star of her own movie.

This wasn’t just a surprise.

It was payback.

Because Jeonghan had been teasing her mercilessly for weeks.

Touching, flirting, trailing his fingers along her waist when she walked past, whispering filth into her ear at the most inappropriate times, leaning close during dinner just to watch her blush— and yet never letting anything happen.

He’d deny her every time with a smirk and a kiss on the cheek like he wasn’t the one pressing her buttons until she was one second away from combusting.

Yoon Jeonghan knew exactly how to work her up and just as easily how to pull away, like it was all some kind of game.

So she pulled out the big guns.

The last time she dyed her hair wine red, nearly three years ago, it had been for a comeback.

The internet lost its mind— headlines raved about the transformation, fans made edits by the millions, and stylists praised her for the boldness.

But none of them lost their mind the way Jeonghan did.

She remembered it vividly. He saw her walk into the rehearsal room with that freshly dyed hair and went absolutely feral.

He couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop touching. He’d corner her backstage, trail his fingers through her waves, bury his nose in the scent of her shampoo, press lingering kisses to her neck that made it nearly impossible to focus on choreography.

And when they were alone?

Jeonghan was insatiable.

He loved the way her red hair looked wrapped around his fist, the way her moans echoed in the room, and the way her body responded to his every touch. He was insatiable, driven by a primal need to claim her, to mark her, to make her his. He wanted everyone to know that she was his, that she belonged to him.

That hair didn’t even last three weeks.

Luna had to dye it back to black because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He was like a man possessed, and she’d decided, at the time, that her sanity— and their schedules— couldn’t survive that level of chaos again.

But now?

She wanted that chaos.

She wanted him drunk on her.

Desperate.

She wanted him ruined.

So as their mouths tangled again and she shifted in his lap, slowly rolling her hips just enough to feel the sharp inhale he took, Luna smirked against his lips. He groaned into her mouth, and she kissed him harder— deeper, wetter— her fingers curling tighter around the back of his neck.

He was already slipping.

Already losing composure. Good.

That was exactly the point.

She pressed closer, her body melting against his like it was molded for him alone, and when he gasped— his fingers tightening possessively around her hips— Luna let out a breathless little laugh that sent a shiver down his spine.

Her plan was working.

And from the way Jeonghan’s breathing hitched, from the way his fingers twitched like he didn’t know whether to worship her or wreck her, from the way his mouth chased hers like he was starved— she knew he was about to break.

Just like last time.

Just like she wanted.

However, the moment Luna had expected— hoped for, planned for— was completely unraveling, just not in the way she imagined.

Just as she was grinding herself against his lap, feeling the desperate twitch of his muscles beneath her touch, thinking she had the upper hand— Jeonghan chuckled against her lips.

At first it was soft. A breathless chuckle.

Then it grew.

Deep, smooth laughter spilled from his throat like honey, and he threw his head back, eyes crinkled, chest shaking beneath her palms as he laughed in genuine amusement.

Luna blinked. Confused. Still straddling him, lips swollen and breaths fast, she tilted her head. “Why are you laughing, Hannie?” she asked, chuckling, suspicion growing as she furrowing her brows.

“Oh, Nana-ya,” Jeonghan cooed between residual chuckles, voice dipping into that slow, sultry tone that never failed to send heat crawling up her spine. “You’re so desperate for me, my baby. It’s cute.”

Her eyes narrowed instantly. “Excuse me?”

Jeonghan’s smirk turned sinful.

He reached up, brushing his fingers across her cheek, tucking a strand of her crimson hair behind her ear. “I know you more than anyone, Jiyeonie. I know you from the inside out.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

He raised an eyebrow, lips brushing hers in a teasing peck before pulling back just enough to say, “Have you forgotten who taught you all those sneaky tricks, my moon?”

She stared at him, genuinely baffled now. “What sneaky tricks?”

Jeonghan grinned like he had just won a game he’d never agreed to play. He slid his hands behind his head and leaned back against the headboard, letting her sit speechless on his lap like she hadn’t just tried to seduce the soul out of him.

“I knew what you were doing the second you started being all suspicious this morning,” he said with a shrug, feigning nonchalance but very much enjoying himself. “The little smirks. The syrupy voice. Your lingering gaze on me. The sneaky little looks you were giving your phone. You being so excited for your shoot today. Baby, you despise leaving for work early, especially on weekends.”

Luna’s jaw dropped slightly, but Jeonghan wasn’t done.

“And when you refused to send me pictures on set?” He scoffed lightly. “Dead giveaway. You practically flood me pictures of you when you’re out— even without me asking. I could practically hear your thoughts. ‘Let’s drive him crazy today.’ And it almost worked— almost.”

He tilted his head, eyes dancing with wicked delight. “I could tell you were getting desperate. Frustrated. You were practically vibrating with need, pretty girl.”

Still unable to speak, Luna could only gape as Jeonghan leaned back fully, relaxing like he was at a spa instead of holding a flushed, bristling woman on his lap.

Then he smirked. “But…” He dragged out the word slowly, lips curling with pure mischief. “I’m tired, baby.”

That damn line.

Luna’s jaw clenched.

She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or strangle her bitchass fiancé.

Her cheeks turned the same shade as her newly dyed wine-red hair, and she stared at him with such a murderous expression that Jeonghan knew he’d be sleeping with one eye open tonight.

She didn’t even respond. She just scoffed and shoved at his chest hard enough to make him fall back on the bed with a laugh.

She climbed off of him with an angry huff, adjusting the hem of her dress as she stomped toward the door.

“Where you going?” Jeonghan asked through another lazy chuckle.

“I don’t know— maybe go to one of the guys. Maybe one of them can help me,” she snapped.

She was bluffing.

Jeonghan’s grin widened.

“Mingyu, maybe. Or Cheollie. You seem to forget those two liked me at one point.” Luna said angrily.

“Oh, I suggest Cheol, I know we both won’t mind, pretty girl.” Jeonghan drawled, folding his arms behind his head as he watched her storm toward the doorway. “Not Mingyu. He is lowkey in love with you still.”

Luna froze and turned slowly, glare sharp enough to kill.

Jeonghan laughed harder.

She pointed at him like a death sentence. “Don’t regret it when you wake up and my hair is back to black.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, baby,” Jeonghan teased, tilting his head playfully.

Luna exhaled sharply and closed her eyes, steadying her breath before hissing, “Earlier you were hot as fuck… now I just want to punch you square in the face.”

He beamed at her. “You know, if I had a won for every time you said that, we could afford our wedding ten times over.”

“If headache was a person—” she muttered, storming toward the bathroom. “—it would be you.”

She was halfway in when his voice rang out from behind.

“Do you want me to order chicken for dinner, baby? I’ve been debating before you got here.”

“Fuck off!” Luna yelled back.

“Chicken it is!” Jeonghan called cheerfully, and she swore she heard him clap once.

The bathroom door slammed behind her.

And Jeonghan, grinning ear to ear, leaned back against the headboard and whispered to himself, “Can’t outplay a player.”

Jeonghan had a reason for all of this.

Every smirk he bit back when Luna got handsy, every time he pulled away just as things got heated, every teasing kiss he denied her— there was intention in every move.

It wasn’t because he didn’t want her.

God, no.

That would’ve been a laughable lie.

If anything, the want burned under his skin like a fever he refused to treat.

But Jeonghan’s mind worked in mysterious, meticulous ways, and once the thought took root, he couldn’t shake it: what if he pushed it? What if he held back just long enough to make her unravel? What if he let tension build like a string pulled taut, until it snapped?

He had imagined it— what it would feel like when they finally let go.

Hot. Breathless. Carnal.

With weeks of frustration and teasing exploding all at once. The sound of her voice cracking from too many denied moans. Her nails sinking into his skin. That dazed look in her eyes when he finally gave in.

It was an experiment, sure.

But mostly, it was strategy.

Because Jeonghan knew her. Knew her inside and out. Knew how she ticked and how she cracked. He knew she’d react. He wanted her to. And sure enough, she bit the bait— hard.

But what made it all the more delicious was that Luna had the exact same idea.

Their brains truly shared a wavelength only they could decode, because while she plotted to dye her hair back to that sinful wine red to make him lose his damn mind, Jeonghan was thinking of doing something just as reckless.

He was going to change his hair.

It wasn’t a thought that came lightly, especially considering the timing. But Jeonghan knew what he was doing.

He knew Luna had a type— and he just so happened to be the blueprint.

Long black hair.

Not just on anyone.

On him.

It wasn’t even about vanity. It was about effect.

The way her eyes would roam when he walked into a room with his hair brushing the nape of his neck. How she would casually run her fingers through it mid-conversation, as if she didn’t even realize she was doing it. The way she braided it while he lay with his head on her lap, eyes closed, letting her hum and weave, threading tenderness into each loop. How she tugged it when they kissed, gently first, then rougher, until his breath hitched and his knees buckled.

Luna loved Jeonghan’s hair.

She loved the way it felt in her hands, the way it slid through her fingers like silk. She loved the way it looked when it was messy, when it was tied back, when it was loose and falling over his shoulders. She loved the way it looked when she pulled it, when she tugged it, when she used it to guide him, to pull him closer, to keep him where she wanted him.

She loved the way it felt against her skin when he kissed her, when he ate her out, when he fucked her.

She would run her fingers through it, pulling gently at first, then harder, guiding him, urging him on. She loved the way it felt when it was soft and smooth against her fingers, when it was rough and coarse against her palm. She loved the way it looked when it was wet, when it was dry, when it was shiny, when it was dull. She loved the way it looked when it was in her hands, when it was stuck on his skin. She loved the way it felt when it was hot and heavy against her neck, when it was cool and light against her back.

There was something about it.

Something primal.

It made her weak, and he knew it.

To Luna, long black-haired Jeonghan was her favorite contradiction.

A prince and a villain wrapped into one.

He looked ethereal, like he belonged in an oil painting hanging in a museum— but he could ruin her with a look. He was beautiful, soft even, but dangerous. Seductive. Like touching him came with a warning label.

Luna never said those things out loud, but Jeonghan wasn’t stupid. He saw it in her eyes. And even if he hadn’t, she was once tipsy enough to mutter it to him as she ran her fingers through his hair, her voice low and reverent like a prayer: “God, Han, you look like a villain when it’s long like this… but like, a really, really hot one that I would totally let ruin my life. It’s unfair.”

But right now, his hair was short— military short. And it is physically imposing for him to grow his hair long in a few days, not that he’s allowed to.

And still, Jeonghan smiled to himself, because she once told him something else. Something she probably didn’t even remember.

It had been a quiet evening almost a year ago.

Luna had been scrolling through a feed of male idols sporting shorter cuts for their roles or service, and he caught her staring. She didn’t realize he was watching until she turned her phone to him and mused aloud, “You know… you’d actually look really hot with short hair. Like— not a buzzcut buzzcut, but shorter. You’ve done short hair before… but never extremely short. Messy, a little bad boy, a little clean-cut. No curtain bangs or mullets… just short.”

Jeonghan had raised a brow then, leaned back with a lazy smile. “You into that?”

“I’m into you, my love,” Luna had shrugged, casually. “I’m just saying. You’d pull it off.”

He never forgot.

So now, with her wine red hair and devilish smirk, thinking she had outplayed him— Jeonghan was simply biding his time.

Because he was going to flip the game on her.

He was going to change up his look.

He was going to go shorter. Sharper. Edgier.

And just like she planned to break him, he was going to do the same.

Except he wasn’t going to break.

He was going to win.

Because while Luna was the fire— Jeonghan was already fireproof.

Finally it had been a week.

It had been exactly a week since Jeonghan first planted the seed of this plan in his mind.

He didn’t mean for it to take this long— God, he wanted to act on it sooner— but duty called, literally and figuratively.

His alternative military service wasn’t exactly known for granting spontaneous leave, and between weekday duties, and etcetera, weekends were the only time Jeonghan had to breathe.

And strategize.

So here he was.

Another Saturday, deceptively ordinary on the surface, unfolding with the same cozy, domestic rhythm that he and Luna had naturally fallen into.

They spent the morning lazily cocooned in their shared bed, limbs tangled, the soft lull of a show playing in the background while neither of them paid attention.

Jeonghan had pressed a kiss into Luna’s bare shoulder as she dozed, mumbled nonsense against her skin that made her smile in her sleep. Later, they shared a late brunch in their pajamas, half-laughing, half-squabbling over the last hashbrown.

It was just like every other weekend they treasured— quiet, domestic, theirs.

But by late afternoon, they’d parted ways for their separate plans.

Luna had dinner with her parents, something she’d been looking forward to all week, and Jeonghan… well, Jeonghan had a “date,” as Luna teasingly put it, with Seungcheol.

A much less romantic outing (Luna begs to differ), consisting of them visiting Hoshi and Woozi’s pre-recording for their unit comeback and grabbing dinner after.

At least, that’s what she thought.

In truth, this was it. The day. The day he’d been holding out for.

Jeonghan had waited patiently— painfully so— while Luna simmered in her own frustration over his two-week-long denial game. She had no idea she wasn’t the only one playing. Jeonghan had been meticulously planning his counterattack, and today was his move.

So once they left the house, Jeonghan dragged Seungcheol into the salon with him. Seungcheol had only needed five seconds after hearing Jeonghan’s scheme to break into unfiltered laughter.

“You two are literally insane,” he wheezed, following Jeonghan into the waiting room, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, still shaking his head. “This isn’t even flirting anymore. It’s psychological warfare.”

Jeonghan just grinned. “You say that like I didn’t invent the art of war.”

And war it was.

After an hour under the clippers and the steady hands of his trusted stylist, Jeonghan emerged with a fresh cut— short, neat, and shockingly hot. He inspected himself in the mirror, tugging slightly at his hairline, twisting his lips.

Yeah, he thought smugly. She’s gonna combust.

They didn’t linger long at the music show. They watched Hoshi and Woozi’s performance from the sidelines, cheered obnoxiously, and exchanged daps and hugs backstage, all while Jeonghan’s hood stayed firmly up.

But even with the hood, the universe clearly wanted to mess with his plan.

Because as he waved goodbye to fans through the half-open car window, someone caught a glimpse. A tiny angle of his now very exposed forehead, the faint silhouette of short hair under the hoodie.

Not even two hours passed before Jeonghan was trending.

The tags were everywhere.

#JeonghanBald

#JeonghanHaircut

#HE’SBALD

His phone buzzed nonstop in his pocket as Seungcheol read tweets out loud in a fit of laughter.

Jeonghan groaned. “Shut up, Coups. She’s gonna see it.”

“Should’ve worn a damn beanie,” Seungcheol teased, barely holding it together. “You’re the one who stuck your head out like Simba being presented to the kingdom.”

And now Jeonghan was racing home, speeding through traffic, heart thumping not because of fear— but because God, he needed this to work.

This wasn’t just some playful gotcha— this was weeks of pent-up tension and strategy culminating in one perfect moment. If Luna saw the tweets, if she opened Instagram or checked X, his surprise would be blown. Her reaction, the look on her face when she saw him— it would all be ruined.

Jeonghan burst through the front door like a man on a mission, immediately toeing off his shoes and checking the living room.

No Luna. No movement.

Where is she?

He tiptoed deeper into the house, poking his head past the hallway and listening.

Then he heard it.

The sound of water running.

The shower.

Jeonghan exhaled a breath of gratitude so deep it shook his lungs.

The gods were merciful. Either that, or Luna’s inability to take short showers was finally working in his favor.

He pressed a hand to his chest and whispered, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Luna hadn’t seen a thing.

Not the tweets. Not the glimpses. Not the tags or theories or trends.

She was still blissfully unaware, humming under the stream of hot water like it was any other Saturday.

She was going to step out of that bathroom, still smelling like her favorite citrus body wash, her skin warm and dewy, completely unsuspecting. And then— he was going to knock the air out of her lungs.

Jeonghan smirked to himself as he padded to the bedroom to set the stage.

Let the real game begin.

Soon— the sound of water finally ceased, the faint hiss of the showerhead coming to a stop behind the bathroom door as steam gently curled from beneath the frame.

A few beats passed before the door creaked open with a soft click, and Luna stepped out barefoot onto the hardwood, still damp and warm from her shower.

A small gasp left her lips at the contrast between the cool air and her flushed skin. Her body was wrapped in nothing but a plush white towel that hugged her curves securely from just above her chest, her hand tightly gripping the top fold to keep it in place. Stray droplets trickled down her legs while her dark, blood-red hair clung to her damp shoulders and back in thick, wet tendrils, cascading like crimson ink against her pale skin.

But what startled her wasn’t the cold.

It was him.

“Fuck, Han!” Luna shrieked, practically leaping backward when she caught sight of him.

Her fiancé— hood up, oversized black hoodie hanging off his frame, long legs stretched out in front of him, and glasses perched lazily on his nose— was seated comfortably at the edge of their bed. He was facing her directly, chin rested on his palm, the other hand playing with a loose thread on the bedspread, a knowing smirk curling on his lips like he’d been waiting hours for that exact moment.

“You asshole!” she huffed, marching over to smack his arm. “You scared the ever-loving shit out of me!”

Jeonghan only chuckled, the sound low and smug, his smirk deepening at her flustered reaction. “Hello to you too, my love.”

Luna narrowed her eyes at him, breathing still erratic from the shock. “Why are you just… sitting there like that? Looking like— like a mob boss in a drama or something. All in black. Waiting to collect a debt or murder someone’s dad.”

He raised a brow, thoroughly entertained. “Mob boss, huh? I was going for mysterious, dangerous fiancé. But I’ll take it.”

“More like creepy fiancé,” she muttered under her breath as she rolled her eyes and turned to walk into her dressing room. She sat down in front of the vanity and grabbed her detangling brush, gently running it through the damp strands of her hair.

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear me come in,” Jeonghan called out from the bed, voice laced with amusement. “Where’s that super sonic hearing of yours?”

Luna scoffed, eyes meeting his reflection in the mirror as she brushed through a particularly stubborn knot. “I heard the garage door open, actually. I just didn’t expect you to be sitting in here… staring at me like a creep instead of, I don’t know, walking around like a normal person.”

He let out another laugh, shrugging innocently. “Sorry, Nana-ya, couldn’t resist. You’re kind of adorable when you’re startled. Like a kitten that saw its reflection for the first time.”

“I’ll show you a kitten,” she grumbled, brushing faster.

He didn’t respond immediately.

She continued with her after-shower routine, standing up and reaching for the bottle of lotion beside her. As she began to apply it across her shoulders and arms, Jeonghan fell silent.

Too silent.

Her gaze slowly shifted toward him in the mirror again, and she noticed it instantly— the way his smirk had mellowed into a thoughtful expression, one too soft, too quiet. He was watching her again, but this time with less mischief and more meaning.

“What did you do?” Luna asked flatly, turning toward him, hand still gliding lotion over her thigh.

Jeonghan blinked, lips twitching. “What makes you say I did anything?”

She didn’t even pause. “It’s because you have that look on your face— so you either did something stupid or you want something stupid.” She eyed him warily. “So? Which one is it?”

Jeonghan smiled slowly, almost proud of her deduction. He shifted on the bed, sitting up a little straighter. “Well, I’ve been thinking lately…”

“Oh, no,” she muttered.

“…and I figured today would be a perfect opportunity,” he continued, ignoring her.

“Opportunity for what?” Luna asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously as she capped the lotion bottle and wiped her hands on a towel.

“To… change things up a little,” he said cryptically, adjusting his hood a bit as he spoke. “You know how I get. Needed a little excitement.”

She stared at him, unblinking.

“And Cheol came with me, actually,” he added casually. “Accompanied me to the salon.”

Luna’s hands froze mid-motion.

Her head tilted just slightly.

“Salon?” she repeated slowly.

Jeonghan froze, realizing a second too late how much weight that one word carried.

Luna’s eyes weren’t on his face anymore— they were darting from his lips, up to the hood covering his hair.

And that’s when it hit her.

“You son of a—” she started before cutting herself off, her hand flying to her hip as she leaned against the dresser.

“Yoon Jeonghan, I just about have had it with your bullshit these past few weeks.”

He tilted his head, lips pressed into an innocent line, eyebrows arching just the tiniest bit. “What are you trying to say, baby?”

“What I’m trying to say is—” she pointed her chin toward his hood, her eyes sharp, “you better not be bald under there.”

His smirk returned full force, devilish and delighted. “What are you going to do if I am?”

“I’m going to murder Cheol. Then you,” she replied with full confidence.

“But baby,” Jeonghan pouted dramatically, bottom lip sticking out as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, “you don’t think I’d look good with a shaved head? You won’t love me anymore?”

Luna groaned, her shoulders sagging as she looked away. “That’s not what I meant,” she muttered. “I know you’d still look good as hell and I’d still love you no matter what but…”

Her voice trailed off into a small pout, her brows pinching together as she looked down at her hands.

Jeonghan’s teasing expression softened instantly.

“What, baby?” he asked gently, his tone warm and coaxing.

“You know how much I love your hair, Jeongie…” she said softly, barely louder than a whisper.

A smile broke across his face, real and tender.

“Come here,” he said, extending his hand out toward her.

Without hesitation, Luna walked over and placed her hand in his, letting him tug her gently between his legs where he still sat on the edge of the bed. Her towel remained wrapped snugly around her, but the heat of her skin was unmistakable as she now stood above him, flushed from her shower and from his teasing. His hands cradled hers delicately as he looked up at her, and she looked down, eyes curious and waiting.

He rubbed slow circles against her knuckles with his thumb.

“Why do you like my hair so much, hm?” he cooed softly, his tone dipping into that low, fond register he reserved only for her. “Even though I already know the answer.”

Luna blinked at him, cheeks warming. “Because…” she murmured, “it’s so pretty and soft— like silk. And I love the way it falls in your eyes. I love running my hands through it. I love braiding it when it’s longer. I love tugging on it when we kiss. It just… it makes you look like you could ruin my whole life, and I’d still thank you after.”

Jeonghan laughed softly under his breath, his fingers tightening around hers as he bit his lip. “God, you’re something else,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.

Luna smiled shyly.

And still— he hadn’t taken off the hood.

Jeonghan smiled up at her in that maddening, beautiful way of his— his eyes soft but gleaming with mischief, the corners of his lips curled with the quiet satisfaction of a man who’d just laid the perfect trap and was watching his prey fall into it willingly.

He said nothing at first, just cradled her hands between his own, thumbs brushing over her knuckles with slow, delicate reverence like she was made of something sacred. His touch was warm, grounding, but his eyes held a silent storm— anticipation, amusement, a hint of cocky affection simmering just beneath the surface.

And then, wordlessly, he raised her hands.

He brought them gently to the sides of his head, letting her fingertips graze the fabric of his hood, letting her feel the slope of his head beneath it— the shift in texture that gave away what was coming before she even knew it consciously. He held her gaze all the while, eyes locked on hers like a spell.

“Open your present, my pretty moon,” he murmured, voice velvet soft— low, intimate, filled with both promise and provocation.

Luna stared at him, blinking, unmoving.

His voice echoed in her skull like a ripple in still water, and for a second, all she could do was look— really look— at the man sitting in front of her. That playful glint in his eyes, that almost angelic calm on his face, the smugness he was trying to mask with affection. Her fingers twitched faintly where they rested on his hood, her breath shallow as she studied him.

She squinted, eyes narrowing like she was trying to solve a puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to.

And then, finally, slowly, she moved. Her fingers hooked into the hem of his hood— soft cotton under her palms— and with an almost reverent slowness, she pulled it back.

The hood slid off his head with a gentle whisper of fabric.

And time stilled.

Her breath hitched.

She hadn’t been prepared.

Her hands froze in mid-air, still hovering just inches above his now bare head. Her fingers trembled slightly, suspended like she was afraid to touch him now that the illusion had been lifted.

Jeonghan’s hair— his infamous, beloved, short, bad-boy hair— was gone.

Well, not gone, not entirely, but it was short.

The shortest he had ever gone.

Cropped neatly, the kind of cut that bared the sharp lines of his jaw, that made his cheekbones even more dangerous, that exposed the delicate curve of his forehead and left her staring at a man who looked older, sharper, sexier than any human being had the right to look.

Her fiancé was still smirking.

Of course he was.

Jeonghan was watching her like a cat watches a mouse— eyes dancing, lips quirked, basking in the glorious silence of her short-circuiting brain.

Luna opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

No sound. No words. Not even a breath.

She looked like someone had just pulled the fire alarm in her brain and left her scrambling for the exits. Her heart was slamming against her ribs, her pulse so loud in her ears she was certain he could hear it. Her throat went dry. Her hands were still frozen mid-air, like her body hadn’t received the command to move.

Her mind was not doing better.

She could barely think straight. Thoughts were colliding, overlapping, spiraling out of order. He looked so… so good. So lethal. So unfairly hot. How dare he look like that? With that smirk and that jawline and that goddamn twinkle in his eye that said he knew exactly what kind of chaos he had just unleashed in her body.

She was going to die. Right here. Right now.

“Say something,” Jeonghan finally chuckled, tilting his head a little. “You look like you’re buffering.”

She could only shake her head slowly, blinking in disbelief.

He bit back a grin. “Do you like it?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “Hm? Do I look good, pretty girl?”

All she could do was nod— once, then twice. Mechanical. Slow.

“You sure?” he purred, his smirk widening just a fraction. “You’re awfully quiet. That’s not like you, Jiyeonie.”

Another nod.

Another breath she forgot to take.

Jeonghan laughed again, soft and pleased, before his hands found hers once more. He took them gently, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before pulling them toward his head again— this time, guiding her fingers directly into his hair.

It was short, yes, but it was still Jeonghan— still soft, still thick, still so very him.

“You said you loved running your hands through it,” he murmured, voice going softer, more intimate as he coaxed her fingers to rake gently through the strands. “You said you loved tugging on it when we kissed…”

His tone dropped, dangerously close to a whisper. “Said you loved the way it fell in my eyes. Loved how soft it was. How pretty it made me look.”

Luna’s breathing faltered again.

He leaned in closer, brushing his nose against her stomach through the towel.

“Well,” he said, smiling against her skin, “you can still do all those things, baby. Nothing’s changed.”

She swallowed hard, her hands finally moving on their own, fingers threading through the cropped strands. She ran them through slowly— feeling the weight of the change, feeling the warmth of his scalp, the texture, the newness of it all. She could already picture it under her palms when they kissed, when he bent over her, when he—

He slid his hands up the back of her thighs, warm and teasing, thumbs brushing the crease where the towel barely covered her.

“And you can still pull on it…” Jeonghan whispered, lips ghosting over her stomach.

And then, without warning, he reached up, removed his glasses with one hand and set them carefully on the bedside table with a soft clink.

His eyes, now unobstructed, met hers— dark, gleaming, wicked.

“It’s my turn to open my present,” he said softly.

And before she could even gasp, his hands gripped her waist, and in one smooth, fluid movement, he tugged the towel off her body and flipped them both onto the bed.

Luna landed with a breathless sound, sprawled bare beneath him on the cool sheets as Jeonghan hovered above her, knees bracketing her thighs, eyes devouring every inch of her like a man starved.

Her skin was flushed, trembling, her lips parted as she stared up at him in a stunned, heated daze.

And Jeonghan, ever the provocateur, only smiled.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, tilting his head, lashes low and heavy. “That for me, pretty moon?”

Luna glared, breathless. “You think you’re so—”

He kissed the inside of her thigh, slow, firm, and maddeningly soft. Her sentence disintegrated into a sharp inhale. Her legs tried to close instinctively, but his arms looped around them, holding her open, possessive and deliberate.

“Shh,” he murmured against her skin, lips brushing closer, and closer, “I haven’t had dessert yet.”

Luna gripped the sheets beside her, heart pounding like it wanted to claw its way out of her chest. “Han—”

“Yes, baby?” he cooed sweetly, lips ghosting over her, not yet giving in. “You’ve been begging for weeks… but tonight, you get it how I want to give it. Slow. Desperate. I made you wait, remember?”

“Please,” she whispered, voice cracking with want, her fingers reaching for his hair, desperate to anchor herself to something real.

He chuckled darkly and nuzzled lower. “There she is.”

His hands slid down to her bare thighs, warm and teasing, as he slowly moved down between her legs. Luna watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, her fingers tightening in his hair as he leaned in, his breath hot against her skin. She moaned, her hips arching up to meet him as he brushed his lips over her inner thigh, his breath tickling her sensitive skin.

"Han," she gasped, her voice trembling with need. She wanted him— needed him— to touch her, to taste her. And from the way his eyes darkened, she knew he wanted the same thing.

With a low growl, he leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste her wet folds. Luna moaned, her fingers tightening in his hair as he teased her, licking and sucking, before moving up to her clit.

He sucked it hard, his mouth closing over it as he flicked his tongue against it. She moaned louder, her hips arching up into his mouth as he continued to suck, his fingers moving to her pussy, sliding inside her.

She was so fucking wet— she could feel it coating his fingers as they slid in and out of her, her juices dripping down her thighs. She writhed beneath him, her breathing coming in soft, panting gasps.

“Fuck– baby,” she moaned, her hands gripping the sheets as she rode his fingers, his mouth, losing herself in the pleasure that he was giving her.

He bit her inner thigh, the sharp pain a stark contrast to the pleasure that was coursing through her body. She gasped, her hips jerking as he sucked the tender flesh into his mouth, his teeth grazing her skin.

"Hannie, please," she begged, her fingers tugging at his hair, her body writhing beneath him.

He chuckled against her clit, the vibration sending shockwaves through her. he asked, his voice low and teasing. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with lust, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He gave her clit one last suck before moving lower, his tongue darting out to tease her entrance.

Luna cried out, her hips bucking as he played with her, his tongue dipping in and out of her. "Baby," she begged, her body aching with need. "I want you. Right now, Han," she pleaded, her voice ragged with desire.

Jeonghan looked up at her, a wicked grin playing on his lips. He could see the desperation in her eyes, the way her body was writhing beneath him, and he loved it. He loved seeing her like this— vulnerable, needy, completely at his mercy.

“Baby,” she whimpered, already close to falling apart from the excruciating build-up, her fingers lacing into his now-short hair. “Fuck, please— don’t stop—”

But of course he did. He pulled back, just enough to drive her insane.

“Hmm?” he hummed with a smug smirk against her skin, the vibration making her buck. “Didn’t catch that, baby. You’re gonna have to say it properly.”

Luna could barely form words. Her thighs trembled, breaths ragged, as he drew a single finger up her center with maddening precision before sliding it in. Her mouth opened on a gasp, her body arching up to meet his touch.

“Tell me what you want,” he coaxed, slow and low. “Use your words.”

“I want you,” she managed, voice broken and high. “I want your mouth— please— stop teasing, Hannie, I swear to god—”

“Oh?” he replied, amused, as if she hadn’t just begged him like her life depended on it. He added a second finger, curling just right. “But I haven’t even gotten started.”

Her back arched violently, hands gripping his hair, grounding herself.

“God— Jeongie— if you stop now—!”

He pulled back again.

And she screamed.

“Yoon Jeonghan!”

“What?” he grinned like the devil. “You’re not gonna kill me before I give you what you want, right?”

She glared at him, flushed and furious and on the verge of tears. “You’re evil. You’re genuinely evil. You know that?!”

“Maybe.” He tilted his head, giving her a full, innocent smile that only made her want to slap and kiss him all at once. “But I’m your evil.”

Before she could retort, he dove back in— this time, without mercy. His mouth closed over her, tongue relentless, fingers working in tandem, drawing out moans she didn’t know she could make. Her hands tightened in his hair, tugging hard, making him groan against her— primal, low, hungry.

The sounds she made— desperate, breathless, unfiltered— only spurred him on. His fingers curled, his tongue flicked, and her whole body started to shake. She was close— so close—

And he stopped again.

Luna let out a broken sob, writhing under him. “Jeongie, baby, please, please— don’t do this— baby, I’m begging. Hurts, please—”

That made Jeonghan pause.

His eyes flicked up to her face, seeing her flushed, panting, eyes glassy with tears. And it broke him. His expression melted from cocky to reverent in a single heartbeat.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, almost in awe. “So beautiful when you’re like this for me.”

He kissed her thigh, then the crease of her hip, then lower.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his breath warm and shivery. “Let go for me, okay, pretty girl?”

And this time— he didn’t stop.

Those full lips, still slick from her juices, curved into a grin as he darted his head back down between her thighs, not giving her any time to process what was happening. His tongue was a hot, wet trail as it lapped at her sensitive clit, teasing her, taunting her.

She squirmed beneath him, her hands fisting the sheets, but he was relentless. He pinned her down with his hands on her hips, holding her in place as he feasted on her, his hair scraping against her inner thighs in the most erotic way.

He was just as merciless as he'd promised. With each flick of his tongue, each suck of his mouth, she was pushed closer and closer to the edge.

“Feels so g-good,” her body trembled, her breasts heaved, and her nails dug into the sheets beneath her.

She was so close, so damn close, and she couldn’t hold back any longer. “Jeongie,” she gasped out, her voice hoarse with need. “Please, I can’t—”

And then she was lost. Her orgasm hit her like a freight train, ripping through her body, leaving her breathless and shaking. She cried out, her back arching, her hips bucking against his mouth. “Jeonghan! Oh God, baby!” She moaned his name like a prayer, like a plea, like a promise. She rode his mouth, her fingers in his hair, guiding him, urging him to take her higher, to take her further.

“Yes, baby,” he growled against her, his mouth still working her clit, his fingers still moving inside her.

“That’s it, come for me. Give me everything, pretty girl.”

He chuckled, the vibration sending more shockwaves through her. “Fuck, you taste so good, Jiyeon. So fucking sweet. I could eat you all day.” He cooed, his voice low and soothing as he continued to lick and suck, drawing out her pleasure.

Luna panted, her body shaking as the aftershocks of her orgasm coursed through her. She could barely breathe, barely think. All she could do was feel— feel his mouth on her, his fingers inside her, his voice, his words.

“Hannie,” she gasped, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

He smirked against her, his tongue teasing her clit one last time before he finally pulled back.

His eyes, dark and satisfied, met hers as he chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down her spine. "Fuck, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with lust and praise. "You taste so damn good. So sweet. So fucking perfect." He cooed, his fingers slowly withdrawing from her, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

Luna panted, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. She watched him, her eyes heavy-lidded, her heart still racing. He leaned back, his hands on her thighs, his gaze raking over her body like he couldn't get enough. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks at the heat in his eyes, at the sheer appreciation in his smile.

Her body was still humming with pleasure, her limbs heavy and languid from the aftermath of her release. Jeonghan's hands slid slowly up her thighs, his touch gentle yet possessive, as if he was staking his claim on her body.

He began to move up, crawling slowly over her, his eyes never leaving hers. She could feel every inch of him— the beat of his heart in his chest, the heat of his body as he covered hers. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath catching in her throat as he hovered over her, his face mere inches from hers.

Their lips met in a slow, passionate kiss, a kiss that was all-consuming and desperate.

Jeonghan's hands cupped her face, his fingers tangled in her long, wine-red hair as he claimed her mouth, his tongue slipping inside, exploring, tasting. Luna moaned, her body arching into his, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. She could taste herself on him, and it sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through her.

He deepened the kiss, his teeth nipping at her lower lip before his tongue swept in to soothe the sting. Luna gasped, her hips bucking against him, her body aching for more. She could feel his hardness pressed against her, and she rocked against it, seeking friction, seeking another release.

Jeonghan growled, a low, primal sound that vibrated through her, sending shivers down her spine.

His hands tangled in her hair, with a firm grip, he pulled her head back, exposing her neck, and leaned down to nip at the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing gently before he soothed the sting with his tongue.

Luna gasped, her body arching into his, her hands grasping at his arms, her nails digging into his skin. She could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles, and she wanted more.

So much more.

But Jeonghan had other plans. He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark and hungry as they met hers. He pushed her gently, a slight nudge with his body, and Luna understood. She slowly pushed him back, her hands on his chest, her eyes locked with his.

"Your turn, Hannie," she whispered, a wicked smile playing on her lips.

He laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down her spine. "Is that so, pretty girl?" he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Well, then, come on down here and show me what you've got."

Luna didn't need to be told twice. She slid down his body, her hands trailing over his body, before tugging on his hoodie and pulling it up with the help of her fiancé who understood her hat she wanted. Her lips leaving a path of kisses down his abdomen. But she didn't linger. She had a mission, and she was determined to see it through.

Luna looked up at him as she reached the waistband of his pants, her eyes filled with mischief as she caught sight of his cock.

She bit her lower lip, her tongue darting out to lick it softly, giving him a doe-eyed look that made him grin down at her. "I'm going to make you feel good, Jeongie," she whispered, her voice sultry and full of promise.

Jeonghan chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down her spine. "I have no doubt, pretty girl," he murmured, his eyes darkening with anticipation.

Luna slowly began to suck, her lips wrapping around the head of his cock. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and innocent as she sucked him deeper into her mouth.

Jeonghan groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair, guiding her head as she sucked him. "Fuck, Jiyeon-ah," he hissed, his hips bucking slightly as she took him deeper. "You look so fucking hot like this. So eager, so desperate." Jeonghan groaned, his hips jerking slightly as Luna swirled her tongue around his tip, teasing him.

He could feel her breath on him, hot and wet, her lips tight around him as she suckled him gently. "Fuck, pretty girl, that feels so good." He groaned, his hands tightening their grip in her hair, guiding her head as she sucked him deeper.

Luna hummed softly against him, the vibration sending shivers down his spine. She knew he loved it when she did that, and she loved the reaction she got from him. She pulled back slightly, looking up at him from under her lashes, her eyes filled with mischief. She knew she had him right where she wanted him, and she was going to take her time to drive him crazy.

She began to suck him hard, her mouth moving up and down his length, her tongue swirling around the head of his cock. She could taste him, salty and musky, and she loved it. She loved the way he groaned above her, the way his hips bucked, the way his fingers tightened in her hair. She wanted more. She wanted all of him.

Luna took a deep breath, her eyes watering as she swallowed him down. She pushed past the initial gag reflex, her throat relaxing as she took him deeper, inch by inch.

“Right there,” Jeonghan let out a long, low moan, his hips jerking slightly as she took him all the way to the base. Luna looked up at him from where she was buried, her eyes watering, her nose pressing against his skin.

Jeonghan's fingers tightened in her hair, guiding her head with firm, steady motions. "That's right, baby," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Take my cock deep. Show me how good you are for me."

Luna moaned around him, the vibration sending shockwaves through his entire body. He could feel her throat working, her tongue swirling around his length as she took him deeper. He watched her, his eyes dark with lust, his jaw clenched as he fought to maintain control.

"Fuck, bunny," he hissed, his hips beginning to move in time with her mouth. "You're so damn good at this. So fucking eager."

Luna hummed in response, her body trembling as she sucked him harder, faster. She could feel the tension in his body, could sense the control he was exerting.

She wanted to break that control, wanted to push him over the edge. She took him deeper, her nose pressing against his skin, her gag reflex kicking in slightly. But she didn't stop. She pushed past it, her throat relaxing as she took him deeper still.

Jeonghan let out a low, guttural moan, his fingers tightening in her hair, his hips jerking involuntarily. "Fuck, Luna," he gasped, his voice hoarse with desire. "You're killing me here, pretty girl. You're fucking killing me," Jeonghan groaned, his fingers tightening in Luna's hair, guiding her head in a steady rhythm as she bobbed up and down on his cock. He could feel her throat working, her tongue swirling around his length, her lips tight and wet around him. He wanted to last, wanted to savor this, but Luna was relentless, her mouth hot and eager, her moans vibrating through him, driving him insane.

Jeonghan glanced down, watching as she took him deeper, her nose pressing against his skin, her eyes watering slightly. He could see the strings of saliva dripping from her lips, marking her determination, her desperation to please him. "Fuck, feels so good," he hissed, his hips beginning to move in time with her mouth, his body tensing as he fought to maintain control.

He couldn't take it anymore. He needed to be inside her. He needed to feel her hot, wet pussy surrounding his cock. He pulled her up abruptly, his hands gripping her shoulders, his eyes dark and desperate. "I can't take this anymore, pretty girl," he growled, his voice rough with need. "I need to be inside you. Ride me, Jiyeonie. Now."

Luna looked up at him, her eyes hazy with lust and surprise. But she didn't hesitate. She knew Jeonghan was close to the edge, could feel his body trembling with the effort to hold back. She wanted this as much as he did. She scrambled onto his lap, her hands bracing on his shoulders as she straddled him, her eyes locked with his as she positioned the head of his cock at her entrance.

Jeonghan's grip tightened on her hips, his eyes dark and intense, his body trembling with anticipation as he watched her lower herself onto him.

“Shit– Han—” Luna moaned softly, her body shivering as she took him in, inch by inch, her eyes never leaving his. She could feel every ridge, every vein, as he filled her completely.

Jeonghan let out a low, guttural groan, his fingers digging into her flesh as she began to move, her hips riding him hard and fast.

She leaned back slightly, her hands braced on his knees, her head thrown back in ecstasy as she took him deeper, harder. Jeonghan watched her, his body tensing as she moved, his eyes never leaving hers. "Fuck, that’s it," he growled, his voice low and hoarse. "You feel so good, baby. So fucking tight," Jeonghan groaned, his fingers digging into her hips as she rode him, her body bouncing up and down on his cock.

Luna moaned, her head thrown back, her eyes closed as she lost herself in the sensation of him filling her completely. She could feel every inch of him, could feel the way he stretched her, the way he hit that spot deep inside her that made her see stars.

She moved faster, her hips bouncing harder, her breasts bouncing with each movement. She reached up, her hands cupping her own breasts, her fingers pinching her nipples as she rode him. "Hannie," she moaned, her voice ragged with need. “Feels so good, baby— you make me feel so g-good.”

“Yeah?” Jeonghan's hands moved from her hips to her breasts, his fingers wrapping around her soft flesh as he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth.

“Fuck, yes!” Luna moaned, leaning her hands back on his knees, her body arching into his touch. The wet sounds of their lovemaking filled the room, the slapping of skin against skin, the squelching of her pussy as she rode him hard and fast.

Jeonghan lifted his head, his eyes darkening as he watched Luna's body move above him. He reached up, his hand wrapping around her throat, pulling her down to him as he kissed her.

Their lips met in a messy, wet tangle, their tongues darting out to taste each other, their saliva mixing as they devoured each other. Luna moaned into his mouth, her body trembling as she felt his fingers at her mouth, gently opening her lips before he spit into her mouth.

They pulled away, staring at each other, their breaths ragged, their bodies slick with sweat. Jeonghan's fingers, still wet from her mouth, trailed down her body, finding her clit and rubbing it in slow, steady circles. Luna gasped, her hips jerking as he touched her, her body already so sensitive from her earlier orgasm.

She rode him harder, her body slamming down onto his, her breasts bouncing with each movement. Jeonghan's fingers tightened on her hips, his grip bruising as he held her in place, his hips bucking up to meet her thrusts. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice strained. "You feel so good. So tight. I should edge you more often.”

“Harder– w-want it harder, Jeongie,” Luna moaned, her head thrown back, her eyes closed as she rode him, her body on fire. She could feel every inch of him, could feel the way he filled her completely, the way he hit that spot deep inside her that made her see stars. She moved faster, her hips bouncing harder, her body desperate for release.

Jeonghan, sensing her urgency, gripped her hips tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Yeah? Fuck—," he growled, his voice low and commanding. "You want it harder, bunny? Is that what my bunny needs?" Jeonghan growled, his voice low and commanding.

Luna, her eyes wild with desire, mewled her reply, a sound that was half-moan, half-whimper. "Yes, Jeongie, baby. Please, fuck me harder." She begged, her voice ragged with need.

With a wicked grin, Jeonghan gripped her hips tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh as he began to pound into her, his hips slamming up to meet hers with each thrust.

“Fuck!” Luna cried out, her body jolting with each impact, her breasts bouncing wildly. She could feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, as he filled her completely, stretching her to her limit.

It was exactly what she needed, what she craved.

Jeonghan's dirty words, his filthy whispers, sent shivers down her spine, igniting a fire within her that threatened to consume her. "Like this? You want it like this, don’t you?" he groaned, his voice thick with lust, his eyes locked onto hers. "You're so fucking tight, my baby. Your pussy is so fucking wet and hot. I can feel you clenching around me, milking my cock." He growled, his hips slamming up into her with a force that made her gasp.

"You want to come, don't you? You want to feel my cock pulsing inside you as you come all over it?" His fingers tightened on her hips, holding her in place as he continued to pound into her, his body glistening with sweat.

Luna couldn't respond, couldn't form a coherent thought.

All she could do was moan and babble nonsense. All she could do was feel, feel the way he filled her, the way he moved inside her, the way he made her feel alive. She was lost in the sensation, her body on fire, her mind blank. She could only moan, her voice a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from deep within her.

Jeonghan chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down her spine. "You're so fucking beautiful when you're like this, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "So desperate, so needy. It's fucking hot." He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "Come for me, bunny. Come all over my cock." His fingers tightened on her hips, his grip bruising as he held her in place, his hips slamming up to meet hers with each thrust.

"I want to feel you come, Luna. Let go, baby," Jeonghan growled, his fingers digging into her hips as he thrust into her, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside her.

Luna's moans filled the room, her body tensing as she felt the familiar build-up of pleasure. "Han, I'm... I'm so close," she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"Come on, Jiyeonie. Give it to me," he urged, his voice thick with desire. "Let me feel you come all over my cock." His words sent her over the edge.

Luna threw her head back, a loud cry escaping her lips as her orgasm crashed through her. "Hannie!" she screamed, her body convulsing as she came, her pussy clenching around him.

Jeonghan groaned, his body tensing as he felt her come apart around him. "Fuck, Jiyeonie. That's it, baby. Come for me," Jeonghan groaned, his voice thick with lust. “You’ve been waiting for so long. Let go, pretty girl," he urged, his voice thick with desire.

“Ah! Han– Hannie!” Luna cried as she fell down on top of Jeonghan’s chest, her hips sloppily grinding on his lap as her fiancé helped her.

“That’s it– fuck—” Jeonghan growled, his voice thick with desire as he felt her pussy clench around him, her body convulsing as her orgasm ripped through her. He groaned, his own release following close behind, his body tensing as he spilled into her, his cock pulsing with each thrust.

They both cried out, their bodies shuddering as they rode out their orgasms together.

As the last waves of pleasure subsided, they collapsed onto the bed, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Jeonghan pulled Luna into his arms, his fingers tangling in her now messy, red hair as he held her close, his heart still pounding in his chest. "Fuck, baby," he murmured, his voice soft and content. "That was... that was incredible."

Luna lay sprawled across Jeonghan’s bare chest, her eyes still closed, her body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Their skin still warm from everything they had given and taken from each other. Her cheek was pressed just beneath his collarbone, his heartbeat still loud and steady under her ear.

Jeonghan arm wrapped around her back lazily, fingertips tracing soft, featherlight patterns along the curve of her spine, as if sketching invisible love letters on her skin. Her leg tangled between his, her red hair a vivid splash of color against his flushed chest.

The room was dim, quiet except for the soft hum of the AC and the subtle rise and fall of their breathing.

Then came his voice— low, husky, and smugly satisfied, like velvet laced with mischief.

“I should tease you more often,” Jeonghan said, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk as he tilted his chin to kiss the top of her head.

Luna let out a breathless laugh against his skin. “Says the man who’s already been torturing me for two weeks.”

Jeonghan hummed, his fingers slipping into her hair to gently cradle the back of her head. “Yeah, but seeing you fall apart like that… baby, that was next-level. I think I found a new hobby.”

Her nails grazed along the lines of his ribs, lazy and playful. “If your new hobby involves denying me my sanity and orgasms, I will riot.”

He chuckled. “You begged so sweetly though.”

“Hannie,” she whined, lifting her head to glare at him—though her swollen lips and hazy eyes softened the threat.

“What?” he laughed, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “It’s true, Nana-ya. You were clinging to me like I was oxygen. Sounded like a prayer.”

“That was your fault.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“I didn’t have the breath to complain,” she fired back, flicking his forehead gently before resting her chin on his chest again.

He smiled lazily. “That’s not an insult, you know. It’s a compliment. You looked like a goddess unraveling.”

“And you looked like a smug bastard who knew exactly what he was doing.”

“I did,” Jeonghan agreed without shame, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. “And you looked like someone who’s never going to dye her hair red again unless she wants to start a war.”

Luna smirked against his chest, biting her lip. “Oh, but wasn’t it worth it?”

His hand slipped lower, brushing down her bare back. “Undeniably. You looked so hot I almost cancelled my entire plan the moment I saw you a week ago.”

“Almost?”

“I had to make it more dramatic, didn’t I?” he grinned. “Build the tension.”

“You built something alright,” she muttered, which earned a low laugh from him.

“You love it.”

“I do,” she sighed, tracing shapes on his chest now. “God, I really do. I don’t know how you do it— how you always know exactly how to break me apart without actually… breaking me.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, his voice turning softer. “That’s ‘cause I know what pieces to hold onto.”

She looked up at him, blinking slowly. “That was unfairly poetic for a post-sex cuddle.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he said, tapping her nose. “Including mind-reading. Admit it— you were thinking the exact same thing.”

Her lips twitched. “That we’re both chaos in human form?”

He grinned. “That too. But mostly… that we’re both completely insane for each other. You dyed your hair wine red thinking I’d lose my mind. And I chopped mine off knowing you’d melt.”

“And we both did,” she murmured, eyes flickering to his slightly damp forehead and newly exposed nape. “God, we’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously perfect.”

“Ugh, shut up,” she groaned playfully, hiding her face in his chest again.

But she couldn’t stop smiling.

They were right.

They were the same person.

The same brand of mischief and obsession, operating on shared brain cells and inside jokes. Both thinking of the same plan, both holding out on each other for weeks, both hit in the gut by the exact reactions they knew would come.

They had driven each other insane on purpose— and loved every second of it.

Luna loved how Jeonghan touched her like a secret he never planned to share— slow, reverent, all-knowing. How his voice alone could unravel her spine and make her knees forget their purpose. He never raised his voice, never forced his power— but somehow, she always found herself breathless, pliant, and begging, like he’d unlocked some ancient code only he knew. He was the only one who could make her fall to her knees without asking, the only one who made surrender feel like worship.

And Jeonghan?

Jeonghan loved how Luna held the leash thinking it made her the master, not realizing he handed it to her just to watch how pretty she looks pretending she’s in control. He loved how she played the part of the temptress so well, she forgot he wrote the script— and every line she moaned was part of his plan.

He loved how, deep down, Luna knew all of it.

Knew exactly what he was doing. Knew he was orchestrating her unraveling with every glance, every pause, every carefully timed breath— and let him do it anyway. Jeonghan loved how she surrendered not out of weakness, but because she trusted that in his hands, surrender became power. Loved how she’d look up at him, glassy-eyed and flushed, daring him to take more even when she was already undone. He loved how she let him ruin her— again and again— and never once begged for mercy, only more.

Because she knew he would worship every inch he broke.

They loved driving each other insane.

And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

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pitlanepeach · 3 months ago

Text

From Eden | Chapter Four (4/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a Youtube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings — Mentions of agoraphobia + severe social anxiety. A glimpse into a therapy session. Mentions of racing accidents. A tiny bit of angst, and then lots of fluffiness.

Notes — Yes. It happens. It finally happens. Our babies MEET. Also: I’m spoiling you all with these updates, but I’m writing like a mad woman atm. I wrote 3/4 of this chapter after work today.

Oscar’s face filled her screen, his hair mussed, white t-shirt hanging loose around his neck. The hotel lamp behind him cast a soft golden glow, and his voice was low and tired when he said, “Hey.”

Francesca smiled without meaning to, her laptop perched on her thighs and a mug balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. “Hey. You sound half-asleep.”

He shrugged one shoulder, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m not. Just tired. Long day.��

She hummed, shifting her laptop slightly. “You didn’t have to call me tonight. I know you’ve got another early start tomorrow.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply, like it wasn’t even a question.

They fell into a lull, not uncomfortable. Oscar reached for something offscreen — probably a bottle of water — while Francesca scrolled back through the rough notes she’d been making for her book. Her screen glowed faintly, a scattered mess of plot threads, character traits, and one lonely bullet point that just said: Let them kiss, eventually.

“What are you working on?” Oscar asked, his voice soft, easy. His thumb rested against his cheek as he watched her like she was the most interesting thing on screen—not whatever was playing on Netflix in the background.

Francesca laughed quietly, the sound half-nervous, half-flattered. Her neck flushed warm. “The outline. For the book.”

“Ah, yes. The very-big-deal-but-trying-to-play-it-cool publisher thing.” His grin was lopsided and teasing, but his eyes were full of something else — something that made her stomach flutter. She’d told him about it the second Katie had left, unable to keep it to herself. That had been two weeks ago.

“Have you figured out the, uh, plot yet?” he asked, genuine curiosity softening the teasing.

“Sort of,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. “It’s messy right now. But I keep thinking about how to write two people who don’t make sense on paper. Like — different lives, different worlds. But they find this… perfect little space where things make sense. With each other.”

Oscar’s eyes held hers for a moment, steady. “That sounds good. Familiar.”

She blushed, immediately looked back at her screen. “It’s just a first draft. I probably won’t like it by next week.”

He grinned. “Can I be the first to read it?”

“You don’t even read.” She shot back.

“I’d read anything if you were the one to write it.”

Francesca tried to hide the way her breath caught, but it was pointless — the screen was too intimate. Too real.

Oscar must have noticed. Instead of pushing, he leaned back against the headboard, stretching out those long limbs. “You’ve got your book. I’ve got my races. We’re both booked and busy for the next few months, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “But… it feels a little less overwhelming when I’m talking to you.”

His brows lifted — like he hadn’t expected her to say that out loud.

She bit her lip. “Too much?” She was always second-guessing what she should and shouldn’t say to him. This whole getting to know each other while also maybe-flirting thing was still very new to her.

“No,” he said, his voice low, warm, and firmer than usual. “Not even a little.”

The screen flickered slightly as he shifted beneath the covers, yawning into his shoulder. “You keep working. I’m just gonna close my eyes and listen to you type. Don’t mind me.”

Utterly ridiculous.

She watched him through the screen, his face half-shadowed in the low hotel light, eyes still closed. For a minute, she just listened to the sound of his breathing, even and slow.

Then, before she could second-guess herself, she asked — quietly, like the question was delicate in her mouth, “If we’re both this busy… how are we going to make it work? The — uh — us meeting thing…”

Oscar’s eyes opened, slow and steady. He looked right at her — really looked. All the sleepiness disappeared in an instant.

“When you’re ready,” he said, voice steady and certain. “When you say the word — I’ll make it happen, Francesca.”

Francesca swallowed. “Even if it’s… months from now?”

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “Next week, six months. Next year.” He stressed the words. “When you’re ready, I’ll find the time. I’ll show up. I’ll be there.”

She blinked, unsure what to say, a warmth blooming somewhere deep in her chest. No one had ever spoken to her like that — like effort was the bare minimum, like she was worth rearranging a life for.

He smiled then, softer now. “You’re not something I’m just squeezing in whenever I have a spare five minutes, Francesca.”

She lowered her gaze to her laptop screen, biting back a ridiculous smile. “You really know how to mess with a girl’s focus, Piastri.”

His laugh was quiet, happy. “Good.”

—

Francesca sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop propped up on a stack of pillows. Sunlight filtered through the half-open curtains, painting soft, warm streaks across her duvet. Dr. Kapoor’s face filled the screen, serene and steady as always.

“You mentioned last time that you were ready to try something new,” she said gently, “something uncomfortable.”

Francesca nodded, fingers toying with the edge of the pillow she was hugging to her stomach. “Yeah,” she said. “I went for this, uh, stupid little walk. Literally just to the postbox at the end of my street and then straight back.”

Dr. Kapoor smiled. “A walk isn’t stupid.”

“No,” Francesca agreed with a small huff, “but it was hard. That’s what’s stupid.” She paused, then added, “I was out of the flat for ten minutes, maybe. No headphones. I looked at people.” Her voice dropped slightly, like saying it too loudly might unravel the fragile progress she’d made. “I didn’t turn around early. I wasn’t sick in my neighbours bush.”

Dr. Kapoor’s expression softened. “That’s a big deal, Francesca. How did you feel afterwards, once you got home?”

“Proud,” she admitted, wringing her hands together. “Also like I might never do it again.”

She laughed lightly. “You’ll do it again. Pride is a very strong motivator.”

Francesca hummed. “I journaled after. Like we talked about.”

“And what did you write?”

“That I was scared,” she said, looking down. “And I didn’t die. And I didn’t need anyone to come get me. I did it alone. It felt… weird. Good weird. Kind of.”

There was a long pause as Dr. Kapoor took that in. “That’s a great self-reflection. Honest.”

Francesca stared at a little chip in her nail polish. “I have spent years waiting for things to just magically get easier,” she said eventually. “Like one day, I’d wake up and it just wouldn’t be hard anymore. But that’s not going to happen, is it? Not even when I’m taking medication.”

“No,” Dr. Kapoor said, not unkindly. “It won’t. Not like that.”

The lump in Francesca’s throat tightened, but she nodded. She didn’t cry. That was something.

“Do you want to try something bigger this week?” Dr. Kapoor asked.

Francesca’s eyes flicked to the corner of the screen, to her own pale reflection. “Define bigger.”

“How would you feel about a short café visit? Ten minutes. Order something. Sit alone.”

Francesca blanched. “Oh god.”

“Trying is the goal,” Dr. Kapoor said warmly. “Not perfection. Not comfort. Just the attempt. You can always walk to the cafe and then go straight home. You could get a to-go drink. Or you could sit inside and just let yourself take up the space that you’re entitled to.”

Francesca gave a little shrug. “Would it be cheating if I wore my headphones and took a book with me?”

“Not cheating,” her therapist assured her. “That’s a very common coping mechanism. Just don’t let yourself disappear into it. Try to take notice of the world around you, too.”

She managed a smile. It was small, but real. “Okay. Ten minutes. Book optional.”

Dr. Kapoor’s voice gentled again. “Is there anything else that you’d like to talk about?”

Francesca hesitated. Her thumb ran over the stitching on the pillow in slow, nervous circles. “I said yes to doing something,” she said finally. “To… meet someone new. Not soon, but eventually. I want to be braver by then.”

There was a quiet moment between them.

“Why?” Dr. Kapoor asked gently. “What is making you think that you need to be braver than you already are?”

Francesca blinked, her breath leaving her in a soft exhale. “I don’t know.”

“We’ve already talked about the book deal.” Dr. Kapoor recalled. “Taking on a project like that has taken a lot of bravery. Going for your walk? That took a lot of bravery too.” She pointed out. “I think, perhaps, you’re underestimating how much better you’re doing recently, Francesca. Six months ago, you couldn’t walk out of your front-door.”

Francesca stared at a small smudge on the screen. “I don’t notice it, when I’m doing well.”

“Well,” Dr. Kapoor said, with an encouraging nod. “I’ve noticed it. I’m telling you. You are doing well.”

Francesca smiled.

—

Francesca was curled up on her sofa, half-watching the podium interviews and half-scrolling through messages when Oscar’s name lit up her phone screen.

She found that she was smiling before she even answered.

He looked exhausted, glowing with sweat — post-race adrenaline still clinging to him. His cap was backwards, damp curls sticking out at the edges. “Hey,” he said, eyes bright. “Did you see that overtake?”

Francesca laughed. “Crofty lost his mind, Osc.” She stared at him, feeling ridiculously fond. “Yeah. I saw.”

Oscar beamed. “Felt pretty good. Not gonna lie.”

“You looked like you were flying out there,” she told him, her voice light. “Literally, at some points. I don’t understand how you can go around corners so fast and not just, like… tip over or something.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh. “Nah, only amateurs tip their cars on the apex.”

Francesca flushed. “Oh, shut up.”

There was a beat of silence, then his expression softened, dimples barely visible beneath the shadow of his cap. “Thanks for watching.”

She looked down, fingers tightening around her phone. “You don’t have to thank me. I like watching you.” She hesitated, then added with a small smile, “I might need to send a scathing email to Sky Sports, though. They don’t show you nearly enough on the main broadcast. I can’t deal with the onboard — makes me nauseous.”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound curling around her ribs. “Yeah, I’d rather you didn’t ride onboard with me, honestly. If something happened—” He broke off suddenly, jaw tightening. His eyes flicked away like he’d said too much.

The air between them shifted.

Her stomach dropped. It was too easy to forget what he did. To pretend, for her own comfort, that it was safe. Controlled. Not dangerous.

She sucked in a slow breath, already feeling the panic creeping in at the edges. “I’ll call you later,” she said quickly, before he could say anything else. Before she could spiral.

Then she ended the call—like a coward.

—

The paddock buzzed with celebration after Ferrari’s victory, but Oscar barely noticed. He moved quickly, head down, nodding absently at a few crew members as he passed. Lando’s driver’s room door was half-shut, muffled music playing from inside.

Oscar knocked once, then let himself in.

Lando looked up from where he was sprawled on the small couch, a half-finished protein shake in hand. “Alright, mate,” he said. “Don’t you have some post-race debrief to be at?”

Oscar shut the door behind him. “I need to talk to you.”

Lando sat up, brows lifting. “Francesca?”

Oscar nodded once. He didn’t sit — just crossed the room and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “She hung up on me. We were talking after the race. I said something—about my onboard camera, how I didn’t want her watching it, just in case something ever happened. She went quiet. Said goodbye. Ended the call.”

Lando frowned. “You think you freaked her out?”

“I know I did.” Oscar dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s so easy to forget how not-normal this sport is to normal people.”

Lando set his drink down. “Right. I get that. She’ll probably get used to it though, yeah? I’ve had girlfriends freak out about it too, but once they realise how rare the big crashes are—”

“This isn’t like that,” Oscar cut in, quieter now. “She’s not just someone I met last weekend.” He hesitated, then added, “She’s got her stuff. Anxiety — a lot of it. She doesn’t really leave her flat much. But she’s trying. She’s been pushing herself and… I think I went too far with it.”

Lando was quiet, thoughtful for once. “Okay. Give her space. Let her process. But don’t vanish on her. Send her a message. Let her know you’re still here. Let her decide when to come back in.”

Oscar let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk. “It’d be so much easier if she liked F1.”

“She doesn’t need to like F1,” Lando said with a small, knowing smirk. “She likes you.”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turned toward the door, hand on the handle, then paused. “You ever think this job makes it impossible to have a normal relationship?”

“All the time,” Lando said, not even pretending otherwise. “But look at Max. Lewis. Charles. They’ve all figured it out. Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Just means it’s possible.”

Oscar nodded once, not quite smiling, but something close. “Yeah. Alright.”

Then he left — already reaching for his phone.

—

iMessage — Oscar & Francesca

Oscar:

I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t even mean to say it. I’m so used to the people I care about being used to this stuff. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.

Francesca:

pls don’t say sorry. im the one who should be sorry. i shouldn’t have hung up. i just felt myself getting worked up and that’s embarrassing, lol. i felt silly for it

Oscar:

You’re not silly. I promise.

Francesca:

um. quick question. when is your next bit of time off?

Oscar:

Francesca:

i want you to come to london, osc

i need this to be real.

Oscar:

Wednesday?

Francesca:

which wednesday?

Oscar:

As in three days from now

That Wednesday

Francesca:

Oscar.

Oscar:

You said the words. No taking them back now.

Send me your address. Don’t overthink this.

I’ll call you in an hour, yeah? Just got a few more things to do before going back to the hotel

Francesca:

okay <3

—

iMessage — Francesca & Katie

Francesca: SOS actual sos mayday mayday girl down

Katie: …what happened did henry throw up on your laptop again

Francesca: OSCAR IS COMING TO LONDON TO MY FLAT ON WEDNESDAY AS IN. WEDNESDAY. IN THREE (3) DAYS. TO MY HOME. WHERE I LIVE.

Katie: OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I AM CALMLY SCREAMING

Francesca: i said the words like an idiot “i want you to come to london, osc” WHO EVEN AM I

Katie: i’m so proud of you

Francesca: i just stood there staring at my mirror for 11 minutes trying to decide if i should buy new sheets WHAT IF HE THINKS MY PILLOWS ARE WEIRD or what if henry bites him or what if i bite him

Katie: … fran.

Francesca: not in like a weird way i just i’m spiraling

Katie: you’re going to be FINE you like him he likes you he’s coming because he wants to not because your pillowcases are perfectly crisp

Francesca: but they’re not though they’re old and faded and they have little stars on them

Katie: which is exactly the kind of thing a soft boy in love would find charming now breathe make your outline order yourself some new teabags clean the bathroom and maybe light a candle

Francesca: i am lighting twelve candles.

Katie: do not set your flat on fire before wednesday. he’s gonna fall in love with you, fran. just wait.

—

iMessage — Oscar & Hattie

Oscar: Can I ask you something without you being annoying about it

Hattie: no promises x

Oscar: How do you know when something is real Like Not a fling Not a distraction But like. A real thing

Hattie: oh boy do i need to sit down for this

Oscar: I’m being serious There’s this girl Francesca I think I’ve mentioned her?

Hattie: only every time we talk lol go on

Oscar: She asked me to come to London To see her Like, properly Not just texting or FaceTiming anymore And I said yes. I am going. Wednesday

Hattie: wait THIS Wednesday?? as in three days??

Oscar: That’s the one We’ve both been busy. And now suddenly it’s happening. And I’m… I don’t know Excited. Nervous. Like I want to be good for her I want to make it easy

Hattie: Oof You’ve got it bad huh

Oscar: I think so She doesn’t have an easy time with people Or places She struggles with stuff But she’s let me in. Slowly And I just keep thinking If she’s brave enough to try I don’t want her to ever regret it

Hattie: Wow Mum’s gonna lose her mind

Oscar: If you tell Mum before I do, I swear

Hattie: cross my heart but seriously you’re doing good and it is real because you care enough to ask all this just be gentle with her be yourself and don’t forget she has a cat

Oscar: I bought cat treats earlier Just in case

Hattie: I love that for you Let me know how it goes And if you panic and need someone to scream-text at, I’ll be on standby

Oscar: You’re a legend Thanks Hatt x

—

iMessage — Oscar & Lando

Oscar: So I’m going to London on Wednesday

Lando: ok? for what? media? sim?

Oscar: To see Francesca

Lando: ??? WAIT LIKE SEE HER IN PERSON??

Oscar: Yes Lando In person With my eyes

Lando: bro it’s SUNDAY how did we go from “she hung up on me” to “I’m flying to a whole other country” in less than 2 hours

Oscar: She asked me to Said she wants this to feel real I told her to send her address and I’d be there

Lando: who are you and what have you done with my emotionally constipated teammate

Oscar: Growth x

Lando: ngl i’m kind of proud but also slightly terrified like you know you’re in deep, right?

Oscar: I’m aware Does it show

Lando: mate you just casually dropped that you’re making international travel plans because a girl said “I need this to be real” yes. it shows.

Oscar: I don’t want to mess it up

Lando: just be yourself and try not to talk about tyres during dinner or whatever

Oscar: Copy that

Lando: also tell her i can’t wait to meet her bring her to a race. eventually. when she’s ready

Oscar: One step at a time But yeah We’d have to work something out for her. To make it possible

Lando: zac would sort something if u asked. i can always help out. she seems nice. worth it

Oscar: Thanks mate. She is

—

Francesca stood in the middle of her living room, clutching a half-damp cloth and staring blankly at the coffee table she’d already wiped down three times. Henry was perched on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily, unimpressed by the chemical smell in the air. She’d cracked one of the windows open for him.

“Okay,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Cool. This is better.”

The apartment smelled like fresh linen and lavender. She’d lit one of her aromatherapy candles — not a cheap supermarket one, but the fancy soy one she usually saved for special occasions or very bad days. The couch cushions had been fluffed. She’d washed her bedsheets, then panicked and washed them again. Just in case.

But now… now she didn’t know.

How was this supposed to go?

Was he going to… stay in her apartment? Or was he just coming for the afternoon? She hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t said, and now it felt too late to bring it up without it being weird.

Would he eve want to stay with her?

Would that be too much? Too soon?

Francesca looked around her flat, and all she saw was a space that had, for a long time, been her sanctuary. Her bubble. Her little island of calm in a world that was too loud and too fast.

Letting someone into it — him, of all people — felt both right and utterly terrifying.

She moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and immediately closed it again. She didn’t even know what he liked. Was he a tea or coffee person? Did F1 drivers eat carbs? She only ate carbs.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, pressing her palms against her face. “It’s just Oscar.”

Still, her heart rattled against her ribs like it wanted to make a run for it.

She tried to shake it off — the nerves, the overthinking — but it clung to her like static. Taking a breath, she reminded herself of Katie’s advice from their last FaceTime: “Be more open. Talk to him when you start freaking out. He’ll appreciate it, and you’ll feel so much better for it.”

So, she reached for her phone. Hovered. Then typed — quickly, before she could spiral.

Francesca: hey, quick question. are you getting a hotel or do you want to stay with me? i totally don’t mind either way! just figuring out things out

Her phone buzzed twenty minutes later — just as she was elbow-deep in laundry, holding a long-sleeved shirt like it had personally wronged her.

She wiped her hands on her joggers and grabbed the phone, pulse jumping.

Oscar: Hey, just boarding now — sorry for the delay. I’ve got a hotel booked, don’t worry. You don't need to worry about anything, actually. I never want you to feel pressured. We can do whatever feels right, okay? I’m just happy I get to see you.

Francesca stared at the screen, a strange pressure building behind her eyes. Relief, affection, nerves — all of it bundled up into one messy emotion that made her want to both laugh and cry.

She sat down on the couch, Henry immediately hopping up beside her and kneading at her thigh with his murder mittens.

Francesca: okay. thank you for being so normal about this (normal in a good way, not like, boring) also i am definitely spiralling a bit but trying to be chill about it. so you might be on your way to meet a full-blown anxious ghost x

Oscar: Lol You could be an actual ghost and I’d still like you I’ll text when I land x

She set her phone down again — more gently this time — and pushed down a girlish squeal.

—

Her phone rang again not long after Oscar’s message. She almost didn’t check it before answering — assuming it was Katie, maybe — but when she glanced at the screen and saw “Izzy (ugh)", her stomach sank.

She hesitated, thumb hovering. Then, stupidly, she answered.

“Francesca,” came the clipped voice, already laced with tension. “Mum wants to know if you’re going to bother coming in August, or if we should just stop asking.”

“I— I already told you that I probably won’t be able to make it,” Francesca said, already shrinking into herself.

Izzy sighed like she was exhausted. “It’s just rude, you know? You can’t keep isolating yourself and expecting everyone else to keep reaching out. I feel like we’re making all of the effort.”

Francesca said nothing.

“And honestly,” her sister continued, “you've turned yourself into some kind of influencer, and you post videos of yourself and pictures to thousands of people, but you can’t even make the effort to get over yourself and come to see us. Mum thinks you hate her.”

She felt the old heat behind her eyes, the way it always came — fast and uninvited. “What? No. Of course I don’t hate her. I’m just… I’m doing my best here, Izzy.”

“That’s not good enough forever, you know.”

The call ended five minutes later. It might as well have been one long exhale of shame.

Francesca sat for a while on the floor by the laundry basket, arms curled around her knees, trying not to cry. But Henry came to her again, head-butting her shin softly. And then she remembered: Oscar. On a plane, coming to see her. Choosing her. Wanting this.

She got up.

She wiped her face.

She washed her hands and re-tied her hair and changed into clean joggers. Then she took a deep breath and said to the empty flat, “he doesn’t get to meet that version of me today.”

Because maybe she couldn’t make her family understand her. But maybe she didn’t need to, not when someone else already seemed to — and liked her despite it all.

—

iMessage — Katie & Francesca

Katie: Hey, just checking in. How’s the heart rate? Has he landed yet??

Francesca: no idea. i think so? maybe? i’ve stress-cleaned everything. henry thinks i’m possessed or smth. also my sister called. so that was fun! but i’m… okay. i think. maybe.

Katie: Oh, babe. I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want me to say mean things about Izzy until you smile?

Francesca: i think i just needed to say it out loud to someone who gets it. i don’t want him to walk in and think i’m this emotional swamp of a person.

Katie: First of all, he won’t. Second of all, you’re allowed to be a little bit of a swamp. He likes you anyway. Third… you’re doing great. I’m so proud of you. Really.

Francesca: thank you okay. i’m gonna go stare at the door like a weirdo now

Katie: You got this ❤️ Call me later and tell me everything, okay? Even the awkward stuff.

Francesca: of course

—

She heard the lift *ding* before she heard the knock.

The soft sound that made her stomach lurch.

Henry, traitorous and uninterested, didn’t even lift his head from the sunspot on the carpet.

Francesca stood in the middle of the living room, palms damp, jumper slightly too warm, and heart beating hard enough to echo.

Three gentle knocks. Measured. Like he wasn’t sure how loud to be.

She walked to the door before she could psych herself out.

And there he was.

Oscar, in a hoodie and a pair of loose sweatpants, hair slightly flattened and one hand gripping the handle of a duffle bag. He looked a little tired, a little travel-worn, and entirely too good.

He smiled, soft and a little unsure. “Hi, beautiful girl.”

She opened the door wider. “Hi.”

They stared at each other for a beat longer than necessary, until Oscar let out a breath and stepped inside. He didn’t touch her right away — just looked at her with that same warm focus she’d seen through every FaceTime screen.

“I didn’t know if I should hug you or—”

She stepped into him before he could finish, arms winding around his middle. He didn’t hesitate then — his duffle bag hit the floor and his strong arms encircled around her, sturdy and steady and real. She could feel his heart through his hoodie, fast like hers.

“Thanks for coming,” she mumbled, her voice catching.

He smiled into her hair, his hold on her tightening, and for a brief moment, she wondered how inappropriate it would be to ask him to never, ever let her go. “Thanks for letting me in.” He mumbled.

They stayed there, tangled in the doorway, until Henry finally meowed in protest — as if to say shut the door, it’s cold — and Francesca laughed softly against his shoulder.

CHAPTER FIVE

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rafesbuzzcutseason · 3 months ago

Text

wicked game

chapter 1 - welcome to kildare college

synopsis: y/n is sarah’s roommate and the embodiment of sunshine. rafe, on the other hand, is her complete opposite. when the boys place a bet that he can't win her over, rafe takes the challenge without hesitation. after all, he never backs down from a dare. the closer rafe gets to y/n, he finds himself drawn to her warmth in a way he never expected, and for the first time, he wants to be more than just the guy with a bad reputation.

but secrets don’t stay hidden for long, and when y/n finds out the truth, rafe is left to face the consequences. now, he has to prove that somewhere along the way, the bet stopped mattering, because losing her was never part of the plan.

masterlist

here it was. the day you had been counting down too for the last 6 months.

you took a deep breath, and entered the room the resident assistant had told you was yours.

the room was already half-decorated. fairy lights strung along one side, polaroids pinned to a cork board, and an expensive looking tote bag tossed on the bed.

before you could even process it all, a blonde girl spun around from where she was unpacking, eyes lighting up. “oh my god! you must be y/n!”

before you could do more than nod, the girl was pulling you into a tight hug.

“i’m sarah cameron, your official roommate and new best friend” she said, grinning.

you laughed, already liking her energy. “nice to meet you sarah. i'm y/n."

“so, tell me everything. where are you from? do you have a boyfriend? what are you studying?" she asked.

you shook your head but smiled. “well, i'm from south carolina, i do have a boyfriend, and i'm studying education as i want to work with kids!"

sarah gasped dramatically. “a boyfriend? oooh, tell me everything. long distance? is he at KC? is he hot?”

you laughed, shaking your head. “yes, no, and… yes."

sarah smiled. “that's cute. and studying to be a teacher? even cuter. you're a little ray of sunshine."

"i get told that a lot." you smiled back.

she leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “okay, real talk. how do you feel about frat parties?”

you hesitated, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “uh, i mean… i’ve never really been to one.”

sarah’s jaw dropped. “never?”

you shrugged. “not really my scene, i guess.”

sarah gasped like you had just confessed to a crime. “okay, nope, we have to fix that. there’s a huge party at kappa tau tonight. it’s basically a ‘welcome back to chaos’ event. you have to come with me.”

you hesitated, nerves starting. “i don’t know-”

sarah gave you a squeeze. “come on, y/n. you don’t have to love it, but you can’t start the semester without at least going to one.” she nudged you playfully. “i promise i’ll be your personal bodyguard if the frat guys get annoying. plus i have a few friends who came here as well who you'll love.”

you sighed, already knowing you were probably going to cave. “fine. but if it’s terrible, you owe me coffee in the morning.”

sarah grinned. “deal.”

before you could respond, a loud ding! came from her phone. she glanced at the screen and groaned.

“what?” you asked.

“ugh. my brother,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “he’s already texting me about the party.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you have a brother here?”

sarah sighed dramatically, falling back onto the bed. “unfortunately.”she continued. “year above. he’s a frat guy, the frat guy. throws wild parties, and thinks he’s god’s gift to campus.” she shot you a look. “so, if he or any of his little minions try to charm you tonight, run.”

you laughed. “duly noted.”

"good. he's a pain in the ass."

a/n: first and foremost, my baby @darlingstarkey deserves every ounce of credit here possible. she is my own ray of sunshine and i can't thank her enough for how much she helps me and lets me throw all my ideas at her. i love you my cherub

secondly, first chapter AHHH scary. hope u guys are ready for this one <3

🏷️: @heartzshiftamy @hoefordrewstarkey @luvrclub @yesterdaysproblemm @leleee3 @yktayy9669 @miumiuestmoi @anacamofficial @cokewithcameron @bloodofadoll @shorttandsweett @mysticbby2009 @emmiesummers @wintercrows @drewrry @starkeyxcameron @xxbirkindoll2 @stoned-writer @drewstarkeyslover @hannieskzzz @verycherryblossomhideout @letstryagaintomorrow @jjsbbg7 @mariamadison6-blog @laniirackssss @xeneasworld @countryclubwhore @drewsphswife @mattyskies @moonywhisp3rs @starkeygirls @lmaolmaos @thereallifebambi @emeloyy @vcnillafairy @rafecameronswhoore @st8rkey @angeldiaryy @therealfairybatman

#smau #rafe cameron #obx #obxsmau #boyfriend rafe #outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #wicked game #frat boy!rafe

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scarluna · 3 months ago

Text

Thoughts of You

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Chapters: 1 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: So, this is something like a diary slash fanfic with Jungkook being the main character. It's something that is currently happening to me so. Stay tuned, xoxo.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Y/N sat in the back of the large training room, her hands wrapped tightly around the company-issued manual. She knew no one in this room. Fifty new hires, all squeezed into the corporate world like a fresh batch of recruits, eager to prove themselves.

But not her.

She wasn’t eager. She wasn’t excited.

She was terrified.

Not that she would ever let it show.

With her best neutral face in place, she kept to herself, making sure her laughter was just enough to blend in but not enough to invite attention. Years of perfecting the art of invisibility had turned her into a master at it.

That is, until he walked in.

Jeon Jungkook.

He was hard to ignore. Even if you wanted to.

Loud, energetic, effortlessly confident. The kind of person who could make friends in under five minutes just by existing. His laughter boomed across the room, a stark contrast to the dry corporate environment, and people naturally gravitated toward him like he was some kind of human magnet.

Y/N wasn’t immune to noticing him either.

But she refused to acknowledge it.

At least, not in the first week.

By the second week, she couldn’t help it.

It started small.

Jungkook had a way of filling up space—his energy, his voice, his stupidly attractive presence. She noticed the way he cracked jokes at the trainers, making even the most monotonous lectures somewhat bearable. He was the kind of person who could probably make the apocalypse seem like a minor inconvenience.

He got along with everyone.

And yet, somehow, his gaze found her.

She wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe during the lunch breaks where she sat at the end of the table, eating quietly while the rest of the team talked over each other. Or during the moments when he’d glance back at her in the training room and smirk, like he knew she was trying not to laugh at whatever nonsense he was spouting.

But the real turning point?

Smoking breaks.

The first time they all went out for a smoke, it was just a casual thing. A group of them—seven or eight—gathered outside, sharing lighters, passing around cigarettes like they were some kind of currency. Y/N had only gone because she wanted to escape the suffocating training room for a bit.

Jungkook had been there, of course.

And unlike the others, he noticed her.

“You smoke?” he asked, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable as she exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the cold air.

Y/N shrugged. “Only when work stresses me out.”

He grinned. “You’re gonna need a whole carton by the end of this training, then.”

She had chuckled at that. It was the first time she let her guard down around him.

The next day, the group went out again, but the day after that, it was just the two of them.

She hadn’t expected it.

Jungkook had caught her right before she was about to leave the training room, twirling his lighter between his fingers like a habit.

“Coming for a smoke?” he asked, casual as ever.

She hesitated.

Going with the group was fine. It was easy to blend in, to be just another face in the crowd.

But just with him?

Dangerous.

Still, she found herself nodding.

And as the two of them stepped outside, the crisp evening air wrapping around them, she realized something.

Jungkook wasn’t as loud when it was just the two of them.

He was different.

And for the first time in a long time, someone was paying attention to her.

She just didn’t know if she was ready for it.

The first few drags of the cigarette were always the best. The instant hit, the brief distraction. Y/N inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl in her lungs before exhaling slowly. The cold air outside the office made it even sharper, grounding her in the moment.

Jungkook stood beside her, one foot propped against the wall, his cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. His gaze flickered up to the dimly lit sky before shifting back to her.

“So,” he exhaled, watching the smoke swirl into the night, “what do you think of everyone so far?”

Y/N hesitated, fingers tightening around her cigarette. This was easy. Casual. Just workplace gossip.

Still, she took her time answering.

“They’re… alright,” she finally said, keeping her tone neutral. “A lot of them seem too eager, though. Like, they actually care about impressing management.”

Jungkook snorted. “Right? Like, chill, we’re just client agents, not the CEO’s personal army.”

She smirked, a small victory that he agreed. But even as she spoke, she was hyper-aware of herself—of the way her coat hugged her arms, of how her thighs felt too large even when standing still, of the way her stomach folded slightly as she leaned against the railing.

She wasn’t comfortable. Not really.

But she was good at pretending.

“What about you?” she asked, flicking some ash off the tip of her cigarette. “You get along with everyone, don’t you?”

Jungkook shrugged. “I guess? I dunno. I just don’t like awkwardness. People make everything so weird when they could just talk.”

I wish it was that easy for me, she thought.

She didn’t hate people. She just hated how she felt around them.

She’d spent years perfecting the art of shrinking herself, even when her body refused to comply. In school, in college, even in her previous jobs—she had mastered the skill of being there, but not seen. She had laughed at jokes, participated in conversations, even flirted a little when the situation called for it.

But she never let herself believe it was real.

Because how could it be?

Desire, attraction, intimacy—those things weren’t meant for girls like her.

They were for women with effortless beauty, with curves in the right places, with confidence that didn’t feel like a carefully curated performance.

Not for someone who had spent years avoiding mirrors.

Not for someone who learned early on that “you have such a pretty face” was just a polite way of saying “if only you were thinner.”

Not for someone like her.

Jungkook’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Okay, but tell me you haven’t noticed how weirdly competitive the trainers are with each other.” He grinned, flicking his cigarette. “I swear, I saw Mark and Rachel fighting over who knew more about company policies.”

Y/N huffed a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I did notice. Mark’s insufferable, though.”

“Right?” Jungkook groaned. “Dude acts like he owns the company, but he’s literally just reading from a PowerPoint.”

She laughed again, and for a second, it felt normal.

Like she wasn’t overthinking every single thing.

Like she wasn’t hyper-aware of her body, of the space she took up, of the fact that she wasn’t the type of girl who ended up alone outside with a guy like him.

Because that’s what Jungkook was.

The kind of guy who was too attractive for his own good. The kind of guy who never had to second-guess himself. The kind of guy who could be loud and take up space and be seen without shame.

And the worst part?

She wanted to think about him that way.

She wanted to let herself have that.

To allow her mind to wander into thoughts that she had long denied herself—fantasies she had always buried under layers of self-doubt and self-disgust.

But the moment they surfaced, shame followed.

Because that wasn’t for her.

That wasn’t allowed.

She didn’t deserve to feel that way about herself.

Or about anyone.

Jungkook exhaled one last stream of smoke before stubbing out his cigarette on the railing. “Wanna head back in?”

Y/N nodded quickly, eager to escape her own thoughts.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

As they walked back, she couldn’t help but wonder.

If Jungkook saw her the way she saw herself…

Or if, somehow, impossibly, he saw something else.

The training room buzzed with idle chatter, the afternoon slump creeping in as people half-listened to the trainer drone on about client retention strategies. Y/N sat in her usual spot, close to the back, where she could blend in without looking like she was actively avoiding people.

Jungkook, on the other hand, had no such concerns.

He had claimed the seat right behind her, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking effortlessly comfortable as if he owned the damn place. It had become a pattern over the past week—him choosing to sit near her, striking up random conversations, joking around like it was second nature.

She told herself it was nothing.

That it meant nothing.

Just Jungkook being Jungkook.

The way he was with everyone.

But then, the senior colleague walked in.

A woman from another department—older, energetic, and always in high spirits. She clapped her hands together, getting everyone's attention.

"Alright, guys! I know work can be exhausting, but let's put some good energy out there!" she announced. "Let’s do a little manifestation exercise. I’m gonna type out a few names—yours, mine—and we’ll manifest success, abundance, and money. Sound good?"

A few people chuckled, others nodded along.

Y/N shifted in her seat.

She never liked being called on, but since everyone was volunteering their names, she figured she should do the same.

"Y/N," she said softly, lifting her hand slightly.

Before she could say her last name, Jungkook’s voice cut through the room—clear, loud, and so damn casual that it took her brain a second to process.

"Jungkook's girlfriend."

Silence.

Then—laughter.

A few of their colleagues snickered, some making teasing "Ooooh" sounds like a bunch of high schoolers, and Y/N felt her entire body seize up.

Her face heated instantly.

Jungkook just grinned, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek like he was so pleased with himself.

The senior colleague chuckled, playing along. "Oh? Should I type that in?"

"Manifest it!" someone from across the room called out, making everyone laugh harder.

Y/N forced out a dry laugh, willing herself to stay composed. "Oh my god, shut up," she muttered under her breath, but Jungkook heard.

He leaned forward slightly, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence behind her.

"What?" he teased, voice low, just for her. "Wouldn't be the worst thing to manifest."

She refused to turn around.

Refused to acknowledge whatever the hell that meant.

Refused to let her mind go where it wanted to go.

It was a joke.

Just a joke.

Just Jungkook being… Jungkook.

Later that afternoon, Y/N found herself outside with a few of the girls from the office, their usual smoking spot tucked away from the main entrance. Jungkook wasn’t there—off doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t making her life unnecessarily difficult.

She exhaled a slow stream of smoke, grateful for the quiet.

Until one of the girls, Mina, smirked at her.

“So,” she started, her voice teasing, “you and Jungkook, huh?”

Y/N’s heart nearly stopped.

She scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on. He was just messing around.”

Another girl, Hana, raised an eyebrow. “Was he, though?”

“Yes!” Y/N insisted, but Mina wasn’t convinced.

“He does flirt with you a lot,” she pointed out, taking a drag of her cigarette.

Y/N stiffened. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh my god, are you blind?” Hana laughed. “He’s always around you.”

“That’s just because we started at the same time,” Y/N reasoned. “He’s like that with everyone.”

Mina hummed. “Not really. He jokes with everyone, sure, but have you noticed how close he sits to you?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Seriously,” Hana chimed in. “When we’re in the training room, he’s always scooting closer. Like, unnecessarily close.”

Mina nodded. “Yeah. And whenever he talks to you, he leans in just enough.”

Y/N shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted.

They were wrong.

They had to be wrong.

Because if they weren’t—if there was even a chance that Jungkook did flirt with her—then what?

Then she’d have to consider the possibility that someone like him could see someone like her that way.

And that was dangerous.

Because she knew better.

She knew her place.

She wasn’t the kind of girl men leaned into.

She wasn’t the kind of girl men scooted closer to.

She wasn’t the kind of girl men flirted with—at least, not seriously.

Not with any real intention.

And yet…

She thought back to the way he had said it.

"Jungkook’s girlfriend."

The way his voice had wrapped around the words so easily.

She shook her head, exhaling sharply.

“Nope. Not reading into this,” she muttered. “It was a joke.”

Mina and Hana exchanged a look, clearly amused.

“Whatever you say,” Mina said with a knowing smile.

Y/N took another slow drag of her cigarette, letting the smoke settle in her lungs.

She wouldn’t let herself get caught up in delusions.

Because if she let herself believe—even for a second—that Jungkook could actually be interested in her…

Then she wouldn’t know what to do when reality reminded her that he never would be.

A few days had passed since the whole “Jungkook’s girlfriend” joke, and Y/N had done everything in her power to push it out of her mind.

It was nothing. Just him being playful, just the kind of thing someone like him could say without thinking twice.

She shouldn’t be thinking about it.

And yet, she still found herself too aware of him.

Of how he always ended up near her. Of how he leaned in when he talked. Of how she caught him looking at her sometimes—not in a mocking way, not in a wow, she’s huge way, but in a way that she couldn’t figure out.

It made her stomach twist.

It made her hope.

And that was dangerous.

Because hope was something she didn’t allow herself to have.

So, when the group went out for a smoke again, she tried to keep her distance.

The usual crowd was there—Jungkook, Mina, Hana, a few of the guys from their team. Lighters flicked, cigarettes lit, and the casual flow of conversation filled the crisp air.

Jungkook was in the middle of telling some stupid story, something about a girl he’d been with last weekend. Y/N tried not to listen too closely, tried not to let the words settle too deep.

Then he said it.

“I like pretty girls with fuller lips,” he mused, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “Y’know, the ones who’ve had some work done. Looks so good.”

Y/N felt herself stiffen.

He wasn’t even talking to her, wasn’t looking at her when he said it. But the words hit anyway, like a cold slap to the face.

She turned slightly, watching as he took another drag of his cigarette, completely unaware of how her mind had just flipped on itself.

Mina smirked. “Oh, so you like the Instagram model type?”

Jungkook shrugged, grinning. “I mean, yeah. I like a girl who knows how to enhance what she’s got.”

“Yeah? And how many of those girls are you seeing?” one of the guys teased.

Jungkook chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t keep count, man. Just having fun.”

And that was it.

That was all Y/N needed to hear.

She took a slow step back, distancing herself from the conversation, suddenly feeling like an idiot for ever letting her mind wander in the first place.

Oh, he definitely isn’t into me.

Why was I even thinking about it?

The relief was almost immediate—like a weight lifting off her chest. Because now she had proof. Now she could shove away any lingering thoughts, any ridiculous ideas that maybe, maybe, there was something in the way he looked at her.

Because there wasn’t.

Jungkook liked confident girls. The kind who knew they were beautiful. The kind who walked into a room and owned it. The kind who got their lips done because they knew people would be looking at them.

And Y/N?

She barely wanted to be perceived.

She was nothing like the women he wanted.

And she never would be.

So she took another slow drag of her cigarette, let the smoke settle deep in her lungs, and decided that whatever she had been feeling before—

It was over.

The conversation had moved on.

Jungkook’s words about his type had already sunk into Y/N’s mind like a stone in deep water, and she had done her best to detach herself from it.

She was good at that—convincing herself not to care.

But then, casually, almost like an afterthought, he said something that made her pause.

“Yeah, I was in a relationship for four years,” he admitted, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

Y/N glanced at him before she could stop herself.

He had never mentioned that before.

“Wait,” Mina blinked, interested. “You? In a serious relationship?”

Jungkook chuckled. “Yeah. Long time, huh?”

“What happened?” one of the guys asked.

Jungkook shrugged. “It just ended. That’s all.”

Something in his tone told Y/N that wasn’t all, but she didn’t ask.

It wasn’t her place to.

And that was it. The topic drifted, people moved on, and she told herself she wouldn’t think about it.

But later—when it was just the two of them outside, the others having already gone back in—he brought it up again.

Y/N shivered slightly, rubbing her arms for warmth as she exhaled smoke into the cold night air. She had stayed behind for one last cigarette before heading back in, and somehow, Jungkook had done the same.

Now it was just them.

Quiet. No distractions.

And then, out of nowhere—

“I think I’m ready for something serious again.”

She turned to look at him, caught off guard.

His eyes weren’t on her. He was gazing at the ground, his cigarette between his fingers, expression unreadable.

Y/N swallowed. “You mean… a relationship?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

Jungkook—the same guy who had just admitted to sleeping with countless women, the same guy who had laughed about not keeping count—wanted to be in a relationship?

“You said you were with someone for four years,” she said carefully. “What happened?”

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed.

“I was loyal to her,” he said simply. “But she cheated on me.”

Y/N felt something twist in her stomach.

She hadn’t expected that.

He took another slow drag, exhaling before speaking again. “Before I met her, I slept around a lot. Just… had fun, you know? And after she cheated, I guess I just went back to that.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Except now, I don’t even think about it. It just happens.”

Y/N stayed silent, absorbing his words.

She shouldn’t be feeling anything about this.

She shouldn’t care.

But for some reason, the way he said it—the way he admitted it, so bluntly—it made her uneasy.

Jungkook glanced at her then, eyes dark under the dim light. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?” she murmured.

“I don’t sleep next to them,” he said. “After we’re done, I leave. Or I ask them to.” He tilted his head slightly. “I just… I don’t like being next to someone I have no feelings for.”

Y/N’s pulse jumped.

She didn’t know why, but something about the way he said it, about the way his voice lowered just slightly, sent a strange heat crawling up her spine.

She forced a chuckle, trying to keep it light. “Wow. Such a gentleman.”

Jungkook smirked, flicking his cigarette away. “I never said I was a good guy, Y/N.”

Her breath hitched slightly.

The way he was looking at her now—like he was studying her, like he was waiting for something—was making it hard to breathe.

The tension was thick.

And she hated it.

Because she knew her place.

She knew she wasn’t the kind of girl men looked at like that.

And yet, as Jungkook’s gaze lingered, as the silence stretched between them, she found herself struggling to remember why.

Y/N didn’t know what to say.

The way Jungkook was looking at her, the weight of the conversation—it was too much.

She wasn’t used to this kind of talk.

She wasn’t used to him like this.

He was always loud, always playful, always joking around, but now… now he was just raw. Unfiltered. And she didn’t know what to do with it.

So, finally, she forced herself to ask, “Then… what are you looking for in a relationship?”

Jungkook exhaled, thinking for a moment before answering.

“I’ve lowered my standards,” he admitted, his tone casual, but there was something sharp beneath it.

Y/N’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I used to have all these ideas of the perfect girl,” he said, leaning against the railing. “But now? I just want someone mature. Smart. Someone who actually knows how to communicate instead of just expecting things.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, trying to understand.

Jungkook sighed. “The girls I’m with now… they only care about their nails, their hair, their outfits—girly shit like that. And I don’t mind it, but sometimes I talk to them, and it’s like—” he snapped his fingers “—nothing. Zero brain capacity.”

Y/N blinked.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

Part of her wanted to laugh, to tell him he sounded ridiculous, but another part of her was just… confused.

Because he was acting like he wanted something real. Something deep.

And that didn’t make sense.

Not coming from him.

Not after everything he had just told her.

“So,” she started slowly, “you want someone who actually understands you?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”

Y/N hesitated, shifting slightly on her feet. “And what kind of boyfriend are you?”

Jungkook smirked at that, running a hand through his hair before answering.

“I don’t hold onto people too tight,” he said simply. “I’m not a jealous guy. I don’t believe in that possessive bullshit. If I’m with someone, it’s because I trust them. They’re their own person, I’m my own person. We have different friends, different lives.”

He paused for a second, then gave her an example.

“Like, let’s say we’re together,” he said, and Y/N’s heart skipped a beat.

She felt her breath hitch, but he didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did.

But he continued anyway.

“If we’re together, and we’re out somewhere, and some guy starts checking you out,” he said, “I wouldn’t freak out. I wouldn’t get mad. Because, at the end of the day, I know you’re mine. That’s it. Simple.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Because none of that should have meant anything.

And yet, her mind clung to a single, ridiculous thought.

Some guy checking me out?

She almost wanted to laugh.

Because that would never happen.

She wasn’t the type of girl men looked at like that.

But the way Jungkook had said it—so effortlessly, like it was a completely normal scenario—made something strange bloom in her chest.

It made her want to believe it.

Just for a second.

Just to see what it would feel like.

But she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

So, instead, she forced herself to focus on his words.

“I think jealousy is unbelievably stupid,” she admitted, her voice quieter than before. “If there’s trust, care, and love… then what’s the point?”

Jungkook hummed, considering her answer.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Exactly.”

Silence stretched between them.

Something unspoken lingered in the air—thick, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Y/N’s mind was racing, trying to make sense of this, trying to convince herself that none of it meant anything.

But then Jungkook looked at her again.

And suddenly, she wasn’t so sure.

Y/N had been trying to avoid the weight of Jungkook’s words, trying to brush them off like they meant nothing, but then—

“You have pretty eyes.”

She froze.

The words came out so casually, so effortlessly, like he hadn’t even thought twice before saying them. But Y/N had never been told that before.

Not in a way that mattered.

Not in a way that wasn’t followed by some joke, some empty compliment thrown her way to be nice.

She kept her expression neutral, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before giving him a skeptical glance. “What?”

Jungkook leaned against the railing, looking at her—not through her, not past her, but at her.

“I said you have pretty eyes.” His gaze flickered to her glasses. “Why are you hiding them behind those?”

Y/N’s stomach clenched.

Her fingers instinctively twitched at the frame of her glasses, but she didn’t dare remove them.

She needed them.

Not just to see, but to conceal.

They were her safety net, a barrier between herself and the world—a world that never really saw her, that never wanted to see her.

She forced out a chuckle, shaking her head. “I’m not hiding anything. I just need them.”

Jungkook didn’t push, but he didn’t look convinced either.

He just took another drag of his cigarette, watching her through the smoke.

Y/N’s mind spiraled.

Because that was just it, wasn’t it?

They were too different.

They were from completely different worlds.

Jungkook was charming, effortless, someone who moved through life with ease. He surrounded himself with people who were just like him—beautiful, confident, carefree.

And her?

She barely wanted to be perceived.

Even if, in some ridiculous, alternate universe, they were together… she’d never fit into his world.

His friends wouldn’t understand her.

She’d always be second-guessing herself, always feeling like the odd one out, always waiting for someone to question why Jungkook was with her in the first place.

The thought settled deep inside her chest, heavy and painful.

Because even if she wanted to believe there was something here, something small and unspoken—

It didn’t matter.

It never would.

The days without Jungkook felt different.

He had taken some vacation leave, and Y/N told herself it was nice to have a break from him.

No teasing remarks.

No lingering stares.

No reason for her stupid, ridiculous thoughts to resurface.

But the office felt… emptier.

It wasn’t just that Jungkook was loud, that he filled the room with his energy. It was something else, something she didn’t want to name.

She wasn’t supposed to miss his presence.

She wasn’t supposed to care.

But she found herself noticing his absence anyway.

And then—he came back.

And everything felt different.

Not because he acted differently.

But because now, every time she saw him, he was on his phone.

Texting.

Talking.

Always busy, always distracted, always somewhere else.

He’d laugh at his screen, fingers flying over the keyboard, sometimes whispering something to his male friends, chuckling under his breath.

And Y/N knew.

She knew.

He was talking to them.

The girls.

The ones he slept with. The ones who fit into his world, who had the kind of beauty that turned heads.

And maybe, before, she could have convinced herself that none of it mattered.

But after that night—after his words, after the way he had looked at her—

It did matter.

And that was the worst part.

Y/N sat across from her best friend, Luna, stirring her iced coffee absently as she tried to figure out how to explain the mess inside her head.

Luna, being a psychologist, always had a way of cutting through her bullshit. It was annoying, but Y/N knew she needed it.

“So let me get this straight,” Luna leaned forward, crossing her arms. “You have a thing for this guy—”

“I don’t have a thing for him,” Y/N interrupted quickly.

Luna gave her a flat look. “Okay. You don’t have a thing for him. But you’re clearly affected by him.”

Y/N sighed, taking a sip of her drink. “… Maybe a little.”

Luna smirked. “Thought so. Go on.”

Y/N hesitated before continuing. “It’s just… sometimes it feels like he sees me. Like he says things that catch me off guard, things I’m not used to hearing.”

“Like?”

Y/N sighed. “Like telling me I have pretty eyes and asking why I hide behind my glasses.”

Luna’s brows lifted slightly. “And that bothers you because…?”

“Because he’s him,” Y/N exhaled sharply. “Because I don’t fit in his world, Luna. I mean—he literally sleeps with different girls all the time. He’s always on his phone texting them. And when he does talk about relationships, it’s like—he wants someone mature, someone who understands him, but at the same time, he surrounds himself with the opposite.”

Luna tilted her head. “So what’s the real problem here?”

Y/N frowned. “What do you mean?”

Luna leaned back in her chair, studying her. “The way I see it, you’re not upset about Jungkook himself. You’re upset because, for the first time, you’re actually considering the possibility that someone like him could see you in a way you’ve never allowed yourself to be seen.”

Y/N froze.

That hit too deep, too fast.

Luna continued. “You’ve spent so long believing that you don’t belong in certain spaces, that men like him would never look at you in that way, that even the idea of it makes you uncomfortable. So now, when something happens that contradicts that belief—like him telling you that you’re beautiful in some way—you panic. Because it doesn’t fit the story you’ve told yourself.”

Y/N stared at her drink, feeling her throat tighten.

She wanted to argue.

She wanted to say Luna was wrong.

But she wasn’t.

Because it was true.

Y/N had spent years convincing herself that attraction, desire, and romance were things meant for other women.

Women who were smaller.

Women who fit in.

So when someone like Jungkook—someone who shouldn’t even notice her—said something that made her feel seen, she didn’t know what to do with it.

It hurt more than it should.

Because even if, in some impossible, alternate reality, Jungkook did look at her like that—what then?

She still wouldn’t belong in his world.

She still wouldn’t fit.

And that thought burned more than she wanted to admit.

Luna sighed, her voice softer now. “Look, I’m not saying he’s in love with you or anything. Maybe he’s just naturally flirty, maybe he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. But Y/N… you deserve to stop hiding. Whether it’s him or someone else, you deserve to be seen.”

Y/N swallowed hard, gripping her coffee cup a little tighter.

She didn’t know if she was ready for that.

But a part of her—a tiny, fragile part—was starting to wonder if maybe, maybe, Luna was right.

Avoiding Jungkook was easier said than done.

Y/N told herself it was for the best—that she needed space, that she was just overthinking things, that none of it mattered in the grand scheme of things.

So, she distanced herself.

She stopped going for smoke breaks when she knew he’d be there.

She started sitting on the opposite side of the training room.

She spent more time with her other colleagues, forcing herself to engage in conversations and laugh at jokes she barely paid attention to.

And for the most part, it worked.

Jungkook was always surrounded by people anyway. He was always talking, always laughing, always moving. He barely even noticed she was keeping her distance.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

But then there were moments—small, fleeting ones—where she could feel his eyes on her.

When she’d be chatting with Mina and the others, laughing at something ridiculous, and suddenly, she’d catch the slightest shift in the air.

When she’d glance up just in time to see Jungkook looking at her across the room, brows slightly furrowed, like he was trying to figure something out.

But he never said anything.

And neither did she.

She just kept pulling away, convincing herself that it was the right thing to do.

That she wasn’t meant to be part of his world.

That she was better off staying exactly where she was.

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