#glad to finally get something written down | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 16 days ago

Text

Supersonic

Pairing: CollegeAU!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When you ask Bob Floyd to tutor you after not doing so well on your first Advanced Theoretical Physics test, you never expected him to say yes, nor did you expect him to be so enthusiastic to teach you the material either.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Reader is an Engineering Major who is just trying to take a required elective that doesn’t tank their average, Bob is a Physics Major who is an overachiever and is top of his class. We love a good tutor trope y’all, and technically it’s friends to lovers hehehehe

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all, wrap it up), Bob’s a certified munch…What Can I Say? It’s in the holy scripture lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Hair Pulling, Face Grinding, Bob’s got a bit of performance anxiety (and loves praise, but the man also likes worshipping hehehe), Breast Play, Bob’s giving sub vibes in this, Handjob (I don’t think I’m missing anything)

Author’s Note: Alright. Alright. I heard the crowd lol. I heard the masses, and I finally got around to writing for THE Bob Floyd....And I came out guns blazing on this one. I hope it’s not a let down, I know y’all have been waiting for something from me regarding this cutie patootie, so I’m glad I can please the masses 😂Enjoy!!! (Side note: I’m not a physics major but I took a few courses here and there, don’t strike me down if I don’t get certain things right about the questions please! lol) This was also a request by @shewhocallstothestars but I did modify it a bit (hopefully that's okay.) 😏

P.S: Evil stuff dropping this so casually on a Wednesday afternoon! Lol Surprise tho!

Word Count: 19,626 (HA!)

The first time Bob Floyd saw you, you were late for Advanced Theoretical Physics.

Not embarrassingly late–but just enough for the heavy lecture hall door to groan open and click shut behind you with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the cavernous space. Just enough to make the professor falter mid-sentence, his marker hovering above the whiteboard as heads turned in your direction like a wave.

Your chin stayed tucked, gaze low as you moved up the steps with a quick, purposeful stride that practically whispered “please for the love of god don’t look at me.” Still, it was a walk that carried weight. Not flustered or apologetic–just sharp. Like you were used to showing up in the middle of things and moving through rooms without needing to explain why.

But even if you didn’t owe anyone an apology, you didn’t want the attention.

Especially not in the outfit you were wearing.

You didn’t mean to put on anything eye-catching, but laundry day had come and gone without mercy. Between leading three straight days of exhausting freshman orientation–clipboard, whistle, and all–and trying to get your textbooks, syllabi, and housing situation in order before classes began, your options had run out. So you’d thrown on a slightly-too-tight zip-up hoodie, your college’s emblem half-hidden under the worn zipper, and the only clean bottom you had left: a black skirt you hadn’t touched since the first day of summer.

It rode a little higher than you remembered, and paired with your bare legs and sneakers, it was far from inappropriate, but in a room where everyone else was in jeans and sweats, it made you feel seen. And not in a way you liked.

You spotted a half-empty row about midway up the lecture hall, three seats in from the aisle, and made a beeline for it, holding your skirt down as you made quick strides towards the spot that had your name written all over it. The weight of dozens of eyes prickled against your skin, but you kept moving, zeroed in on that opening like it might swallow you whole and hide you from the ogling stares.

Bob was seated near the end of that row.

His notebook was open, half a page of densely packed notes already filled in with that small, impossibly neat handwriting of his. A mechanical pencil twitched in his right hand as you approached–still mid-spin from the distraction you had caused. He looked like someone who took school seriously, but not obnoxiously so. His light brown hair was cropped short and a little mussed on the top, as though he hadn’t quite decided whether to tame it or not–or the wind got to it and messed it up on the way to class.

He was wearing a white t-shirt–simple, fitted just enough to hint at the softness of muscle underneath, but crisp in that way cotton gets when it’s been folded with care. Not stiff, but starched just slightly from the wash, like maybe he had just done his laundry the night before. His jeans were a classic blue–not faded or overly worn, but comfortably lived-in. No rips or frays.

His glasses were perched low on the bridge of his nose, the thin metal frames glinting faintly beneath the harsh overhead lights–almost silver against the warm tones of his skin. They sat just crooked enough to suggest he’d pushed them up one-handed without really thinking about it. Lenses wide and clear, catching reflections of the whiteboard, but not enough to shield the way his eyes flicked toward you the moment your footsteps slowed beside him.

He looked sun-kissed from the dying summer–like August had clung to him a little longer than it should have. His skin was a shade deeper than it would be in a few weeks’ time, golden along his forearms and the high points of his face, like he’d spent the end of break outside–on rooftops, maybe, or walking alone down sidewalks still radiating heat. His lips were a touch dry, his knuckles faintly rough. But he looked steady. Bright-eyed and well-rested. Like he wanted to start the semester with good intentions and achievable goals.

You stopped just beside him–hovering for half a second, your bag shifting on your shoulder as you nodded toward the empty seat a few spots in.

”Sorry, just gotta get by,” You murmured, voice low and unassuming.

Bob looked up fully then and immediately shifted forward, pulling his legs in without hesitation. His knee brushed the underside of the desk as he tucked himself close to make room for you, the motion smooth but stiff like he hadn’t quite expected you to speak to him. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to sound like that–soft, a little breathless from the walk up the gauntlet of steps, but still sharp.

You moved past him in one fluid step whispering a thanks, then your scent hit him.

It wasn’t overpowering. It wasn’t the cloying kind of perfume that lingered too long in a hallway. It was just…You. Soft and sweet, but grounded–like vanilla left to steep in warm skin, the subtle warmth of almond or cream trailing just behind it. Lotion maybe. Something gentle. Something worn, not sprayed on. Like it had been absorbed into your hoodie, your neck, the backs of your knees in the early September heat.

But then there was something brighter, just beneath it–like sugar and citrus had melted into the mix. Not sharp. Not tart. Just the idea of lemon. A barely-there twist of brightness that reminded him of the first sip of a drink on a hot day. Cool. Balanced. Memorable.

It made Bob lose all his grip on the pencil in his hand, and made him straighten slightly, as his eyes glanced over to you slipping into the seat three down from his, holding your skirt against yourself so it didn’t ride up when you settled. When you shifted–once, just enough to adjust your bag or maybe smooth your hoodie–his eyes dropped quickly to your legs.

Bare and warm-looking in the stale lecture hall light. The skin smooth, catching little glints of reflection in a way that made him stare too long before he realized what he was doing.

His gaze jerked back up, and his pencil fell out of his hands. He fumbled to catch it before it rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor, and somehow he barely managed to do it. He cleared his throat so quietly that it didn’t even echo under the dome of the lecture hall. And then he exhaled once, trying to shake off the heat that creeped up his neck, fingers curling tight around the side of his notebook.

You didn’t look at him. Not once.

Not even when you pulled out your pen and your fresh, untouched notebook and started scribbling quick, efficient notes in handwriting he couldn’t quite see. Not even when your fingers fidgeted once at the hem of your hoodie like you weren’t sure if it was covering enough. Not even when you tilted your head slightly to the left, exposing the faint shape of your jaw and that one stubborn wisp of hair behind your ear.

You didn’t look back.

But he couldn’t stop glancing.

Every time there was a lull in the lecture–every time the professor turned toward the whiteboard or paused to answer a question from across the room–Bob’s eyes slid sideways. Just for a second. Just to check.

He told himself it was just curiosity. That he hadn’t seen you around before, and that this class wasn’t usually the kind that brought in new faces. Not Advanced Theoretical Physics. Not on day one. And especially not someone like you.

You didn’t fit the mold–not in the way you moved, not in the way you sat. There was a presence to you, even when you were quiet. Like you weren’t just taking space–you owned it. It made him curious. It made him distracted.

It made the last half of his notes nearly unreadable.

He’d rewrite them later. He always did.

But he’d still remember the scent you left behind when you passed him. The subtle trace of sweetness and skin-warmed citrus that had settled in the air like something meant to haunt him.

And he’d remember that you never once looked back.

—————————

You didn’t speak to Bob until the third week of classes, when you got your first ‘mini’ test back and got hit with the harsh realities of the choice you had made in picking Advanced Theoretical Physics for your upper elective.

You got a 68. You had never got a 68 in your life.

Not in high school, not in your other college courses, not in anything that involved formulas or numbers or mental gymnastics you were usually proud to be good at. Being an engineering student was supposed to make classes like this feel natural. Calculation, logic, technical problem solving–it was your bread and butter.

But this? This was humbling.

You stared down at the note the professor had written in red just beneath the grade:

”Revisit your derivations–conceptual understanding needs tightening.” You didn’t even know what the hell that meant. You had studied everything possible to prepare yourself, you knew you had been on the right track, there was no possible way this was the right grade. Your jaw flexed, and you tapped your pen once against the corner of your desk before you forced yourself to still.

You tried to breathe through the sting crawling up the back of your neck, the tightness that formed just under your ribs. This wasn’t even a midterm–it wasn’t supposed to matter. But to you, it did. You prided yourself on being able to handle anything. Being the kind of student professors leaned on. A leader. Someone who could run orientation like a sergeant and still ace quantum mechanics in the same week.

And here you were. With a 68 circled at the top of your page like a slap.

You let the paper fall face-down across your notebook and sighed hard through your nose.

Then you glanced over.

Three seats down, Bob was sitting quietly, glasses low on his nose again, flipping his test booklet over to the back like he wanted to get one more long look at it before class officially started.

You caught a glimpse of the front page as he did–and there it was. Written in the same red your grade was given in, unmistakable in the overhead light.

97.

Clean, confident. Circled big enough to make a statement.

He didn’t look smug about it. Not exactly. But there was something in the way he stared at that number, his brows lifting faintly as if confirming to himself, Yeah, that sounds right. His lips were pressed together in a close-lipped smile, the kind people wear when they’ve worked hard and know it paid off. He tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the bottom of the page once. Then again.

Pleased as punch.

You didn’t mean to keep staring–but it was hard to look away.

His black t-shirt was tucked just barely into the waistband of his jeans today, like he’d rushed to get dressed but still managed to look clean and composed. His hair looked softer, freshly washed maybe, curling a little more than normal without any product in his hair. The sun-kissed flush along his cheekbones hadn’t faded just yet, but it was slowly revealing little patches of paleness beneath it. The silver frames of his glasses caught the light again as he leaned slightly forward, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook to take pre-class notes even though nothing had started yet.

He was…Prepared. Calm, and clearly good at this.

And you were not evidently.

You sat back slowly in your seat, gaze flicking toward the whiteboard, but your mind was still racing. Not with formulas. Not with panic. But with something slower, more deliberate.

You needed help. That much was obvious.

And unfortunately–or maybe fortunately–the only person who hadn’t fumbled through the last three weeks with shaky handwriting and unsure eyes was sitting just three seats away.

Then…You made a decision you never thought you would be making in a class you expected to be good in.

You were going to ask him for help.

It went against every fibre in your being–the pride you carried like a shield, the belief that if you just studied harder, dug deeper, figured it out on your own, you’d make it through. That’s how it had always worked before. You didn’t need tutors. You didn’t ask for things.

But your test score was still burning a hole through your notebook, and Bob Floyd was still sitting three seats down, calmly annotating equations while half the class looked like they were on the verge of weeping. He definitely had the highest mark and there was no denying that, and you had to pick his brain to see if you could emulate the same genius level thinking. Maybe there was a secret to it all, and he would somehow share it with you so you could make a quick recovery and still grasp honours at the end of the semester…At this point you’d take even the craziest solutions to save yourself from another embarrassing mark.

So…You waited until the end of the lecture.

It took everything in you not to bolt out the second the professor dismissed the room. You always left quickly–efficiently–avoiding the post-class shuffle of students with questions or headphones already in. But today you stayed seated, even as the sound of backpacks zipping and notebooks slamming shut rose around you like thunder. You didn’t move, just flicked your pen closed and kept your eyes on the spiral binding of your notes until most of the room had emptied.

You packed up faster than usual, sweeping your things into your bag in quiet, practiced movements–but you left your test out, folded once, red ink still just barely visible beneath the crease. Your hands felt warm. A little clammy. The kind of nervous energy you hadn’t felt since your very first midterm in undergrad. But you stood anyway.

Bob was still at his desk, leaning forward, transcribing the last few formulas the professor had scribbled across the bottom corner of the board. His notebook looked the same as always–clean lines, small print, mechanical pencil pressed tight to the paper like he didn’t know how to be imprecise.

You made your way down the row, test in hand, and stopped just short of his space. The words were already forming in your mouth, even before he noticed you.

You cleared your throat. “Hey… Sorry to bother you. You’re Bob, right?”

His head snapped up fast, and his eyes locked onto yours like he hadn’t expected you to actually exist this close.

“Uh–yeah,” He replied, “Yeah. Bob Floyd.”

You’d caught him off guard. You could tell by the way he blinked, like he had to reset. His mouth parted slightly, lips soft and chapped in the middle, and then–almost as if he remembered he was supposed to be someone in this moment–he cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

“You’re…Y/N? Right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He held out his hand, a little unsure. “Nice to meet you.”

You hesitated for a beat–because it wasn’t every day someone in a physics class offered a handshake–but you took it. His palm was warm and dry, his grip a little firm at first, like he hadn’t meant for it to feel that strong.

His fingers were long. His nails clean, almost manicured in a way that surprised you. His thumb brushed yours briefly, and for a second, the contact lingered just a little too long.

You let go, and Bob rubbed his hand on the knee of his jeans as you both sat in the pause that followed, air slightly charged.

You weren’t wearing anything special today–just an old cropped t-shirt that rode up when you lifted your arms and a pair of low-slung sweatpants that had long since given up trying to cling to your hips. A hoodie hung open over it all, soft with wear. It wasn’t much. Just lazy comfort. But something in the way Bob’s eyes dropped for half a second–just below the hem to a flicker of skin at your waist–told you it wasn’t invisible either.

He gulped again, trying to recover from being caught.

You cleared your throat. “So, uh… I was wondering if you offer tutoring or something. I kinda bombed that first mini quiz.” His brows lifted over the rim of his glasses–an expression halfway between surprise and amusement.

“I…I don’t offer it or anything,” He said, already fumbling a little, “But I can help, if that’s what you’re looking for…How bad did you do?” He asked, trying not to assume the worst, but knowing there was a possibility he was going to see a fairly bad mark, judging by the conversations that happened behind him when the tests were handed out at the beginning of class. You flipped the test open toward him, and he stared at the 68, a smirk drawing up on his lips. He let out a short, soft laugh through his nose, more of a warm exhale than anything mean.

”I mean…It’s not great, but I’ve seen worse.” You raised your eyebrows at him and smirked faintly.

”How comforting.” You mumbled. He shifted in his seat, thumb rubbing across the corner of his notebook like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His gaze didn’t meet yours directly; it just hovered somewhere around your shoulder, your mouth, and your hair. He was still absorbing the fact you were in front of him asking to be tutored.

“I can definitely help you bring your grade up. It’s early enough in the semester to get it back on track.” He explained. Something in his voice steadied–like the gears in his brain had finally clicked into place. Like this was territory he knew how to navigate. Structure. Process. Solutions. A small smile tugged at your lips. A breath of relief rushed through you before you could stop it.

“Thank you so much,” You replied. And then, already leaning in with eagerness, “When can we get started?” Bob paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes flicked slightly upward–thinking, scanning the mental file cabinet of his day.

“We could do today…You could meet me at the library,” He suggested, after a second, “I'm free after four.” You wrinkled your nose a little, already shaking your head.

“The library’s kind of a distraction for me,” You admitted. “It’s always too loud–someone’s always coughing or typing like they’re in a race. Even the reserved study rooms…I don’t know, it never really works for me.”

Bob tilted his head a little, listening closely, waiting for you to present a different option.

You hesitated for just a second before offering, more carefully now, “If you feel okay with it…We could study at my dorm? It’s definitely quieter. And there’s not much to get distracted by.”

You didn’t say it with any kind of tone. No flirt, no implication. Just facts. Just a space.

But Bob’s throat tightened anyway.

His mind, helpful as ever, immediately conjured the image–your dorm. What it looked like. What it might smell like. You curled up in your desk chair, with your hair pushed out of your face, sleeves rolled, and a half-empty mug of tea or coffee next to an open binder. Maybe your bed was still unmade. Maybe there was a bottle of lotion on your nightstand in the same scent that clung to you now, soft and sweet and skin-warmed.

He swallowed.

Hard.

Not because he had any ulterior motives. Not because he thought anything would happen. But because it had been a long time since he’d been invited into someone’s space like that. A woman’s space. A woman like you–all sharp eyes and soft smiles, casual comfort and effortless pull.

“Yeah,” He agreed, clearing his throat and nodding. “Yeah, that’s totally fine. If you’re comfortable with it.”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t,” You said easily, and the way you said it–so certain, so casual–made something tighten low in his stomach again.

“Okay,” He replied, and he finally looked at you. His blue eyes were steady behind his glasses, a little glassy from the fluorescents, but locked on yours. “Just email me your dorm number. I’ll bring the notes, you bring the test, and we’ll make a plan.”

You grinned, and god, it hit him like a sucker punch. Like something he hadn’t braced for.

“Deal.”

And then you turned, backpack swinging over one shoulder, hoodie hem swaying against your hips as you made your way back up the aisle.

Bob sat still for a moment. Longer than he meant to.

He hadn’t even packed up yet.

It took him another ten seconds before he finally exhaled, shoved his pencil into the spiral of his notebook, and muttered to himself under his breath–

“…Way to make this hard for yourself…You dummy.”

————————

Your dorm wasn’t anything glamorous–but it was yours, and that made all the difference.

When you unlocked the door and pushed it open after class, you were immediately met with the familiar scent of fabric softener and the faint citrus-vanilla from the reed diffuser you kept on the dresser. The room was small, technically a single dorm, but it was just enough space for you to carve out your version of comfort. Still, as you stood in the doorway, backpack slipping off one shoulder, you looked around and immediately thought that there was no way in hell it was going to stay like this, especially with a guest coming over.

You dropped your bag near the door, and got to work immediately.

The bed was first. You hadn’t made it this morning–just rolled out with your alarm still going, one arm flung across your eyes as you reached blindly for your phone, groggy and unwilling to admit the day had started. The sheets were still tangled, your navy-blue comforter half-slid to the floor, the corner twisted around your foot in your sleep. You tugged it all back with quick, practiced tugs, smoothing the fitted sheet until the last of the sleep wrinkles vanished under your palm.

Your comforter had a faint rip in the seam on the left side near your hip–stitched up once, badly, with mismatched thread. You’d done it the second week of your freshman year, the night you’d fallen asleep sobbing after a brutal call with your high school boyfriend, and woken up the next morning tangled so tightly in the blanket that it tore when you got up. You never fixed it properly. You kind of liked the scar.

You fluffed the single throw pillow you used for your head–an old one, pillowcase faded with soft clouds printed across pale blue fabric. Not the prettiest, but it felt like home. And the long body pillow you always fell asleep hugging–cream-colored, with one end slightly more smushed than the other–went right in its usual spot against the wall. A comfort thing. You didn’t sleep well without it.

Then you moved to your desk.

It was more shelf than desk, sure–but it held your brain in neat, tiny pieces. Notes, sticky tabs, a single battered wire basket for loose paper, and a coffee mug you never drank out of that just held highlighters, lip balm, and the same pair of scissors you’d had since high school. You stacked your textbooks neatly–physics, mechanics, one painfully dry thermodynamics manual–and slid your notebook on top, flipping it to the most recent page so Bob wouldn’t see your chaotic post-lab scrawl from earlier in the week.

There was a Polaroid pinned to the corkboard just above the workspace–one of you and your best friend from home, taken in your kitchen during winter break. You were both in pajamas, mid-laugh, a sliver of frosting from a baking experiment smeared across your nose. You paused for a moment, fixing the pin to straighten it, and sighed.

Your reed diffuser sat on the corner of the dresser–three pale wooden sticks soaked in a warm citrus-vanilla scent that reminded you of summer mornings and freshly folded laundry. The bottle was nearly empty now. You should’ve replaced it weeks ago, but you kept putting it off. There was something comforting about the familiar scent, even as it faded.

Near it sat a tiny glass tray shaped like a shell, where you kept rings you barely wore and two hair ties you always reached for. One had stretched out completely, the elastic barely holding together–but you refused to throw it away. It had survived too many late-night study sessions, too many chaotic mornings before class. It had history.

You lit your desk lamp–the one with the soft yellow bulb, not the bright blue-white you hated. It cast a glow across the room that made it look gentler, less like a dorm and more like a nook carved from a novel. Cozy. Private. You turned off the overhead light and stood there for a second, letting yourself just look. The soft shadows, the freshly made bed, the diffuser’s scent hanging lightly in the air.

You sigh, satisfied with your work, eyes scanning over the room once more. Everything was in its place. Not perfect, maybe–but it looked lived in, cared for, warm. It looked like you.

With that final breath of approval, you turned toward the door tucked just beside your dresser–the greatest stroke of luck you’d had all year.

An attached bathroom.

Single dorms were hard enough to land as a second-year, but a single with a private bathroom? That was near mythic. Your RA had called it the “housing lottery jackpot,” and you hadn’t argued. No communal showers meant no mildew smell clinging to your towel, no forgotten flip-flops, and–best of all–no awkward small talk with girls brushing their teeth beside you at midnight.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click, and reached for your phone on the counter. 3:30 PM. Forty-five minutes, give or take.

Bob said “after four,” but something told you he wasn’t the type to be late. You weren’t sure if that meant he’d be early–but either way, you weren’t risking being caught in your towel when he showed up at your door.

Without much thought, you tugged your clothes off in a few quick motions and tossed them into the hamper tucked beside the sink. The hoodie fell in a heap, the fabric heavy with the day’s wear. Your cropped t-shirt was damp at the neckline, your waistband creased from sitting through the afternoon lecture. It all smelled faintly of the campus and the late-summer air–sun-warmed concrete, paper, and the barest hint of classroom chalk.

You flicked on the fan and twisted the shower knob until the water reached the right balance of hot–just shy of scalding.

Steam bloomed in the narrow space like it had been waiting, curling along the top of the curtain and fogging the mirror in soft, slow layers. You stepped in, letting the heat rush over your shoulders in a way that made your muscles go slack and your eyelids flutter briefly closed. You weren’t indulging, not really. You just needed to rinse the day away–strip it off like a second skin, let the tension from your shoulders drain down the tiles and vanish with the suds.

While the water beat down over the back of your neck, your thoughts began to drift.

Even though this was just a tutoring session–just notes, formulas, and a second chance at a first impression–it felt bigger than that.

You hadn’t brought a guy into your room in months.

Not since you’d drawn that invisible line in the sand–the one that said: this space is mine and mine only. Not since you started guarding your time, your energy, and your peace. You weren’t a prude–far from it. You weren’t closed off either. You just…Stopped inviting chaos into your life. And sometimes, chaos looked like someone else’s backpack thrown on your floor, someone else’s hand on your thigh or under the waistband of your sweatpants, or someone else’s voice asking, “Do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

You didn’t miss it.

But still–when you looked Bob Floyd in the eyes and suggested your dorm like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean anything–something in your chest had fluttered. Not panic. Not excitement. Just a shift.

A crack in the routine.

Now, standing under the steaming pulse of your shower, with the scent of citrus shampoo rising like vapor and the water cascading down your spine, you realized you hadn’t really prepared yourself for that part.

Bob Floyd. In your dorm. Sitting on your bed, or at your desk…Breathing in your space.

You didn’t think it would be weird. He didn’t seem like the type to make things uncomfortable. If anything, he seemed like the kind of guy who’d knock twice even after you told him the door was open. He was polite. Mild-mannered. A little tightly wound in a way that made you think he probably alphabetized his class folders.

But you didn’t know him.

And it was dawning on you, as you tilted your face into the stream and let it blur your vision with heat, that this was only the second conversation you’d had with him. Two conversations, and now you were inviting him into the most intimate space a student could have–your dorm. Your bedroom. Your sanctuary. A place where your throw blanket still held the scent of last week’s laundry, and where your pillowcase had that faint stretch of mascara from the night you fell asleep before washing your face.

What if he thought it was messy?

What if he thought you were messy?

What if he saw the tangled cords beside your bed or the half-finished cup of coffee on your nightstand and assumed you were the kind of person who couldn’t get it together–even when your whole reputation said otherwise?

What if he looked at your 68 again, and thought you were dumb suddenly?

You hated that thought most of all.

You weren’t dumb. You knew you weren’t. You were sharp, resilient, calculated when it mattered–and still, you wondered if he’d already made up his mind about you. Academic ego like his–97s without breaking a sweat–probably came with an equally inflated sense of who could keep up. Maybe he was too polite to say it, but what if he thought you were just another pretty girl in a hard class, grasping for help she hadn’t earned?

You scrubbed your hands over your scalp trying to shake the thought loose, because it didn’t matter what he thought.

Right?

You’d asked for help. That was the whole point. And he’d agreed. He’d said yes without hesitation–well, after a small nervous stammer, but still. He’d seemed open. Kind, even. And if you were being honest with yourself–and not just stewing in self-preservation–you didn’t think he saw you that way. Not as dense. Not as helpless. If anything, he seemed genuinely surprised that you’d asked him at all. Like he hadn’t expected someone like you to even talk to someone like him.

You rinsed the last remnants of soap and shampoo off your body, letting the moment pass.

You weren’t going to overthink this.

He was coming over, he was going to sit down. You were going to go through your test and try and work through the incorrect answers, maybe laugh once or twice, and you’d be one step closer to not failing this class.

That was it.

You shut off the water, the sudden silence deafening in the tiny bathroom.

Steam clung to every surface. You wiped your hand across the mirror, catching your own reflection looking back at you–a few beads of water dripping from your hair, over your collarbones, down over your breasts, the light reflecting off of them like little glowing orbs.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, padded out onto the tile, and toweled your hair dry with slow, deliberate motions. You’d keep things light. Professional. You’d study. You’d ask questions. You’d nod along when he explained something that made sense. And then–

You paused.

Then maybe…Maybe you’d ask what his secret was. The 97. The sharp notes. The calm in his hands. The look in his eyes when he first saw you walking up those lecture hall stairs. Not because you wanted anything from it.

But because part of you was just…Curious.

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in the last traces of damp heat, the steam still clinging faintly to your skin like a second breath. The scent of your shampoo followed you into the room–light citrus, clean warmth, a kind of quiet comfort–and you padded barefoot across the tile, leaving soft marks on the floor that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.

Your eyes flicked to the digital clock on your nightstand.

3:55 PM.

Of course it was. Right on the edge of too early, which meant Bob would probably be here right on time–maybe even five minutes ahead, just to be polite. Just to prove he meant it when he said he took this seriously.

You crossed the room in quick, practiced steps, flipping through your clothes without ceremony. You didn’t want to overthink it. You couldn’t overthink it. You were still a little warm from the shower, your skin flushed and hair damp, and the last thing you needed was to feel sweat pooling under a too-thick hoodie while trying to understand whatever theoretical mind game was about to come your way.

So you grabbed a soft t-shirt–a light heather grey, already worn thin in spots from too many washes–and a pair of black workout shorts that hit mid-thigh. Functional. Comfortable. No-nonsense. You pulled them on in a few quick motions, not bothering with makeup or overthinking how the shorts made your legs look in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the slits of your blinds. It wasn’t about that.

You hung up your towels quickly on the hook by the door, turned to your desk, and yanked open the middle drawer with a quiet clatter. Your whiteboard markers were all crammed into a cup at the back–caps loose, labels fading. You pulled out four of them–blue, green, red, and black–and lined them up on your desk next to your notebook like you’d planned it that way all along. Some kind of subconscious need for control, maybe. Or maybe you just didn’t want Bob to see you fumbling for supplies mid-conversation.

Then you reached for the test. The test. The damn 68, still folded and creased and red-inked like a bruise on paper. You slapped it onto the desk with a sigh, the sound small but sharp in the quiet of the room. Your hands slid to your hips. You stared at it for a long second.

This was where it would start. Hopefully where it would turn around.

And then–just as your breath settled and you were about to pull your chair out–

Knock knock.

Two firm taps.

Not tentative. Not obnoxious. Just…Precisely delivered. Like he’d rehearsed it.

You sighed. Not from dread–but from inevitability. From the knowledge that this, right here, was the moment it would all shift. You rolled your shoulders once, exhaled through your nose, and crossed the room in five brisk steps.

You pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Bob Floyd stood just outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, a black three-ring binder hugged awkwardly to his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He had changed. He was wearing a navy t-shirt that clung just enough to his chest to remind you that he was broader than he looked seated in a lecture hall. His jeans were dark again–clean, cuffed slightly at the ankle because they were a little too long for his legs–and his sneakers looked freshly wiped down, as if he’d paused just outside the dorm building to rub them clean against the concrete.

His glasses were perched on his nose again, slightly fogged at the corners from the outside humidity. His hair was still a little mussed, like the wind had gotten to him–or maybe he’d run his hand through it on the walk over. His eyes met yours instantly, wide and a little unsure, like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“Hey,” He said, and it came out just a little too soft.

You leaned against the doorframe, one hand curled around the edge of it, the other still resting lightly on your hip. You didn’t mean to look casual–but you did. Warm skin. Damp hair. Legs bare in your shorts. You were dressed like comfort, like late afternoon, like a version of home he wasn’t expecting to see.

“Hey,” You returned. A small smile tugged at your lips. “Right on time.”

“I–uh, yeah.” Bob adjusted the strap on his backpack like it gave him something to do. “Didn’t wanna be early. Or, you know, too early. But also didn’t wanna be late.”

You stepped aside. “You’re good. Come on in.”

He hesitated just slightly before crossing the threshold, like he was stepping into a space that demanded a kind of reverence. And maybe, in a way, he was. His eyes swept the room instinctively, slow and deliberate–not nosey, just observant. His gaze skimmed over the bed, the desk, the glow of the warm lamp light, the closed bathroom door. Then back to you.

You watched him take it all in. The details. The neatness. The quiet hum of your diffuser still at work in the corner.

“This is…Nice,” He said finally. And he meant it. “Like, really nice. Kinda cozy.”

You smirked like you hadn’t been panic cleaning for the past hour or two, “I try.”He nodded once, still a little awestruck, like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here.

“Smells good too…Like you baked something.” You raised an eyebrow at him and gave a small laugh, motioning behind him.

”It’s just my diffuser.” Bob’s gaze drifted toward the thin plume of steam rising from your dresser, his face going slightly blush.

“Oh…” He blinked. “Didn’t notice that.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a sheepish little smile, soft and crooked. He ran his palm over the front of his jeans like it might smooth over the awkward pause that followed.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brow arched.

“Well,” You started, already moving toward your desk, “You can sit anywhere you’d like. I’m just gonna pull my whiteboard out so we have somewhere to work.”

He opened his mouth–maybe to respond, maybe to stall–but you cut in before the silence could return. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got water, Sprite, or…” you paused with a shrug, “an emergency stash of energy drinks if you’re into heart palpitations.”

Bob let out a short laugh, ducking his head as his fingers scratched the back of his neck. “Water’s good, thank you. Do you… need any help with anything?”

You shook your head with a quiet chuckle, already crouching to slide the whiteboard from behind your desk. “It’s all good, I got it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you replied with a grin. “Just get comfortable.”

Bob hesitated for a beat–then nodded once and toed off his shoes with quiet care, tucking them neatly beside the frame of your bed. The soft creak of your mattress followed as he eased himself up onto it, adjusting his binder across his lap. He settled back against your pillows like someone trying not to disturb a shrine. His back met the wall in a slow, deliberate lean, shoulders squaring before his legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent just slightly.

You were still crouched in front of your desk, tugging the whiteboard forward and flipping the eraser out of the marker tray with practiced ease. When you stood and propped the board upright against the far wall–angled so you could sit beside the bed and still reach it–Bob’s gaze caught on you again.

He wasn’t proud of it. But he couldn’t help it.

The soft sheen on your legs caught the warm light from your desk lamp, the moisture from your shower still clinging in subtle streaks across your skin. Your shorts were tight–they were the kind that followed the natural dip of your thighs when you bent forward, holding you in all the right places. Every angle pulled his attention. The curve where your hip met your waist, the shadow along the back of your knee when you adjusted your weight. You were only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, nothing scandalous, nothing remotely calculated–but Bob felt like he was seeing something private.

Like you’d invited him into something sacred and forgot to mention just how much of you lived here.

He cleared his throat and glanced out the window beside your bed, the blinds slatted just enough to let in the softest touch of late afternoon sun. The light was golden. Low. Hazy in the kind of way that made everything look suspended in time.

He told himself to focus. On the equations. On the test in your hand. On the notes in his binder.

Not on the way your legs moved when you crossed the room again, not on the lotion-sweet smell of you that lingered now even stronger than it had that first day in class, and not on the sight of you–relaxed and warm and totally unguarded–in a way he hadn’t seen before.

You crossed the room with a bottle of water and handed it to him without fuss, and when your fingers brushed, he felt the jolt of it deep in his chest.

“Thanks,” He said quietly, cradling the bottle like a peace offering.

You gave him a smile. Not teasing, not knowing. Just kind. Grounded. Unbothered.

And that made it worse somehow. Made it harder not to stare. Harder not to wonder what this was becoming, and how much trouble he was in already.

Because he could memorize equations. He could build models, ace problem sets, and calculate theoretical orbital mechanics in his sleep.

But none of that had prepared him for you.

You didn’t sit right away.

Instead, you hovered just beside the whiteboard for a moment longer, the test clutched in your hand, thumb brushing over the red mark like maybe you could fade it out with friction alone. But Bob waited patiently–quiet, composed, the bottle of water still nestled in his lap like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands yet.

You held the test out toward him. “Alright, let’s see how bad it really is.”

Bob offered a faint, crooked smile as he took the folded packet, careful not to smudge the corners with condensation from the bottle. He flipped it open to the first page, eyes scanning the first problem set. His gaze moved quickly–but not dismissively. He was reading, really reading, lips parting slightly as he traced your work with his eyes.

Then his brows lifted, just a touch–not surprise, but curiosity.

“Can you…” He glanced up at you, the glint of his glasses catching the light again, “show me how you got this answer? Go through it with me…I just want to pick your brain first. See your logic a bit.”

You hesitated, just for a beat.

Not because you didn’t remember how you got the answer. You did. You remembered every painful minute of trying to pull it out of thin air, piecing together old lecture notes and half-remembered formulas from late-night readings. But the thought of speaking it out loud? Of saying it in front of him?

That part felt…Vulnerable.

You bit the inside of your lip for a second, eyes flicking from the board to his face, then back again. Then, without a word, you bent down and picked up the black marker.

Bob leaned forward just slightly, shifting the binder onto the mattress beside him as you uncapped it with your teeth and started writing on the board. The soft squeak of dry erase on the surface filled the room.

“Okay,” You said finally, your voice steadier than you expected, “So the question was asking about particle behavior in a non-inertial reference frame, right? So I assumed we were supposed to use the rotating frame model the prof showed us last week. The one with the centrifugal and Coriolis corrections?” Bob nodded slowly, eyes locked on the board, on your hand.

You started to draw–carefully, neatly, the way you always did when trying to make sense of something. A circle. A line to represent the radius. Arrows for velocity, angular acceleration. You wrote out the base equation next to it, then began working through your substitutions.

“I plugged in the knowns here,” you continued, underlining as you spoke, “and then tried to isolate the pseudo-forces…but I think I misapplied the coordinate system. I used polar, but I think the solution assumed Cartesian.”

Bob made a small hum in the back of his throat–soft, thoughtful. You glanced back at him.

He was watching you. Focused, engaged. Almost the look a professor would give when they saw potential flickering just beneath a student’s mistake, and that made your throat tighten from the nerves that began to bubble over in your stomach.

Bob shifted again, the mattress dipping softly beneath his weight as he leaned forward, one hand braced on the bed beside his binder. “No, that’s good,” He murmured. “That’s actually really good. You weren’t wrong to try it that way. I think the issue’s just here–”He reached for the red marker from your stack, uncapping it with a soft click.

“See how you treated this term?” He pointed gently toward a partial derivative in your equation, careful not to touch the board. “You factored it like it was independent, but because it’s nested in the rotating frame, it still has angular dependence. That’s what threw the rest off.”

You blinked at the board, then at him.

“Wait…So if I’d just accounted for the cross-product instead of canceling it…”

“You would’ve landed within the margin of error,” He finished, smiling softly. “Easily a B. Maybe even B+ depending on how much partial credit he gave.” You stared at your own math like it had betrayed you and then slowly dropped your hand to your side, still holding the marker.

“That…Makes so much more sense,” You said, voice a little quieter now. Not embarrassed. Just a little humbled.

Bob stood up slowly, the mattress giving a soft groan beneath him as he rose. His steps were quiet but sure as he moved to stand beside you at the whiteboard, marker still poised in his hand like a baton he didn’t quite realize he’d taken control of. You stepped slightly to the side to give him space, though your shoulders still nearly brushed.

His voice came low, steady, as he started to rewrite the middle portion of your equation. His handwriting was sharp and balanced–blocky print with just a hint of slant, the kind of penmanship that spoke of hours spent copying down formula after formula with care.

“Your approach wasn’t bad,” He started, glancing at you just briefly before continuing, “Seriously. You just went too fast on the middle step, that’s all…And honestly?” He let out a breathy, half-laugh. “That’s the part that gets everyone.” You let out a quiet, half-aware chuckle–more breath than voice.

“Well…Evidently it doesn’t get you. You’re the one that got a 97.”

Bob flushed immediately. The back of his neck went pink first, then the tips of his ears. He ducked his head as he kept writing, though his next words carried a little laugh of their own.

“I’m a physics major,” He said. “So I better be getting that mark or else I’d be needing a refund from the school.”

You let out a real laugh at that–light, short, amused–and crossed your arms loosely over your chest, watching him scribble through the rest of the correction with a kind of practiced rhythm.

“No wonder you’re so good at this…” You muttered, more to yourself than him, but loud enough for him to catch.

Bob’s head tilted slightly toward you. “What’re you majoring in?”

You scratched the back of your neck, mildly self-conscious. “Engineering.”

He paused–just long enough to let the silence feel deliberate–and then let out a short, knowing laugh. “Ahh. Now it makes sense.”

You raised a brow, narrowing your eyes in mock warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You guys are chronic overthinkers,” He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. “And you guys aren’t? Please. Look at all the work you need to do just to get a simple solution. Two extra diagrams and four substitutions just to prove a particle moves left.”

He rolled his eyes, the kind of eye roll that had barely any edge–just enough sass to keep the playfulness alive. “Least if I took an engineering course, I’d still hit an 80 on the tests.”

You blinked at him. “Wow. Bold of you to assume you’d survive statics.”

Bob turned toward you a little more, raising an eyebrow, eyes glittering behind the faint reflection on his glasses. “I’d thrive in statics.”

“Oh, really?” you said, grinning now. “You think you would have a handle on it?” He cleared his throat lightly and gave you a soft smirk, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Maybe if I had the right tutor.” You blinked once. And then…Smiled.

He turned back to the board and finished the last line of the solution with a soft swipe of the marker.

“There,” He said, voice quieter again. “That’s how I did it.”

You stared at the board, then at him. The space between your shoulders eased a little. The knot in your chest began to loosen.

”Well…That’s one question down…At least I know where I went wrong…” Bob nodded, tapping the cap of the red marker softly against his palm.

“Let’s go to the next one.”

You reached over to flip the test packet to the next problem set, fingers skimming over the thin paper before tugging the top page aside. The math was already crowding your vision–variables stacked in tight lines, subscripts nestled between integrals and force vectors–and you let out a breath as you raised the black marker again.

He stepped back slightly to give you room, standing just behind and to your left. You could feel the warmth of him, the quiet energy he held so close to his chest, just skimming your shoulder. You swiped the board clean with the eraser in a few broad, practiced strokes until nothing remained but the faint sheen of leftover marker ghosting the surface.

“I’m gonna admit,” You started, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “I winged this one. So I’m definitely not gonna have an explanation for it.”

Bob shrugged, unbothered. “Then solve it,” He said casually. “Or attempt to. I’ll guide if you need it.”

There was a subtle shift in his tone–something a little less guarded, a little more drawled than usual. A slight southern cadence that lilted through the last few words, soft but present, like a warm hush pulled from somewhere deeper than lecture hall confidence. You felt your cheeks heat slightly at the sound.

Still, you nodded. “Alright.”

You started from scratch–no notes, no copying, just your best attempt. The marker glided smoothly under your hand as you worked through the logic piece by piece, pausing every few steps to reassess. You murmured quietly to yourself as you went, instinctively talking through the math aloud, and Bob said nothing–just watched. You could feel his eyes trace the path your gaze took, from the top of your diagram down through the first few steps of your math. Then–

“Nope. Wrong,” He interrupted, it came gently but firmly.

You blinked at the board, your hand frozen mid-step, and let out a quiet sigh. “Why?”

He stepped forward again, lifting the red marker. He didn’t correct it for you–just circled one specific term, the ink smooth and patient.

“This,” He pointed out, “You forgot to convert the mass into angular components. You treated it like a point mass.”

Your stomach sank just slightly. Not out of shame, but frustration. You dipped your head and started erasing that line.

“Sorry,” You murmured, almost under your breath.

“No need to apologize,” Bob said immediately, softer now. “Though I’m hopin’ this stuff sinks in…”

Your eyebrows knit, and you turned your head a little toward him. “Do you think it won’t?”

He shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders. “It takes a while to apply the theory. Knowing it in your head’s one thing…Applying it to a random question is something else…But being able to fix your own mistakes is the first step to understanding things a little better to apply things properly.” You nodded once, pressing your lips together. Then you went back to work, quieter now, more deliberate. He watched you fall into the rhythm of the solution again, only stepping back when you didn’t seem to need his guidance. You could feel his eyes flicking down toward the test for a second before he moved behind you.

You heard the soft scrape of his hand over the textbook as he grabbed it from your desk, flipping it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. Pages whispered past each other as he navigated straight to the chapter you’d been tested on–like he’d memorized the structure without even meaning to. His eyes scanned the problems, fingers tapping the margin of the page as he skimmed.

By the time he turned back around, you were capping the black marker with a little sigh of effort. “I think I got it?”

Bob came closer again and tilted his head to read your work. His gaze moved from line to line, his mouth twitching just slightly before he nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, you got it.” You caught the smile as it crept over his face–unfiltered this time, soft and a little proud. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, pushing them up the bridge of his nose before holding out the textbook toward you, with his thumb slipped between the pages.

“Try number twelve,” He said, the corner of his mouth still lifted. “New problem. Same concept. Let’s see what you remember.” Your eyes scanned the paragraph of setup–classic physics problem: rotating frame, non-uniform mass distribution, some sly attempt to catch overconfident students slipping past the conversion factor. You clicked your tongue once and let your focus shift back to the whiteboard, grabbing the green marker this time.

He watched you move–quiet, efficient, no hesitation as you picked apart the language of the question, breaking it into manageable parts. You leaned your hip against the desk just slightly, skin catching the late-afternoon light in the softest gleam. Your fingers danced over your phone screen, pulling up the calculator, thumb tapping with precise rhythm as your eyes flicked between the numbers and the formulas.

Bob didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring anymore.

There was a faint shimmer along your shoulder from where the light met your skin, a dewy glow from the shower that hadn’t fully faded. You were chewing softly on the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowed in concentration, and he thought–briefly, helplessly–that he could watch you solve problems forever if it meant watching you like this.

You didn’t say anything. Not for the full ten minutes it took you to work it through.

You just calculated, and wrote, and thought. You whispered a few fragments to yourself as you filled in a diagram at the top right corner of the board, then traced your logic through in smooth, deliberate steps. You stepped back finally, the marker hanging loosely from your fingers, your other hand planted lightly on your hip.

You turned slightly toward him.

“Well?” You asked. “What’s the verdict?”

Bob blinked–once, hard. Then blinked again.

“Right,” He replied quickly, moving forward, the textbook now tucked under one arm. He studied your work for a moment, leaning in just enough to squint at one portion of your substitutions. His lips pressed together.

“You did most of it right,” He murmured, pointing to a midsection of your math. “This part’s good…But you forgot to apply the correction here–” He tapped gently on a bracketed term near the top. “That throws the coefficient off. Still–partial credit would be earned. It’s not like you’d lose all the points.”

You let out a breath and nodded. “Got it.”

Bob uncapped the red marker again and leaned forward, elbow bent as he carefully scribbled a correction in the margin beside your step. His handwriting was still annoyingly neat, even in red, even when rushed. He talked you through it slowly, the pace gentle but firm, breaking down the terms like a translation instead of a reprimand.

Your arms crossed as you leaned against the edge of the desk, chin tilted toward him slightly. He didn’t rush, didn’t sound superior–he just…Taught. Like he wanted you to understand it, not just memorize it.

You smirked.

“You should become a professor with the way you teach.”

Bob glanced over his shoulder at you, an amused little tilt to his head. “Why? Am I boring you?”

You let out a real laugh this time, low and warm and amused. “No. Not yet, at least.”

He turned a little more to face you, one hand still holding the red marker.

“Don’t speak too soon,” He warned, the corners of his mouth pulling into a slow, boyish grin. “I’m sure I’ve got a lot more opportunities to do that.”

And even though the whiteboard still glowed behind him, filled with formulas and diagrams and half-solved questions, all you could see was the quiet crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and the way his voice–soft, sincere–almost sounded like a promise.

————————

Bob’s elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely laced, binder long forgotten beside him on the bed.

You were pacing.

Again.

Back and forth in front of your desk, your physics textbook open in your hands like it might suddenly say something different if you glared hard enough at the chapter title.

“I don’t understand,” You huffed, fingers tightening around the spine of the book. “We’ve been working through these questions almost every night for the past two weeks. I’m getting them very close to right when I do them here. I know what I’m doing on the whiteboard, I’m getting partial credit in class–but then I sit down during the quiz and it’s like…Like my brain just decides to take a smoke break.”

Bob watched you quietly from the bed, his gaze flicking down briefly as your shirt lifted with your movements. The hem rose just enough to show the waistband of the boxer shorts you’d thrown on after your shower, the edge of soft cotton skimming the top of your thighs as you turned in another sharp step.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just watched. Like he always did when you got worked up–like his stillness might balance out your storm.

You dropped the book onto your desk with a soft thud, dragging both hands through your hair before planting them on your hips in frustration.

“I mean, it’s ridiculous,” You muttered. “I can do it here. I’ve done it. You’ve seen me do it. What the hell happens between here and the classroom?” Bob leaned back slightly, hands now braced behind him against the bedspread, one leg bent, the other stretched long.

“Do you feel anxious when you’re writing the test?” He asked, tilting his head just a little.

You turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

“It’s a normal amount of anxiety,” You said flatly. “What, are you about to tell me that’s why I’m still not doing well on quizzes? A little test stress?”

He shrugged, his lips quirking upward like he knew he was about to toe the line. “Could be,” He replied simply. “Or…Maybe you just need some kind of…Positive reinforcement.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Positive reinforcement?” You repeated slowly, curious and suspicious of how he was bringing up the topic.

He nodded, straight-faced. “Affirmations. Encouragement. Rewards. You know. Psychology stuff.” You crossed your arms, the motion slow and deliberate, as you turned fully to face him. Your hips settled just to one side, weight shifting into that slightly challenging posture–the kind that said you weren’t going to let this slide, but not in the way he should be afraid of. Your head tilted a little, eyes narrowed like you were sizing him up. Watching.

Noticing.

And God, was he blushing.

Not a violent flush, but that creeping kind–the kind that started at the tips of his ears and crawled slowly down the sides of his neck like embarrassment blooming from the inside out. He wasn’t meeting your gaze now. Just staring down at the binder on his lap, his thumbs rubbing over the edge of the plastic like it had something important to say.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Took him in.

The soft slope of his shoulders where they leaned back into the pillow. The subtle indent his jaw made when he clenched it without meaning to. The flush of red creeping into his cheeks, all while trying to keep that composed, helpful tone–like he was still just your tutor and not someone who thought about kissing you when you leaned too close during derivatives.

The silence held for a beat too long.

Then you spoke.

“So you’re trying to condition me?”

Bob’s head snapped up, and his eyes met yours–wide, startled, and already bracing for the tease he knew was coming. But then, to your surprise, he laughed. A real laugh. Short and soft and so genuine that it made the tips of his ears go even redder.

“N-No!” he said quickly, shaking his head, that lopsided smile overtaking his face. “Jesus–no, I wasn’t–conditioning you?”

You smirked, keeping your arms crossed like a challenge. “It kinda sounds like you’re conditioning me.”

He laughed again–this time accompanied by a quiet snort he couldn’t quite swallow down fast enough. It made your grin widen.

“I’m not trying to train you like a dog,” He commented, wiping a hand down his face with mock-exhaustion. “I just meant…If you associate physics with something good, maybe your brain will stop freaking out every time you’re handed a test.”

You blinked at him once. Raised an eyebrow.

“So…” You started, slowly, carefully, “You’re trying to open my third eye for physics?”

Bob looked at you. Deadpan. “That’s not what I said.”

You stepped closer, a teasing lilt curling into your voice now as you gestured with one hand. “No, no, I think that’s exactly what you said. You want me to transcend. Find academic Nirvana through external praise.” He rolled his eyes.

”Okay. Now you’re just twisting my words.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Am I?” You grinned. He gave you a look. A very Bob look. One part fond, one part I walked into this with my eyes wide open and it’s too late to leave now. But the pink still hadn’t faded from his cheeks.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk again, bare thighs catching the warm glow of your desk lamp, watching the way Bob’s eyes flicked toward your legs and then immediately back up again.

“Alright, Professor Floyd,” You said lightly, “I’ll bite. What kind of positive reinforcement are we talking about here? You handing out gold stars? Stickers? Should I bring a report card for you to sign?” Bob cleared his throat. It was soft but unmistakable. A nervous reflex that made him sit up a little straighter on your bed, one hand rising to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose even though they hadn’t really slipped.

“I mean…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on some distant point above your shoulder. “I was thinking more like…A kiss.” Your entire body stilled, hands still loosely clasped in front of you from your teasing posture, your weight half-shifted against the desk. A beat passed–just long enough to wonder if you’d misheard him. But then his eyes flicked back to yours, just for a second, and the heat in his gaze made it impossible to pretend he hadn’t said exactly what you thought he did.

You could feel your cheeks warm–instantly, helplessly–heat blooming beneath your skin like it had been waiting for the right moment to spill forward. But you masked it with a slow raise of your eyebrows and a smirk, playful but laced with that sharp new curiosity curling low in your gut.

“Yeah?” You said, voice softer now. You shifted your weight and tilted your head. “A kiss? That’s what you had in mind?”

Bob’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Hard. His eyes flicked to the space beside your head before dropping to the floor–then back up to you, like he was trying not to look too long but couldn’t help it. He shifted on the mattress, fingers brushing over the edge of the binder like he needed something to hold onto. “I-I mean…It was just an idea. One of…Several.”

You stepped closer.

“Is that what you’ve had in mind this entire time?” You questioned, voice low, the smile on your lips laced with something sweeter now–teasing, but sincere. “Kissing me?”

Bob let out a nervous little laugh, breath catching as he tried to string together a reply. His knuckles were pale where they gripped the binder now, eyes flicking toward your legs again before jerking back up to your face.

“I–no, I mean, not… I never really got that idea till today,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought—I don’t know. It might help.”

You took another step forward.

“You sure about that?” you asked, the words curling in your throat like heat, low and just a little amused. Now you were standing directly in front of him, and the change in height made it impossible not to notice how he looked up at you–head tilted back slightly, wide blue eyes tracking your every move. His glasses slid a fraction down his nose, but he didn’t dare lift a hand to fix them.

His mouth opened and closed once before he found his voice. “I personally…Think it might work,” He murmured.

Your eyes flicked down to his lips–soft, parted slightly, flushed–and then back to his eyes. He was blinking slow now, like your presence this close was physically slowing his thoughts.

You bit your lip. Slowly. Purposefully.

“So you’re telling me,” You said, almost whispering now, “That you want to reward me with kisses…Whenever I get a question right?”

Bob exhaled through his nose. His legs had parted slightly where he sat, not intentionally–but enough to suggest his body was reacting faster than his brain. He nodded once, tentative but clear. His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper.

“I could…Do a whole lot more than kisses,” He said.

The second the words left his mouth, his eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Like he hadn’t even known he was capable of it. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the binder, his spine curving slightly forward as if he could fold himself up to hide from the boldness that had just escaped him.

Your breath caught–just barely–and something about the way he said it, almost reverent, almost pleading, sent a shiver down your spine. You watched his throat work, his chest rising and falling in subtle, shaky breaths.

He wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t teasing you back with confidence.

He wanted you.

Desperately.

You leaned in, closing that last bit of space between your knees and the edge of the bed until your thighs brushed his. The binder slid from his lap onto the comforter with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Yeah?” You murmured, voice warm, velvety, almost indulgent. “You think you could do more?” Bob nodded, slowly–eyes wide, lips parted, breath coming a little uneven now, fanning over your face.

“If you’d let me,” He said quietly, “I’d do anything.”

The words landed between you like a weight, heavy with longing, trembling with truth.

And you believed him.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

He didn’t play games. He didn’t flirt to win. He offered, quietly, completely–like giving a piece of himself to someone felt holy.

Your hands moved before your mind fully caught up, instinct carrying you as you lifted them slowly–deliberately–and rested them against the sides of his neck.

He was warm.

The kind of warmth that radiated from beneath the skin, the kind that felt like it could seep into your palms and settle somewhere inside your chest if you let it. His skin was soft under your thumbs, his pulse fluttering just beneath one, and when your fingers brushed lightly over the edge of his jaw, you felt the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Bob stilled.

Completely.

The kind of stillness that only came when something sacred was happening–like he didn’t want to risk breaking the moment by breathing too loud.

And then you leaned in.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow–measured. Confident in the space he’d given you. Confident in the way his knees shifted to make room for you between them, in the way his lips had parted already, waiting, hoping.

Your nose brushed his cheek softly. His glasses tilted just slightly from the nudge, slipping down the bridge of his nose in a slow, unbothered drift. You felt the ghost of his breath over your mouth, shaky and warm, and then–

You kissed him.

Gently. Just once. Lips pressed to his like the start of a sentence that would take its time to finish.

Bob breathed into it–exhaled a soft, shuddering hum from the back of his throat that vibrated against your mouth. His hands came up slow, tentative, like he didn’t want to assume. But then they settled–one sliding to your lower back, warm and careful, the other ghosting over your hip before stilling there.

And then he kissed you back.

Really kissed you.

Slow at first. So slow it made your knees weak.

He lingered on your upper lip, plush and steady, then pulled back half an inch and tilted–just enough to brush your bottom lip between his with soft, seeking pressure. His lips moved with purpose, not urgency. Thoughtful. Intent. Like he wanted to memorize you in pieces, to map the shape of your mouth one breath at a time.

You made a soft, involuntary sound into him–a quiet, pleased little “mmm”–and he kissed you again like he needed to drink it in. His thumb pressed lightly against the small of your back, grounding him, grounding you. Every motion of his mouth was reverent, restrained, and dripping with a kind of intimacy that made your skin burn.

You pulled back just an inch–lips brushing his, breath warm between you.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sweeping against flushed cheeks. His pupils were blown wide behind his fogged glasses, lips pink and slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with careful, controlled breaths. He looked dazed. Unmoored.

You smiled.

A quiet, knowing smile, and let your thumbs brush the sides of his jaw.

“Better go get the next question right, huh?” You whispered, teasing but breathless. “Gotta meet my end of the bargain.”

And just as you started to pull back, maybe to reach for the marker again, maybe to hide the way your heart was slamming against your ribs like a drum–

Bob’s hand on your lower back pressed just slightly.

“Wait,” He murmured, voice low and husky now. “How about we suspend the studying for now?”

The words came quiet. Careful. But you could hear the edge beneath them–that hunger he’d tried so hard to suppress now curling softly around the syllables.

You arched an eyebrow at him, still close enough that your noses brushed.

“Hmm…” You started, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Now you’re just going to end up distracting me.”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth. Then back up.

You ran a finger gently down the side of his neck, your voice warm and teasing.

“Let’s stick to the plan…” Bob exhaled slowly. Like it took everything in him not to pull you back in.

His hands didn’t move. But he nodded.

Barely.

And when you stepped away and turned toward the whiteboard again, you could feel the heat of his gaze trailing after you–like he was trying to sear every inch of the moment into memory.

———————

By the second correct answer, you were setting a timer for yourselves.

Ten minutes. That was the new rule.

Ten minutes per problem, per kiss. No exceptions. No shortcuts.

Because the last time you’d leaned in for one–intended to be short, controlled, just enough to make good on the deal–you’d ended up in his lap. His hands had slipped under your shirt almost instinctively, like they knew where to go before he consciously gave them permission. And when his palms flattened against the small of your back, warm and strong and bare, your breath had hitched in a way that surprised you.

Not because it was too much.

But because it was exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d been needing.

His fingers pressed into your skin–not harshly, not possessively, just enough to ground you. Like he couldn’t believe he was touching you and needed to memorize the shape of your body with his hands before you slipped away again. You’d gasped into his mouth, not even meaning to, and felt him inhale like the sound had gone straight to his chest.

And then you kissed him harder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, wrecking the neatness of it with the kind of carelessness that only came when heat outweighed hesitation. You pulled, just a little–testing, exploring–and he moaned softly against your lips like it cracked him open. His glasses were crooked by then, fogged from your shared breaths, and neither of you bothered fixing them. The world could stay blurry if it meant this stayed sharp.

Somewhere in the haze, Bob’s shirt had come off. You hadn’t meant for it to escalate. It had just…Happened. One minute your hands were sliding beneath the hem, feeling the heat of him, the tension in his abdomen, the ridges of muscle that lined his stomach, and the next, the shirt was gone. Flung off to the side without a single graceful motion. You hadn’t even looked where it landed.

He was solid beneath you. Not chiseled in a gym-rat kind of way, but strong in that natural, everyday way. Like he was built for work. His skin was sun-warmed with just a pinch of colour, a faint line of tan cutting across the middle of his arms where T-shirts always stopped. You touched him like he might disappear. He held you like he never wanted you to.

And God…He was good.

Surprisingly good.

Not in the way of someone who practiced, but someone who paid attention. Someone who kissed with focus. With reverence. Like your mouth was an answer he’d been solving toward for weeks. He kissed like he studied–slow, thorough, intentional. His tongue was gentle at first, coaxing. His teeth grazed your lip once, barely, and you swore you could feel it in your spine. When he kissed you the second time–after the next problem, when your timer dinged again–you already knew it wasn’t going to stay brief.

And it didn’t.

He pulled you in with hands that were just slightly rough from calluses and pencil grooves, fingers curling tight around your waist, your ribs, like he needed to feel you under his hands. And when he slipped those same fingers under the hem of your shirt again—this time slower, surer–you let him. You wanted him to. His touch wasn’t greedy. It was searching. Savoring. Like he was learning every inch of you the way he learned his formulas.

And you didn’t realize how touch-starved you’d been until then.

Until the heat of his hand met the curve of your spine, and you arched into him like your body had been waiting for permission. Until he kissed down the side of your jaw, slowly, reverently, and you felt the hum of it in your chest. Until your own hand traced the broad slope of his shoulder, down over the rise and fall of his ribs, and found nothing but steady strength and gentle restraint.

You didn’t say it out loud–but he could feel it.

The hunger in the way you kissed him. The gratitude in the way your hands explored him. The desperate edge that slipped into your breath every time you whispered his name between kisses like it wasn’t something you’d meant to do.

And maybe it wasn’t about physics anymore.

Maybe it never really was.

Because as Bob pulled back, breathless and flushed, his glasses still askew and hair mussed into soft waves from your fingers pulling and tightening, he looked at you like you’d changed something fundamental inside him. Like you’d opened a door he didn’t know was locked. Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

Your timer buzzed again in the background. Neither of you moved.

“…You got that one right,” He whispered, lips brushing your cheek “Think you deserve…A break.” You let out a breathless little laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the aftermath of the last kiss. Your hair was a bit mussed from his hands, your lips slightly swollen from the soft, reverent press of his mouth–and you were dizzy, absolutely dizzy with the way he looked at you.

“Bob…” You murmured, voice playful, warm, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got some sort of ulterior motive.” Bob, still slightly breathless, hand still planted firm and reverent on your thigh, sat back just a little. Enough to give you a look. One of those boyish, guilty-but-not-really guilty grins that curled slow at the edges and made your heart skip.

He pressed a hand flat to his bare chest, wide-eyed in mock innocence.

“Me?” He said, lips twitching. “No…Definitely no ulterior motives here. I’m just…” He leaned in again, close enough for his breath to dance against your jaw, “Trying to do something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Your brows lifted, pulse tripping.

“Oh?” You murmured, teasing but curious. “And what’s that?” He pressed a kiss to your jaw–so gentle it nearly didn’t register as a kiss at all. Just warmth. Just intent. Then another, lower, slower, right beneath the curve of your ear. And then:

“Going down on you,” He whispered.

The words landed hot, like they’d been spoken directly into your bloodstream.

Your breath hitched audibly. You swore you could feel your pulse flutter in places you didn’t think could react to words alone. Heat pooled low in your stomach like syrup spilling into something hollow. Still, you managed a quiet, almost incredulous laugh, voice tightening as you tilted your head to look at him again.

“Now I need to know,” You said, fingers threading back into his hair, “How long you’ve been thinking about that.” Bob let out a soft laugh, one hand splaying open against your hip, the other bracing himself still, like he needed to keep steady before he admitted anything to you. He kissed down your neck again, slower this time–each inch of skin passed over with the kind of devotion that said this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment confession.

And when he reached the collar of your shirt, where the fabric hung loose from earlier tugging, he nosed at it gently. Not greedy. Just wanting more.

You tugged lightly on his hair, not to stop him, but to coax him to pause–just enough to get him to look up.

“Hey,” You said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”

Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours–blue and wide and already glassy with the weight of how badly he wanted you. And then his face turned a shade deeper, that telltale blush painting up his cheeks and crawling behind his ears.

“Since…” He paused, like the words were too embarrassing to say. “Since the first day of class. When you came in late…Dressed in that skirt.”

You blinked, lips parting slowly.

“The black one?”

He nodded, eyes darting to your mouth like it might give him the courage to keep talking.

“It rode up just a little when you walked past. And you sat a few seats down and didn’t look at me once. And I–” He broke off for a second, laughing nervously. “I dropped my pencil because of how you smelled and how your legs looked and because you didn’t even notice me looking.”

You stared at him.

Then grinned, slow and wicked.

“Well,” You murmured, leaning in again until your lips were just barely brushing his, “Guess it’s a good thing you’re getting your chance now.” Bob exhaled a shaky breath–one of awe, of disbelief, of absolutely overwhelmed want.

And then he kissed you again.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the first.

It was deeper. Hungrier. Your lips opened beneath his without hesitation this time, and he drank in the permission like it was oxygen–his hands curling tighter around the backs of your thighs before lifting you effortlessly into his lap. You gasped softly against his mouth as your knees bent around him, your weight settling against the solid warmth of his thighs, your hands sliding up the broad slope of his bare shoulders.

He kissed you like he’d waited for this.

Like every moment you’d spent leaning over equations, brushing fingertips, trading teasing words had led to this exact point–and now he had you here, soft and open in his lap, your legs bare and warm against denim, your breath stuttering into his mouth every time he tugged you closer.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your t-shirt again, palms hot against your back, and this time he didn’t hesitate. The fabric peeled upward in one smooth motion–up, over your ribs, brushing your chest–until you lifted your arms and let him tug it off completely. He tossed it somewhere behind you, neither of you looking to see where it landed.

His eyes dropped.

The moment he saw what you were wearing underneath, his breath hitched—and for a second, he didn’t move. A soft cotton sports bra in a worn, dusky pink–simple, comfortable, a little faded from wash after wash–but the way it hugged you? The way it molded to the curve of your breasts, straps digging gently into your warm skin?

Bob Floyd looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

He swallowed once. Then again. His glasses had slipped slightly lower on his nose, giving him that boyish, dazed expression he got whenever something completely wrecked his train of thought. You watched his eyes trail over you, caught between reverence and want, and then–

He hummed. A soft, breathy sound from deep in his chest. Something unfiltered. Something warm.

Then he looked back up at you.

And kissed you again.

His hands gripped your hips now, anchoring you down in his lap like he didn’t want you to shift an inch. He kissed you harder–open-mouthed, deep, letting out a quiet groan as your hips rocked forward ever so slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just let the noise fall between you, ragged and raw, swallowing your gasp as he shifted his grip and guided you until your back hit the mattress.

The room spun gently with the motion, soft yellow light from the lamp catching in the lenses of his glasses as he leaned over you. His body followed—broad shoulders, warm bare chest pressing down as he settled between your legs. He braced his hands on either side of your ribcage, framing you like a question he couldn’t stop asking. His eyes searched your face for just a second, but you nodded–softly, wordlessly–already reaching for him again.

He dipped his head.

Kissed your throat.

Then lower.

And lower still.

He took his time.

Every press of his lips trailed down the line of your collarbone, across the top swell of your breasts where the fabric cut gently across your skin. His glasses slipped again, nearly falling off–but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even lift a hand to adjust them. He kissed you through the blur, lips brushing the tops of your breasts like they were something sacred.

You let out a quiet sound–half gasp, half moan–and threaded your fingers into his hair again. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of your skin as he groaned softly against you.

“Are you always this sensual?” you whispered, voice thick, dazed, breathless.

Bob let out a quiet sigh, like your question made something in him ease and deepen at the same time.

“Let’s just say I love giving…” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest. “…A lot.”

The way he said it–low, quiet, honest–made your legs clench involuntarily around his waist. Your mind flooded with images far too filthy for someone as sweet as Bob Floyd to inspire.

But then again, the way he looked right now–glasses fogging, lips red and glistening, his chest moving in slow, hungry waves with every breath–maybe he wasn’t that sweet after all.

His fingers reached for the thin straps of your bra.

“Hope you don’t mind,” He whispered against your skin, lips still pressing hot kisses between every word.

You shook your head quickly. “I don’t mind at all…”

With a reverent kind of care, he slipped the straps off your shoulders. One. Then the other. His fingers brushed your arms on the way down, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over your skin like he was memorizing it. Then–slowly, carefully–he tugged the fabric down, baring you to him inch by inch.

His breath hitched.

Your breasts, soft and flushed from heat and touch, rose with every breath you took. Bob didn’t reach for you right away. He just…Looked. Let himself take it in. His hands slid up your sides again–rougher now, purposeful–and when they cupped the curve beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushed upward, stroking slowly until your nipples tightened under the attention.

His glasses fogged completely.

Still, he didn’t take them off.

He leaned in and kissed the soft mound of your left breast, then your right, each kiss dragging slower than the last. His lips were gentle, his hands firm, and when he finally brushed the tip of his tongue over your nipple, your hips bucked without warning.

“God,” You whispered, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. Bob just smiled. Quietly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, lips hovering just over your nipple again, breath warm and teasing.

You shook your head slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. “I call it anticipation.”

His low laugh rumbled against your skin. “Didn’t know we were calling it that now… but okay.”

Then he kissed you again–this time firmer, lips wrapping around your nipple with a slow, aching pull that made your hips twitch beneath him. His tongue was wet and warm, lapping slow circles around the soft peak before closing over it again, sucking just a little deeper now–just enough to make you moan quietly, enough to send a thrum straight between your thighs.

His hands didn’t stop, either–broad palms sliding up and down the sides of your ribcage, thumbs sweeping in careful, reverent passes. He alternated between breasts with the same kind of concentration you’d seen in study sessions: deliberate, measured, like he was solving you.

And when he finally pulled away, lips red and glistening from worship, he blew a soft, chilled stream of air across your saliva-slick nipple–then the other.

Your entire body arched. He watched it happen with wide eyes, completely entranced.

Then–without a word–you sat up.

He blinked in surprise, hands still resting on your sides as you reached behind yourself and unhooked your bra the rest of the way, slipping the fabric down your arms and flinging it off the bed. The second it landed somewhere behind you, you laid back down–bare, flushed, and completely open.

Bob’s breath hitched hard. His glasses had slipped lower again, fogged beyond all reason now, and he still hadn’t touched them. He didn’t even seem aware of the state he was in–just that you were laid out beneath him, chest rising in unsteady waves, eyes soft but daring.

He exhaled shakily.

And then he moved lower.

He kissed the center of your sternum once, then again, trailing down past your navel with slow, reverent care. When he reached the waistband of your boxer shorts, he paused. His hands came to rest just above your hips, fingers curling slightly under the band.

He looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark behind the silver frames.

You nodded–slow, sure.

That was all he needed.

He pulled the fabric down just an inch. Then another. Just enough to reveal the top of your hips, the soft line of your lower stomach. His lips followed–kissing each inch as it was exposed, trailing warmth into places that had never felt this kind of attention before. The contrast between the heat of his mouth and the cool air made your thighs twitch, and he hummed softly against your skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” He whispered. “You don’t even know, do you…”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. Your fingers were tangled in the sheets again, breath catching every time his lips brushed lower, every time he said something in that breathless, reverent voice that made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time.

When he reached the base of your hips, he gave the waistband a firmer tug, and you lifted your hips to help him–knees bending slightly, thighs parting as he pulled the shorts down your legs. He slid them off with practiced care, and you watched as he tossed them aside with the same nonchalance he’d flung his shirt–like every barrier between you was one more step toward something sacred.

He paused there.

Just knelt between your legs for a second, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he needed to anchor himself before continuing. Then–without saying anything–he pushed your thighs up gently, spreading you open just enough.

His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee.

You gasped.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim. A promise. His lips lingered there for a second, and then they moved–trailing up the inside of your thigh in slow, wet presses, each one firmer than the last.

“You’ve got no idea,” He murmured against your skin. “How long I’ve wanted to do this… How many times I’ve imagined being between your thighs just like this…”

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above your inner thigh, and your hips jerked slightly at the contact. He didn’t move away. Just kissed the spot he’d grazed. Then again. Higher this time.

“Wanted to take my time with you,” He whispered, voice low, breath hot. “Make sure you know what it feels like when someone actually wants to do this…” Your hands gripped the comforter.

“I want to hear the way you sound when it’s good. When it’s real. When it’s slow…”

He kissed the top of your inner thigh–right at the edge of where you needed him most.

Then, finally, he glanced up–his glasses slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, mouth slick with his saliva and swollen.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” He said softly. “You’ll never forget it.”

His tongue moved with devastating precision–slow, savoring, like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t about to waste a single second.

He started with a kiss-low, just at the edge of your folds, then dragged his tongue up in one long, warm stripe that made your legs twitch. You gasped, hands flying instinctively to his hair as he groaned into you, deep and low, like he’d been starving for this.

“Jesus–Bob–” You whispered, voice cracking on the edge of a moan.

He didn’t answer. Just licked you again, slower this time, tongue flattening against you with such gentleness it made your stomach tighten. Then he did it again. And again. Until the room dissolved into heat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of him eating you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

And maybe you were.

He used his mouth like a worshipper—like this wasn’t about getting you off, but about tasting everything he’d been dreaming of for weeks. He kissed your clit softly at first, then circled it with his tongue—just enough pressure to make you cry out, just enough to leave you chasing more. Your hips rocked against his mouth before you could stop them, and instead of pulling back, he moaned again, deeper this time, and grabbed your thighs—holding you open like a man possessed.

His fingers dug gently into your hips as he sucked on you now, lips wrapped around your clit with wet, deliberate pulls. His glasses were fogged beyond saving, the lenses glinting in the dorm light as they slipped further down his nose. He didn’t stop. Didn’t lift his head once. Just kept tasting and kissing and groaning like your body was the only thing he needed to study for the rest of his life.

You whimpered.

“F-Fuck, Bob–too good–”

That finally earned a reaction. He groaned again, louder, like your words were gasoline, and then–God–he slipped two fingers between your thighs, slick with your arousal, and pushed them in with a slow, practiced ease.

Your back arched.

The stretch was perfect. His fingers curled immediately, searching for that spot–and finding it like he’d mapped it out ahead of time. His mouth never left your clit, tongue flicking faster now, suction intensifying just slightly, just enough to send a full-body tremor through you.

“C’mon,” He murmured between strokes, voice ragged, lips brushing against you with every syllable. “That’s it… Just like that. Let me hear you.”

You did.

You let go of any remaining shred of restraint and moaned–loud, broken, lost to the rhythm of his fingers and the warmth of his mouth. Your thighs shook, your body tightening, unraveling. The dorm room felt like it might dissolve around you.

“G-Gonna–”

“I know,” he whispered, breath hot, eyes glassy as he looked up at you from between your thighs. “Go ahead. I got you.”

And then he did something devastating.

He sucked harder.

Curled his fingers deeper.

And moaned into you like your orgasm was his reward.

You shattered.

Your hands clutched his hair, your legs tensed around his head, and your breath broke into a stuttering cry as he licked you through it–never stopping, never letting up. He worshipped you all the way through your high, his mouth messy, eager, lips slick with you as he kept kissing, kept groaning, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, panting, spent–he didn’t move right away.

He kissed your inner thigh.

Then again. And again.

Then trailed up your body with soft, slow presses of his mouth, leaving a trail of your own taste on his lips as he made his way back up. His chest hovered over yours, his weight warm and solid, and when he finally kissed your mouth again–full and deep–you could taste yourself on his tongue.

And he let you.

Let you feel it.

Let you know exactly what he’d just done to you.

He pulled back from the kiss, hovering above you, mouth swollen from all the work he had done, lips slightly parted. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way–hair mussed from your fingers, flushed cheeks, chest rising with the weight of restraint.

Then, like a flicker of light through the haze, he let out a breathy laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving. Joyful.

You laughed too–soft, breathless, dazed–your palm dragging slowly down his bare chest before reaching up to push his glasses back up his nose. The lenses had slipped almost entirely off his face, smudged and misted at the edges. You caught the little fingerprints and streaks near the bottom and smiled, chest still heaving slightly as you murmured:

“Where…The hell did you learn that?”

Bob’s laugh deepened this time, short and warm, his entire face flushing deeper crimson. He covered his face with one hand for a second, then dropped it to your waist, eyes shining with both amusement and bashfulness.

“From…My past partners?” He said, half like a question, half like a confession. “I told you I’m a giver. I may look timid but…As you can tell, I know my stuff.”

You grinned, your heart skipping at how proud–but still modest–he sounded. You leaned up, catching his mouth in another kiss, slower now, languid. He hummed against your lips, eyes fluttering shut as his hands pulled you just a little closer.

“Bit surprising,” you whispered against his mouth.

He nodded, kissing you again, hands smoothing down your sides. “I know.”

And it would’ve stayed gentle, dreamy, lazy like that–until your hand drifted between your bodies.

You hadn’t been trying to tease. Not really. But when your palm brushed over the thick bulge in his jeans, the way his breath hitched immediately had you curling your fingers lightly around him, just enough to feel the weight of him. The heat. The hardness pressing insistently behind the denim.

You smiled, eyes soft but mischievous. “Your turn?”

But to your surprise, Bob flinched—barely, but it was there. His hand caught your wrist gently, not to push you away, but to pause.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

You blinked, your palm still resting against him. “What?” You tilted your head. “You don’t… even want to have sex?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, eyes darting to yours before lowering again. “I just…It’s really okay. You don’t have to.”

You sat up slightly, just enough to bring your faces closer again, concern slipping behind your smile.

“Are you…” Your voice gentle. “Are you nervous?”

His lashes fluttered. A breath stalled in his throat. And that was all the answer you needed.

You reached for his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. His skin was hot, his jaw tight, but he leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“Bob,” You said softly, a smile curling into your voice. “How can you be nervous after you just gave me the best orgasm of my life?”

That made his eyes shoot open–just a little. You watched his expression shift. Like he’d heard something he hadn’t expected. Like praise landed harder than touch ever could.

“Seriously,” you continued, your voice warm and slow, “That was unreal. No one’s ever touched me like that. Not like they wanted to. Not like they were…Memorizing it.”

His mouth parted. You didn’t miss the way his breath trembled now. His hips shifted slightly against yours, and when you glanced down, you could see he was getting harder from your words alone.

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “You’re incredible, Bob.”

A sound left him–barely a sound, more of a low exhale, like it physically knocked something loose in him. His hand tightened slightly on your waist.

“You made me feel so good,” You whispered. “Safe. Wanted. Perfect.”

His eyes closed, lips parting with a shaky breath, and his hips rolled the tiniest bit into your palm. You could feel how much he wanted it now. How much he wanted you. He just hadn’t known if he was allowed.

And God, the way he responded to praise–it made something ache inside you.

Your foreheads rested together, breath shared in the quiet space between words, between heartbeats.

“Let’s do it together, hm?” You murmured, your voice warm and coaxing–softened with affection, laced with intent.

Bob let out the tiniest breath of a laugh, and his lips brushed yours as he smiled. “Okay.”

The word was nearly a whisper, but it carried weight–an unspoken trust folding itself into the syllables.

You leaned back just enough to reach between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the button of his jeans. He inhaled, shaky and quiet, watching you as you popped it open, then tugged the zipper down. The sound broke the hush of the room, loud in the stillness.

Bob shifted, lifting himself up just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband. He wriggled out of his jeans with a little bit of awkwardness, and when the denim bunched at his ankles, he kicked them off with a grunt.

You both laughed. Low and breathless, the kind of laughter that came when something was too intimate not to be a little bit funny.

His glasses slid further down his nose.

“Sexy,” You teased, bumping your knee gently against his side.

He rolled his eyes–blushing, flustered, but grinning–and settled back between your thighs, his hands bracing himself on either side of your hips now. The closeness allowed you a better view of him, and you didn’t waste the opportunity.

Your gaze drifted downward. His boxer briefs were tented–straining. You could see the thick outline of him pressed against the fabric, the darkened patch of wetness at the tip where he was already leaking.

Your hand slid slowly down the middle of his torso–over the soft rise and fall of his stomach, the faint ridges of muscle, the trail of hair beneath his navel. Bob held perfectly still, his breath shallow, watching you.

When your fingers ghosted along the inside of his waistband, just above the swell of him, he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Tease,” He muttered, voice tight.

You didn’t deny it.

Instead, you slid your fingers a little deeper. Tugged the fabric down just enough to expose him.

He sprang free with a soft, needy sound escaping his throat.

Your eyes widened slightly.

He was…Big. Thick, flushed, already glistening with precum. The head was ruddy and swollen, shiny with need, and your stomach fluttered at the realization that he’d gotten like this just from pleasuring you.

He looked desperate.

You wrapped your fingers around him slowly, your palm sliding up his length with soft pressure. His breath hitched immediately, head tilting back slightly. His glasses slid another fraction down his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them–just closed his eyes for a moment, his chest lifting in a shallow, shivering inhale.

You stroked him again–long, slow, deliberate. Your grip was just firm enough to make him twitch, your thumb swiping over the slick bead at his tip.

His hips bucked. He gasped, and then let out a shaky laugh.

“Sensitive?” you murmured, lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

Bob’s head dropped forward a bit, cheeks flushed to hell. His voice cracked slightly.

“N-no…Anticipation.” He corrected jokingly, using your own words against you.

You laughed softly. So did he.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept stroking him, slow and sensual, your hand gliding up and down the length of him, savoring every tremble in his thighs, every shift in his breath, every twitch of his fingers against the mattress beside you. He was fully braced now, arms trembling slightly as he rocked into your touch.

His voice came out thin, frayed at the edges.

“I’m really…Really not gonna last if you keep doing that, and…” He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper, “And I really do want to have sex with you…”

His eyes met yours. Wide. Pleading. Vulnerable.

Like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

You leaned up slowly, hand still wrapped around him, lips brushing his ear.

“No need to beg…” You whispered, voice thick with heat. “But if you want to come inside me, Bob…Then you better hurry up and get these off.”

His whole body jolted.

A groan–low, raw, helpless–escaped him.

His boxer briefs were gone a second later. Pushed down and kicked away without a single thought, like he couldn’t bear another second of distance.

He came back over you with reverent slowness–climbing the length of your body like he was rediscovering it inch by inch.

His bare chest skimmed yours, warm and solid. His hips dipped low, the hard length of him brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath hitched at the contact.

“God,” he whispered, voice raw as his lips brushed against your neck. “You feel so good already.”

You arched into him just slightly, your hands finding his shoulders–broad and warm beneath your palms, still trembling faintly from restraint. His glasses were fogging again, slipping lower, but he didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t care.

He kissed the side of your neck.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek–lingering there with a kind of gentleness that made your stomach twist.

And then he kissed your mouth again. Slow. Sweet. Deep.

You moaned softly into him.

The tops of his thighs pressed flush to the backs of yours now, his cock resting heavily between your legs–leaking precum that smeared slightly against your inner thigh as he shifted to fit himself against you perfectly.

His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it, thumb stroking lightly against your skin as he pulled back just enough to speak.

“You sure?” He asked softly, voice shaking with the weight of everything he was holding in. His eyes searched yours, pupils blown, cheeks flushed.

You nodded. Slow. Certain.

“I’m sure,” You whispered. He let out a shaky breath, then he reached down between the both of you, eyes never leaving yours.

You felt the warm glide of his knuckles against your folds first, then the soft, slick drag of his cock as he slowly ran the tip of himself through your arousal.

Your breath caught.

He swirled it over your clit once, twice–just enough to make your thighs twitch.

And God, the way he looked at you while he did it.

Eyes locked. Lips parted. Worship written into every line of his face, made you feel dizzy.

“You’re so wet,” He murmured. “You feel…Unreal.” You whimpered, your nails digging lightly into his shoulder as your other hand wrapped tighter around his bicep.

“Bob…” You whispered, voice already trembling. “Please.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips–soft and slow and steady.

Then–finally–he began to push in.

You both moaned.

The stretch hit immediately, slow and burning, a delicious ache that made your spine arch and your mouth fall open.

“F-fuck,” Bob gasped, his forehead dropping briefly to yours as he sank in inch by inch. “God, you’re–you’re so tight. So warm. You feel so good…Wow…” Your hips shifted, trying to take more, and his hands immediately gripped your thighs, grounding you.

“Easy,” He said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I got you. Just breathe.”

You nodded, your head swimming.

He pushed deeper.

You could feel every inch–every throb of him, every shudder in his breath as your walls stretched around him.

“Just like that,” He murmured. “Doing so good. Taking me so well.” You whimpered, and the sound cracked open something in him.

“You like that?” He whispered, kissing your cheek again, his hips rolling just the slightest bit deeper. “You like hearing how perfect you feel around me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes, Bob–keep talking–please–”

“Fuck,” He breathed, his voice breaking again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He rocked forward the last inch with a soft, helpless moan. Your body trembled beneath his as you adjusted, your thighs hugging his hips, your hands gripping him tightly. Bob groaned into your neck, voice ragged.

“God…You’re perfect. I swear, you’re–Jesus, I don’t even know how to describe this–” You turned your head, catching his mouth again in a deep, desperate kiss. You could feel him trembling above you, his muscles taut, breath stuttering with the effort of staying still.

“You feel so fucking good, Bob–so full–so deep–” His breath hitched.

“Say that again,” He whimpered, “Please.”

You kissed his neck, your voice thick with heat.

“You fill me up so good…God it feels amazing.” Bob let out a deep moan.

Then he began to move.

Just a tiny thrust at first–barely pulling out before pressing back in, the friction slow and hot and devastating.

Your mouth fell open.

His lips ghosted over your cheek as he whispered, “Gonna make you come on me just like this…” Your back arched at the words, your cheek bumping against his glasses. “You like the sound of that?” He added. Your fingers curled into his shoulder blades, nails dragging softly over warm skin as you nodded, breath catching on a moan.

“Yes…Yes, please.”

The quiet plea cracked something open in him.

He kissed you again–mouth hot, searching, needier this time–and his hips began to move.

Slow at first.

A deep roll forward, dragging his length out almost completely before easing back in, the friction molten, smooth, aching. You gasped into his mouth, your body lifting slightly to meet the next thrust. Bob groaned–low and husky–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, sweat dampening the hair at his temples, glasses fogging up again from your breath. Still, he didn’t take them off. He looked wrecked. Gorgeous. Reverent.

“God, you feel…” He whispered, voice thick and ruined as he rocked into you again, a little harder this time, “So good…So tight around me, baby–oh god.” Your breath stuttered. The nickname, unintentional or not, hit low and warm and made you clench involuntarily around him.

He felt it.

He swore softly–“Jesus”–and dropped his head to your shoulder, the next thrust coming sharper, more instinctual.

Your hands roamed—up his back, over the rise of his shoulders, down to his hips where your fingers dug in just slightly. He kissed your neck between thrusts, then bit gently just beneath your ear, and the second his teeth grazed your skin, you gasped.

Your body clenched again.

Bob moaned, full and broken.

“Fuck, that–You like that?” He murmured, voice hot and desperate against your ear. “You like when I do that?”

“Y-Yeah,” You whispered, trembling, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You feel so good, Bob…You’re hitting every part of me.”

He groaned–long, low, filthy in how soft it sounded. His hips began to move faster now, deeper, each thrust dragging a moan from your throat, and his hands slid beneath your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist so he could sink in even further.

“God, you’re perfect,” He praised. “You’re so perfect for me. Every inch of you–I swear–fuck–”

Your head fell back against the pillow. You were gasping now, barely able to respond, but you tried. You wanted him to hear it. You wanted him to know.

“You’re so good at this,” You panted, voice trembling. “So good at making me feel good–God, you’re incredible, Bob–”

His whole body stilled for half a second, as if praise struck something too deep.

Then he moved faster.

A rougher thrust–still controlled, still measured, but heavier now, thicker with want. He let out a moan against your neck, raw and hot, and your back arched at the sound.

You could feel him everywhere–his chest brushing yours, his lips at your throat, his hands gripping you tight like he needed to feel every part of you at once.

You cried out, hips lifting into his, clenching around him with every thick, slick stroke. He felt it. Groaned again. Slid one hand up your body to cradle the side of your face.

“Look at me,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

You did.

And the second your eyes locked, his pace stuttered–just for a heartbeat–like the sight of you, soft and dazed and open beneath him, was enough to make him lose rhythm.

Then he started thrusting again. Deep. Steady. Hot.

“I want you to come on me,” He whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “I want to feel you come again–want to hear how good it feels.”

Your lips parted. Your thighs trembled.

“Bob,” You gasped, desperate now. “You’re so good–please don’t stop–please–”

He kissed you again. Deep. Desperate. All tongue and breath and heat. His thrusts got heavier, faster, until you could feel your climax curling up your spine like a fuse.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He murmured, hips stuttering with restraint. “I can feel it, baby… You’re so tight–so fucking wet–come for me–please–“

You shattered.

With a cry that broke in the middle, your walls clenched around him, waves of heat and release rolling through you so hard your vision blurred. Bob moaned your name–ragged, reverent–thrusting into you a few more times before he groaned loud against your shoulder and came with a shuddering, broken gasp. Bob’s entire body tensed as he came–his cock pulsing deep inside you, hips stuttering against yours in involuntary thrusts as thick, hot ropes of cum filled you.

You felt everything.

The way his muscles tensed above you, taut and trembling. The low, broken sound he made as he buried his face in your neck. The way his arms curled tighter around your waist like he needed to hold onto something to stay connected to consciousness

“F-Fuck,” He choked out, hips giving one more weak, slow push. His release was hot and endless, spreading warmth low in your belly as his body finally started to give in. His breathing was ragged, the heat of it ghosting over your skin. He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t move at all for a long moment.

Just slumped forward, his bare chest sticky against yours, the last tremors of orgasm still rolling through him. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, and you felt him exhale with all the weight of a man undone.

Even the frames of his glasses were warm.

You let your arms slide around his back, hands splayed wide across the muscles there, sticky with sweat, anchoring you both. The only sounds in the room were your shallow, echoing breaths, and the soft hum of a distant hallway light buzzing just outside your dorm door.

Bob’s weight against you felt right. Heavy in the best way. Settled. Natural.

Your fingertips traced slow, thoughtless patterns over his back as you both lay tangled together, letting the afterglow settle around your limbs like warm syrup. Your heartbeats synced slowly–yours still fluttering, his gradually calming.

And then–

He shifted.

Lifted himself slightly on one trembling arm, the other brushing your hair back from your forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his lips pink, and his glasses crooked beyond saving. His smile was dazed. Soft. Glowing.

He leaned in and kissed you again. A soft kiss. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said thank you, and also more, and also stay.

When he pulled back, still breathless, still inside you, he murmured:

“We’re gonna have to start going to the library to study.”

You blinked. Confused. Flushed and blinking at him through the haze, your breath still catching a little in your throat.

“…Why?” You asked, voice hoarse but amused, one hand reaching up to gently smooth the short, light brown strands of his hair that were now sticking out in every direction.

His smile widened–lopsided and boyish, just a little cocky.

“Because we’re never going to get any studying done if we’re near a bed…” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “The temptation will be too strong.”

You laughed–light, breathless, your chest shaking under his with the sound.

“Well,” You teased, trailing your fingertips down the curve of his back, “There goes that positive reinforcement idea, then.”

Bob leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.

“I’m sure we can figure out a replacement,” He replied, “Something that can be done in public spaces.”

You burst out laughing.

He did too.

And you stayed like that–wrapped up in each other, laughter echoing soft and breathless into the quiet room.

1K notes · View notes

nerdycheol · 19 days ago

Text

Track Record || C.S.C

🏎️pairing: f1 racer!choi seungcheol x motorsport journalist! reader

🏎️genre: enemies-to-lovers, fluff, smut (protected sex, too much kissing) MDNI

🏎️wc: 12k

(a/n): glad to be part of @bella-feed 's and @sanaxo-o 's 100 follower event thankyouuu calli ( @hhaechansmoless), daisy (@flowerwonu ) and cel (@mylovesstuffs ) for beta-ing <33. im really sorry for delay in posting this:( this fic was inspired by anyone mv and and way to many carlos edits on my feed. even though this was beta read by 3 wonderful people, i still apologize if there are any mistakes in here:(( ive just started getting into f1 thanks to calli ;) so im just getting used to everything haha so people familiar with f1, overlook any inaccuracies <33 also quite poorly written smut jskjdsks

Let me know what you think—comments and reblogs mean the world! 💗

IF YOU AREN'T TAGGED IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S NO AGE INDICATOR IN YOUR PROFILE OR ARE UNDERAGE ____

The engines roared like a war cry, low and guttural and impossible to ignore.

You stood just beyond the garage’s shadow, notebook in hand, watching the blur of red and black cut through the curve of the track like a blade. The pit crew moved around you in practiced choreography—headsets, tools, nerves strung tight like violin strings. The summer heat pressed into your skin, clinging, relentless, and the scent of hot rubber and fuel settled in your lungs like memory.

You hadn’t been trackside in nearly a year.

Not since that article.

Your fingers tapped the edge of your notebook as you watched the car scream down the straightaway and finally slow into the pit lane. The tires hissed as they met concrete. Seungcheol’s car rolled to a stop just in front of the garage, perfectly aligned. Within seconds, the crew rushed in. The car was wheeled back smoothly, swallowed into the organized chaos of the team’s station.

Then the driver stepped out.

You didn’t need to see his face to know it was Choi Seungcheol.

He moved like someone who was always one second away from sprinting, every motion lean and charged with purpose. His helmet came off slowly, and he ran a gloved hand through his hair, the kind of move that would look cocky on anyone else—but on him, it seemed natural. Like arrogance was something he’d been born with. Worn into his skin.

He didn’t see you yet. Thank God.

You exhaled, forcing your shoulders to relax.

“Journalist from Velocity Weekly, right?” a voice beside you asked.

You turned. A crew assistant, barely older than a rookie, offered you a bottle of water and a tight-lipped smile. You nodded.

“Yeah. Just here to observe.”

“For now,” he muttered. “They didn’t tell him.”

You blinked. “Tell him what?”

“That you’re embedding for the season. He thinks he’s just getting a fluff piece.”

Your stomach dipped slightly. Of course they hadn’t told him. Of course the team thought it was better to deal with the fallout after.

Your article had shaken half the circuit and nearly ended his season. It hadn’t been personal—it was rather brutal. Honest.

You could still remember the headline: Golden Boy or Time Bomb? The Truth Behind Choi Seungcheol’s Fall From Grace.

You hadn’t seen him since.

Not in person.

But now, here you were—assigned to shadow his team for the next three months. For better. Or for much, much worse.

A nearby cheer pulled your eyes back to the pit, just in time to see Seungcheol peel off his gloves and hand them to a technician. He was laughing, relaxed. A flash of that famous smile.

Until his gaze swept the garage.

And stopped. On you.

His smile faded.

The air between you crackled—not explosive, not yet. But heavy. Dense with unsaid things.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And then, as if it meant nothing at all, Seungcheol turned away.

But his jaw was clenched and his hands balled up into fists.

You stood still, your pulse thrumming in your neck as Seungcheol walked away, not sparing you another glance. The weight of his dismissal pressed against your chest like an invisible hand, but you forced yourself to breathe through it.

The pit crew had gone quiet, some of them catching the tension between the two of you. You heard a quiet murmur—probably a few people betting on when he’d finally explode at you.

Your eyes didn't follow him, but you couldn't help the way your gaze flickered in his direction every few seconds. His broad shoulders moved through the crowd with an ease that only someone used to commanding attention could possess. There was no denying the kind of presence he had—one that filled up a room, even when he wasn't not speaking.

He disappeared into the building, heading for the changing rooms, and your stomach tightened.

The silence that followed in the garage felt too loud. You busied yourself by scribbling something that wasn't really a note just to have something to do with your hands. Something that made you feel in control, even if you weren't. Not here.

Not with him.

You didn't follow. You didn't need to.

Because five minutes later, you were being ushered down a narrow hallway by Seungkwan, the PR manager, who had been buzzing with nervous energy since you arrived.

He kept glancing at his phone and muttering about timing and contracts,” God! he's going to kill me.”

You assumed he meant Seungcheol. You were right.

You rounded the corner near the back exit just as Choi Seungcheol pushed open the locker room door. He was freshly changed— black joggers, white team tee, towel slung around his neck, water bottle in hand. His hair was still damp.

He stops when he sees the two of you.

Stops like his day just got infinitely worse.

And when his eyes flick to you, there it is again–barely restrained irritation. His lips press into a flat line. His jaw tightens. You almost felt bad for whoever’s about to speak to him.

Almost.

“Cheol!” Seungkwan chirps, voice way too bright for the tension coiling in the air. “Hey, I was just coming to find you.”

He nods toward you like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not standing between two people who share history sharp enough to draw blood.

“I figured it’d be better to rip the Band-Aid off.”

“You remember Y/N, right?” Seungkwan continues, gesturing to you like this is a reunion instead of a landmine. “She’s going to be shadowing the team for the next three months. Full-access feature for the Velocity Weekly docuseries.”

“Part of our image rehab strategy, you know—Transparency. Redemption arc. All that jazz.” Seungkwan kept flailing his arms even though both of his hands are full—one holds a notepad, the other holding his usual iced americano

There’s a beat of silence. Then Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow.

“Right,” he says, voice flat. “A redemption arc.”

He finally turns to you fully, eyes cold, calculating.

You give him a polite smile. Not out of kindness. Out of pride. Control. Survival.

“I’m not here to stir up old drama,” you say quietly.

“Good,” he replies. “Because there’s nothing left to stir.”

He looks at Seungkwan. “Is that all?”

The manager stammers something about schedule sync-ups, but Seungcheol’s already walking past. Not a glance back. Just the soft crunch of his sneakers against the tile floor as he disappears around the corner.

You don’t breathe again until he’s gone.

“Great,” the poor guy mutters beside you. “That could’ve gone worse.”

You don’t correct him.

Because you know—it will.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The room is too bright.

One of those generic media rooms with foldable chairs, beige walls, and nothing on the table but a bottle of water and a stack of branded cue cards you won’t use.

You sit with your back straight, microphone clipped to your collar, and your notes in your lap— clean, annotated, rehearsed. A thin layer of sweat beads at the nape of your neck, but you don’t lift a hand to wipe it. You can’t. The camera’s already rolling—they wanted to film Seungcheol's ‘candid entry’.

Seungkwan stands just off to the side, behind the lights. His arms are crossed over his clipboard, eyebrows furrowed like he’s praying for divine intervention.

You don’t blame him.

Because Choi Seungcheol is late.

By twenty-seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds.

He finally walks in on the thirtieth.

No apology. No hurry.

He moves like he’s strolling into a locker room, not a filmed, pre-scheduled interview. Freshly showered, in a black team tee and dark joggers, with a silver chain around his neck that flashes under the lights. Hair damp and pushed back. Jaw tight.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t have to.

The tension snaps into place the second he enters, taut and quiet like a wire stretched between you.

He drops into the chair across from you and spreads his legs slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the seat. A casual posture, but there's nothing relaxed about him. He leans back like this is a waste of his time. Like you are.

A staff member leans in to clip the mic to his collar. There’s no need for instructions—he lifts his chin just slightly, giving them easy access, his posture relaxed but deliberate.

“Rolling,” the cam op calls.

The little red light on the camera starts blinking. You shift your expression to something neutral, polite. Not fake — just professional. Safe. It’s the one you wear when you’re working. When you’re speaking to men who want to dismiss you before you say your first word.

“We’re here with Choi Seungcheol, lead driver for Team SVT,” you say clearly. “Thanks for joining us today.”

His eyes cut to you, finally. Slow, sharp.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” he says smoothly.

You don’t let your smile falter. “Still, we’re glad you’re here.”

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, but it’s low enough that the mic doesn’t catch it..

You glance down at your notes, fingers clenching slightly around them.

“I’m told you’ve had an impressive off-season.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking toward the camera. “Trained. Drove. Same as every year.”

You make a soft, acknowledging hum and tap your pen against the margin of your page. “Do you feel like you’re coming into this season with something to prove?”

That does it.

His head tilts just slightly. The corner of his mouth lifts— not into a smile. Into something cooler. Controlled. “To who?”

You lift your eyes to meet his. “The media. The fans. Yourself.”

The air in the room shifts. It tightens.

For a second, he doesn’t respond. Just sits there, staring at you like he’s trying to read a headline written behind your eyes.

Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs, voice low. “If I was driving to prove something, I’d be the wrong guy for this team.”

You blink. “Some would say last season proved that anyway.”

The silence that follows is immediate. And thick.

Seungkwan makes a small sound from behind the camera— a tiny gasp, smothered by the clipboard.

You don’t backpedal. You don’t soften.

It’s not a jab. It’s a fact. One he’s heard before. Seungcheol lets the moment breathe. Lets it sit between you.

Then he laughs–short, sharp. No humor in it.

“I forgot how fun you are to talk to.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not personal.”

“Isn’t it?” he says, and his voice is so quiet, it lands like a threat.

You inhale through your nose and glance at your page. Redirect.

“What’s the first thing you think of when you’re on the starting grid?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He smirks. “That’s the point. Thinking gets you killed.”

You write that down, even though you don’t need to. It’s getting recorded anyways.

He leans back again, eyes still locked on yours. Not angry. Not smug. Just… watching. When the camera cuts, the silence remains. You unclip your mic slowly. He’s already standing.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

He leaves before you can decide whether you want him to.

What the hell is his deal?

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The sun is brutal at this hour— high, relentless, glinting off the tarmac like it’s daring anyone to blink first. You don’t. Not yet.

You’re standing just behind the safety rail, far enough to be invisible to the engineers but close enough to see everything that matters. Helmeted figures blur past in streaks of color, but your eyes are locked on only one: car number seventeen—the one that belongs to Choi Seungcheol.

Your notebook is open, balanced on your forearm, pages flapping faintly in the breeze that smells like burnt rubber and hot fuel. The top line reads in neat block letters: “Voiceover Segment – Driver Profiles: Racecraft.”

Underneath, bullet points:

Brake timing: early on corners 6 and 9.

Lap 2: oversteer correction, razor-sharp.

Turn-in commitment : aggressive, clean.

Line discipline: tight, zero margin wasted.

Unsettled entry into Turn 13: intentional???

You scribble as he exits the far chicane, eyes narrowing slightly at the way he recovers with that barely-there flick of the wrist. It’s art, in a way most people will never understand. Not just velocity— it’s violence in control.

You look over to the small screen placed near the railings, then you notice something. Not technical. Not really. You glance down and, without meaning to, write:

Turn-in is sharp. Overcorrects slightly on exits. Quick hands. Always. Habit?

Still as stone under braking—almost eerie.

You stare at the words.

Your pen hovers. Pauses. Then moves again.

Drives like he’s punishing something. Himself?

“You planning to psychoanalyze his split times next?”

You startle.

Seungkwan is behind you, half in shadow, holding an iced coffee that’s already starting to drip down his fingers. His eyebrows are raised and his smile is dry.

You slam the notebook shut. The pages snap together like a secret being hidden.

“It’s for the voiceover,” you say, a little too quickly. “Atmosphere.”

“Mm. Sure.” He sips. “Very... moody atmosphere. Like a tragic Greek chorus monologue. I can practically hear the cello in the background.”

You glare. He grins wider.

Then he steps beside you, following your gaze to the track. Seungcheol passes again, fast and clean, leaving a scream of engine noise in his wake. He doesn’t look toward the wall. Doesn’t acknowledge anyone.

Especially not you.

Seungkwan exhales, quieter now, “He hasn’t said a word to me since your name came up this morning.”

You look away. “He doesn’t have to.”

“No. But it’s weird. Even for him.”

The notebook feels heavy in your hands now, the weight of your own words still pressed between the pages.

Seungkwan gives you a long, considering look.

“Just... be careful with him,” he says finally. “He doesn’t forget much. Or forgive easily.”

The memory creeps in before you can stop it.

It was supposed to be just another race-day wrap-up.

The kind you could write in your sleep: thirty-second soundbites, recycled talking points, a handful of overused metaphors about speed and pressure. Seungcheol hadn’t finished the race— DNF, something about engine failure or a pit stop gone wrong— and when he finally stepped into the press pen, he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

You didn’t take it personally. Drivers got like that sometimes. Adrenaline was cruel like that— hot and fast and feral.

“Walk us through what happened out there today?” you asked, calm, polite, voice barely rising above the whir of cameras and clicking shutters.

He scoffed. Actually scoffed. “There’s nothing to walk through. We didn’t finish.” Short. Clipped. Dismissive.

You tried again. “Some people think the restart might’ve been too aggressive–”

His visor lifted just enough to meet your eyes. Dark. Unreadable.

“Some people should actually watch the footage before asking dumb questions.”

And then he turned. Didn’t say thank you. Didn’t look back. Just walked off, gloves still crumpled in one fist, jaw locked like stone.

You hadn’t planned to write anything critical.

But when you sat down in your hotel room later that night, fingers still cold from holding the mic, you couldn’t shake the look on his face—or the sharp twist in your gut that hadn’t been there before.

So you wrote what you saw.

“It’s easy to admire Choi Seungcheol when he’s winning. But when the race isn’t in his favor, his temper shows through the cracks in his professionalism. Today’s interview proved that even the most polished racers have fragile egos.”

Clean. Factual. Not personal.

But it lit a fuse.

Overnight, your inbox flooded–some praise, some hate. Your piece got quoted on TV. Spliced into fan compilations. Sponsors asked questions. PR scrambled. Someone from the team issued a soft rebuttal saying, “There may have been a misunderstanding during the post-race media exchange. Choi’s focus was still on the technical debrief, and emotions were running high. He holds great respect for journalists and values the work they do in bringing the sport to its global audience.”

It wasn’t an apology per se. Seungcheol never said a word.

But from that point on, he never gave you another quote. Never met your gaze in the press room. Never lingered for post-race comments if your mic was anywhere in sight.

And now?

Now, he looks at you like you’re the one who ruined everything.

Seungkwan murmurs, “He’s overdriving.”

You don’t reply.

You are familiar with this version of him. The one that drives too hard when he’s trying to shake something off. You’ve seen it before— in stats, in footage, in post-race silences.

Finally, the radio crackles. His engineer says something about cooling the engine down. And just like that, the car pulls in, growling to a stop. The door lifts.

He steps out—undershirt clinging to him, face shiny with sweat, curls plastered to his forehead. His jaw is locked, like the session didn’t clear his head the way he wanted it to.

You glance at the water bottle on the nearby table. Someone had left it behind. It’s not even cold anymore, but still—it’s something.

You pick it up without thinking and cross the short distance toward him.

He doesn’t notice you at first, towel already half-draped over his shoulder, bent slightly as a tech says something about brake temps. But then he looks up. Sees you.

You don’t say a word. Just extend the bottle in your hand.

He stares at it. Then at you. Long enough that it becomes a choice. Long enough that it means something.

Then he says, flat and easy, “I’m good.”

And walks past.

You nod, even though he’s not looking anymore.

No one says anything. But your hand stays closed around the bottle until the plastic crumples slightly in your grip. And then you walk back toward the trailers before anyone can see the look on your face.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The edit bay is quiet.

Too quiet, almost. The kind of hush only machines make — low humming from drives, the soft crackle of the audio monitor when it switches between clips. The rest of the crew’s long gone, lights out in the pit lane, doors locked on the media center.

You should be gone too. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re here, headphones on, fingers pausing and dragging the timeline back five seconds. Again. Again. Again.

Seungcheol’s onboard camera footage is pulled up. A clean lap. Camera mounted on his halo bar—his hands, the wheel, the track flying toward him in perfect resolution. You’ve been trying to write the segment opener for over an hour, and all you have is: Choi Seungcheol is a driver of precision. Control. Ruthless rhythm

You hate it. It sounds like something anyone could say. Something he’d hate hearing.

You rewind again.

Pause.

There’s a freeze-frame of his hands— gloved, sure, absolutely still as he flies down a straight. No micro-adjustments. No nerves. He drives like the car isn’t moving at all.

But then— frame by frame, you notice his left thumb tap twice against the wheel. Barely a movement. Like a tick. Like a habit. You rewind again. Slower.

The tap happens before the DRS opens. Before the straight clears. Like he knows he’ll need the calm, the open stretch–and the tap is permission.

Or reassurance.

You lean in.

“He always taps before the straight,” you murmur to yourself, writing it in the margin of your notes. “Ritual. Or— something else.”

You scroll back to earlier footage from a different practice day. Different circuit. Different weather.

The tap is there again.

Tap tap. Just before full throttle.

It’s nothing. Probably nothing. But it’s there. And now you can’t unsee it.

You rub at your temples, trying to steer your thoughts back to the script. To objectivity. To professionalism. You’re here to document him, not… understand him. Not unravel him.

Still, you click to the footage from earlier— trackside cameras. Wider shot. Less clinical. He’s walking back toward the garage, helmet off, hair sweat-damp, and jaw clenched.

He doesn’t look at the camera.

But just before he steps out of frame, his eyes flick sideways.

For half a second less, he looks at the lens.

No. Not the lens.

You.

Your pulse thuds unexpectedly, stupidly. You sit back in the chair. The note page is still open on your screen. Your last bullet point reads: Drives like he’s punishing something. Himself?

You highlight it.

Then delete it.

You shut the laptop before you can change your mind.

But the weight of it stays, humming behind your ribs—like something alive and unspoken.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You’re seated at the long conference table inside the paddock media suite, flanked by the production crew, comms specialists, a documentary director, and three too-many cups of bad coffee. The air-conditioning hums above, just loud enough to compete with the voices droning through the day’s agenda. The room smells faintly of rubber, sweat, and those branded granola bars the crew keeps handing out.

Seungcheol hasn’t spoken once.

He’s in his racing suit still, half-zipped and tied at the waist, black compression tee clinging to his chest. He leans back in his chair, arms folded, cap pulled low. Watching. Listening. Disconnected in that deliberate way he always is—like none of this is worth his time but he’s here because he has to be.

Across from you, Seungkwan flips to the next slide of the media presentation. “Okay, so – docuseries production. We’ve finished with most of the behind-the-scenes material for the pit crew and team engineers, but the big gap right now is still driver profiles.”

You nod along. This part is yours. You’ve spent the last two nights combing through the racers old race tapes, trying to piece together something coherent. Something that looks like a person, not a machine.

“We’ve been thinking,” you say, voice calm, measured, “to balance out the high-speed footage, we could shoot some off-track material. Nothing invasive. Just quieter stuff—daily routines, maybe their time at the simulator, or a few minutes of downtime. To show contrast.”

There are a few hums in approval.

And then– “No.”

His voice isn’t raised, but it’s firm. Final.

You glance at him.

Seungcheol hasn’t moved, but his eyes are locked on yours now— dark, unreadable, flint-sharp under the brim of his cap.

Someone at the end of the table clears their throat awkwardly. You wait for him to explain, or for Seungkwan to interject.

But Seungcheol does not budge.

“You want ‘real’?” he says, tone quiet but cutting. “Maybe start with getting your facts right the first time.”

Your pulse spikes. You stare.

A few heads swivel your way. You force your face to stay still, neutral. The worst thing you could do is show how hard that hit.

“I didn’t–” you start, but he cuts in again.

“You don’t get to decide what parts of me are useful just because your cameras are running.” His jaw clenches. “You’ve already taken enough.”

No one speaks.

Not Seungkwan. Not the director. Not the wide-eyed intern with the color-coded clipboard. Just this stretched-out, sticky silence where you’re suddenly aware of every inch of your body and how very visible you feel inside it.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You look down at your notes— like they might offer some way out of this. But it’s already happened.

Then he moves.

Not abruptly, not with dramatics. But the chair legs scrape the floor, deliberate and loud, as he pushes up to his feet.

Seungcheol shrugs on his jacket, grabs the nearest bottle of water from the table, and without another word, walks straight out of the meeting room. No one breathes for a second.

Then Seungkwan, like clockwork, lets out a weak laugh. “He’s just… not really a media guy.”

No one tries to correct him. And you?

You press your pen against the paper until the tip snaps clean off. Not because he humiliated you.But because for the first time, you think you understand why.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You arrive at the paddock earlier than needed.

Your meeting with the docuseries team isn’t until later in the afternoon, but you came two hours early and now you’re standing awkwardly in a place you’re technically allowed to be, but feel like you shouldn’t.

From the corner, you watch him finish his final practice lap. Seungcheol’s car rolls into the garage, engine ticking hot, his visor still down. Someone opens the cockpit. He climbs out like a machine disengaging—fluid, precise, all quiet intensity.

Then he sees you.

Or maybe just registers your presence. His head turns, eyes landing on you for a fraction of a second. His expression doesn’t shift. No surprise, no annoyance. Nothing.

He doesn’t ask why you’re here.

He just pulls off his gloves, helmet tucked under his arm, and walks straight past you toward the changing room at the back of the garage. Like you’re furniture. Background. Static.

You exhale deeply. Fair enough.

You wait.

It takes several minutes. You hear the sound of a locker door slamming shut, muffled movement, the faint hiss of a water bottle being opened.

Then— footsteps. He emerges.

Fresh shirt, hair damp and curling at his temple, towel slung around his neck as he rakes it over the back of his head. He doesn’t see you at first— his focus is on drying off, his stride already pulling him toward the far side of the hallway.

Then he spots you.

Leaning against the wall opposite the changing room, arms crossed, posture casual but heart pounding a little too loud for your own liking.

His steps falter. Briefly. Just for a beat.

Then resumes, unfazed, like he’s made a silent decision to walk past you entirely.

You let him.

Until he’s two steps ahead of you.

“Seungcheol.”

Your voice isn’t loud, but it stops him.

He turns, slowly. That same unreadable look in his eyes, sharp and distant like he’s looking through you instead of at you.

You step forward.

No grand gestures. No long speeches. Just a small can of cherry soda in your hand— cool, slightly dewed from sitting in the media fridge.

You extend it toward him. “You did well today.”

He blinks once. Then again, slower.

His gaze drops to the can, then lifts to your face.

“…Have you poisoned this?”

You let out a sigh. You deserve that.

“No,” you murmur. “Though I probably deserve that kind of suspicion.”

His brow lifts a little at that–surprised by your honesty, maybe. But still guarded.

“I just–” you start, voice low, unsure. You shift the can in your hands like it’s something fragile. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For the article. For…everything it cost you.”

His expression doesn’t change.

You push forward anyway.

“I didn’t know it would spiral like that. I didn’t know you at all, and that’s the worst part, right?” You glance away, swallow. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not now. Maybe not ever. But… I hope someday you’ll hate me a little less.”

It hangs there for a moment.

Not silence exactly— there’s still the hum of equipment in the background, distant voices from the other end of the paddock— but it feels like silence.

You take one careful step forward and press the cherry soda into his hand. You don’t wait to see if he accepts it fully.

Just a small, tired smile. Tight-lipped. Not hopeful. Just… human.

And then you leave. You don’t look back. But if you did, you’d see him standing in place, eyes on the can in his hand like it’s a message he hasn’t quite decided how to read yet.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You almost skip dinner.

You tell yourself it’s because you have notes to revise, footage to sort through, emails to send. Some twelve-year-old-girl excuse.

But really, it’s the risk of being in the same room as him — the same cramped circle of laughter and clinking glasses and easy camaraderie you still feel slightly removed from.

Seungkwan doesn’t let you off the hook. “They won’t bite,” he says, tugging you toward the restaurant entrance. “Well. Maybe Seungcheol will. But I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave teeth marks.”

You shoot him a look. He grins. It helps. A little.

Inside, the team is already gathered around a long, narrow table. A place is cleared for you just as you arrive. By some twist of fate— or more likely, Seungkwan's passive-aggressive seating plan— your spot is right beside him.

Choi Seungcheol. Black hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Gaze locked on the menu like it’s about to pick a fight.

He doesn’t look at you when you sit. Doesn’t greet you either. His attention stays locked on his plate, one elbow propped on the table, his fingers absentmindedly circling the neck of his water bottle.

Conversation flows around him — light, messy, animated. Someone makes a joke about the docuseries. Something about how dramatic it's going to make all of them look. A few heads turn toward you.

You brace yourself, already reaching for your glass.

But before anyone can say more, Seungcheol cuts in. Voice flat, but not cold, “At least they’re doing their job.”

You glance over, startled. His gaze isn’t on you— it’s fixed somewhere across the table. He doesn’t say anything else.

You don’t either.

After a while, the laughter gets too loud, and the room too warm. You slip away, excusing yourself quietly, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cool night air.

The breeze is immediate, tugging strands of hair from your face. You breathe in slowly, eyes closing for a beat. Just one. Long enough to gather your thoughts. Or let them go.

Until you hear footsteps behind you. Soft but deliberate.

You don’t have to turn. Your posture straightens instinctively, some part of you already aware of the heat that trails after him like a second skin.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just comes to a stop a pace behind you. Then, after a beat, “You always disappear like this?”

His voice is quieter than usual. Not teasing. Just… curious.

You glance over your shoulder. “Only when I need air.”

He nods. Looks up at the sky like it’s given him something to think about before he stares down at the ground. Then, without a word, pulls his hoodie over his head.

You blink.

“What are you–?”

Before you can finish, he’s stepping closer— not touching, but near enough that you can feel it — and draping the soft fabric over your shoulders.

“It gets cold at night,” he says simply, scratching the side of his nose like it’ll make him less embarrassed. “Didn’t want you freezing out here and getting blamed for holding up filming tomorrow.”

You’re too stunned to answer right away.

The hoodie is warm. It smells like wind and gasoline and whatever aftershave he uses.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

He nods again. Turns without fanfare and slips back inside, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

You stand there for another minute, fingers tightening around the fabric, heart doing something stupid against your ribs.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You don’t know when it starts, exactly.

Maybe it’s the day Seungcheol doesn’t just ignore your greeting, but gives a faint nod in return. Or when he asks, without looking up from his gloves, whether the docuseries will be covering the wet tire strategy segment— like your opinion holds weight. He still keeps his distance, still rarely meets your eyes, but his silence has lost its bite. It doesn’t bristle anymore. It lingers.

He doesn’t bolt from shared rooms. Doesn’t brush past you like you’re invisible. One time, he even moves aside to let you through the garage door first— a small thing, but enough that Seungkwan later texts you 10 eyes emojis.

And then there’s the cherry soda. You keep seeing it— half-empty cans in the recycling bin, one tucked beside his gear bag. He never says anything, but he doesn’t not accept them when you leave one near his seat after a long day.

You haven’t earned a smile. Not yet. But you believe the hatred’s softening into something else. Something almost watchful. Like he’s trying to decide if you’re still a threat— or something far more dangerous

It had been pouring for hours.

You were supposed to get off work at five, but the storm had other plans. Rain tapped hard against the windows, a steady, relentless sheet that turned the world outside into a blur of grey. You figured you’d stay back—might as well get some editing done while waiting it out.

But the sky never cleared.

Eventually, you packed your things, tugged your jacket tighter around you, and stepped under the building’s glass overhang, eyes on the road as you waited for your taxi.

You thought almost everyone had left, so you clearly didn’t expect to hear footsteps behind you.

“You’re still here?” a voice said, low and familiar.

You turned, surprised. “You hadn’t left?”

Seungcheol slung a backpack over one shoulder, hair slightly damp, a faint sheen on his skin like he’d been working in the garage. He looked relaxed in a way you rarely saw outside the race track.

“Had a few things to wrap up,” he said. Then he glanced at you. “Why haven’t you left yet?”

You nodded toward the rain. “Thought I’d wait it out. Get some work done while it calmed down. But… I think I misjudged.”

He followed your gaze to the storm. Then, casually “I’ll drop you off at home.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh no, that’s okay. I already booked a taxi.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cancel it. No point wasting your money when I’m offering it myself.”

You stared. “But–”

“No buts,” he said, grinning now, the kind that made his dimple flash. “I’ll be in the parking garage.” And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you stunned under the glass awning.

And, that's how you ended up in the front seat of his BMW, waiting for the signal to turn green. The hum of the engine barely audible over the drumming rain. The windshield wipers moved in steady rhythm, clearing arcs through the downpour. The A/C was on low, keeping the windows from fogging up. But what catches your eye is the small picture tucked neatly beside the central console.

“Is that you?” you ask, pointing to the picture of a small boy in a red toy car. Seungcheol let out a short laugh. “Yeah. My first ride.”

You smiled. “You’ve been driving your whole life.”

He leaned back slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the steering wheel. His voice dropped, softer now. “My dad used to race. Nothing big. Amateur circuits. But he talked about it like it was sacred. Even after he gave it up.”

You stay quiet, letting him go on.

“He had this old kart. Kept it in the shed behind our house. I think I was…four? When he let me drive it. Couldn’t even reach the pedals properly.”

You smile a little. “Did you crash it?”

He huffs. “Into a fence. And a bush. And almost my mom.”

You both laugh— soft, genuine.

He shakes his head, lips twitching. “But I didn’t stop. Every weekend after that, I was out there. Practicing. Pushing. Getting yelled at for tearing up the yard.”

You note how relaxed his posture’s become, the way his voice has settled into something low and fond.

“Got serious around fifteen. Left school early. Trained wherever I could, worked side jobs, picked up sponsors. Didn’t care about anything else. Just… getting fast enough. Good enough.”

There’s a pause.

And then, quieter “Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t make it.”

You glance up from your notepad.

He’s not looking at you— his gaze is somewhere else, far away. But you can feel the weight of that question hanging between you.

“You did make it,” you say softly.

That brings his eyes back to you.

And for the first time, you see it — the person beneath the helmet, beneath the legacy and the wins and the walls. A boy who raced because he loved it. A man who never stopped.

He doesn’t say anything. The signal turns green.

But he holds your gaze a little longer than usual, before looking straight and driving.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

Your room looked like a tornado had hit it. Clothes were scattered everywhere, your suitcase bulging so much it would take brute force to zip it shut.

“Yah! What’s all this mess?” Mina, your roommate slash bestie appeared in the doorway, a glass of lemonade in hand. She eyed the chaos, stepping over a pair of jeans to place the glass on your cluttered dresser. “Are you going away for ten days or ten years?”

She bent down, scooping up a shirt from the floor. “Is this all for your prince charming?” she teased, raising an eyebrow at you.

“He is not my prince charming,” you shot back, holding up another dress from your wardrobe and checking your reflection to see if it flattered you.

F1 was hosting a race in France, and naturally, Seungcheol and the team were going. So when your boss called you into her office with a mischievous smile and said something like, “We need raw, behind-the-scenes action. The lead-up, the aftermath. You already know them—you’re the only one who can pull this off,” you didn’t really have a choice.

“Well, it didn’t look that professional last week when he dropped you off,” Mina said, her voice lilting. “You two seemed pretty cozy. Didn’t take you to be the PDA type. Hugging and all, huh?”

She folded another shirt before her eyes widened. “Wait—isn’t this my top?”

“Yeah, it looks good on me,” you said with zero guilt. “Also, since you’ve found it, can you please put it in the suitcase? Thanks.”

“I’ll forgive you this time. After all, you’ve got to impress your prince charming.”

“He is not my—ugh! Whatever. Also, I’m going there to work, not to date.”

“I never said anything about dating,” she said, grinning as she walked out.

You flopped onto the bed with a sigh.

Yes. Yes you were nervous. But not because of him— well partially. This trip was a big deal for your career. A chance to show what you could do outside the controlled setting of HQ interviews and edited footage. You were going to capture the team raw— tense, driven, exhausted, and elated. You were excited… and also maybe, spiraling, just a little.

Of course Seungcheol would be there. Lately, the two of you had been… closer. After that conversation in his car, things had shifted. Now you both ate together in the canteen. You’d catch him waiting outside your office so you could walk together. Sometimes, he even dropped you off at home, no explanation needed. Seungkwan, ever the agent of chaos, was definitely having fun being a witness to all this. He texts you in the middle of lunch “OMG!! I give it 2 more lunches before he starts feeding you from his spoon” or “CHIVALRY OR WHAT!?” when Seungcheol opens the soda can for you.

It’s not like you were in love or anything… Obviously not. But you liked having him around. You liked the ease that had started blooming between you. The way he made you laugh without trying. The way you felt seen, in rooms where no one usually looked twice. And this trip… maybe it would change something between you. You weren’t sure what. But you hoped— that it would be something good.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The hotel in Le Castellet looked like something out of a period film. Ivy-covered walls, tall wooden shutters, cobblestone paths damp from morning drizzle. You pause in the lobby, suitcase handle in one hand, the other clutching your phone with the itinerary pulled up. The air smells faintly of citrus and fresh flowers.

Seungcheol walked a few steps behind you, dragging his duffel bag along the polished floor. His hoodie’s still bunched around his elbows, and his hair is tousled from the flight.

He stopped beside you, glancing around at the old-world chandeliers and exposed stone walls. “Fancy,” he mutters, like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

You nod, letting out a breath. “Feels too nice to be covered in race fuel by the end of the week.”

That earns you a small laugh from him. It’s easy. Unforced.

As everyone begins collecting their room keys, you hang back to avoid the crowd. Seungkwan’s already texting you: don’t take too long u two… they’re gonna run out of good rooms ;)

You roll your eyes. Just then, Seungcheol appears beside you again, a key card already in his hand. He leans slightly toward you, voice quiet.

“Hey. What room did you get?”

You show him the slip from the front desk. He glances at it, then tilts his head. “Next to mine.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “I asked the guy if he could put the team close. Just in case, y’know, media stuff or whatever.”

You don’t question it. But there’s a pause. A moment where neither of you move, the buzz of the lobby fading a little.

He eyes your suitcase for a second, then reaches out without a word and takes the handle from your grip.

You blink. “I could’ve managed, you know.”

He shrugs, already steering it toward the elevator. “I know. But I was right there.”

It’s such a simple statement, but it lingers. You trail a few steps behind, watching the way his hand rests casually on the luggage, like he’s done this before. Like he’s just... quietly decided he’ll look out for you now. When the elevator dings open, he holds the door for you without looking, but when you step inside, you catch the faintest smile on his face.

You sit cross-legged in your robe, unpacking your suitcase. Toiletries to the left, clothes (mostly folded, some not) to the right, and an increasing pile of “why did I even bring this?” building at your feet. You're halfway through deciding if you packed too many dresses when a knock sounds at your door.

You frown, glancing at the clock— almost midnight.

Padding over, you open it slowly.

“Seungcheol?” you blink, surprised to see him standing there in a grey hoodie and joggers, hair a little tousled like he’d been rolling around on the bed for the past hour.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “I couldn’t sleep. Was wondering if you’d be up for a walk.” he says meekly “I would have asked Seungkwan but umm.. He seems to be sleeping, you know, maybe all that jet lag caught up to him. He lets out a little laugh. “I just hoped you wouldn’t be sleeping. Didn’t mean to bother you, though.”

“You’re not,” you say, amused. “Just give me a second to change.”

—

“You walk like you own the place,” you tease, taking a spoonful of the butterscotch gelato he insisted on getting for you from “the best place in town.”

“I kind of do,” he says, mock serious. “This is my fourth year racing here. I know every late-night gelato stand within a three-mile radius.”

“Oh, so you’re a connoisseur,” you grin.

The cobbled street underfoot winds gently along a row of quiet shops. Most are closed at this hour, but some still glow faintly with warm light. A bakery with pastel tiles. A souvenir shop with tiny Eiffel Towers on the window. The breeze is cool, enough to make you hug your arms lightly.

“You ever come here just for fun?” you ask.

“Never had time. Always training. Or recovering.” He shrugs. “It’s weird, though. Walking around with someone. Like this.”

You glance at him. “Good weird or weird weird?”

He smirks. “Still deciding.” You laugh, and in retaliation, give him a light shove on the arm. He stumbles dramatically, clutching his gelato like a wounded soldier.

“You almost killed it,” he gasps, holding it high.

“Oh no, the tragedy,” you mock.

Just then, a gust of wind picks up, catching strands of your hair and blowing them into your face. You brush them away with a frown– and then feel his hand, unexpectedly gentle, brushing the rest back. His fingers pause briefly, tucked behind your ear.

The street noise fades a little. It’s quiet. Just the two of you standing there, his hand still resting lightly against your hair, his eyes on yours. He’s close enough that you can see the tiny mole on the left side of his forehead— just below the hairline, the way his expression softens when he’s not trying to look unreadable. His thumb shifts slightly, like he might say something— but doesn’t.

Then, slowly, he lets his hand fall away. “We should head back,” he says, voice low.

You nod, heart thumping a little faster.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You are supposed to be filming the pit crew rotation this morning.

Nothing fancy— just clean b-roll for the docuseries team. Angles of tire changes, gloved hands passing tools, that low, satisfying whir of drills and radio chatter. The kind of footage that’ll get sliced up and paired with voice-overs later. But your camera drifts.

Just a little. Not enough for anyone to notice, maybe.

You were framing the rear wing of Seungcheol’s car— looking for reflections in the carbon fiber— but your lens catches something else. A flash of motion just outside the frame.

You pan left instinctively. And freeze.

He’s near the edge of the garage, talking to one of the engineers. Laughing at something. Really laughing— head tilted, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes all crinkled at the corners. The sun sneaks in through the open garage door behind him, casting a soft halo along his jaw, catching in his lashes, warming the brown in his eyes.

And for a second, you forget what you’re doing. You just watch.

The way his nose scrunches a little when he smiles too hard. How his hands move when he talks— animated, open. The little dimple that appears even when he’s not doing anything particular.

God. He’s pretty.

He’s beautiful, actually. Not just in the way he looks. In the way he carries himself. In the way he makes people laugh. In the way he made space for you— even when he didn’t have to.

Your chest feels tight. Your grip on the camera slackens.

He glances up, mid-conversation. Catches your gaze across the garage. And smiles. Like he sees you. Just like that.

You inhale softly. Your heart is doing something weird–fluttery and slow all at once.

Oh.

Oh no.

You love him.

It settles in your bones quietly— without panic, without denial. Just this quiet, solid truth. You love him.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

Today was the cocktail event organized by the F1 committee — a chance for teams and media to mingle, but not really work. You were invited, so you decided to treat it like a night off. Get a little buzz from champagne or maybe flirt with some cute French waiters. You were totally not thinking about Seungcheol.

You decide on a black sleeveless dress with subtle ruching along the waist, featuring an asymmetrical hemline trimmed with sheer ruffled fabric— which you also ‘borrowed’ from Mina.

As you walked into the softly lit room, the low murmur of conversations and clinking glasses wrapped around you. The moment you approached Seungkwan and the group of boys, you could see the surprises on their faces. “Whoa… you look amazing,” Seungkwan said, barely able to hide the surprise on his face.

Seungcheol was standing a little further, his mouth slightly open as if caught off guard. He didn’t say anything at first— just stared at you, a quiet awe in his gaze. Then, clearing his throat, he finally spoke, his voice low but sincere.

“You look beautiful.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You turned to meet his eyes, and the warmth in his expression made your cheeks flush. “Thank you,” you whispered, feeling suddenly shy under his quiet attention

You and Seungcheol found your seats at a round table near the center of the ballroom, surrounded by teammates, media personnel, and a few sponsors. The table was decorated simply— white linens, small floral arrangements, and glasses filled with champagne and sparkling water. Despite the elegance, the atmosphere felt a bit stiff and rehearsed.

The announcer’s voice came over the speakers, crisp and polished, welcoming everyone to the event and thanking sponsors and teams. The speeches went on— a few heartfelt words about sportsmanship, the future of the sport, and the importance of media coverage. But you and Seungcheol exchanged glances, both fighting the urge to tune out. The words felt like white noise beneath the clinking glasses and polite laughter.

Around you, conversations buzzed— some lively, some forced. People in sharp suits laughed a little too loudly, posed for photos, or whispered in corners. The cocktail party was starting to feel crowded, the space shrinking as more guests arrived and the music swelled.

You shifted in your seat, glancing around for a breath of fresh air. Seungcheol’s brow furrowed slightly, and before the moment could become overwhelming, he leaned over to you.

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

Curious, you followed him out through the double doors and onto the balcony. The cool night air was a relief, calm and quiet except for the distant murmur of the party behind you.

He pulled two flutes of champagne from a waiter’s tray as they passed by, handing one to you with a small smirk. “For emergencies,” he joked, the tension in his shoulders easing.

You clinked glasses softly and took a sip, the bubbles tickling your throat. Seungcheol swirled the champagne in his glass, eyes fixed on the bubbles rising. “You know,” he said, voice low, “it’s kind of nice to get away from all that noise. Sometimes I forget how exhausting it all is.”

You smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, the speeches and formalities are... not exactly the highlight of my day.”

He glanced up, a teasing spark in his eyes. “I bet you’d rather be somewhere else.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But here we are. And honestly, I’m glad you dragged me out here. This feels... different. Calmer.”

He shifted a little closer, the warmth from his body suddenly very noticeable. “Different can be good,” he said. “Sometimes the best things happen when you least expect them.”

You looked up at him, heart skipping. “Like what?”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Like finding yourself standing on a balcony, sharing champagne with someone who’s been in your head more than you’d like to admit.”

Your breath hitched. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Maybe,” he whispered, voice thick. “Or maybe it’s just me.”

You laughed softly, but the tension in the air tightened. Your eyes lingered on his lips, and suddenly the space between you felt charged, electric.

Your conversation slowed without you really noticing, and the space between you got smaller. His eyes flicked to your lips, and yours moved to his. His hand rested on your hip, steady and warm. You could feel the heat between you. Everything else seemed to fade away.

Just as you leaned in, about to close the gap, a sharp clink broke the moment. One of the champagne glasses slipped from the railing and smashed on the ground below.

“Shit! I’m sorry” Then after a moment he removes his hands from your waist. “I– I think we should head back.”

You give a small nod, hard enough to mask your disappointment.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You’d been avoiding Seungcheol like the plague.

Ever since what happened three nights ago— the almost-kiss, the silence that followed— you hadn’t found the courage to face him. Not properly. Not without your heart skipping a beat and your words getting stuck somewhere in your throat.

And Seungcheol? He tried. You could tell. Like the time you were in the garage with the engineers, taking notes on wing configurations. He’d walk over, hands shoved in his pockets, hovering like he wanted to say something. But you didn’t even give him the chance— you mumbled something about needing to check a file and slipped away before he got a word out.

Then there was lunch the next day. You saw him enter the cafeteria, tray in hand, scanning the room. You ducked behind a vending machine until he sat somewhere else.

And earlier this morning— when he held the elevator door open for you— you pretended to be on a call, turning away so fast you nearly bumped into a potted plant.

It wasn’t that you were mad. Or even embarrassed, really. It was worse than that. You were unsure. And that feeling scared you more than anything.

Unfortunately for you, the team is having their free practice session and lap formation today, and you just happen to have to be present to record them.

The paddock was buzzing, the distant roar of engines reverberating through the asphalt. Team members bustled around, heads down, radios crackling. You stayed behind the camera rig, half-hidden behind one of the monitors, using the equipment as a shield — both from the sun, and from Seungcheol.

You could see him in your periphery, suited up in his practice gear, leaning against a stack of tires, talking to one of the mechanics. His sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was slightly damp– from sweat or water, you couldn’t tell. Every once in a while, he laughed at something someone said, teeth flashing, head thrown back.

And you hated it– how your stomach flipped, how your skin warmed, how your fingers twitched on the camera button. You needed to focus. This was work. Just footage. Just documentation– and it will all go back to normal once you get back to korea and finish the documentary.

“Y/N!” someone called. The assistant director waved you over. “Can you help me get a few close-up shots of the drivers before they head out? Starting with car seventeen.”

You swallowed hard. Car seventeen was Seungcheol’s.

You hesitated. He was already walking toward the car, helmet tucked under one arm, gloves dangling from his fingers. And just your luck— he looked up right then.

This time, you didn’t look away fast enough.

Your eyes locked. Just for a second. But something shifted. His brows pulled together slightly, gaze steady. Like he was done pretending not to notice the space you kept putting between you.

You took a deep breath and walked toward him, camera clutched like a shield. Before you could raise it, he spoke.

“Are you gonna keep doing this?”

You blinked. “Doing what?”

“This,” he said, voice low. “Avoiding me. Ducking out of elevators. Hiding behind vending machines like we’re in high school.”

You winced. “I wasn’t hiding–”

“You skipped lunch three days in a row,” he continued, stepping closer, the words gentle but firm. “You left the garage the second I walked in. And this morning? You couldn’t even meet my eyes.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deflect—but nothing came out.

So he tried again, softer this time. “Y/N… why?”

You were quiet for a beat too long.

And then it just tumbled out.

“Because I love you,” you said. The words hung in the space between you, raw and sharp. “I avoided you because I love you.” you repeat, your voice softer now.

He froze.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper now. “And I’m scared. Because maybe you don’t feel the same. And if I keep being around you, if you keep being this version of yourself with me—kind, thoughtful, close— I’ll start hoping. I’ll start thinking maybe there’s something real here. And I can’t afford that. Not when I’m the only one who feels it.”

Silence. Just the faint whir of drills and the distant chatter from the paddock.

Then—his hand reached out. Found your wrist. His touch was warm and grounding.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” he said, eyes locked onto yours. “Y/N, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the day you walked into HQ. And after that night on the balcony, do you really think I haven’t been going just as crazy as you?”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped even closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “Don’t run. Not from this.”

For a moment, everything slowed— the noise of the pit fading into the background, the tension between you easing into something softer, something real. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes warm and steady.

The PA crackled over the loudspeakers, announcing the start of the race lineup. Reality tugged you both back, but neither moved away.

“See you after the race?” he asked, his voice low, hopeful.

You nodded, already knowing you’d be counting down the minutes.

___

The sun was brutal.

The stands were packed, a blur of flags and roars and camera flashes. The smell of rubber, asphalt, and heat hung thick in the air as the teams scrambled for final checks. Mechanics swarmed like ants, tightening bolts, checking tire pressure, calibrating sensors. Overhead, a helicopter circled the track, catching aerial shots for the broadcast.

You were posted near the pit wall, camera hanging from your neck, a comm in your ear buzzing with static and updates.

But your eyes— they were on Car Seventeen.

Seungcheol sat behind the wheel, helmet on, visor down. From this distance, you couldn’t see his eyes, but you didn’t need to. You knew his routine by now— the way he leaned back and rotated his shoulders before a race, the way he tapped the steering wheel twice before the formation lap, how his fingers curled like he was anchoring himself.

The lights went out and Seungcheol launched off the grid like a bullet, tires spinning for half a breath before catching grip. Ahead, three cars jostled for position— he was P6, boxed in, the track narrowing into the first corner like the eye of a needle.

He stayed wide. Braked late. Too late, almost.

The car twitched as he dove into the corner, threading between two rivals. A puff of smoke, a lock-up— someone behind miscalculated— but he was clean through, emerging in P4.

By Lap 7, the front runners were bunched tight. Every straight was a drag race, every corner a standoff. The car ahead swerved left— blocking. Seungcheol feinted right, then cut back with precision, catching the slipstream on the long straight.

He pulled out at the last second. Side by side. Gear shifts slammed. Wheels inches apart. At 310 km/h, he edged forward, took the inside line— and held it.

P3.

The car behind didn’t let up. On Lap 10, it was payback. Seungcheol saw it coming too late–brakes flashing, the other driver dove from the outside. They nearly touched through the apex, Seungcheol forced wide, dust kicking up under his tires.

He dropped to fourth, but not for long.

Next lap, he studied the braking points— waited for the tiniest mistake. It came at Turn 9: a late apex. Seungcheol threw his car down the inside like a blade, tires skimming the curb, just enough grip to stick it. Sweat clung to his neck. His gloves were soaked, hands still steady on the wheel. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Eyes locked on the two cars ahead.

Lap 17. The second-place driver ran deep into the hairpin— barely a car length ahead.

Seungcheol didn’t hesitate.

He switched the diff, went full attack. The rear twitched under him as he accelerated early. The grip held. His nose was inside by the next turn. The two cars touched wheels lightly, metal brushing metal— but he didn’t lift.

By the time they hit the main straight, Seungcheol was in second.

Now it was just one left. And he wasn’t giving it up easy.

The last five laps were hell. DRS opened. They swapped places twice. Once, they went three corners side by side— wheels locked, tires screeching. Seungcheol braked into the final chicane from too far back, but he held it— just barely. The rear of the car squirmed, traction dancing on the edge of disaster.

Final lap. Final sector.

He was ahead. Just a few tenths.

The last turn came up fast — he didn't brake early, didn’t lift. He trusted the car.

The tires screamed, the G-forces crushed his ribs — and then, he was out of the turn, full throttle, crossing the finish line.

First.

His hands shook as he unclipped the wheel. The car slowed, the crowd a blur, but none of it landed. All he could think about was one thing—

He’d won, and you were there.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The room is buzzing— reporters crammed into every row, microphones armed, flashes going off like fireworks. Seungcheol has just won the race. He sits at the center of the table, sweat still glistening at his temples, race suit half-unzipped and collar tugged loose.

He should be talking about tires. About strategy. About the last-minute overtake that made the crowd lose their minds.

But his eyes flicker to you every other second.

You’re standing off to the side of the room, barely visible to the press, heart pounding from more than just the win.

A reporter asks him about the final lap.

Seungcheol answers smoothly. “It was tight, but I knew what I had to do. I’ve never wanted something more in a race.”

Another reporter chimes in, “You seemed... different out there today. Sharper. More emotional. Was something motivating you?”

He pauses.

And then, right there, with a thousand eyes watching him and the world on record—

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, voice steady. “There was.”

A small smile pulls at his lips as he glances toward you.

“There’s someone,” he continues. “Someone who’s been behind the scenes since the start of the season. You might not see her in front of the cameras, but she’s there. Always. Working, filming, noticing things no one else does.”

You freeze.

“She’s smart. Sharp. And the most annoying person when she wants to be.” His grin grows, softer now. “She’s also the reason I’ve been driving like I’ve got something to prove.”

A ripple goes through the crowd.

“I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what this feeling was. But I know now. And I don’t care if this is the right place or the wrong one—I just know I want her to hear it.”

He looks directly at you now.

“I love you.”

The room goes still.

You feel your pulse in your ears, the words still ringing "I love her. That’s all."

Seungcheol exhales slowly, nods once, and pushes back his chair. The screech of it against the floor cuts through the stunned quiet.

He rises.

And then—chaos.

“Seungcheol! Are you saying you’re in a relationship?”

“When did this start?”

“Was it before the season began?”

“Is she part of your team? Are you worried about the backlash?”

A dozen voices rise at once, microphones shoved forward, cameras flashing like lightning.

But he doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t stop.

He just gives a tired half-smile, dimples ghosting his cheeks, and lifts a hand in a calm, deliberate gesture. “No further comments.”

That’s all he says.

And then he walks off the stage—unbothered, sure-footed, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of a press room. Like the whole world hadn't just tilted.

And somehow, with your heart still thudding and your throat closing up, all you can think is: he said it. Out loud. To everyone.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You were waiting for him outside his hotel room, heart pounding a little more than you expected. You’d slipped away from the paddock, too eager not to be the first to congratulate the winner.

The elevator door clicked open, and there he was— still flushed from the race, a slow smile tugging at his lips when he saw you.

“That was some race, sir,” you teased, stepping closer, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “You really kept us all on edge.”

“Finally decided to stop playing hide and seek, ma’am?” Seungcheol leans his hand on the wall beside your head.

Your breath caught, heart thudding harder at how close he was. You matched his smirk, teasing, “Had to make sure you didn’t escape after all that you pulled today.”

His eyes darkened, that familiar heat flickering between you both. “Good. Because I’m not done yet.”

Before you could answer, his hand slid from the wall to your waist, pulling you closer.

He reached for the door handle, his fingers brushing yours ever so lightly. The quiet click of the door felt loud in the charged silence between you. Inside, the dim light softened everything— the subtle scent of leather and cologne wrapping around you. Seungcheol didn’t move away. Instead, he closed the door slowly, turning to lean against it, eyes locked on yours.

His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until the heat of his body pressed gently against yours. His hand slid from your waist up along your ribs, tracing slow, deliberate circles that sent shivers down your spine.

He didn’t break eye contact as he leaned in, pressing his lips softly to yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer without hesitation. When you parted slightly, the kiss deepened.

His hands slid down to your lower back, gripping you firmly. Your fingers found the bottom of his shirt, trembling as you tugged it up and over his head. His bare skin pressed against your palms, warm and solid.

A low groan rumbled from his throat as you kissed down his jaw, then you moved your hands to the buttons of your blouse, undoing them quickly. The fabric slipped off your shoulders, leaving you exposed to his hungry gaze.

You backed toward the bed, dragging him with you by the waistband of his jeans. He followed, lips never leaving yours, his hands roaming everywhere — your waist, your hips, your thighs like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch first.

You gasped as the back of your knees hit the bed. He took the cue, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you just enough to lay you back, following you down with a low groan. You reached between you, undoing the button of his jeans as he kissed your collarbone, the scrape of his teeth making your back arch

“God, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered against your skin, voice rough and low. His hand slid between your legs, cupping you over your underwear. You whimpered, hips rolling into his palm.

Your clothes came off in a tangle— your skirt pushed up, your bra unclasped, his jeans kicked away. It wasn’t graceful.

You could’ve guessed his size from the way it outlined his briefs. You tugged him closer by the waistband of his briefs, but he paused, forehead resting against yours, chest rising and falling fast.

“Wait,” he murmured, reaching into the nightstand. You watched, heart pounding, as he grabbed a small silver packet and tore it open with practiced ease, all while his eyes stayed on yours.

When he finally eased into you, you gasped— fingers tightening on his back as your body adjusted to the stretch.

“God…” you breathed, head falling back against the pillow.

He groaned against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Fuck— you feel like heaven.”

He gave you a moment, just holding still, his hands framing your waist before he began to move— slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust stealing the breath from your lungs.

Seungcheol had been relentless, his focus locked on the way your back arched beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him in with every thrust.

“Cheol, faster,” you gasped, the plea tumbling out between moans, your nails digging into his shoulders. He responded with a deep, guttural groan, snapping his hips harder, deliberate, forceful—sending shocks through your entire body.

“Fuck baby,” his sharp eyes flicked down to meet yours, a glint of hunger. “you’re making it hard to hold back.”

“Then don’t,” you shot back, breathless but defiant, your hips rising to meet his with purpose. His lips twitched—not quite a smirk.

His mouth found your neck with a hungry urgency, lips dragging over your pulse point before he began kissing down the column of your throat— open-mouthed, hot, and slow. You gasped when he bit down gently, just enough to make you jolt, and then soothed the sting with a languid, wet kiss that left your skin slick and tingling.

you moaned, hands threading into his hair as he sucked at the sensitive spot just below your jaw, drawing another sound from deep in your throat.

Seungcheol grunted, his grip tightened on the headboard. The force of his movements intensified— each thrust deliberate. His arms wrap around your waist and pulls you in— if it's possible anymore.

He moved lower, his tongue tracing the curve of your shoulder before returning to your neck, switching between soft kisses and firm sucks that left heat blooming across your skin. Each kiss was deliberate, each bite a mark of possession. Your hips rolled up instinctively, chasing friction, needing more.

“Cheol! I– I think I'm—” you moan out barely able to form words.

Seungcheol’s dick once again disappears into you. His thrusts get harder. “Yeah? My baby’s close?”

Every time his dick drives into you, your slick forms a ring around the base of his dick.

“Mghh so go-good,” you sigh out, tossing your head back. Seungcheol pushes his face into the valley of your bouncing tits. Each tap of his tip against your cervix had him dizzy, the overstimulation causing each muscle in his body to tense.

Seungcheol’s grip tightened on your hips as he pounded into you with unrelenting force, every thrust sending jolts of pleasure spiraling through your core. Your nails raked down his back, desperate to anchor yourself to him, to the overwhelming heat building between you.

He dipped his head, breath hitching as he nipped at the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Your back arched instinctively, pressing closer.

“Cheol…” you gasped, voice trembling with need, “I can’t hold– nghh anymore.”

He didn’t slow— if anything, his pace grew more fierce, more demanding, matching your rising desperation. His mouth found yours again, a searing kiss that stole your breath, teeth grazing and tongues tangling in a fierce dance.

Your bodies moved as one— taut, desperate– chasing the impossible thrill of release. And then— with a guttural growl, he tensed inside you, shattering the last restraint as waves of pleasure crashed over you both in a crescendo of raw, unfiltered bliss.

You clung to each other in the aftermath, breathless and trembling, the fierce glow of your shared fire still burning bright in the dim room.

Seungcheol shifted beside you, his hands warm and careful as they brushed away the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead. His fingers traced slow, soothing patterns along your skin, grounding you after the storm of sensation.

He reached for the soft towel folded nearby and dipped it into the glass of water on the nightstand. With deliberate gentleness, he pressed the cool cloth to your flushed cheeks, wiping away the sheen of sweat and the remnants of kisses along your neck.

“You’ve got marks,” he murmured, his voice thick with a mixture of admiration and protectiveness. His lips brushed over the places where his teeth had left gentle imprints, leaving you breathless all over again.

Without a word, he pressed a tender kiss to each one, as if silently apologizing and claiming you all at once.

Seungcheol’s fingers slid beneath the sheet, tracing the curve of your waist, making sure you were comfortable. Then he helped you adjust your clothes, pulling the fabric back over your shoulders and smoothing it down with care.

His hands lingered just a moment longer as he pulled you close, wrapping you in a warm embrace. The steady beat of his heart against your ear was the only sound in the room, a quiet promise that he was there, that you were safe.

“Rest now,” he whispered, voice low and soothing. “I’ll be right here.”

You sighed, melting into his arms, feeling the last traces of tension ebb away. And as your eyelids drifted closed, the world outside faded until all that remained was this— his touch, his warmth, and the quiet certainty of being loved.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

It was only day three of dating, but somehow every little thing Seungcheol did felt like a scene straight out of a movie— and you weren’t complaining.

You were wandering near the Seine, the spring breeze tousling your hair, when Seungcheol suddenly stopped and looked at you with a mischievous grin.

“Race you to that bench,” he challenged, pointing across the park.

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “You’re on.”

In a burst of laughter and clumsy running, you both sprinted— Seungcheol barely beating you and collapsed on the bench, breathless.

He nudged you with his shoulder. “Not bad for someone who claims to hate running.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you huffed. “I’m just letting you win.”

He laughed and then suddenly turned serious, eyes soft. “You know, it’s crazy how fast this feels like more than just three days.”

You blinked, heart thudding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long. “I’m already imagining all the mornings I want to wake up next to you.”

You grinned. “Slow down, Speed Racer.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, quick but sweet. “I’m just getting started.”

______________

join my permanent taglist

1K notes · View notes

humanjarvis · 2 months ago

Text

call it what you want

synopsis: when you visit a gathering of childhood friends, they’re wary of you and caleb’s relationship. and while you take it in stride, he takes it to heart.

tags: fluff, angst, heart to heart, happy ending, calebmc judged by childhood friends for their relationship, mc withstands it but caleb withdraws, barely yandere caleb, he does watch mc when they’re apart though, caleb breaks somebody’s teeth with his evol, calebmc relationship depicted as the jumbled up mess that it is, there’s not really pseudocest though, calebmc are each other’s first kiss, caleb is insecure, mc comforts the hell out of him, references to caleb’s mental illness, allusions to sex. inspired by “call it what you want” by taylor swift pairing: caleb x fem!reader, reader is mc word count: 8.1k (woah!)

a/n: behold my thesis on the intricate siblingfriendpartnership of calebmc. it’s the best thing i’ve written and i’m so glad. but also this has ended up doubling as my 2k followers special 🎉🎉🎉 that is an unfathomable amount of people subjecting themselves to my writing and i’m seriously so grateful. thank you for motivating me to create! anyway, i truly hope you get something out of this, but even if you don’t, i’m proud of it 💞

“C’mon, pip-squeak. We can't ignore it forever. I’m here now, and I'll be right by your side. All those bad memories…you won’t have to face them alone anymore.”

“I know. And I’m glad. But still, it’s…different now,” you smile weakly, failing to suppress a heavy sigh.

Caleb was in Linkon for the week, having put his foot down about his well-earned time off. And you, having gotten used to the constant Fleet interruptions, had gone the extra mile to make him unreachable: locking his communicator in your bedside drawer.

After three days of making new memories—you’d ticked the movies, the zoo, and a concert off your list—his love for nostalgia had finally gotten the better of him. He’d set his sights on reminiscence, and all morning, he’d been pestering you to visit your old neighborhood. Where your childhood home had once stood.

“We can just take a look around. Five minutes, tops. Aren’t you curious about that old playset you used to drag me to? Always made me spot you under the monkey bars in case you fell. I’m sure they miss you,” he teases, hope shining in his ametrine eyes.

And as you picture it—the iron bars of the jungle gym, now rusted with time; the grayish, well-traveled cobblestone streets; the wild honeysuckle bushes scattered around the block—you know this is a battle you can’t win.

“Fine,” you huff. “But you’re driving.”

“As if I’d refuse. And hey,” he softens, grabbing your arm gently. “If it’s too much, let me know. We’ll come back right away.”

***

Your stomach roils as familiar street signs come into view.

Green lawns and picket fences. Symbols of safety you could no longer trust.

Humming along to an old pop hit on the radio—a valiant attempt to distract you—Caleb turns into your neighborhood, and you clench your teeth involuntarily.

Luckily, you don’t have too much time to worry. Because seconds later, he pulls over a few houses from home and puts the car in park.

You sit for a moment. Watching. Breathing.

Thinking of how the last time you came here, he was dead.

“I’ll race ya,” he says suddenly, shutting the engine off and throwing his door open. And with a strained chuckle, you follow suit.

You lose on purpose, slowing your steps the closer you get to Gran’s house. You know he can tell.

But soon, you run out of room to stall.

As you stand beside the “FOR SALE” sign, feeling like a stranger, the freshly polished wood and foreign color scheme deepen the pit inside your stomach.

Caleb whistles lowly. “Sure looks different, doesn’t it?”

But you’re not listening. You’re remembering.

You remember the smell—the charred scent that stuck with you for so long after the explosion, your nostrils blistered from too much blowing. The way ashes fell endlessly from the sky, and you didn’t know what—or who—they were made of. The last-minute salon visit you’d had to schedule to chop the singed ends of your hair off.

“C’mon. That playground is just this way,” he offers, coaxing voice saving you from too much rumination.

“Okay,” you whisper, sliding your hand into his.

It was an age-old lesson, one you’d learned a hundred times: summer heat and monkey bars don’t mix.

As you flinch away with a startled hiss, Caleb casually pulls spare gloves from his pocket—as if he kept them on him for a situation like this—and carefully slips them onto you. For someone whose hands dwarf yours, they fit suspiciously well.

“Up you go,” he sings, lifting you to reach the handles. And just like all those years before, he walks beside you as you cross, steadying you with his gentle touch.

When you reach the end, instead of jumping down, you shift your momentum to swing backwards, skater dress twirling with the motion.

But as your front faces the street again, you realize your mistake a moment too late.

“Oh my gosh, is that who I think it is?!”

As a vaguely recognizable voice squeals, you freeze in place, hands squeezing around the iron bars in a death grip.

“Oh, it totally is! You haven’t come around here in forever—it’s so good to see you!” the voice continues.

Turning your head—slowly, like the main character in a horror film—your eyes land on an all too familiar figure. Sarah, a girl around your age you used to envy for her toy collection, stands just feet away from you, long leash corralling a massive German Shepherd held tightly in her manicured hand.

With two light taps on your back—Caleb’s signal for you to come down—you loosen your hold and land almost gracefully on the pea gravel below.

This was a situation you’d only been in once before. When Gideon had crossed paths with you at the cemetery and learned his dead friend was, well…not.

In any case, the circumstances then had been rare enough for you to carry on without establishing a protocol. And now, as you stand at the mercy of someone with no reason to keep Caleb’s secret, you’ll be forced to improvise.

“Hi…Sarah,” you grin awkwardly, fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Thought you’d have moved by now.”

“Nope!” she chirps, not catching your apprehension. “We’re gonna give it one more year. After my husband saves up from his new job, we want to travel a bit before settling down.”

You nod brusquely.

“By the way, we haven’t really seen you here since the accident. I’m so sorry about your grandmother and Caleb—I know how close you two were. But—oh! Excuse my manners,” she pivots, looking behind you as if a lightbulb flicked on overhead. “Who’s th—”

Sarah’s tanned face blanches.

“Hey Sarah. It’s been a while,” he greets casually.

And the woman in front of you looks between you both as if she’s seconds away from siccing that dog on you.

“You…caught us at a bad time,” you giggle nervously. “It’s kind of a secret, but…that was a…false report, after the explosion. Caleb actually managed to flee the area with a few burns. The authorities just kept the whole thing under wraps in case it was a targeted attack, or something. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since!” you smile tightly, squeezing his dry palm with your clammy one.

“Oh…well…what a relief, I guess!” she chuckles uncomfortably. “Well…if you’re not laying too low, Caleb,” she starts, extroverted nature beating out her rationality, “we’re having a get-together with all the neighborhood kids tomorrow! You guys should totally come. We’d hate to miss our favorite duo—you were always so funny, nagging each other like siblings.”

You bristle at the term, gripping Caleb’s hand so tightly it could bruise. “Um, thanks for the offer, Sarah, but we…” you trail off, looking at him to help you.

“We’d love to come!” he doesn’t.

“Uh, we…would?” you question, perplexed by his sudden enthusiasm.

“Yeah, why not, pips? It’d do you good to reconnect with some of the girls you liked hangin’ around. Plus, I’ll be right there with you,” he smiles brightly.

Though his reasoning barely quells your anxiety, your heart softens at the gesture.

“Alright, then,” you turn to Sarah. “We’ll be there.”

The old mall down the block is halfway through renovations.

Neon orange construction cones litter the parking lot, and every door but the main entrance is sealed off with yellow caution tape.

Navigating through the weekend traffic, you and Caleb wander through the swarming, noisy corridors, leaving store after store empty-handed.

You don’t know what to wear.

Meeting so many people after such a long time…there’s an irrational need to impress, to look like you have your life together.

And somehow, every outfit seems off on you. It’s not false advertising—the mannequins are gorgeous as ever. But there’s something about you that ruins every look.

As you rummaged through different displays, Caleb had done some light hovering—staying near, but letting you do your own thing, overall.

But as you return another dress to the rack with a frustrated growl, he swoops in to put his scary intuition to good use.

“This would suit you,” he grins kindly, brandishing a pastel blue sundress. “Wanna try it on?”

You eye the fabric skeptically. It’s not your usual style, but you take it into the dressing room anyway.

And of course, the first thing Caleb picks out for you is perfect.

“Told ya,” he laughs when you call him inside, back hugging you in the mirror. “You look beautiful. ‘Course it helps that it was my idea, and all.”

Swatting him gently, you giggle as you try to push him out of the cramped space, grunting with annoyance when he sandbags you.

“Get out of here!” you protest. “We still have to find your outfit, and the mall closes soon.”

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” he relents cheekily. “Snap a picture for me before you take it off, though, alright?”

***

Once you’d paid—or he’d paid, having levitated your purse in the air while you scowled at him—you’d dragged him over to the men’s section, where you’d found an outfit just his size with a similar color scheme.

He’d preened when you held it out to him, puffing his chest out with pride at the fact you knew his tastes so well. And in his sparkling eyes, you’d spotted a flicker of possessiveness as he looked between your clear garment bag and the clothes in his hands, not so subtly comparing the blues to each other.

And evidently, with the way he’d refused to even try anything on before heading back to the register, he’d been satisfied.

As you make your way back to his car, Caleb tugs you in by the waist to claim your lips in a tender kiss.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. “It’ll be perfect. And even though we’ll be matchin’…I get the feeling you’ll be the one people can’t look away from.”

Caleb’s hand is on the small of your back as you step through Sarah’s front door, but it leaves you as he encourages you to mingle. “Go catch up,” he urges with his signature grin.

You know what he’s doing. What this whole thing has been. A way to push you out of your comfort zone, a prolonged apology, and a promise to be less overbearing, all in one.

He needs it just as much as you do. Needs you to know that he’s trying. So as you nod softly and make your way through the throng of laughing faces, you hope he sees you trying, too.

Sarah’s parents had both been lawyers, and if the diplomas lining the far wall of the living room didn’t make that clear enough, the sheer size of their house sure did.

The layout is vaguely familiar—Caleb had been friends with her older brother, and you’d practically begged him to tag along on playdates so you could see the fancy house down the street.

As you take it all in—the flat screen TVs (plural) broadcasting different channels, the iridescent streamers lining the bannisters, the variety of appetizers spread out across the first floor—you only grow more envious.

Turning away with a petty huff, you focus on the people instead. As you study faces new and old, you wonder how many guests here brought their partners. How many know that you brought yours.

Sarah—ever the gracious host, never the gossip—had informed the attendees about Caleb’s situation in hopes that he wouldn’t be bombarded the second he stepped inside. And it was working, somehow, as far as you could tell. Aside from a few wary glances sent his way, people greeted him just like they did before: as the golden boy whose presence was a gift.

At some point, as you’d hovered aimlessly by the drink table, a girl you remembered fondly had strolled up to you. Marley, her name was. With her lively eyes, kind smile, and eagerness to play dolls with you, she’d been your closest non-Caleb friend in the neighborhood.

“Who would’ve thought the girl next door would grow up to be a hunter, huh?” she jokes, gently elbowing your ribs.

“It’s really not that special,” you laugh, halfheartedly dodging her pokes. “Just something necessary, I guess, since the Wanderers came. I thought it’d be cool, high-stakes action movie stuff every day, but I kinda feel like a firefighter saving a cat from a tree sometimes.”

“Oh, please. You’re practically a superhero! Caleb, too, being a whole pilot and all. Time really flies—I still remember when he helped you set up your lemonade stand that one summer,” she giggles. “You were always so in sync.”

“Still are,” you smile softly, gaze subconsciously finding Caleb from across the room. He's chatting in a group of his old buddies, but as always, it’s like he can sense you looking at him. His eyes find yours in an instant, as if he already knew where you were standing—because of course he did—and he shoots you a boyish wink.

“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” Marley hesitates, her eyes shifting perplexedly between you. “Are you two…together…now? You seem even closer than you were as kids, if that’s even possible,” she mutters sarcastically, talking from the side of her mouth.

As the question hits you for the first time that night, you plaster a big, fake smile on your face. “We sure are! It was five months last week.”

“Well, congrats, I guess,” she tries to exclaim, but her confusion stunts her sincerity. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s just…I never expected you guys would date! You always seemed more like…ah…friends,” she cringes, her own fake smile twitching slightly.

Friends.

As the word fights its way out of her mouth, likely beating several less polite alternatives, the weight of her hesitance is not lost on you.

“Friends, huh?” you echo, and your smile is real this time. A show of your teeth, a hint that she’s just entered dangerous waters. “What kind of friends grow up in the same house, Marley? Raised by the same person, and all. Pretty rare if you ask me,” you cock your head in mock contemplation. “C’mon, what do you really mean to say?”

You’d been taught well.

“Okay, okay!” she huffs, folding like a lawn chair under the pressure. “I always thought you were like siblings. Thought you guys thought you were like siblings. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“There’s nothing to be surprised about,” you nod curtly. “You lived next door, not with us. You don’t know how we felt about each other.”

Your voice is robotic as you meet her with a deadened stare. No matter how much you’d expected it, no matter how much you’d prepared, the judgment catches you off guard.

The rumors, the gossip—it’s one reason you thought Caleb would decline the invite. To protect you, if nothing else. But with a bitter, inward laugh, you guess that him trying means letting you be in situations you might’ve begged him to shield you from.

“I need some air,” you decide suddenly, interrupting Marley’s frantic apologies to turn toward the door. “It was nice catching up.”

A cool breeze kisses your exposed skin as you watch the fireflies blink from the patio. And as beautiful as they are, glittering in the night sky, there are other things on your mind at the moment.

If Caleb was ever a brother to you, he was the best brother anyone ever had.

You’d seen the way your friends acted with their brothers. Always kept a watchful eye on their interactions, as if comparing their relationships to yours. Middle school, high school, college.

And over all those years, no brother had ever been as attentive—as doting, as patient, as loving—as Caleb.

After the explosion, when you were left to deal with your feelings alone—no nagging, oversized puppy to distract you—you’d pondered how you saw him. Deep down, under the structure and order and propriety that was forced upon you too young. Regretted that it was too late to ask him how he saw you.

And if those quiet nights crying so hard it felt like drowning had taught you anything, it was this: as much as Caleb was brotherly, he had always been more—so much more than what he had to be to you.

He could’ve shut himself in his room for hours, leaving you to fend for yourself. He could’ve ghosted you the minute you no longer went to the same school. Could’ve found a girlfriend, had kids early, and moved his real family far away from you. All these things, you’d seen happen.

But through it all, Caleb had stayed, and he’d done it with his signature smile. Even when you’d worried he’d outgrown you, had outpaced you with his stellar achievements, he’d just pinched your cheek with a fond grin. Who d’ya think I do all that for, silly? he’d laughed.

By your reunion, when he’d stared down at you so cruelly, you’d known what he was to you. The only man you’d ever loved, in all meanings of the phrase. That’s why it had hurt so much.

And Caleb had scared you off. Your feelings were fragile, only newly realized. But his…were developed. Intense. More intense than you were ready for, coming from someone who’d been off-limits for 15 years.

So you’d resisted. Resisted his spiraling admissions, resisted the feelings you knew he had for you, resisted his frantic attempts to steal you from the world.

It would take time for you to accept a love like his. You’d told him as much five months ago—that you needed to meet in the middle. And he’d promised to try.

As the days went by, you got used to treating him like a lover. To putting new meanings behind every touch. And every time you kissed him, he carved out more of his own paradise in your mind, escaping the liminal area he’d occupied in unfulfilling restraint.

It was only in moments like this when prying eyes and hushed whispers wore you down. People who thought that, because they knew you once—for a summer, for a semester, for a school year—they knew who you were and how you felt. But there was something paradoxically mercurial about you and Caleb: the more you stayed the same, the more you changed. And only the two of you were privy to it.

Even still, some leers and questions got to you, just as they had tonight. Apprehension and a resented sense of shame had filled your gut, as if you’d been “caught” stealing from your own wallet.

But of all the things Caleb was to you, only one mattered: he was yours. And as a firefly lands on your outstretched palm, twinkling beautifully in the darkness that threatens it, you know no one can take that from you.

Caleb had had better nights.

He’d had worse, for sure—agony and loneliness come to mind—but he’d definitely had better.

He’s spent this one mingling among the names he hadn’t cared to remember, all as an attempt to show you he won’t cage you in. You can have fun, have friends outside of him, as much as the thought makes his stomach churn.

And what better way to start than with people he already knew? Baby steps.

As he cranes his neck to find you again (which shouldn’t be hard, since he just has to look for the one dressed like him), he vaguely registers an incessant buzz of a voice talking his ear off. Jared, he calls himself.

“Anyway, I can’t believe you did that to her. That’s fucked up, man,” the voice says, clapping Caleb’s back with an obnoxious chortle.

And as much as he needs to find you, Caleb really wishes he’d spared some of his attention for the homunculus beside him.

“What exactly are you implying?” he asks lowly, lifting the hand from his shoulder with a firmness that any sober person would find threatening.

He’s almost certain you’re not in the room, now, your calming presence lost in the sea of discarded memories. Alarms sound in his head at the realization, only to be drowned out by something more damning.

“It’s just…you grew up together! Had the same grandma. That's like your sister, dude. But you know what, to each their own. The way she looks, I can’t say I would've held myself back any better than you did. Probably worse, man. Matter of fact, you fucked her y—?”

The force of Caleb’s Evol clamps Jared’s mouth shut.

And, if his muffled yelp is any indication, hopefully breaks a few of his teeth, their bloodied chips settling on his tongue.

“This sorry excuse for a conversation is over. Leave. Now. And if I see you talking to her on your way out, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to again.”

Jared nods fearfully, and after one last snarl, Caleb lifts his Evol, albeit begrudgingly. It takes Jared a few seconds to notice his newfound freedom, but the moment he does, he’s scurrying out of the house. Good.

You’re back in Caleb’s sight, now. But as he takes in your shy smile, the faint melody of your laughter filling his keen ears, he doesn’t feel the comfort he normally would.

Instead, he feels his dog tag.

Your precious gift to him. A symbol of how you needed him, of your anticipation that he’d always be in your life. Of his hope that one day, you’d return his feelings.

He recalls the once comfortable weight, the way his body heat would flow into the cool metal, linking it to him in a warm embrace.

The chain now burns against his throat.

Jared had been brash.

Crude, crass, and certainly cocky, thinking he was deserving of you.

So as Caleb watches you chat among a mixed group of guests, swirling his full cup in agitation, he decides he doesn’t care about the delivery. It’s the content that troubles him.

Because Jared, in his drunken state, had managed to hit a nerve Caleb had tried to sever five months ago.

Are you sure you want this? he’d asked you shakily. Want it from me? With me?

And in clear confirmation, you’d claimed his first kiss.

But even still, the thoughts lingered at the back of his brain. That he was tainting you, taking advantage of you, stealing your life away.

He knows Jared isn’t worth the scum beneath his shoe, but those unsavory thoughts made his own worries resurface.

And as fickle as his mind was, he’d only ever known to trust it.

So when Caleb sees you beam at another man’s compliment, glowing like you’d been sent from heaven itself, he feels like maybe he’d been right.

For the rest of the night, Caleb dreaded the drive home. Luckily, you’d slept for most of the way back.

But as he parks outside your building, gently rousing you from your sleep, the feeling returns in full force.

“Good morning,” you giggle, stretching drowsily. “Sorry I fell asleep on you—I can’t remember the last time I talked that much. Did you have fun?”

“Something like that,” he says, popping the driver’s door open. “You?”

“I did, I think,” you start, opening your own side and sliding out of his car. “I really did. It was a little rough at first, but it got better. What about you? Anybody try to stab your brains out? Since you’re undead and all.”

He chuckles dryly. “Not exactly.”

As you trudge toward your apartment, Caleb trails behind you. You’re so dazed, you almost don’t notice it. But you miss the familiar warmth of his left hand.

Your tired fingers quiver as you fail to unlock your door, and with a gentle nudge, Caleb slides the key in for you.

Mumbling a “thank you,” you step through the doorway, making space for him to follow. When he doesn’t, you turn to face him, frowning lightly in confusion. Gleaming in the moonlight, the metal threshold separates your feet: yours on the inside, his on the outside.

“I’ve been called back to Skyhaven. It’s nothing too serious, but I’ll have to cut this visit short. Don’t worry about me.”

The words pierce your chest like a dagger, but his cold delivery twists the knife.

“Oh,” you breathe, not knowing what to do or where to look or how to hide your disappointment. “I didn’t know they had any way of contacting you. Your communicator’s still in my nightstand, you know,” you quip lamely. “But I guess four days has to be enough this time. I’m lucky to have gotten that.”

Smiling weakly, you lean in to kiss him. But with his sudden reservation, the moment is more chaste than you’d intended.

As he starts to turn away, you instinctively grab his hand. “Are you…is everything okay? You’re being weird,” you whisper, eyes searching him in concern.

“No I’m not,” he retorts, forcing life back into his voice. The weight of his hand ruffling your hair feels wrong, somehow, and his airy tone is a contrast to the darkness in his gaze. “Get some rest, pip-squeak.”

Caleb never thought the jewelry box you’d left at his place would come in handy.

He had no use for it—the only piece he truly needed to preserve stayed looped around his neck at all times.

But as he stares at the silver chain hung carefully on a hook, its ruby-crested apple dangling in the evening sunlight, he silently thanks you for your forgetfulness.

It’s been two days since he returned to Skyhaven, but the events of that night remain fresh wounds in a fragile mind.

I can’t believe you did that to her.

To you. Not with.

As if his love was an assault.

All his life, Caleb had tried to show you only the good sides of him. To tamper down his intensities so you’d eat from his palm. You were a skittish thing, failed one too many times by an inadequate world. So he’d approached you gently, practicing docility until it became second nature. To keep his eager hands from defiling you.

He’d molded himself into whoever you needed him to be, never admitting what he wanted to be to you. All so you would tolerate him, want to keep him around for his services, if nothing else. Because as much as he claimed to protect you, your safety was his anchor. If you were loved, warm, and unharmed—if he kept you that way—then every consequence was worth it.

He’d learned to live like a chameleon, his temperament matching your mood. And as much as a forgotten part of him yearned for identity, it was a role he’d settled into playing—until his weakened back had snapped under the pressure.

When you’d confessed that you felt the same—that you loved him in more ways than the one you should—he’d deluded himself into thinking those years of restraint were over. That he could stop watching over you and start walking with you. That you would fall from propriety hand in hand.

He’d never thought himself naive. Always launched himself ahead of the curve so that would never be an option for him. Naive was something someone with his responsibility couldn’t afford to be.

But now, as his lifeline swings back and forth on its new perch, jingling with what could only be mockery, the feeling swallows Caleb whole.

It would’ve killed him to see you with someone else. He’d had nightmares about it every month, save for the last five, ever since he was a teenager. But even if you chose to live with someone else by your side…at least he would have gotten to see you do it. To watch you be happy, carefree, without you wondering if it was your right to be. Without the guilt of robbing your life from you, tainting your purity with his sin.

He knew you were wary. You’d gotten better about it—at hiding it, at least—but he could still feel the panicked clench of your hand in his when someone looked at you too long. You were trying, for him, just as he tried for you. But if trying meant the unfiltered scrutiny that Jared had spewed could one day reach you, it wasn’t worth it, he decided.

You deserved more than the headache he’d give you.

***

The days drag on.

Caleb’s vacation ends as little more than purgatory, and when he dons his Colonel uniform once more, the Fleet’s affairs feel his presence now more than ever.

He’s sharper now, meaner. Mistakes that would usually earn a light slap on the wrist now end in termination. Figurative or literal, the recruits aren’t sure.

He knows he’s spiraling. He hears the whispers: “The Colonel’s finally lost it” met with “As if he ever had it.” But rebuke from any voice but yours doesn’t reach him.

During flights, he plays his missions a little less safe, making rash decisions sure to end in incident, eventually. He justifies it, in his head, by thinking that maybe an injury would inflict upon him the suffering he deserves.

He’s been drifting, lately. Through the hallways, through the streets, through space.

But aimless as he is, Caleb can’t bring himself to desert you completely. Those 15 years of gentle servitude had become so ingrained in him, he thinks a total cutoff would only make him more reckless. So he pacifies you with brief, polite answers, sharing none of his usual charm and emoticons. This flighty, diluted version of himself was all that he could offer.

But each day, when Caleb stumbles back into the necessary solitude of his house, wheezing with overexertion, he heads straight to the hidden room where you’d discovered his bionic arm. Where, under dark wooden panels, a row of monitors hide.

Their feeds are clear as they’ve always been. Your cubicle, your route home, your front door, your kitchen. Your bedroom.

And until he succumbs to exhaustion, Caleb watches you.

Watches you sift through reports, eyes open but unseeing.

Watches you stumble on the way home, your foot catching on a stray root that he would’ve spotted in time.

Watches you crumble, after a while, and curl up on the side of your bed where he always slept.

Watches until the rhythmic rocks of your crying body lull you to sleep in place of his heartbeat.

As the clock strikes midnight, you complete your count to 23.

It’s been 23 days since you’d received anything more than a one-word response from Caleb.

At first, you’d given him grace—thought he just wasn’t feeling well. He was always one to withdraw from you when sick, locking himself away for a while before emerging like nothing happened.

But even then, he was never this curt with you. He always reassured you that he was okay.

Days passed, and the mysterious illness theory flew out the window. As you fired off another concerned text, all but pleading for him to say something, you wondered if he was mad at you—but what could you have done? Not to mention that when he was mad at you, it usually ended with him apologizing, somehow. It’s always Caleb’s fault, huh? he’d cooed at you, rubbing your back tenderly. I’m sorry, baby.

Something was just…wrong. Terribly, scarily wrong. And whatever it was, you had to figure it out alone.

With a frustrated growl, you snatch your phone up from its place on your nightstand and scroll to your latest messages, hoping he’s decided to take you out of time-out.

you: hi. i know you’re probably sick of me asking, but can you call when you get a chance? haven’t heard your voice in a while.

>:( : later.

Nothing. He was giving you absolutely nothing.

You want to scream. Want to hunt him down, grab him by the collar, and thrash him around for being so difficult. But as your gaze flits to the photo on your desk—a silly selfie you’d taken on your first official date—your heart constricts from how badly miss him.

You miss him so desperately that the pain in your chest is worse than when he left for college. At least you’d known he would come back to you, then.

As hot tears well in your eyes—far from the first time—you remember the words he’d written to you once, never intending for you to read them: “Any man who makes you cry isn't worth your time,” you repeat, snorting softly at the irony.

But unluckily for him, Caleb wasn't any man.

Any man wouldn't braid your hair from childhood to now, never teaching you to do it yourself because he wasn’t willing to give up doing it. Any man wouldn't skip the senior trip he’d saved hundreds for just to nurse you through a stomach bug. Any man wouldn't dedicate half his life to making sure yours was painless.

So no, Caleb wasn’t any man. He was smart, skilled, and devoted. He was reliable, doting, and selfishly self-sacrificing. He was the reason you’d grown up so well, always wanting to make him proud. And he was yours.

Tugging harshly at the roots of your hair—a habit he’d always tried to break—you pace around your bedroom like a frenzied animal.

You were going to go to him, that much was obvious. To ambush him and make him explain what you’d done for him to discard you like this. To apologize, if he’d hear it.

But how, if he wouldn’t give you the time of day? The man lived in a giant sky fortress, for God’s sake. And with his neverending suspicions, it wasn’t like he trusted any other members of the Fleet enough to give you their contact informati—

Except, you interrupt yourself, freezing mid-step. He did.

Liam.

Caleb’s faithful adjutant, the one you’d spoken to—or spoken at, while he looked at you unnervingly—just a handful of times.

Sometimes, bad ideas are the only ones available.

Retrieving your phone from where it lies face down on your rumpled blanket, you scroll and scroll to the bottom of your contact list, where Liam’s name stares back at you forebodingly.

Steeling yourself with a shaky nod, you press call and wait with bated breath. He answers on the second ring.

“Miss, may I ask why you’re calling? Are you in any trouble?” his deep, dispassionate voice, devoid of any true concern, rings out.

You swallow thickly before trusting your voice enough to sound as anything more than a pitiful squeak. “I-I have Caleb’s communicator,” you maneuver skillfully despite your nerves. “He left it at my apartment. Can you take me to him? So I can give it back.”

“You’d be better off turning it in to one of our administrators. The Colonel is very busy right now and—”

“Take me to him, please,” you repeat stubbornly, raised voice echoing off ivory drywall.

“Miss, I'm only allowed to speak with you if you’re in immediate danger. I'm under strict orders not to facilitate any interaction with the Colonel.”

He’s going to hang up soon, you panic. And then your only chance is gone.

A flare of anger heats your skin as you realize you don’t have an appointment to see your own boyfriend. The one who can pester you and break your boundaries with a barely apologetic smile, but shuts you out the second you try to do the same.

Channeling your tears from earlier—they still line your eyes, after all—you sniffle into the speaker. Desperate times…

“What do you think will happen when I tell him you made me cry? You won’t be under any orders anymore,” you bait him quietly, relying on the fragile hope that Caleb was still as fiercely protective of you as he’d been before.

The pregnant pause on the other line tells you you’d succeeded. “I…” he clears his throat. “Please arrive at the Skyhaven airport at your earliest convenience. I'll be there to take you to the Colonel.”

When Liam’s aircraft lands on the familiar floating island, you rush out with a muttered “thanks” and jam your thumb onto the sensor.

But as the doors slide open and you stomp inside, the silence you’re met with tells you Caleb isn’t home.

Sighing heavily, you survey your surroundings: the spotless kitchen, barren like it hadn’t been used in weeks; the dust collecting on his most-used surfaces; the tray on the coffee table, missing its usual array of apples. Had he been eating? Had he been coming here at all?

Your worries carry you through the other rooms, but none hold the answers to your questions.

And as you step into his bedroom, the place you were most likely to find a clue, you wish you hadn’t.

Because there, hanging tauntingly on a familiar looking jewelry box, is Caleb’s dog tag. The chain he never went without.

The ache in your chest becomes a gaping void.

Blood rushes to your ears and makes them ring so loudly that you can’t hear the despondent noise you make. On unsteady feet, you lurch farther into the room and lower your trembling body onto the mattress.

As you stare at the mahogany jewelry box, looming mockingly on the dresser, you think the walls spin around you.

In all the years you’d known Caleb, he had never been one to just give up—so what about you was so condemnable that it finally made him?

He wasn’t here to answer.

So you take the chain for what it is: resignation. Eviction.

It feels like you shouldn’t be here anymore. Like you’re an intruder in a sacred space. Like maybe you shouldn’t have even made it in, but he just hadn’t had the time to axe your thumbprint from the system yet.

You need to leave. That much is clear. But here, stranded in the sky, you don’t exactly have a getaway plan.

Without the leverage of Caleb’s love, you doubt Liam would take too kindly to being threatened again, just hours after the first time.

As fruitless minutes tick by, it’s clear that waiting is your only option. But as you curl up in the center of the bed, chest heaving with labored breaths, you no longer anticipate Caleb’s return.

When your eyes blink open in the dead of night, you know he’s there before you see him.

The air in the room feels different. Heavy and charged, like just before a thunderstorm.

Anything could happen when you face him. But he’s deprived you of so much lately, that at least something would.

Shoving the thought to the front of your mind for motivation, you raise your head to find him in the darkness of the room, lit only by a lone streetlight.

And the sight of him makes your stomach drop.

Caleb, uniform torn and tattered, slumps against the wall closest to the bed, eyes closed and head lowered.

A smear of blood paints his cheek, and as you zero in on it, you notice the eyebags so dark they look like bruises. Like he hasn’t slept in days.

But even with his eyes closed, you should know by now that you don’t have the time to ogle him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Where else would I go?”

And those violet irises find yours.

“Do you regret it? That you have nowhere else to go?” he asks softly, bloodshot gaze searching your huddled form. Checking, like he always did.

No is your immediate answer. But you figure you should ask him first. That way, when you say it, he might actually believe you. “What?”

“Do you regret what I’ve done to you?” he elaborates, voice dropping near the end.

The explanation doesn’t help. “What have you done to me, Caleb?”

He winces at the phrasing, though he knows it’s not an accusation.

Cocking his head cynically, he lets a hollow chuckle escape. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to that party. Guess that’s what I get for trying.”

“What are you talking about?” you probe, shifting to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me,” he mimics, “is that I’m trying to stay away from you. For your own sake.”

“You weren’t there to see it. Hung up in another room, or outside, or something. It was the only time I lost sight of you,” he recalls bitterly. “And this guy started mouthin’ off about how fucked it was for us to be together. Said I was sick for the things I must’ve done to you.”

A sliver of understanding eases the tension in your muscles. But you need to hear it from him. “And you believed him?” you ask, eyeing him warily.

“It wasn't him who I had to believe. I already knew. Have known, for a while now, no matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t. The way I thought my hands deserved to touch you—it’s a sin, isn’t it? One you shouldn’t have to carry. That’s why I left—so you could live a life unburdened by me.”

At his words, an all too familiar irritation stirs within you. Alongside sadness that he’d thought it best to feel this way alone.

Pushing forcefully off the bed, you kneel between his knees, gripping his bloodied face between your hands. “Who said you had permission to leave?” you ask lowly, and you hear his voice in yours.

“I asked you what happened that night,” you continue. “More than once. And I'd have listened if you told me. Would’ve been there to tell you that none of it mattered. But you said it was nothing—another way to protect me, I guess. And then you left me on my doorstep, wondering how I’d hurt you.”

Caleb’s mouth drops slightly, but you don’t let him interrupt. “When you said you would try, you overlooked one thing. Part of trying is considering how I feel. Like when I saw your necklace—how do you think I felt? I thought…you didn’t want me anymore. That you’d decided I was too big a burden for you,” you breathe, and when your voice breaks at the end, Caleb covers your hands with his.

“If your sin involves me, you don’t get to live through it alone. You pulled away from me without wondering if I wanted to be complicit. If I wanted to share it with you. You don’t get to make me a victim without asking if I feel like one. And I never have.”

He freezes at that, gazing up at you imploringly. When he finds what he’s looking for, he turns his head slightly, lips brushing your wrist in a hesitant kiss. “I know—” he swallows. “I know you feel ashamed sometimes. Of being with me, now, when I was who I was to you. Even if you don’t want to be, when we go out together, I can feel it.”

“You’re right,” you nod simply, and he fails to stifle a choked gasp. “But I don’t let it change anything.”

Now, it’s Caleb’s turn to ask. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Marley?” you start softly, stroking his tousled hair. “Girl I used to play dolls with when you were too busy? She asked about us, too. And I told her the truth: we’re together, and we’re happy, and our story is ours. It’s not just your choice, Caleb. I’m with you because I want the same. I always have.”

And as much as you know he wants to believe it, to accept it and move on, things were never that simple with him.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs shakily, returning your hands to your lap as if they’ve burned him. “I can't…I've only ever wanted to keep you safe. No matter who I had to be to you. And when you let me have you—how I want to, how I’d wanted to…I wasn’t strong enough to turn you away. I’m not strong enough to do what’s best for you,” he whispers with glistening eyes.

Slowly, gently, you reach out to him a second time. To splay a hand on his exposed chest, to get him used to the feeling of your touch again.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you murmur, stroking your thumb against him. “Because I think you’re very strong.”

“I thought you were strong when you saved me from those bullies in middle school. Still remember the black eyes you gave them. When I saw that…I thought you were a hero. And I wanted to be just like you.” Pausing, you lean down to kiss his collarbone, and though he shudders, you take his pleading gaze as a sign to continue.

“I thought you were strong when Gran got really sick, and you had to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, taking me to school. And you did it with a smile.” Giving him one of your own, you cradle his flushed face in your hands, stroking his darkening cheeks tenderly. Violet eyes watch you with disbelief—a reflection of six months ago, when you’d entrusted your first kiss to him.

“And when you kissed me back that first time? When I felt how much you wanted to, how you kept it bottled up inside you for so long—I thought you were so strong,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his. “You’ve always been strong, Caleb. It’s why I love you so much.”

In time with his sharp inhale, you press your lips to his. But as large hands flex against your sides, he doesn’t respond to your touch.

So you press harder, deeper, as if your kiss will awaken what’s dormant within him: his molten, unabashed need for you. The need that holds purity in its paradox, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

And when you circle your hand around his throat, where his necklace once collared him in your name, Caleb kisses you back.

It’s an exploratory kiss, but a passionate one. As if your reacquainted lips are making up for lost time.

You guide him with the steady suction of your lips, and when you tug at his frayed lapel, Caleb takes the lead.

His tongue surges into your mouth, reclaiming what he’d missed, and you moan at the welcome intrusion.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, backing away slightly. “Sometimes I just wonder…if you’d be better off without me.”

“I wouldn't,” you soothe, pulling him in for a reassuring peck. “You’re a part of me. I want you wherever I am, whichever version of you will have me.”

“All of them,” he mumbles against you. “And then some.”

And as you slip his hand under your shirt, there’s no reluctance in his tender grasp. Like he belongs there.

Soft strokes on your bare shoulder wake you as the sun rises.

“I missed seein’ you like this,” murmurs the voice you’d missed just as much.

“And whose fault is that?” you chide, cutting your eyes to glare up at him playfully.

“Mine,” he concedes instantly. “All mine.”

“Mhm. Speaking of,” you begin, stepping out of bed gingerly. “If you’re going to be my Caleb, there’s one more thing you need to do. Close your eyes,” you instruct.

And Caleb complies—something that’s come easy the past six months.

The room is silent for a moment, with only the distant sounds of jet planes piercing the air.

Then, a soft clink.

And as the mattress dips with your return to him, Caleb lifts his head instinctively. And the cool surface of metal slips around his neck.

As Caleb spares you a glance from the passenger’s seat, the apple charm on his dog tag glints in the sunlight.

Row after row of familiar houses comes into view, but you seem calm, this time. Unburdened.

With some compliments and exaggerated enthusiasm, Sarah had been more than happy to host another party. And you’d been more than patient as you’d encouraged Caleb to attend.

He’d been cautious, at first, for obvious reasons. But you didn’t dare push.

So as the date loomed closer, he’d decided to try.

And when you cross the threshold hand in hand to a sea of curious faces, the tension he expects to compress his pulsing heart never comes.

Instead, something kinder blossoms: pure, weightless pride.

2K notes · View notes

fireinmoonshot · 1 month ago

Text

more than a friend should | robert reynolds x fem!reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Fem!Reader Summary: Bob didn't quite count on himself being starstruck by seeing you in a dress for the first time. You didn't count on yourself forgetting how to breathe when you saw Bob in a suit. But when you both have to get through a black tie event, the only way to do it is by getting through it together. Warnings: Mentions of general mental health struggles, anxiety, being drained from social activities and exhaustion. A very brief mention of alcohol and drugs. Reader wears a dress. Very brief swearing. Word Count: 4.3k A/N: I got a request for this fic last week and I totally fell in love with the idea. It took me a while to write just because I really wanted it to be perfect and I'm so happy with how it turned out. It's my longest fic for Bob so far! I did not proof read it after I finished my final draft. It's 11:30pm and I am so tired, so let's hope there are no mistakes in there 😂 Thank you so much for the response on all my Bob fics up to this point – I'm so happy that so many people are enjoying them. I hope you'll enjoy this one too! 💗

Bob knows that he’s screwed the second he sees you walk out into the penthouse from your room where you’d been getting ready. He doesn’t even notice Mel walking out behind you.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters under his breath, totally unaware that he wasn’t as quiet as he’d thought he was being.

Walker, stood right beside him, glances at him. “You all right, Bobby?”

Bob tears his gaze away from you and looks at Walker, eyes a little glazed over. It doesn’t last long, though – his ability to not look at you. Not two seconds later he finds you again. Walker watches the whole thing, eyebrows furrowed and confusion written all over his face.

Was something going on between you and Bob? He was surely reading the situation wrong. If there was some kind of romance going on between the two of you, he was obviously going to know about it.

“What do we all think?” Mel’s voice breaks both Bob and Walker out of their thoughts. She’s standing beside you, motioning to the dress that you’re wearing.

You smooth the dress down with your hands and instantly miss the pockets of your suit. As a New Avenger, wearing dresses is not something you’re used to. You spend most of your time in your suit or clothes that are comfortable when you’re not working. This is the entire opposite.

“Mel helped me pick it out,” you explain.

“It’s cute,” Ava says, standing up from where she’d been sitting down to wait for everyone to get ready. You’re glad to see that she’s wearing a dress as well – it makes the stress of it a little better, knowing you don’t have to go through it all alone.

You thank her at the same time that you catch Bob staring at you. Your breath catches in your throat as you notice the suit he’s wearing – a big change from the clothes he usually wears around the Watch Tower. Bob is nearly always wearing some kind of sweatpants. To see him in something like a suit, so perfectly tailored to fit him, is a sight to behold.

He still looks like Bob, though. His hair is a little messy and his tie is crooked, which makes you smile a little. They could put him in a suit, but he was clearly not very happy about it.

“You look different,” you start, beginning to walk over to Bob. “I can’t believe they actually got you out of sweatpants for the night.”

Bob laughs a little, then almost chokes on his own breath as he notices your hands reaching up towards him. They find his tie and straighten it. He lets out a shaky breath as you place your hands on his chest, running them over the lapels of his suit jacket, before dropping them.

Ever since Bob had met you, he’d been fascinated by you. He loved watching you kick ass as an Avenger, but he liked seeing the non-Avenger side of you more. His crush on you had grown rather quickly once he’d caught you reading one of his favourite books. Then, you’d offered to start doing buddy reads with him and he’d fallen even harder.

It often made him smile – the fact that the world knew you as one thing, but to Bob you were something entirely different. That to him, there were parts of you that no one else got to see. That once a month, you and him would sit up late into the night discussing the book you’d read and end up falling asleep on the bean bags on his bedroom floor. That every morning, he’d often see you coming out of your bedroom, opposite his, and think about how cute you looked with your bed hair. Those were the kind of memories he held closer than ever.

“You do, too,” he nods, hoping that you couldn’t feel the way his heart is beating out of his chest when you had your hands on him. “You look really nice. I like this colour.”

The smile that appears on your face only makes Bob’s heart race faster.

“You look handsome, Bob,” you complimented. You open your mouth, about to say something else, when Valentina enters the room and shatters the moment entirely. She has a habit of that.

“Where’s Yelena?” Val asks, turning around to look at everyone. You can see the way her eyes snag on you and Bob and how close you’re standing together, but her gaze doesn’t linger too long.

“I’m here,” Yelena answers, clearly irritated, as she walks into the penthouse from the hallway. “And before you say anything, Valentina, I am not going to change into a dress.”

Yelena is, unsurprisingly, going against the dress code and wearing a pant suit. You very clearly remember reading instructions on the invitation – women were to wear dresses, men to wear suits. Of course Yelena had taken that as a suggestion rather than a request.

For a moment, Valentina just looks at Yelena, venom in her eyes, but then she shakes her head and looks away from her, clearly sensing that starting an argument with one of her Avengers right before you all leave for a black tie event is not the best course of action.

“Well, at least the rest of you look appropriate,” she sighs. “When we arrive, instead of you all walking in as a group, I want you to enter as pairs. It’ll look better, make you seem more human. And it’ll drag out the entrance so that we get more attention. One of you will have to go solo since there’s an odd number of you but–”

“I’ll do it,” Yelena raises her hand, cutting Val off. “I’m going to wait in the car.”

Before anyone else can say anything, Yelena heads straight to the elevator and gets in, heading down to the car, waiting to take you all to the venue. You stifle a laugh, amused at how quickly Yelena had snagged the ‘entering solo’ opportunity. It’s understandable, though. You make eye contact with Ava, who just shrugs. The last thing either of you want is to walk in on the arm of a man, being made to look like a piece of eye candy to every other man in the room, but without Ava fighting Val with you, it’s clearly not going to be worth your time.

Valentina ignores Yelena’s exit. “Okay, Bucky and Alexei, you two are a pair,” she begins, pointing at the two of them and ignoring the way that Bucky groans and Alexei cheers, exclaiming something about the co-leaders. “Ava and Walker, you two… and that leaves you,” she points towards you, “and Bob. You two look cozy. Don’t get too cozy, though.”

You look at Bob and give him your best reassuring smile. Out of all of the other Avengers, you’re grateful that Val paired you with Bob. The two of you are more comfortable with each other than you are with any of the others. At least being on his arm means you have someone that you feel especially safe and relaxed around right by your side.

Bob feels the same way. He’d much rather walk in with you beside him than alone, and he has to admit that he’d worried Val was going to make him be the one to go solo before Yelena had volunteered. He’s infinitely relieved that he doesn’t have to be.

With that, Val starts to walk towards the elevator. Mel hurries after her, leaving the rest of you all standing in the room until she beckons you over from the elevator, telling you all to hurry up.

You stay close to Bob’s side as you walk towards the elevator. “You ready for this?” You ask, nudging his arm with your elbow gently.

Bob grimaces. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to things like this.”

“Me neither,” you flash him a grin. “But at least we’ll be together. If you feel nervous, you can just hold on tight to me, all right? And once we’re inside, we can find a corner and start discussing what book we’re going to read next. Sound like a plan?”

The two of you step inside the elevator and Bucky reaches forward to press the Ground Floor button.

“Sounds like a plan,” Bob nods, smiling.

––––

Bob takes you up on your offer pretty quickly once you arrive at the event. Your arm is wrapped around his but he’s the one holding you close. Your body is pressed up against his side. He’s putting all of his energy into focusing on the feeling of your touch so that he doesn’t start to spin out with anxiety over the fact that he’s here.

It’s almost like you can hear his thoughts, because only seconds later he hears you ask him if he’s okay. His head snaps towards you, breath hitching in his throat as he sees you already looking at him.

You have the most beautiful eyes, he thinks.

“Bob?” You say his name again.

Just hearing his name from your lips snaps him out of his head. “I don’t think I should be here,” he says, glancing away from you to have a quick look around the room. There are so many people in the room, probably hundreds, and they’re all staring at him. No – not him, all of you. “I can’t even control my powers. I’m not a proper Avenger like all of you. I should’ve just stayed home and given Val some excuse.”

You frown and tighten your grip on his arm just a little. “That’s not true, Bob. You deserve to be here as much as any of us do. We wouldn’t even be here without you,” you explain. “And, for the record, I’m glad you’re here. Who would I have entered with if you weren’t here?”

“I’m sure you would’ve entered with someone.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to enter with anyone but you.”

Bob looks back at you, not quite believing your words. “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s a little more bearable once you’ve all entered the room and found a spot to stand, crowded around a small but very tall table in the corner of the room. There are still a lot of eyes on all of you, but thankfully the attention has died down a little since your entrance.

“Do you want me to let go?” You mutter, looking up at Bob. You’re still holding onto his arm, even though Ava and Walker had let go of each other the second the entrance was over. It was partially for you and partially for Bob that you hadn’t let go yet.

You were just as nervous as he was. Events like this were not your idea of a good Saturday evening. If you’d had things your way, you’d be back at the Watch Tower, cooking something easy yet delicious for dinner and preparing to curl up on one of Bob’s bean bags all night to read with him.

“No,” Bob shakes his head. “Not yet. Please.”

You give him a small smile, reassuring him that you won’t let go, and let out a small breath of relief yourself. As long as you get to keep a hold of Bob, your anxiety will be able to be kept at a minimum.

“So, what are we supposed to do now?” Ava asks, crossing her arms over her chest and looking around the room. “You know what? I’m going to find some alcohol. Anyone else?”

Alexei is quick to agree and Walker offers to go with them, simply not wanting Ava to have to deal with Alexei and alcohol on her own. It leaves you, Bob, Yelena and Bucky standing around the table.

“You’ve been to plenty of things like this, Bucky,” you start. “Have any advice for the rest of us who’ve never done anything like this before?”

Bucky sighs and shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Just hope and pray that the night goes quickly.”

“That’s great advice,” Yelena deadpans.

He’s about to say something in response when Valentina appears out of nowhere, gliding towards the four of you with a grin on her face that none of you like the look of.

“Oh, here we go,” Yelena murmurs under her breath.

“Where are the rest of you? Actually, never mind… okay, Yelena and Bob, come with me. I have some investors I want you to meet,” she says, beckoning the two of them forward.

You share a look with Bob that says everything that words can’t at the moment. Only minutes earlier Bob had been asking you to not let go of him, and here you were being practically forced to. Maybe Valentina deemed this to be too cozy – and she’d told you not to be earlier. Maybe this was her way of punishing you both for going against her word. Or maybe she just wanted to flaunt Bob off to the investors.

That seemed like the most likely option.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” You mutter, only loud enough for Bob to hear as you reluctantly let go of his arm and immediately cross your arms over your chest, not wanting to feel the cool air on them after having them wrapped up in Bob’s warmth.

You watch as he and Yelena walk away, trying to push down the feeling in your stomach that has been growing more and more as you spend more time around Bob. It’s never going to end well for you, you know it. But still, the feeling lingers.

––––

Bob can’t remember the names of any of the people that Valentina have introduced him and Yelena to. He’s been standing here being talked at for ten minutes now and everything they’ve said has gone in one ear and out the other. He hasn’t even properly looked at their faces – all he can see is you over their shoulder, standing across the room with Bucky.

You look so beautiful in that dress. He should tell you later.

“While we’re here,” one of the investors speaks, “I want to introduce you to my daughter and a few of her friends she brought along tonight.”

Bob is snapped out of his distraction as Yelena gently elbows him in the side. For the first time, he actually looks at the face of one of the men in front of him just as he’s beckoning his daughter forward. She’s followed by three other women, right behind her, all giggling and eyeing Bob up.

“Ladies, this is Robert Reynolds. He’s also known as The Sentry,” Valentina introduces him to the girl and her friends. “He’s incredibly strong and you should see how fast he can move!”

Yelena barely restrains herself from putting her head into her hands. Instead, she lets out a small groan of “For fuck’s sake, Valentina” and shakes her head.

The girls all introduce themselves to Bob but their names don’t register with him like he knows that they should. He introduces himself in return, just to be kind, but just as Bob. Not The Sentry. He’s not that person and he hates the way that Valentina is using that side of him to gain attention from the investors. His hand unknowingly clenches into a fist at his side.

“You’re much more handsome in person,” one of the girls says, stepping a little closer towards him. All Bob can think about is the fact that you had called him handsome tonight too.

“I can’t believe we’ve been living in the same city for so long now and we’ve never met before,” another adds. Bob knows why – he’s barely left the Watch Tower since he moved in. Why would he want to when the one thing he needs in New York is already there, right across the hall from him in your own bedroom?

He’s well aware that the girls are trying to flirt with him but he doesn’t even want to try and flirt back with them – not that he’s really any good at flirting. He’s had his fair share of flings over the years. He was pretty confident when he was high, but when he wasn’t, that confidence plummeted. He’s usually never turned down the attention of women before… but now that attention is the last thing he wants.

Over their shoulders, he catches a glimpse of you again. Just seeing you makes his clenched fist loosen a little, especially when he sees you laughing at something that Bucky had said. He’s always loved the way you look when your laugh, the pure happiness that takes over your face. He stares at you for another few moments and then uses that time to continue to try and calm himself down.

Despite the fact that you’re half way across the room, you’re helping him more than you know.

––––

Watching Bob being flirted with all night was not a job for the weak – and you’d greatly over estimated your ability to deal with it.

You’d known what was happening almost instantly when you’d looked over and seen the group of girls giggling and getting a little too close to him. You hated that you felt relieved when you noticed that he wasn’t returning any of their advances.

You weren’t daft enough to think that you were the reason, but it made you feel good all the same. Just the thought that he mightn’t be interested in anyone at the moment was good enough for you – he’d been through so much in these last several months, you wouldn’t blame him if it were true.

Like Bucky had suggested, you spent most of the night hoping for the night to go quickly. There was only so much socialising one person could do, especially when they were out of their comfort zone, and you hit that point pretty quickly once Bucky had started introducing you to people he recognised from his time as a congressman.

The worst part of the night was the fact that you had barely seen Bob at all. He’d spent most of the night being swept around the room by Val with Yelena, being introduced to everyone and barely even stopping for a break. The only contact you’d had with him since he’d been whisked away were brief moments of eye contact and shared smiled across the room.

It’s on the limo ride back to the Watch Tower that you finally get to talk to him again. Everyone else is either napping or not paying attention to the two of you, too exhausted from the night out, that you have no problem in shuffling over in your seat to get a little closer to him so no one overhears your conversation.

“So, our plan kinda backfired, huh?” You chuckle.

Bob looks over at you and laughs softly. “Yeah, it did.”

There had been no discussing what book you’d read next and absolutely no holding on tight to each other when you felt anxious.

“Did you enjoy yourself, at least?”

Bob scrunches up his nose a little and you can’t help but notice how adorable it makes him look. “I don’t remember much of it,” he admits. “I couldn’t think straight for a lot of it. Did you?”

It makes your heart hurt a little, hearing that he’d been so anxious that he couldn’t really remember any of the evening. It makes you even more mad at Valentina for subjecting him to all of that. It was going to result in him being utterly exhausted.

“I just missed you,” you admit – against your better judgement. It’s probably not the right thing to be saying to him, but it’s the truth. Your evening would have been better had he been in it.

“You did?” Bob raises his eyebrows, clearly a little surprised.

A thought enters his mind and he brushes it off instantly. Confess, his brain said. As if this was a good time to do it, in the middle of a limo packed full of all the other members of your team after a draining night out socialising – one that he’d likely be recovering from for at least a few days, judging by the exhaustion he could already feel creeping into his mind.

He shakes his head. This is not the time to tell you.

“I did,” you confirm. “I would’ve had a much better time discussing books in the corner with you rather than being introduced to all of the people Bucky knows in New York.”

Bob chuckles. “Okay, you make a fair point.”

By the time the limo stops at the Watch Tower, everyone in the car is either half asleep or dead on their feet. It’s late – almost 1 in the morning – and when you all reach the penthouse, everyone instantly disappears off to their bedrooms to recharge and sleep.

You and Bob walk side by side down the hallway before stopping outside of your bedroom doors, opposite each other. You rest your hand on the door handle of your room before turning to look at him. He looks exhausted, hair messier than it had been before you’d left, and his tie is crooked again. You smile as you notice it.

“Well, goodnight, Bob,” you murmur. “Sleep well, okay?”

Bob nods, but strangely he can’t find the words to say goodnight to you. It’s only when you turn around, putting your back to him, and start to turn your door handle that the words come – but not the ones he’d been meaning to say.

“I like you,” Bob blurts out, and then immediately winces.

You turn around, your hand falling off the door handle and your eyes landing on him. Your heart starts to beat faster in your chest, though you refuse to get your hopes up. This isn’t a confession – just a tired man telling you he appreciates your friendship. “I like you too, Bob.”

He sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. Just through your words he can tell that you didn’t understand him. “I don’t mean it that way. I mean that I like you more than a friend should.”

You’re pretty sure your heart stops beating. “You like me as more than a friend?” A best friend, your mind tries to finish it. Like a sister. Not in a romantic sense. Don’t get your hopes up.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night. I was introduced to so many people and I can’t even remember their names because I was too focused on looking at you over their shoulders.”

“You were?”

“I was.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. This cannot be happening right now. Bob cannot be confessing to you in the hallway at 1 o’clock on a Sunday morning after you’d had to spend the whole night watching him from afar and wishing he was right beside you. You have to be dreaming.

“I… I like you more than a friend should, too. Really.” The words aren’t hard for you to say because they’re the truth. Partially because you think you might be imagining everything.

Bob stares at you, dumbfounded. You aren’t just repeating his words back to him for the sake of it. You’re not doing it out of pity or fear of hurting his feelings. All he needs to know that is the look on your face. Your eyes tell him everything.

You’re suddenly hit with the urge to yawn and that simple thing rips you straight out of your dreamlike state and back to the present. You’re not actually dreaming. This is actually happening… but this is not the time to be making grand gestures of love. Not when both you and Bob are exhausted from the night out socialising. You don’t want to risk crossing any lines tonight.

“Listen, it’s late. I don’t think we should make any decisions without resting. We’re both exhausted. And it’ll be good to sleep on it,” you suggest. “We can sleep knowing that we like each other and when we’ve recharged our social batteries, we can look back at it with a fresh head.”

Bob nods. You’re right – of course you’re right. He is exhausted, so much so that he’s not even sure how he’s still conscious right now. Your timing was so off, he thinks, his brain starting to twist his thoughts, taking advantage of his exhaustion. You should’ve waited.

Unknowingly, he starts to twist his hands together in front of him – something he always tends to do when his head gets loud.

You notice, stepping forward and placing your hands on top of his. He stills instantly, looking up and meeting your eyes. The warmth of your skin on his instantly relaxes him and his heart stops racing so fast. You give his hands a gentle squeeze.

“Goodnight, Bob,” you say, voice soft.

He continues looking at you as you turn around and walk back across the hall to your room. You’re almost completely inside, about to shut the door behind you, when he finds his voice again.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he calls out, being careful not to be too loud since the others are still in their rooms close by.

You pause and meet his eyes. “Thank you, Bob.”

“Goodnight, he hums, giving you a small smile.

It takes all of his strength to not collapse back against the door to his own bedroom once you shut your door. His hands are still a little shaky, his breaths a little short, but despite the exhaustion and adrenaline running through his system, he can’t help the smile that makes its way onto his face. I like you more than a friend should. The two of you had never really been just friends. Deep down, Bob knew that.

No, he thinks, pushing back agains the parts of his brain that were still telling him that his timing had been off, that he should’ve waited, that maybe he shouldn’t have told you at all. My timing was perfect.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #thunderbolts #thunderbolts x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #mcu #mcu x reader #robert reynolds x you #lewis pullman

2K notes · View notes

lumillsie · 6 months ago

Text

ೃ⁀➷ being jun-ho's s/o would include ¡!

in which you're romantically involved with the police officer doing his best to find his brother and put a stop to the squid games

a/n : lots of love to my dearest friend @angelseraphines for not only getting me into this brilliantly-written show, but also for looking over my fic to double-check my characterisation and to give me a second opinion on it. if you aren't already following her, please go ahead and make sure that you do so 🙏

also this turned into a full-on fic please just roll with the punches 🙏bit of a cliche first date but I fear that I have very little dating experience so you guys are gonna have to deal with that, I fear.

╰┈➤ it was the middle of winter when you met the policeman for the first time. the air was crisp and frigid, icicles were hanging from rooftops and everywhere you turned you could see colourful outfits in contrast with the white snow and hear the sound of shovels scraping against sidewalks. a kind-eyed man in a reflective green vest caught your attention at the same time a car smacked a young woman and drove off.

╰┈➤ you stepped forward to testify, wanting to help out the woman. she thankfully didn't appear to be in critical danger, save for the bruising on her hip and the apparent fracture in her left hand — and so you headed off with them to the station to give your statement. the woman was allowed to give her statement and leave immediately, due to the obvious state her hand was in and her need to visit a hospital. you were left then with the kind-eyed officer from earlier, who brought you a sizzling cup of hot chocolate and sat down to wait with you until you could sign off on your witness testimony.

╰┈➤ talking with him was so relaxing for you. it felt as if you had known him for years and the banter between you and him felt natural and light. you couldn't remember when was the last time you laughed that much — little did you know that he felt the same way.

╰┈➤ as you headed off to leave, your eyes searched for him amongst the worn-out chairs and stacked files. you wanted a chance to say goodbye, regardless of the dread gathering in your chest at the thought that you'd never see him again. you were disappointed when one of his colleagues informed you that he had to head off back to his post — that was until you were handed a slip of paper with his name and number on it. he was far too professional to make the move himself, but his colleague could see you two liked one another and took it upon himself to push you towards him. with a grateful smile and a glint of unadulterated joy in your eyes, you left the building and headed off to meet up with the friend you'd made plans with that day. you would be a little late, but you were sure she wouldn't mind once you told her about your day.

╰┈➤ admittedly, it took you a couple of days to call the handsome officer, whose name you now knew to be hwang jun-ho. every time you picked up the phone, your legs would become jittery and you'd find yourself pacing around your room. a little seed of doubt took its root within you, but on the fourth day you finally gave in and pressed the call button. once he recognised your voice, his lips curled into a smile on the other end of the line. he was a bit concerned when his colleague gave you his number, but he was glad to see that you weren't put off by it. on that cold winter's night, you talked and talked until you both fell asleep grasping your phones, the line still on.

╰┈➤ these cozy evening calls became routine for the two of you, with him initiating them when he got off work. you learned more about him — that he was close with his mom, that he was set to get a promotion soon and that he wanted to work in major crimes as a detective someday and that he would often look in on his brother when he had some spare time. he didn't talk much about him, but you got the feeling that whatever it was his brother experienced wasn't something you wanted to press him much on — so you didn't. he made the effort to ask you more about yourself as well, so you talked to him about your job, your family, and your friends. you talked to him about your hobbies, the places you wanted to visit, and the things that made you happy. neither of you had ever really felt so comfortable, so quickly with another person — it was a lovely feeling, one that you both desperately latched onto.

╰┈➤ a couple of weeks after you started talking, jun-ho finally managed to get a day off. his tone of voice was dignified, yet dulcet as he invited you to go see a movie and then to dinner with him. you replied immediately and enthusiastically, gripping the phone so tightly in your hand that it almost felt like you could break it if you squeezed it in just a slightly tighter manner.

╰┈➤ like a true gentleman, he picked you up from your apartment on the day of the date and you found yourself glancing at him admiringly as he drove, trying his hardest to keep his eyes on the road and not on you. when you arrived at the cinema, you were surprised to see that the movie he got tickets for was the one you'd been raving to him about for weeks. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to go see it with a friend, but I figured it would make for a pretty good first date" he admitted with a hint of humour in his voice. you responded by telling him you thought it was a wonderful idea.

╰┈➤ the cinema hall was dark, illuminated only by the gleam of the screen as the opening scene of the movie was unfolding. he had to admit that the plot was intriguing, but he found himself glancing down at you every so often. halfway through the film, he found the courage to extend his hand, and you grasped it into yours as gleeful smile made its way onto your face. even as your hands began to feel a bit sweaty, you couldn't bring yourselves to let go.

╰┈➤ on the way to the restaurant, you launched yourselves into a proper conversation about the movie, laughing and joking about its points and twists as the rosy sunset gave way to a melancholy dusk. the staff and guests moved around in a lively manner, as the sound of glass and ceramic reverbated through the room — and the view from the windows was absolutely breathtaking. you could tell that he'd done his best to keep your preferences in mind when he was looking for a place to take you to. you held his hand across the table as you waited for the food to arrive, and you spent the better part of the evening comfortably talking to one another. every so often, his eyes would dart to your lips, but he made no move to reach across the table — not yet, at least.

╰┈➤ his shoes were crunching on the frozen ground as he followed you to your front door, and as you turned back to see your goodbye, he leaned in and gave you a gentle kiss on the lips — one which you eagerly reciprocated. he pressed a gentle kiss to both of your hands before he departed, and he called you once again as he got home.

╰┈➤ it didn't take long after that for the two of you to become an official couple. you began to visit him at work when you had the time, and he'd take an hour or two after work was done to slip by and spend some time with you. you would lounge on your couch with a glass of wine in your hand — if he was staying the night he'd drink a few too, and if he wasn't then he'd drink some tea.

╰┈➤ he would feel awful about waking you early in the morning when he had to return to his apartment and get ready for work, but he always made sure to write you a note and find your kettle so you could boil water for tea or coffee when you got up. he always kissed your forehead and whispered a sentence or two of affection before he left. he knew you couldn't hear him, but he felt the need to say them nonetheless.

╰┈➤ realistically, it wouldn't take long for you to meet his mother and brother. jun-ho always made time to visit her, and in-ho had given him his kidney. they were a close-knit family and he wanted the people most important to him to meet the person he was rapidly becoming more and more serious with. his brother seemed quiet and solemn, but he wasn't unkind. save for your greeting and goodbye, you only exchanged a few awkward words — most of which were just polite questions. you got the underlying feeling that he was a very tormented man, and the sight of a family photo on the counter with his arms wrapped around an unfamiliar woman confirmed your suspicions. jun-ho's mother, on the other hand, was incredibly warm and welcoming. she trusted her son's judgement, and she embraced you as if she'd met you a thousand times before. she prepared a fantastic meal, and she showed you photos of jun-ho and in-ho throughout their childhood. your joyous laughter echoed through the room as the younger of the two brothers covered his face with his hands. when it was time to return home, you found yourself hesitant to leave the warm atmosphere of the older woman's apartment — she made you promise to come visit her often. you agreed enthusiastically.

╰┈➤ when you returned home that evening, you asked him about his brother. he opened up to you then, about all the things he'd never really talked about. about the week his brother went missing a couple of years ago, about the death of his brother's pregnant wife and about the kidney he received from his brother. his voice was on the verge of breaking as he uttered out one string of words after the other, and his eyes began to gloss over. you held him close then, and from that moment on it was as if he could tell you anything — trust you with everything. it was the turning point between being two people who truly liked eachother to being partners.

╰┈➤ the change from living apart to living together was pretty seamless. at one point, you both realised that most of his stuff was already at your place and you just ended up moving the rest of it in. from that point on, he never really had to worry about going back to his place or getting up extremely early to get ready for work. you'd stay awake huddled under the blankets with his arms wrapped around you as you kept one another up to date with what you got up to during the day, and what you wanted to do as soon as you found some free time.

╰┈➤ if you're out together and he sensed that the chill from the cold weather outside is getting to you, he'd sneakily slip his jacket around your shoulders and offer you a teasing quip as he zipped it up with a light smirk on his face. your protests of not being that cold would be met with an exasperated look.

╰┈➤ you didn't hear him the first time he told you he loved you. as he kissed your forehead and whispered to you in the morning, it simply slipped out. he didn't realise it until he spoke it out loud. when he returned home that evening, those were the first words out of his mouth — and you said it back. after that, he always made to include his declarations of love in his morning notes, and they were the first and last words on his lips each time you said your helloes and goodbyes.

╰┈➤ you're there for him as he climbs the ranks in the police, and you'll never forget the look on his face when he came home with the news of finally receiving his promotion to detective. he spun you around as he placed kisses on your face, and you leaned in and kissed him with passion to show him just how proud of him you were. he took you out to celebrate that evening, and he took you to the same restaurant where you had your first date. it would go on to become your go-to place for celebrating special occasions. the following day, you went to visit his mother. tears of joy slipped from her eyes as she embraced him, and it wasn't long before she drew you into her embrace as well. it was the first time you saw something that didn't look like grief or sadness in his brother's eyes. you saw pride.

╰┈➤ he definitely wants to get married, and the two of you have talked about it, but both of you want to have a wedding when the entire family feels like they can actually celebrate. the dark cloud of grief that seems to constantly hang over in-ho's head has encouraged you both to wait a while. regardless, you two have already discussed so many of the details — the song you'd like to have for your first dance, the colour palette, the season when you'd like to have it in and where.

╰┈➤ he's incredibly observant, a trait that has helped him in both his private and professional life. he remembers the little things about you — he keeps track of the things you talk to him about, notes the ways in which your features contort when you see something you like or dislike, and goes out of his way to make your life easier in small ways.

╰┈➤ when you are both too tired to get ready and get ready for a proper date, but still want to do more than simply stay inside the whole time, he'll take you for a drive around the city. sometimes you get stuck in traffic, sometimes you get to breeze through the vibrant streets. for these dates, you have two playlists — one made up of both yours and his favourite songs, and another made up of ballads and romantic declarations weaved into music. which one you end up putting on depends on the atmosphere, but the second one tends to be the one you play when you park atop a cliff and take some time to glance at the stars.

╰┈➤ he rarely ever gets jealous, because he's confident in your relationship and he trusts you. that being said, he is incredibly protective — and he's always watching out for you. this bleeds into his affectionate nature, and the hand wrapped around your shoulder when you're out and about means two things. one, that he wants to be close to you and this is his way of expressing it. two, that he's warding off any unwanted attention and anybody who would seek to do you harm. he's a detective, so of course he's great at multi-tasking.

╰┈➤ while he mostly saves flowers for special occasions, he goes out of his way to get you baked goods when he's on his way back from work. you remarked once on how the pastries he brought you from the bakery near his station reminded you of something you ate regularly in your childhood, and he was nothing if not attentive. he didn't always bring home the same stuff — but he kept track of which treats you were craving the most and acted accordingly.

╰┈➤ if you get caught out in the rain, he's the type of guy who will keep his jacket above your head to try and keep you from getting drenched by the rainfall — or at the very least drape it around you, if you're wearing something that becomes see-through when it comes into contact with water. his focus is on your comfort in those moments.

╰┈➤ he finally proposed to you on your three-year anniversary, at the same restaurant where the two of you had your first date. while marriage was something you discussed, he still managed to surprise you with the proposal, and you agreed with tears welling in your eyes and your heart thumping nearly out of your chest. one of the first people you called was his mother, and you made sure to send the colleague that slipped you jun-ho's number a baskets of flowers and baked goods. he left a good portion of the planning to you, as busy as he is with his job, but he always offered his opinion and showed you that he cared immensely when you'd ask him for it.

╰┈➤ a couple of months after you announced your engagement, and with preparations underway — his brother disappeared. this wasn't the first time of course, but it was only the second time he didn't leave a message or let anyone know of his whereabouts. the last time this happened, his pregnant wife passed away, so naturally you, jun-ho and his mother were all worried. a couple of days into his brother's disappearance, your fiancee called to tell you that he was following a lead on his brother's disappearance — something with slip of cardboard with weird symbols and some man his colleagues perceived as crazy. after that, you couldn't get hold of him.

╰┈➤ when he did resurface, a couple of weeks later, he turned up bloodied and with a bullet in his shoulder on some old sea captain's boat. you looked after him then, tending to his wound and making sure that it didn't get infected, redressing it, and helping him with mundane tasks he struggled with now that his shoulder was injured. he was eerily secretive about it at first, and all you knew was the tidbits you managed to get from his coworkers — about some strange island and some sickening freaks making indebted people play children's games and then killing them for sport. you were confused, but you didn't press him until he was ready to talk to you about it.

╰┈➤ in the dark of the night, as he was leaning on the bathroom sink and you were pressing cold ice against the torn and injured flesh left by an unknown man's gun, he started talking to you about it. about following the strange man into a limousine where they doused all the passengers with some sleeping agent, about sneaking onto a ship and strangling one of the workers there, consequently tossing his body into the depths of the vast sea. as he spoke about all the death he witnessed, about the man with one kidney the workers cut up and whose organs they trafficked, about the sickening rich man who attempted to force himself onto him and about escaping the island, only to be tracked down as he attempted to send the proof he'd gathered and was met with horrendous cell signal and a masked man's gun. he didn't tell you about his brother, couldn't condemn him in such a way. that was the only part he kept to himself.

╰┈➤ your habit of staying up together in the night became more frequent than it had ever been. when he did sleep, he was always mumbling something about in-ho and the lines on his forehead and the manner in which he was squeezing his eyes made him look nearly as if he was in pain. you would coax him back from the turmoil he was re-experiencing in his sleep and into reality. neither of you went back to sleep on nights like those, and his grasp on you was so firm as if he was afraid you might disappear if he attempted to loosen it.

╰┈➤ he'd quit his job and went back to handling traffic then, and you understood he needed his time to grieve — a reprieve from death and the most distorted cases that hit the station's desk. you got married soon after, as the realisation that life was far too short to worry about semantics settled in his bones, and the fear of losing him intensified in you after what he'd gone through. you still kept the most important parts of what you'd planned out - the song for your first dance, the place where you wanted to celebrate, the people you wanted in roles of honour. it was a small and private affair, witnessed only by those the two of you felt were most deserving and close. you hoped to hold another celebration once in-ho returned, if he ever did — your husband already knew that he would not.

╰┈➤ once he starts working with gi-hun, he fills you in on what they're doing. he doesn't want you to worry, he couldn't put you through what you experienced back when you didn't know if he was dead or alive. you demand that they let you in, that they allow you to help them look for the man in the black mask. you couldn't stomach the thought of him setting off with you again, to do something so perilous and frightening. he's hesitant at first, and refuses to even consider the idea. upon realising that you don't intend to give up, and that you'll join him for it whether he likes it or not — he relents, but demands you don't put yourself in harm's way.

╰┈➤ on the night of halloween, as you all set out to find whoever is behind the black mask of the games' frontman, you head off with gi-hun. jun-ho worries about letting you go, but he still has faith in his brother not causing you any harm. he doesn't expect you to end up in the limo with gi-hun, as they take him back to the island for another week of twisted, death games.

a/n : thank you so much for reading this! if you find any inaccuracies with the show itself or with korean culture, please go out of your way to let me know how I may improve upon them and fix my mistakes 🙏🙏 I'm grateful to you for taking the time to read this fic, this is actually the first time I managed to finish a fic in a day (as opposed to my regular routine of taking a whole week to wrap up one set of headcanons). as always, I'm tagging other characters to increase my outreach, but the characters I'm tagging are only the ones I also write for — in case you want to request anything for them.

2K notes · View notes

thebestsetter · 4 months ago

Text

There are few things in life that make Tobio Kageyama's pupils dilate.

The first one, of course, is volleyball.

The high of setting a perfect ball, making a great dump, and getting an ace. The squeak of new shoes and the smell of the court. The cheering in the stands and the feeling of his teammates' hands slapping his back. All of it made his heart beat faster, his hands get sweaty and mind focused.

Volleyball was his first love, without a shadow of a doubt.

But it was not his only love.

He met you after a game he won (3-0, may I add, which he claims only happened because you were in the stands that day), when you stopped him when he was exiting the gym and decided to shoot your shot.

He was still a silly third year highschooler, fresh out of an insane win, so he, of course, said something really smart along the lines of "Huh...uhm... you sure?"

Anyways, he was glad you were not freaked out by his reaction and just giggled at him (even though nowadays you laugh loudly when remembering this situation), claiming you really did want his number. Because if you didn't, he wouldn't meet his second (and dearest) love: you, the second thing that can make his pupil dilate.

The high of kissing you, grabbing your hand or going on dates with you. The sound of your laugh and the smell of your perfume. The anxiety he felt moments prior kneeling down on one knee. The cheering of his teammates congratulating him for this new chapter of his life. The sight of you in white.

It all makes him feel like throwing up (in a good way), his brain feel like mud and those stupid butterflies start flying around his stomach.

He thought that was it. He had you and volleyball. He didn't need anything more.

Oh, how utterly wrong he was.

His third and final love is his daughter.

His 17 year old self would never be able to imagine that such a tiny being would bring him so much joy and pride. A mini version of you mixed with some of his characteristics made his heart swell with happiness.

The feeling of his chest - almost physically - inflating during your daughter's ballet presentations, the sound of her sweet "Daddy!" when he comes back home from practice, the image of you and her watching on him from the stands.

So, yeah. These are the things that make his eyes shine brighter and joy take over his entire being. He doesn't need anything else in his life, only the three most important things for him.

....or does he?

Well, your growing belly will surely put this theory to test.

And, once again, you'll probably prove him wrong.

Uhm... new haikyuu phase debut fic??? I've never written for Kags b4, so sorry if this ooc ☹️😔

Masterlist

#haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #kageyama x reader #kageyama tobio #haikyuu tobio #hq x reader #hq fluff #hq #kageyama x you #haikyuu kageyama #tobio kageyama x reader #hq tobio #haikyuu timeskip

1K notes · View notes

dcxdpdabbles · 5 months ago

Text

DCxDP fanfic idea: Damian's (not) real friend

Based on the results of this poll post.

Bruce knew kids made imaginary friends as part of their development. He had done plenty of research on the topic long before taking in Dick. Over the years, as his children grew in numbers, so did his research on proper developmental milestones.

Typically, children create imaginary friends from the ages of six to nine. But that did not mean they had to give them up even if they were in their teens.

So yes, he knew kids could have imaginary friends of any age, but seeing Damian develop one was slightly shocking. It might have been due to his upbringing that Damian hadn't had one or had chosen not to speak of his buddy until he knew he was safe.

Knowing his son felt secure enough in his household to do so filled his heart with joy. Bruce kept an eye on Damian since he brought up his new friend, Daniel. He was glad his son had finally made a friend in his school that it took a few days to notice Damian never brought up Daniel unless someone else did.

When Tim asked him about his friend- claiming to have spotted Damian sitting by himself at lunchtime after his youngest had told everyone he had lunched with Daniel- the boy had waved his concerns away.

That's when Bruce learned Daniel was not a little kid at Damian's school but rather an imaginary friend.

More specifically, he learned that Daniel could not be photographed or recorded. He simply would not appear on cameras or in auto recordings. Damian didn't seem to find any of that odd, nor take into account that, as Batman and Co., they had the means to pick up some trace of something being there.

After all, they had machines that could indicate a Speedster messing with the timeline! But no, Damian insisted that Daniel simply could not be recorded.

Apparently, Damian checked.

Now Bruce knew that an imaginary friend only became a concern when the child seemed frightened by it; it encourages harmful or destructive behavior; it rapidly changes the child's typical behavior, and the child blames it for all harmful or dangerous behavior or if it disrupts the child's ability to socially interact with others.

Daniel didn't seem to frighten Damian, nor did it encourage bad behavior in his son. But it certainly got in the way of Damian making real friends, and his son's behavior changed, even if he grumbled good naturally about it.

Daniel pestered Damian to join him in exploring Gotham to find, and Bruce quotes, "Secret spots for getting down in funky town."

Damian had videos of himself break dancing in abandoned subways, ballroom dancing with the air in an abandoned firehouse, and the oddest of all, disco in an underpass where he seemed to be making faces at the area around his left shoulder. He never posted them, claiming that Daniel just wanted them for themselves.

Bruce was mildly alarmed. He brought it up with the rest of his children, who all reported similar tales of Daniel.

Tim had noticed Damian recording songs in his room- his son had inherited the Wayne vocal cords. They were all blessed singers- claiming that Daniel had written and composed the music but had wanted Damian to record it since he couldn't. They would be using it in one of their videos.

Jason brought up the fact he had seen Damian make a collage covered in nothing but pictures of himself and the Gotham landscapes. Damian had spent nearly seven hours cutting, gluing, and organizing the postal board that he hung up.

Dick's report, however, was the most alarming. He had seen a photo booth strip Damian carried at all times. It supposedly held Daniel, but all he saw was an empty booth. This, coupled with the heart-shaped frame of some underpass, of an empty wall that Damian lovingly placed on his desk, could only mean one thing.

"Damian is infatuated with his imaginary friend." He said, voice heavy in concern as his children gave each other wary looks. "Damian is fully convinced Daniel is real and, likely, is treating him as a boyfriend rather than a best friend."

"Want me to talk to him? I can get him to agree to introduce me to his....boyfriend." Steph volunteers while stepping forward. "There were some cases at the homeless shelter Duke and I volunteer at where I needed to convince some kids to introduce me to their imaginary friends."

"That could work. Besides Dick, you have the closest relationship with Damian," Duke agrees. He is staring at the videos of Damian dipping someone that wasn't there, jaw tense. It likely reminded him of his parents. "It is better to send you in just because Damian may not be ready to talk to Dick about crushes."

"I'll set up some closer monitoring around Damian," Babs offers, nodding at Tim, who was already hacking into the boy's school cameras. She had sent him a private message to get started on that the second she heard Dick's report. She was busy hacking into the city's system of Damian's usual routes when going into the city. "If someone caused him to develop Daniel, I want to be sure we stop it."

"And I'll be sure to make them pay," Jason hissed, punching his fist as Cass twirled a blade at his side, nodding in agreement. She hasn't said much, but everyone could see the anger and concern for the youngest in her eyes. Apparently, she had been able to tell through Damian's body language he had developed a crush on Daniel but had not picked up on the fact he wasn't real.

To Damian, he was, so when she read his body language, she thought he was, too.

Alfred speaks up, his voice even despite the slight tremble in his folded hands on the conference table. "We also have to consider the possibility of instituting Damian. Something like this does not dub well for Master Damian's ability in the field. Civilian or Cape."

His words send a cold chill down everyone's backs. It was like the air itself was holding its breath as they turned to look at Bruce, waiting for his call. Bruce had his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in silent tears, but he nodded. "Dami needs help"

Dick stumbled back into his chair, looking like his father had just punched him in the gut. Tim's fingers paused over the keys, eyes hazy and lips tight. Cass' knife stabbed the table, grip knuckle white while Jason swore up a storm, slamming a fist down.

Steph, Duke, and Babs remained in their spot, but their faces had angry frowns. Bitter that they could do no more as they glared into the air around them. The three had always been more silent rage than the rest, the kind that forced the air around them when the rest of the Bats burned in it.

"We have to-" Bruce's words get cut off by the Cave communication bell. The camera on the Batcomputer turns on, displaying Damian in a rather fetching streetwear outfit.

"Hello, Father." He said calmly, aiming the camera so they could see he was inside a stale bathroom. "I am calling to ask permission to invite Daniel to dinner at the Manor. We were going to get some pizza after our latest dancing video, but the one Daniel adores was closed for construction, and it's getting rather late for other places. Daniel lives in the bad side of town, so his sister would rather he not be out too late."

Oh gods, Daniel had a sister now? One that limited Damian's movements?

"Of course, son," Bruce heard himself say. A heavy lump developed in his throat as a broad, pleased smile spread across his child's face. Bruce is no stranger to heartbreak, but he felt it cracking as Damian reminded him that Daniel was a civilian, so they needed to ensure that vigilante things were out of sight. "That sounds fine, Dami. We will be waiting for you both."

"We?"

"Your siblings want to meet Daniel." Bruce clarifies, looking around the table of his children, who look back at Damian with pity. "Don't you?"

Dick presses a hand against his mouth, nodding his head. "We sure do. Heard so much about Daniel, it would be a shame not to."

"Very well." Damian yields after some thought. "We shall be home in an hour. Alfred, could you make some meat lasagna? That's Daniel's favorite food."

"It's making him ask for meat." Jason curses under her breath "on top of everything else?"

Thankfully, it's too soft for Damian to hear, so Alfred speaks up. "Of course,e Master Damian."

"Replace the béchamel sauce with layers of cheese, please." Damian requests, smile turning a bit soft and gooey. "Daniel prefers it that way."

"Right away, sir."

The call ends, and the cave erupts into noise. Bruce springs to his feet, shouting out orders. They will think of what to do now that Damian has introduced them to Daniel.

Multiple JusticeLeague-approved therapists are called, Black Carnary is on speed dial for any help they may need, and the kids brush up on their mental illness assistant packages. They don't plan on confronting Damian tonight about it, but they will carefully prob to see what exactly Daniel and his sister make Damian do.

____________________________________________________________

Alfred's face spams an hour late as he watches the front gate security cameras. Master Damian arrives in an Uber, holding the door open and offering his hand to the air as if attempting to help someone get out of the vehicle. The boy waves away the driver, then keeps his hand wrapped around nothing as he strides to the Manor in sure steps.

Alfred doesn't have the auto on, but he can tell by the movement of Master Damian's lips that he is speaking to it.

Alfred moves to the front door, fixing his vest to gather courage before opening the door, a calm Welcome home, Master Damian on his lips.

Only to choke on his spite at the sight of another young boy the same age as Master Damian standing right where Daniel should be. He even has his fingers interlocked with Master Damian.

"Alfred, this is Daniel Fenton. Daniel, this is my family butler, Alfred Pennyworth."

"You're real," Alfred breathes, staring wide-eyed at the boy who offers him a wave. It's such a whiplash from the emotional turmoil of this afternoon that he forgets himself and his manners as he gawks at the child.

"Um, I sure am?" Daniel, for his part, looks a little uneasy, which prompts Master Damian to step in front of him, shielding him with his body. His green eyes are blazing with slight protective rage.

"I did not see you in the camera...." He hears himself say as if that was justification for his reaction.

Master Domain's shoulders relax. "Yes, Daniel does not appear on any form of record. It happens. Come, Daniel, I'll show you my room while dinner is made."

"Cool. Can we practice some new moves, too? I really want to get the choreography for our new song down."

"Of course."

Alfred steps back, allowing the children to walk inside, climb up the stairs, and vanish from sight. He fumbles for his phone, knowing he has to report this before Master Bruce and the other children make fools of themselves.

Goodness, he didn't even start on the meat lasagna. He didn't think he was actually going to feed someone.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Damian's (Not) real friend #Part 1 #dead serious #misunderstandings #Based on a poll post #Crack #Danny and Damian met at school #Damian thinks Danny is a meta who's only power is not be recorded #Danny lets him #The rest of the bats were having mental break downs over Damian's mental break down

2K notes · View notes

colormepurplex2 · 8 months ago

Text

Golden Cufflinks | JJK

▻ Golden Cufflinks ↳ Alpha!Jungkook x Omega!f.Reader ⤜ Best Friend's Fiance, Strangers to True Mates ⤜ A/B/O AU | angst, smut, fluff ⤜ Rating: MA ⤜ WC: 11,742 ⤜ Summary: You’ve never given much thought to finding your true mate, firmly believing it’s something that will happen when it happens. But, when you do find him—thanks to a pair of golden cufflinks—it very well could ruin everything. They say not all’s fair in love and war; you just hadn’t expected your best friend’s wedding to be the battleground. ⚠️ Crass language, talk of designation hierarchy, mild talk of misogynistic practices of the past, confessions of cheating(not by main pairing), anger/arguments, kissing, dick sucking, mild cum intrigue, maybe mild breeding kink if you squint, unprotected v. sex, knotting, lots of slick and cum

Written for @hisunshiine as part of the 2nd Quarter 2023 @bangtanwritershq Awards Season! A/N: Congratualtions, Vanessa. You deserve all the kudos for a job well done during the 2nd Quarter 2023, I hope you enjoy the story!

A special thank you to @downbad4yoongi, @lo1k-diamonds, @moonleeai for the amazing beta services!

Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad

Nerves flutter in your belly as you gather your belongings from the plastic bin at the end of the rolling conveyor belt on the other side of security. As you walk away, your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you have to juggle your purse and jacket to retrieve it.

You feel bad for making Hayun, your best friend for as long as you can remember, wait for a response, but you desperately just want to find your gate and have a seat first. Once you find it and settle in at a chair by the big windows looking out on the tarmac, you thumb to her contact.

“If I didn’t love you so much, I’d probably hate you right now for making me wait so long for a response,” Hayun sasses before her voice softens, “Hello, I love you.”

“Love you, too, girl,” you say, unable to help the smile that tilts your lips up. “Sorry, I’ve been MIA for the last few hours. Things have been hectic. I misplaced my passport this morning, but I finally found it under the bed and then missed the hotel shuttle. I had to call a rideshare, but of course, it took them forever to get through airport traffic, and ugh…” you trail off with a sigh. “I’m sitting down for the first time since I woke up this morning.”

Which was approximately four hours ago at this point. Your flight is set to take off less than an hour from now, so you imagine boarding might start soon. You’re not exaggerating when you say it’s been hectic. It was bad enough waking up at 3 AM, but you’re a chronic planner and stickler for time, so missing your flight was the absolute last thing you wanted to happen.

“Oh, babe, that sucks. I’m glad it’s all worked out, though. I really can’t wait to see you!”

The conversation passes quickly, easing your heart and mind as you catch up on the last twenty-four hours. You haven’t seen Hayun in a handful of years. Her career took her to the other side of the world, and yours kept you where you both grew up. The last time you saw her was through a haze of tears at this very airport when she boarded a plane destined for Seoul, South Korea, where she was adopted from at just two years old.

Visiting each other was always something you both talked about. But, as with most things, life just happens, and eventually, you find yourself making that visit you always talked about for reasons you never considered before—like your best friend tying the knot with a guy you’ve never met.

Sure, you’ve seen pictures of him and have heard him talk in the background of most of the phone calls you’ve exchanged with Hayun over the last few years. But, it was never on your friendship bingo card that the next time you’d find yourself seeing your best friend, it would be her at her wedding.

“I gotta go. They’re about to start boarding.”

“I’ll see you when you land. Can’t wait!”

Hayun disconnects the call, and you gather your belongings to prepare to line up in the boarding queue. It will be a long flight, but seeing Hayun again after so long apart will be worth it.

You fiddle with the bracelet on your left wrist, twisting and pinching at the silver moon charm dangling from the thin chain. Hayun has a matching one. They were presents from your parents on the day you were both recognized with your designations; she was thirteen, and you were fifteen.

The dynamics of Alphas and Omegas have long since changed from what it once was. Legend has it that once upon a time, an Alpha and an Omega were closer to their wolf-kin than how the world is now. Thanks to evolution and science, the only things remaining from that time are the more basic bodily functions—scents, knots, and slick, to sum it up.

The crescent charm on your wrist symbolizes your designation—Omega. But being an Omega doesn’t hold much meaning for you. You don’t feel all that special, and it’s not like you’re rare or any more or less capable than the next person. As it stands, you can see at least a dozen other moons jangling from bracelets, waiting to board the same plane you are.

There are also necklaces, tattoos, and other ways to display a designation scattered around the waiting area. The how of it is mostly regional, sometimes generational. The Beta standing behind you in the queue has a teardrop earring dangling from their left ear, and if it weren’t for the pheromone blockers you took this morning, you might be able to smell their unique scent.

You also have your own smell, a scent that is just you. You’ve been told it’s a sweet, citrusy bouquet like lemonade on a hot summer afternoon. However, also thanks to the blockers, it remains suppressed to the point someone would have to make you bleed or press their nose so firmly against your throat it hurts to smell it.

There really is only one thing that a lot of people are envious of when it comes to an Omega’s designation, and that is that they supposedly have an Alpha true mate out there somewhere that will call to their baser nature. It’s such a rare phenomenon these days that it might as well be part of the legends of old, too.

The bottom line is that no one cares about subgenders anymore; it doesn't matter whether your charm is the Omega crescent, the teardrop of a Beta, or the triskelion denoting an Alpha. In fact, you’re pretty sure you could ask the Beta for their earring and offer them your charm bracelet and no one would bat an eye over it.

Though you’d never do that, considering the chain around your wrist isn’t technically yours. The night after you presented as Omega, when you snuck away with Hayun to lay on a blanket under the stars and moon that was so like the charm hanging from your twin bracelets, you giggled as you exchanged them. Her tiny fingers trembled against your wrist as she secured her silver chain around it. You did the same with your own around hers a second later.

It was that night that you both swore always to be friends. No matter what happened in life or where either of you ended up, you would always remain true to one another. So far, your friendship has been unfailing, a constant thread of comfort and light for you both. No matter how long it’s been, the charm still smells faintly of your best friend—a perk of the charms themselves, holding a token essence of their owners. Hers holds a soft lilac and jasmine scent that you’ve always thought complimented your own citrus notes.

The flight attendant scanning boarding passes beckoning you forward breaks you out of your internal reflections. With a full heart and giddy anticipation curling in your belly, you find your seat and settle in.

It’s a long flight, longer than most flights you’ve taken. But when you finally walk off the plane, make it through customs and immigration, and finally empty into the arrivals terminal of the Incheon Airport, you feel immediate relief, and the hours spent in the air don’t seem so bad.

“Hey, over here!” a familiar voice calls out, catching your attention.

You spin on your heel, confusion setting in for just a moment before it’s replaced by another wave of relief and a little of something warmer. Taehyung, Hayun’s adopted brother, swamps you in a giant bear hug that quite literally sweeps you off of your feet.

“Wow, hey. This is a surprise. What are you doing here? Where’s Hayun?”

Taehyung scrunches up his face, letting out a small scoff. “It’s a good surprise, I hope. Something came up, and she had to meet with the wedding planner and caterer at the last minute. She called me and asked if I could pick you up.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah,” you confirm with a smile. “Good surprise.”

It’s no secret that you’ve always been fond of Taehyung. As a baby, you were toddling around with him long before his family adopted Hayun. She ended up being the sister you never knew you needed, even if you were a few years older.

When she moved to Seoul for work, Taehyung ended up being the physical representation that took her place. He flew out a week before you to help her with planning and will stay for a few weeks after you’ve already headed back home. They may have had their differences over the years, but their sibling bond is stronger than petty arguments and rivalries.

“Ready to get on the road? It’s a long drive.”

Hours later, with the rolling countryside and farms dotting the horizon, you discover the fiasco inside your backpack. The bottle of pheromone blockers you packed this morning somehow got shuffled to the bottom of your bag and popped open. The once-powder-filled capsules litter the bottom of your bag, broken open. Pale blue powder coats your things, the mild flower smell of the medicine lingering in the air.

“Fucking hell,” you groan. “Any chance there’s a clinic somewhere between here and where we’re going?”

“Unfortunately, no.” He frowns, drumming his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, making the triskelion signet ring on his index finger glitter in the mid-day sun. “We’d probably have to turn around and head nearly three hours back to get anywhere near a clinic with blockers. I'm told most people don’t use them anymore these days here. Maybe another one of the wedding party might have some you could borrow if you really need them. But, honestly, I don’t see anyone minding if you don’t use them.”

“Most people here don’t use them anymore?”

“Well, yeah, with the progression of equality and things like that. They’re so great here, way more progressive than back home. It’s very common for Omegas to go off of blockers or never even begin them. Laws have been implemented to punish Alphas who can’t control themselves. The responsibility of remaining safe shouldn’t be solely set on the shoulders of the Omega population.”

Talk like that has only recently become popular back home. You’ve heard the speeches and followed the media and the sources, but you suppose after nearly half of your life taking blockers, it just comes naturally to continue to do so.

“Hm, yeah, okay. I guess it’s no big deal, really. As long as you’re sure people won’t mind?”

Taehyung sniffs the air, his nose twitching. “I think you smell great, but just in case not everyone does, if someone says something, then I’ll personally drive all the way back to the city and pick you up some,” Taehyung promises, giving you one of his swoon-worthy smiles.

The crush you once upon a time had on Taehyung threatens to spark anew at the sight of his charming, boxy grin—a grin you would have once done anything to pull from him. But now, it just fills you with warmth and a homey comfort.

You give him a smile of your own. “Deal.”

“Hayun!”

Her squeal of delight when she turns around and catches sight of you echoes through the open space of the dimly lit bar of the bed and breakfast where the wedding is taking place.

It’s a cozy space with rich dark wood accents and royal blue velvet upholstery. Brass gas lamps and light fixtures give the entire lounge an upscale and chic atmosphere that you know is right up Hayun’s alley.

The few hours you had between checking in at the bed and breakfast and meeting Hayun for her very small—just you and one other person—bachelorette party were spent familiarizing yourself with the grounds.

The ceremony will take place in one of the lavish gardens, and the reception will follow in one of the grand dining halls. For a bed and breakfast, it’s far fancier than any you’ve ever been to. It definitely does not have the mom-and-pop feel that you typically associate with the term ‘B&B’.

“You’re here!” she shrills, throwing her arms around your neck.

Her petite form fits just like it always has against yours. Thick black hair, shorter than the last time you saw it, curls around the rounded lines of her cheeks, and her brown eyes are bright and glisten with happy tears. With her bubbly personality and small, wispy frame, she's always reminded you of a fairy.

You sigh, taking a deep breath and savoring your best friend's soft, floral scent. Thanks to the bracelet tinkling around her wrist, it holds the smallest undercurrent of your sweet citrus. Clearly, she’s not taking blockers; the scents are heavy and delightful. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Hayun sucks in a deep breath that mirrors yours. “Wow, babe, you smell good! Finally gone off the blockers, huh?”

“Uh, kind of,” you chuckle, untangling yourself from her arms. “I brought some, but they broke open in my bag at some point.” You shrug. “Tae said it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.”

“Oh, it’s not. Absolutely not,” Hayun agrees, grinning broadly. “I’ve been off them for years and haven’t had a single issue. Come on, let’s have a drink and catch up!”

You settle in at a table, and it’s not long before Eunseo, Hayun’s other guest, joins you. You’ve heard a lot about Eunseo. Much the same way Taehyung took the place of Hayun for you, Eunseo took your place for Hayun. You half expect to feel some sort of friendship jealousy upon meeting Eunseo for the first time, but it doesn’t come. If anything, you’re immediately fond of the young woman.

The evening carries on, Hayun and Eunseo regaling you with tales from working together and their various adventures around Seoul. Eunseo shows genuine interest in your life back home, seeming eager to hear stories of Hayun’s childhood. She shows a particular interest in Taehyung, asking you in no certain terms more than you think is appropriate to share.

“But you’ve seen it, right?” Eunseo asks. Her elbows rest on the table, and her chin is nestled on her clasped hands, her eyes wide and glassy from the countless glasses of wine she’s had. “I bet it’s huge. Am I right?”

“Ugh,” Hayun groans. “Can we not talk about my brother’s dick. Please.” She makes a gagging sound before slurping down the rest of her cocktail and flagging down a passing waiter for another.

You try to wave off the waiter, but he’s turned toward the bar before you can get his attention. If Hayun has much more to drink, you’re not sure she’ll be able to walk down the aisle tomorrow unassisted.

“I’m just curious. It’s a harmless question,” Eunseo pouts. “Ignore her. Tell me. I just have to know.”

You swirl the straw around in your glass of water before giving Eunseo what you hope is a conspiratorial look. “Well—”

“What?! Ew. Are you really about to answer her? Please, dear god, do not tell me you have seen my brother’s penis. If you’ve seen it—fuck, I might actually puke.”

As much as you probably shouldn’t, you laugh, which earns further protests and obscene noises from Hayun.

“Before you interrupted me, I was going to say that maybe Eunseo should ask him herself.”

Hayun howls a protest, sloshing her new cocktail onto the table as she gesticulates a crude hand gesture in your direction. “Do not. I repeat, do not do that, Eunseo!”

The conversation peters off, Hayun losing herself in another cocktail while Eunseo stares dreamily up at the ceiling.

“I think—hiccup—it's bedtime,” Eunseo slurs.

As if right on cue, a familiar face peeks through the entrance to the lounge. You wave Taehyung down, and he comes jogging across the space to your table. His shirt is rumpled with the top few buttons undone, but his eyes are clear, and you know he’ll be a perfect gentleman.

“Are you sure?” you ask him, pitching your voice low.

“I got this, don’t worry. We finished up a few hours ago anyway.”

Taehyung gives you a warm, private smile before turning to Eunseo. “Hey there, beautiful. Let’s get you on to bed, okay?”

“Where’s my savior?” Hayun asks, frowning after her brother escorting Eunseo from the lounge and back through the front lobby.

“Right here,” you tell her, sliding out of your chair and coming around to her side of the table. “Come on, let’s go.”

It takes you more than twice as long as it usually would to get to Hayun’s room. She leans against the wall in the hall as you dig through her pockets in search of her room key. Once you find it tucked between a few stray bills and her ID, you usher her into the room and deposit her onto the bed.

Her fiance has a room on the other side of the grounds, but after the ceremony, they will both be moving into one of the couple’s suites for the night before jet-setting off to Jeju Island for their week-long honeymoon.

“Am I doing the right thing?”

Hayun’s question catches you off guard. You throw a confused look at her over your shoulder as you rummage through her suitcase in search of something for her to sleep in.

“What?”

She sighs as she rolls over, letting her head hang off the edge of the bed so she can look at you upside down. “Marrying Jungkook. It’s a mistake…so why am I doing it?”

“Hayun…what are you talking about? Jungkook is perfect for you. You guys have been dating for five years, and you told me you’ve never been happier. Where’s the mistake in that?”

The sound Hayun makes is akin to something a wounded animal might make. She flops, flailing her arms and legs like a child throwing a fit.

“That’s the thing, though! I’m happy, but I don’t love him. Oh god,” she cries. “I don’t love him.”

“Hey, hey now.” You abandon the search for sleeping clothes and crawl across the floor until you’re kneeling beside the bed. Smoothing your hand across her forehead, you ask, “Where is all this coming from?”

“He thinks I’m his true mate,” she whispers. The tears leaking from her eyes slide up her face, wetting the edges of her eyebrows before sliding over her forehead and disappearing into her hair. “But I know he’s not mine.”

“Wh—wait, what?” You push up from the floor and move onto the bed, gathering your best friend’s head into your lap so she’s no longer hanging upside down off the side of the bed.

She hiccups a sob, lips trembling as she explains, “He says I’m his true mate, that he knows because of my scent. But he doesn’t smell special to me…how is that possible?”

“Hayun, I don’t—”

“I cheated on him,” she whimpers in confession, cutting off what were going to be your soothing words of affirmation. They sour on your tongue, refusing to be released now.

Your stomach churns at her admittance. “You what?”

“You have every right to judge me. I’m a terrible person. But, when he told me I was his true mate…I panicked. I had to be sure I wasn’t broken, that me not finding his scent special wasn’t just something wrong with me.” Hayun blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears as they begin to come in earnest. She clutches at the front of her shirt, hand fisting over her heart. “So, I slept with two Alphas that I work with to see if it was any different. I had to be sure. I had to know.”

“Hayun, I-I-I don’t…I’m not—”

“I’m such a fucking mess,” she sobs, curling in on you and pressing her face against your stomach. “I don’t deserve him. I only said yes to marrying him because I don’t want to be alone forever. I can’t be like you. I need someone.”

Her words sting, causing you to flinch involuntarily. You watch as she falls apart in your lap, ultimately giving in to her grief. It’s on the tip of your tongue to call her out on her childish behavior, to set the record straight about your own love life, and to leave her to her wallowing. But…the shaking of her shoulders and soft whines from her remind you so much of a younger and more fragile Hayun—the Hayun of your shared childhoods.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” No matter how you might feel about her actions and the hurtful words she’s spilled, you hate to see your best friend so distraught and broken. “Hey, look at me.”

You wait until her watery eyes peel away from your shirt and meet yours. “Tell me you hate me; it’s okay.”

“Hayun, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. You made…a mistake, that’s all. You were trying to figure things out. But…Hayun, you…you have to tell him.”

She frowns up at you, her expression sobering. “Tell him?”

“He’s about to marry you, Hayun. That’s a big freaking deal…you have to tell him tomorrow morning before anything else happens.”

The laugh that bubbles from her lips is anything but humorous. “I-I can’t do that! He’ll hate me. He’ll call the wedding off!” She shoves out of your lap and stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“If Jungkook truly loves you and says you’re his true mate, I don’t see that happening. But, he deserves to know. You have to know that. Either you tell him now, or he finds out years from now, and then it’ll be so much worse,” you try to reason with her.

“He doesn’t have to know!” she whisper-yells, her tears turning from sad to angry in an instant.

You shake your head, unable to believe what you’re hearing from her. “This isn’t right, Hayun. You can’t go into a marriage with someone with secrets like that!”

“It’s not like it’ll happen again. I’m not going to cheat on him while we’re married. Please,” she begs, her face once more softening into saddened anguish. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“He deserves to know, Hayun,” you whisper, remembering your own keen sting of betrayal from many years ago. There is a reason you don’t date much. “You say it won’t happen again?” you ask, trying to buy yourself some time to process everything Hayun just told you.

Her silence is deafening, and you think she’s about to not answer you the way you hope, but, finally, she murmurs, “No. Never. I swear it.”

“Okay. Okay, good. But, he still needs to know.”

Just because you’ve never actually met Jungkook, it doesn’t mean you don’t care for him. He’s the one who puts a smile on Hayun’s face when you can’t. He’s the reason she’s as happy as she is…or has been? Now, you’re not so sure. But, what you are certain about is that Hayun is far too drunk right now to know up from down and is just having a moment of raw vulnerability.

“Are you going to tell him?” she asks, voice a hoarse whisper.

You chew your bottom lip for a moment before slowly shaking your head. Thinking about it, even if you didn’t care for Jungkook, he still deserves to know on pure principle. “No. I won’t tell him.” She lets out a soft sigh of relief, which has you tacking on, “Because it’s not my place to tell him, it’s yours.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Okay.” She doesn’t say anything more beyond that, falling into a listless stupor, all of her energy sapped from the quick argument and endless cocktails from the bar.

After you wrestle her out of her clothes and put on a long nightgown, she tucks easily into bed. You leave a glass of water on the bedside table for her, then exit the room and head to your own.

A pang of uncertainty refuses to quell in the pit of your stomach. You toss and turn most of the night, falling into a fitful sleep just before the sun begins to kiss the horizon. It’s going to be a long day…a battle of wills you never saw coming.

🥀🥀🥀

Jungkook

Today is the big day, and Jungkook couldn’t be happier. Nothing could possibly bring him down from the high he’s feeling. Not even the fact that he is unable to find the cufflinks that were passed down to him by his father.

“Did you check the pockets of all your pants?” Jimin, Jungkook’s best friend, asks from where he’s lounging in one of the chairs on the other side of Jungkook’s hotel room.

“Yes,” he mutters, dumping his entire suitcase onto the bed to rifle through it once again. “I remember putting them with the pile of Hayun’s—oh fuck.”

“That’s great,” Taehyung sighs. “So my sister probably has them.” He checks his watch. “We don’t really have time to go on a scavenger hunt through her room. Jimin and I are supposed to meet the photographer to get started on some of the bride and groomsmen shots.”

Jungkook purses his lips and rakes his hands through his hair as he thinks of a solution. “I’d go look myself, but what if I run into Hayun between here and there? She specifically requested that we not see each other until the ceremony.”

Taehyung hums lightly. “I think I have an idea. The other girls don’t meet for pictures until after we’re done. So…yeah…okay…done,” he murmurs, tapping away at his phone screen. “If they’re in Hayun’s things, they’ll be delivered to you soon.”

“Thanks, Taehyung, you’re a lifesaver.”

Minutes later, Jungkook finds himself alone, Taehyung and Jimin having gone to meet with the photographer. Somewhere out there, beyond the confines of his room, his fiancee is probably smiling and laughing as she poses in front of the camera. If only Jungkook could see through walls. He’d give anything for even just a little glimpse of his bride-to-be.

When Jungkook first met Hayun almost six years ago, he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to track her scent. The meeting he was heading for was instantly forgotten, replaced by a visceral need to discover the source of that titillating aroma that had his hindbrain firing on all cylinders.

Never before had Jungkook experienced something so…primal. It was both alarming and utterly fascinating. Amongst the harsh scents of car exhaust and the warm notes of roasted coffee, Jungkook wove his way through the crowd on the sidewalk to the doors of a little cafe; Hayun was inside, ordering a matcha tea to-go, and the rest was history.

Jungkook sighs, forcing himself to stop daydreaming and fiddling with his shirt's empty cuffs and focus on putting together the rest of his suit.

The scent hits Jungkook a moment before the sound of a soft knock reaches his ears. He’s standing in the ensuite bathroom, mid-skin care routine. Wiping his wet fingers off onto a towel, he draws in a deep breath to confirm the aroma wafting to him from beyond the door of his room.

A roguish smirk quirks up one side of his mouth as he exits the bathroom and moves across the room. Unable to help himself, he opens the door. “Hayun,” he chuckles, fingers wrapping around the doorknob, “I thought we agreed that you…you are not Hayun.” The words tumble from his suddenly numb lips, rasping past his too-dry tongue.

“Umm, no. Not Hayun, sorry. You’re Jungkook?”

The woman standing before him is clearly not his fiancee. The woman’s purple gown is familiar, Jungkook knowing it’s what Hayun chose for her attending party. You’re a friend of Hayun, clearly, yet you smell exactly like Hayun…if Hayun smelled like Hayun times a thousand. The fragrance slams into his olfactory system, and the edges of his vision grow blurry a moment before he shakes his head and steadies himself with a hand on the doorjamb.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice raspy with his suddenly dry throat. Revelations pounding him right between the eyes, washing through his body and keying right into his most basic of instincts.

Jungkook watches as your nostrils flare, and he knows it’s in that moment that you register his cedar and lavadin scent; the scent that marks him for what—who—he is.

“Jungkook,” you repeat his name, and he wants to howl with delight at how it sounds coming from your lips. “No. You can’t…it’s not—” your voice cuts off a second before you drop the small, black leather box you were holding and turn, disappearing in a flash of violet tulle and silk.

🥀🥀🥀

“Stop! Wait, please!” The shout of your name follows you down the hall, but you’re too focused on getting as far away from him and the feelings threatening to overwhelm you as you can.

“No, no, no,” you chant under your breath as you move as swiftly as the slippered feet will allow you to go without tripping yourself up.

It’s clearly not fast enough. It only takes a few frantic beats of your heart before a firm grip on your elbow draws you to a stumbling halt. The touch is electric, and your skin flushes with goosebumps at the heated contact.

“Don’t run,” Jungkook pants. “Please.”

You wretch your arm from his grip and whirl on him, a sharp remark ready on the tip of your tongue. Only, it dies there, never to be uttered, as your heart thumps violently in response to the look on his face—pure anguish.

Your voice is thread-thin as you finally manage to get words out, “This can’t be happening.”

Jungkook’s brow twitches, his lips tucked between his teeth. His emotions are stark on his face, and the conflict is raw and bare to you. Clearly, he’s warring the same as you, maybe even more so.

“Why do you smell like Hayun?” he asks, his voice soft in contrast to the raging storm you see in his eyes. “Why do you smell more like my true mate than she even does? Is this some wicked, cruel prank?”

You shake your head, intentionally drawing a breath through your mouth in hopes of saving your nose from another assault of his perfect scent. But, instead, his flavor laces over your tongue and slides down your throat to sit like a knot in your belly. You might as well have licked a stripe up his neck for all the good that did.

“I-I don’t know,” you choke out, trying to keep the pool of saliva under your tongue from dripping down your chin.

Jungkook steps closer to you, leading with his nose. He sniffs the air around you and something must not sit well with what he discovers because he rears back and bares his teeth. “Of course,” he mutters as his eyes drop to your left wrist.

Your eyes track his movement as he scoops up your wrist in a loose grip, and you realize it’s the bracelet there that has his attention. Everything clicks into place, and you feel like the faintest breeze could sweep you away with how lightheaded you’re feeling at this moment.

“We traded,” you whisper as if speaking low enough means the admission won’t utterly destroy the world as you know it.

“She’s not my true mate,” he states, voice as low as yours, fevered and quiet. “You are.”

Those words punch you in the chest, nearly taking you to your knees. If it weren’t for the hold Jungkook has on your wrist, you’re sure you’d be in a heap on the floor. As it is, he catches his other arm around your waist as you sway on the spot.

“Y-you shouldn’t.” Your protest is stilted, the words feeling robotic and unnatural as you gingerly press a hand against the arm that’s angled around your ribs. It was your intention to push his touch away, but the most you accomplish is flexing your fingers against the smooth cotton covering his thick bicep.

Somehow, you find yourself back in the room you had fled from just a few minutes ago. Jungkook settled you on the bed and is now pressing a chilled water bottle into your hands.

He kneels before you, headless of putting wrinkles in his black dress slacks. He’s wearing a thin white undershirt, his starched white button-up undone over it. The cuffs of the sleeves flop as he brings his hands into his lap and picks at the edges of his thumbnails.

Your eyes rove the room, catching on the black leather box still sitting on the floor by the door where you dropped it. Inside the box is nestled a pair of golden cufflinks—a pair you now understand have been passed down through the generations of Jeon men.

Absently, you press your thumb to your phone, unlocking it to reveal the text message that has irrevocably changed your life forever.

If you had known Taehyung’s text message requesting help would have led you to where you are right now, you’d probably have ignored it.

Yet, at the same time, if you had, you’d probably have had this revelation with Jungkook in the middle of the ceremony, and it would have caused all sorts of untoward chaos. No, it’s far better that it’s happening now instead of later. Maybe you can get ahead of this and fix it somehow. Though…

“Hey? You okay?” Jungkook interrupts your thoughts. “Fuck, that’s a stupid question. Sorry.”

“Huh? Oh. Umm…yeah. I don’t—what do we do now?” You turn your phone over, finger ghosting over the power button to lock the screen once more.

Jungkook sighs, and you can’t help watching the rise and fall of his shoulders, framing the swell of his defined chest with the action. He’s an exquisite specimen of masculinity, and even if it weren’t for the musky notes of his scent that mark him as your true mate, you’d find him devastatingly attractive.

“We need to tell Hayun. I c-can’t…I can’t marry her. Not when I’ve found—” he cuts off, wincing as his voice breaks. “I should go and find her. Now, before this can go any further. I’m sorry. I’ll, uh, I’ll find you later, okay?”

“Wait,” you call after him. He stops halfway to the door and glances back at you over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t we tell her together?”

Jungkook chews the inside of his cheek a moment, his eyes flicking over your face as he thinks through your suggestion. Slowly, he nods. “Yeah, maybe that’s for the best.”

There is palpable tension between you and Jungkook as you follow behind him out of the main building. He texted Jimin, knowing he’d be the most reliable with his phone on him, asking where the photos were currently taking place.

It only took a few minutes for Jimin to respond that they were almost finished but were currently capturing some group shots on the walking path by the lake on the backside of the property.

You’re vaguely aware of where the lake is located, having given the map of the grounds that was posted on the backside of your room’s door a cursory look the day you arrived. It’s a relatively short distance, yet it feels like miles with the weight of pure dread sitting firmly on your shoulders.

At least it’s not a feeling you’re experiencing alone. Jungkook is right there with you, and you can clearly see the unease in the stiff way his body moves. The tips of his fingers twitch back in your direction every few steps like he’s fighting off the urge to slip them between your own.

The first person you catch sight of is Yoona, the photographer. She’s squatting in the grass, her large DSLR camera held up to her face, as she captures candid moments of Hayun, Taehyung, and Jimin repositioning themselves along the lake's edge.

Your heart squeezes hard at how beautiful Hayun is in her form-fitting silk ivory, off-the-shoulder wedding gown, the lacy bell sleeves fluttering around her hands. Her head is thrown back, the peel of her carefree laughter carrying to you and further crumbling your soul into a million pieces. You ache, not just for the desire to draw closer to your true mate, but for the inevitable aftermath of what is about to happen.

Taehyung is the first to notice you and Jungkook. The smile on his face slowly disappears, replaced by a concerned frown. Hayun catches his expression and follows his line of sight. Her gaze sears into you, and you feel like you might combust into a cloud of ash at any second with the irritation contained in her pretty brown eyes.

“What’s going on?” Hayun exclaims, throwing her hands up in a frustrated manner as she stalks towards you and Jungkook. “It’s not time for your photos yet,” she tells you before her eyes swing to Jungkook. “What happened to not seeing me before the wedding? That was your rule!”

“Hayun, we need to talk.”

“Talk about wh—” she cuts off, her question turning into a gasp. Your wide eyes flick to you. “You told him?”

“What? No!”

Your protest rings out at the same time that Jungkook says, “She’s my true mate.”

A breeze kicks up, sweeping from behind you and tossing errant strands of hair across Hayun’s forehead. You’d give anything for the power to pluck the wind from the air, shove it back…keep it from showering her with yours and Jungkook’s combined scents—a blatant confirmation echoing the words Jungkook just let loose.

Hayun stiffens. Her jaw goes rigid, and her face pales as her nostrils flare. It’s a moment that will be forever written across the band of your friendship. Betrayal flashes through her eyes before morphing into something akin to somber resignation.

“Hayun,” Jungkook begins. “I don’t—we didn’t…I’m sorry. What do we do?” He spreads his hands out in front of himself in a helpless manner.

By this time, Jimin and Taehyung have come up from behind Hayun, faces wary as they take in the scene with growing clarity. You look to Taehyung, hoping he can see the silent plea in your eyes.

“Explain,” Hayun says simply. Despite how collected she seems, you can see the subtle tremble in her hands and the way the muscles in her neck continue to flex and strain as she clenches and grinds her teeth.

Jungkook launches into recounting the events that brought you to his room and broke the proverbial dam. “We—we had no idea. I swear this is the first time we’ve ever met, and gods, the bracelets…” Jungkook trails off, a pained sound rumbling from his chest.

“Is this a joke?” Taehyung asks accusingly, and it’s like a barb to your heart.

“We wouldn’t do that.” Your croaked statement draws Hayun’s attention.

Hayun sniffles, her chin jerking a little higher into the air. “My nose tells me one thing, but my heart tells me another. Did you know about this last night? Is that why you pushed so hard for me to tell him?” The last part is whispered, meant only for you, which hurts even more.

“Hayun, no! You know that’s impossible. I couldn’t have known.”

“Tell me what?” Jungkook asks, having heard despite her whisper, his eyes swiveling between you and Hayun.

You shake your head at him, not wanting to throw further fuel on the fire. “Hayun, please, believe me.”

A pregnant moment full of thick tension passes before it fizzles, and Hayun shakes her head, not in a dismissive fashion but in gentle acceptance. “I believe you,” she tells you. “I guess…I guess there won’t be a wedding in four hours unless you two want…” She trails off, a bittersweet smile tugging at her cherry red painted lips.

Jungkook blanches, wide eyes landing on you. “What? Us? No. I mean, sorry…but—”

Hayun holds up her hand, quelling Jungkook’s flustered response. “I was teasing, Koo, trying to lighten the mood. Um,” she pauses, absently twisting the diamond engagement ring around her finger before slowly slipping it off and closing a fist around it. “Can we talk, though? There’s something I needed to tell you today anyway.”

“Okay,” Jungkook says wearily.

“Tae, do you mind…?” Hayun asks, not even having to fill in the blanks. Her brother instantly steps into his role as protector and savior.

“Don’t worry about anything. I’ll make some phone calls,” Taehyung assures her before grabbing Jimin’s arm and starting back down the walking path.

“I’ll just—” you thumb over your shoulder in the direction Tae and Jimin just disappeared in “—be in my room.”

“Wait,” Hayun calls, pulling your retreat up short. “Come here.” She opens her arms, her hands opening and closing in grabby motions. “Please.”

A sob cracks from your throat as you throw yourself at her, wrapping your arms around her neck. “I’m so sorry, Hayun. I’m so sorry.”

“Hush. None of that. This isn’t anything we could have predicted or stopped from happening. If anything, maybe this is life’s way of getting back at me for what I did to him,” she whispers in your ear. “This is how it’s meant to be.”

Hayun smoothes a hand over your back and releases you. She steps back, using the back of a finger to lift the tears from your cheeks, and gives you a watery smile.

You’re not sure you can speak without completely losing yourself, so you just give her a tight nod and continue back on your way down the path. A part of you wants to hear what she has to say to Jungkook, to be there to soothe any hurts or aches…which is a startling realization that you’d not just tend to Hayun but to Jungkook, too. That internal, visceral part of you yearns to turn on your heel and…protect what’s yours.

It’s an odd revelation to think of Jungkook as yours. Well, yours unless either of you reject the bond. Though, that thought makes your stomach pitch and roil. You have to trail a hand along the wall in the hall leading to your room to keep yourself from curling over your abdomen at just the idea.

Once back in your room, you’re unsure what to do with yourself, so you absently start to gather your belongings and pack them up. Every few minutes, you find yourself pausing to stare at the door, ears pricking at the slightest sound from beyond it.

You’re not sure what you’re expecting. Whether it’s Hayun coming to your room so the two of you can cry together or Jungkook coming to claim y—uh, you shove that thought aside quickly because now is not the time. At. All.

The time for the wedding comes and passes without a single knock on your door nor a text or call on your phone. You’re tempted to go looking. For what, you’re not entirely sure—an answer, maybe, some sort of direction on what you should do now.

Finally, after hours of sitting in silence with just your thoughts for company, a soft knock sounds at your door. The long hem of your dress nearly trips you up in your haste to make it to the door. It swings open, and for some reason, your stomach drops, the flutter of disappointment heavy and unexpected.

“Hey, beautiful,” Taehyung says, his voice soft and full of emotion. “Mind if I come in?”

His necktie is loose, and the top button of his dress shirt is undone. There is a tension in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier. It makes your chest ache.

“Sure,” you say, stepping back and letting him into your room.

Taehyung sighs, perches on the end of your bed, and props his elbows on his knees. His chin rests on an upturned fist, his other hand dangling between his legs, clutching his phone.

He opens his mouth, a single word the only thing coming out, “So.”

“So,” you parrot.

“Hayun wants me to take her home…alone. I’m not sure what all she and Jungkook talked about, but I think they’re at least amicable in agreeing that it would be best if he gave her a few days at home alone before they start the process of separating their lives.” You’re not sure if the bitter tinge in your chest is hurt because Hayun isn’t the one telling you this or because now you have to find your own way to the airport. As if reading your thoughts, Taehyung continues, “I can be back in two days, maybe sooner, depending on traffic. Perhaps they’ll let you extend your stay. If not, I can talk to Jimin—”

“No, Tae, it’s okay. I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about me. Just take care of Hayun, make sure she’s okay...as okay as she can be, at least. Fuck.” The last word comes out choked, and you gnash your teeth on the inside of your cheek to keep from letting the angry tears out. You have no right to be angry. Hell, you’re not even sure why you’re angry. It just seems like the easiest emotion to feel right now, the only one that doesn’t leave you feeling like your world is slowly imploding.

“Hey,” Taehyung says, bringing one of his big hands up to cup the side of your face. His thumb prods at the swell of your cheek, causing you to release the tension in your jaw. “Hayun isn’t the only one I’m worried about here.”

“I’m fine—I will be fine,” you amend. “I promise. I think I’m just feeling overwhelmed. I’m mad at myself for ruining Hayun’s big day. I can’t believe this is happening at all. This…this just doesn’t happen. This is the kind of shit you read about in books, it’s not supposed to be real life.”

And there it is, you surmise—the truth of the matter. None of what’s happened makes sense. It honestly belongs on the pages of a book or in a movie script, not in your real life. It still feels surreal. If it weren’t for the subtle, lingering ache you instinctively know is associated with finding your true mate but not allowing yourself to fully accept it, you’d think this was all some elaborate party trick or impractical joke.

Taehyung smiles at you, but the unease in his eyes can’t be masked that easily. “I’m not sure what to say or what to do. You’re right. This isn’t a situation I think anyone was prepared for or ever thought possible, actually. But, here we are…and we have to face it the best way we can.” He pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful. “I'll tell you what: I’ll text Jimin—he’s a good guy, I think you’ll enjoy his company—and ask him to meet you in the lounge. Have a few drinks, wind down, and try to relax as best you can.”

“Sure,” you say lamely, trying to muster up at least a little bit of enthusiasm.

“That’s my girl.” Taehyung offers you another smile, this one not so tense. “Here, I have something for you.” He fishes into his pant pocket and produces a familiar thin silver chain, a tiny crescent moon dangling near one end.

The sight has your spine straightening. “Right, of course.” You quickly thumb open the clasp on the bracelet around your wrist, letting it fall from your skin for the first time since you put it on when Hayun gave it to you all those years ago. It never felt right to take it off…not until now.

Taehyung helps you swap the bracelet with the one in his hand. The metal feels cold against your skin and you immediately miss the subtle fragrance of Hayun’s scent clinging to your wrist. Though, you suppose that’s what has gotten you both into this mess to begin with. Taehyung explains in soft words how Jungkook explained to Hayun about the scent mix-up with the bracelets—such a silly, seemingly insignificant thing…the catalyst to spark such a colossal moment.

“I’m going to get on the road with Hayun, but I’ll call you as soon as we get to her place and check in on you, okay?”

Sitting at the bar with Jungkook’s best friend seemed like a good idea when Taehyung first presented it to you. But, at the time, you weren’t connecting the dots that Jimin was Jungkook’s best friend. He was just Jimin, the guy that just so happened also to be part of the wedding party that you had met in passing briefly, but he seemed like a good enough person. Now, however, you feel all the awkward tension radiating right between your shoulder blades, emphasized by the silence lingering between the two of you.

You traded in your lilac dress for jeans and a light silk blouse, canvas slip-ons in place of your slippers, yet no matter how comfortable you know your clothing is, you can’t shake the prickling discomfort eating away at the back of your neck.

“Want another?” Jimin asks, nodding to your mostly watered-down rum and coke. It’s barely late afternoon, and as much as Taehyung’s suggestion of a drink sounded like just what you needed, you’ve found yourself not in the mood to drink after all.

“Um, nah. I’m okay, thanks.”

“Cool. Okay. I’ll be right back.” Jimin drums his fingers on the tabletop and pops his lips before giving you a slight head nod and pushing up from his chair.

You watch as he saunters to the long bar, his crescent moon tattoo on the nape of his neck peeking out from the top of his collar, and props his elbows onto the shiny top. His smile is flirty and casual as the bartender, a beautiful woman with long, inky tresses and fiery red lipstick, sidles up in front of him.

They’re too far away for you to hear their conversation, but her tinkling laughter carries across the space, and you know it might be a while before Jimin returns to your table.

Which you’re okay with. Considering you know you’re not exactly pleasant company right now, you don’t blame him one bit. You glance down at your phone, once again reading the last text message Hayun sent you not too long ago.

Eunseo stopped by the lounge around the same time Jimin showed up. If her smile and lingering hug were any indicator, she clearly had a thing for him. She gave you a small wave goodbye before giving Jimin another hug and heading out. Apparently, she was going to follow Taehyung and Hayun back to Hayun and Jungkook’s place to help Hayun with whatever she needed over the next few days.

Does it hurt that your best friend is relying on someone else, her new best friend? Yes. Do you also understand why? Also, yes, but that doesn’t make the sting hurt any less.

You’re just about to give up and retreat back to your room, which the front desk still hasn’t given you a definitive answer about whether or not your stay can be extended while you wait for Tae, when a shadow falls across your table a second before.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Jungkook asks in a low voice.

He fidgets, threading and unthreading his fingers together while he waits for your answer. The suit he had half on earlier is gone, and in its place is a dark pair of jeans, the knees worn fashionably, and an oversized white graphic t-shirt. Black sneakers peek out from the rounded bottoms of his pant legs.

You clear your throat, forcing your eyes away from his and instead on the glass sitting in a puddle of condensation on the table before you. “Oh, I—uh, I was actually about to go. You’re welcome to the table, though. Jimin was—” You cut off, realizing Jimin is no longer in the lounge at all. “Well, he was here,” you add with a frown.

Jungkook scratches a hand across the back of his neck and gives you a hesitant smile. “Yeah, he texted me. He went…well, that doesn’t matter. Could we, um…can we talk?”

“Yes.” The response is out of your mouth before he even finishes asking. “Please, I think I’d like that,” you say, nodding toward the open seat across from you.

A shaky breath rattles from Jungkook as he eases into the empty seat. “Have you talked to Hayun at all?” he asks after a moment’s hesitation.

“A text message, but that’s all. I’m not sure she wants to talk to me right now.” Needing something to do with your hands, you trace a finger along the edge of the water pooled around the bottom of your glass and use your other to poke more drops on the side of your cup, making them race down to join the growing puddle.

Jungkook nods, his lips pursing thoughtfully. “She told me what happened last night. Her confession.” That draws your attention back to him, and you wait, fingers still on the glass, intent on hearing what he says next. “I thought I’d be angrier finding out the woman I’ve been with for years—the woman I was hours away from marrying—had cheated on me…but I’m not. For the life of me, I’m not mad at her…even though I know I should be.”

“How do you feel?”

Maybe it’s none of your business, but you have to ask.

Blowing out a breath, Jungkook slides one of his hands across the table and, giving you plenty of time to protest or pull away, slowly slides his fingers between yours, effectively joining his hand with yours. It’s the first time hand-holding has felt so intimate yet wholly innocent.

“Relieved, I think,” he finally says. “Grateful, maybe? Hayun was hurt. As she has every right to be, but she said she also felt relief, too. I think, as much as she said she loved me, she was still holding back even in the end.” With a rueful shake of his head, he tacks on, “We were just a disaster waiting to happen, held together only by the thin chain of a bracelet. We would have shattered eventually.”

Jungkook’s eyes drop to where your fingers are entwined with his, trailing up to your wrist to land on the object he just spoke of.

“I’m relieved, too,” you whisper. Your eyes meet his as he glances up, and you’re instantly captivated.

This is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to really study Jungkook. His hair is tousled like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. You suppose he probably had been and wonder if that’s one of his nervous ticks.

The bow of his lips is prominent and draws your eyes. Your gaze lingers on his lips, making small mental notes at everything you see, like the tiny beauty mark under his bottom lip. His straight nose leads you to his expressive eyes, so dark and full of secrets you want to be privy to.

To say Jungkook is handsome would be a gross understatement. You’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s your true mate or just simply a gorgeous being, but he is pleasing to the eyes, that’s for sure.

You mentally kick yourself for thinking such thoughts about your best friend’s almost-husband after everything that has just happened. It’s not in good taste to entertain these thoughts so soon, right? True mate or not.

Yet, you can’t shove those thoughts away completely.

“Where did you go just now?” Jungkook asks, tilting his head and studying you intently.

Not wanting to explain yourself and the thoughts you were just having, you choose to ask him a question instead. “So, what now?”

You’re thankful Jungkook doesn’t push you to answer. He shifts in his seat and withdraws his fingers from between yours.

“I think we start with…” he trails off, a playful smile tugging up the side of his mouth as he holds the hand he pulled back in the air in front of you in offering. “Hi, I’m Jungkook.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, you smile. A laugh escapes you, and you instantly feel a thousand times lighter with that simple action.

As you take his hand back into yours, allowing yourself to truly savor the feel of his skin against yours, you realize that no matter what happens with Hayun or the fact that you live thousands of miles apart from Jungkook…everything is going to be okay and maybe you wouldn’t have ignored Taehyung’s text after all.

🥀🥀🥀

Jungkook, 3 months later

The flight was long but worth it. Jungkook stretches as he climbs out of the Uber he took from the airport. You would have picked him up. In fact, you are supposed to pick him up…just, not until next week. He decided to surprise you by coming early. He hopes you don’t mind.

Time seemed to drag to a near stand-still following that fateful day at the bed and breakfast where he was so sure he’d be joining his life with Hayun’s officially. No one could have anticipated what actually went down that day. But, in the end, he and Hayun parted ways on pleasant terms, and it’s actually thanks to her that he’s here right now, a week early.

Jungkook was worried that with everything that happened, yours and Hayun’s friendship might suffer. But, surprisingly—and thankfully—you guys have been getting on great. Hayun has been looking at work prospects in Thailand but, from what you’ve told Jungkook, is planning to visit you and Taehyung for Christmas.

It’s been three months, and not a day has gone by that Jungkook hasn’t talked to you in some capacity. From the moment he offered to be your ride to the airport, and you agreed, he’s thought about nothing other than getting on a plane and following you. The draw to you is just that strong.

You’ve expressed similar feelings, already having planned a return trip to Seoul next month. Neither Jungkook nor you have really talked about what the future holds or how to even begin to navigate it. But Jungkook hopes that during the week he is here, you can both begin to figure that out.

Giddiness makes his tattooed fingers shake as he reaches out and grasps the brass knocker on your door. He gives it a rap against the thick wood and waits. Jungkook counts the breaths as his anticipation rises. It’s only three and a half exhales before he hears the soft pad of your feet on the other side of the door.

Jungkook can imagine you pressing up onto your tip toes in order to peer through the peephole. He’d pay money to be able to see the look on your face when you see it’s him. Not being able to see your face doesn’t take away from the dopamine rush he gets when the sound of your surprised squeal sounds through the door.

“Jungkook!” Your shout is followed by the frantic sound of you disengaging the locks on your door before you swing it open and launch yourself at him. “What the fuck are you doing here? Oh, my gods! Why didn’t you tell me? You’re here!”

It feels good to laugh, but it feels even better to have you in his arms finally. The brief embrace he shared with you at the airport when he dropped you off was not enough and is what drove him to try and come sooner than planned.

Jungkook savors the warmth of your soft body pressed against his, your arms tight around his neck. Running one of his hands up your spine, he clasps the back of your neck and uses his hold there to angle your head away from his neck so he can look you in the face.

“Surprise,” he whispers. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

You sigh dreamily, your eyes fluttering closed for a second like you’re savoring the feeling of being in his arms. “Pleasant surprise,” you murmur with a smile on your face.

Jungkook can’t help himself. He wants so badly to know if your smile tastes as good as he thinks it will. The press of his lips against yours causes you to melt against him, a throaty sound escaping around the intrusion of his tongue as he works it between your lips.

“Your taste,” he groans, forcing his mouth away from yours before the allure of you can drive him completely mad. Who is he kidding? He’s already there. “I need more.”

🥀🥀🥀

Those words do something to you.

I need more.

They echo the thoughts you’ve been harboring for the last three months. You’ve ached with those words, desperately willing yourself to be patient and let it happen when it’s meant to happen.

But, fuck, it feels so good to have him in your arms, to have his mouth brushing against yours. He tastes divine, a warm sweetness that compliments the musk of his scent that is slowly wrapping itself around you.

“Take me. Take it all,” you urge, completely baring yourself to him, body, mind, and soul. “I’m yours.”

It’s a frenzy, the frantic discarding of clothing. Your fingers work to free him of his jeans while also helping him with the criss-cross straps of your lounging romper. You don’t care that you’re still standing by your front door, bared down to your underwear. The only thing you’re focusing on now is how Jungkook holds you at arm's length and drinks you in from head to toe.

“You…are…everything.” The way he whispers those words crawls under your skin, rooting itself deep in your being. You feel sexy…desired, and unbelievably empty—your body clenches, the ache deep between your thighs. You’ve never been so turned on from just taking your clothes off before, from whispered words and a heated look.

Jungkook allows you to undress him as slow or as fast as you want. You try to take your time and savor every inch of skin you expose. But, you can barely contain yourself when you get to his jeans, shoving them unceremoniously down his thighs with your eyes locked on the many planes and angles of his toned chest and stomach.

Your fingers ghost over his skin, eliciting goosebumps in their wake as you explore the smooth and lush expanse of his shoulders and down his arms. Without needing to say anything more, he gathers you into his arms and covers your mouth with his once more.

It’s a miracle you make it to your bedroom. But, seeing Jungkook sprawled out on your bed is a sight you’ll never forget, with his lowered lids and bottom lip caught between his teeth. You want to taste every inch of him, from the tips of his ears down to the defined muscles of his calves.

Now, though, your gaze focuses on the front of his tented boxer briefs. The dark grey material has darkened even further, where you can see the distinct outline of the head of his cock. Saliva pools in your mouth.

You crawl on the bed, knees slotting between his, your hands on either side of his hips. With your eyes locked on his, you lean down and mouth gently at the wetness. You moan at the flavor of him, your tongue peeking out to seek more.

“Fuck,” you curse. “You taste so good.”

Jungkook lets out a quick breath. “You can’t say shit like that, baby girl. You’re going to make me lose it.” He flicks his eyes up to the ceiling, his lips moving like he’s sending up a silent prayer, before looking back down at you. “You have maybe three seconds before I can’t hold back any longer and tear that ass up.”

You chuckle softly, pouting out your lips in a faux sullen manner. “Yes, sir.”

That earns a growl from Jungkook that has heat racing down your spine as you hook your fingers into the band of his Calvin Klein’s and pull them down. He lifts his hips, helping you free him from their confines.

His cock stands so pretty before you, the full heft bobbing against his belly, smearing a pearl of precum against his golden skin. You dive in, licking at the sticky mess before taking the tip between your lips and lavishing your tongue over his slit.

Jungkook fists the sheets, a litany of curses falling from his lips. “Please,” he chokes.

You keep your eyes locked on his as you inch your way down his length, your jaw forcing itself wider to accommodate as much of him as you can. The blunt head of his cock presses against the back of your throat. You take a steadying breath in through your nose before forcing yourself a little further until your throat constricts around him and you have to pull back.

The second your mouth leaves his cock, saliva stringing from your lips to his tip, Jungkook grabs you and hauls you up over him. You laugh, loving the heat emanating from his body as yours covers his.

“What are you doing?” you gasp.

His strong hands land on your hips and tangle in the band of your panties. “I need these off. Please. I need you. I want to feel you…be inside you.”

You want that, too, you realize, your body already primed and begging for it. The sweet, fragrant notes of your arousal saturate the air, mixing with Jungkook’s to paint a picture of hedonism and wanton desires.

The rest of your clothes come off, your bra and panties are tossed to the side, leaving you utterly bare to him. Your inner thighs slide like velvet over his hips as you move your body against his until you can feel the press of the head of his cock against your entrance.

You wrap a hand around his base, angling him perfectly. It’s a slow descent into madness, the lowering of your body onto his. His eyes bore into yours, pouring out everything that has been building to this moment, this pinnacle that will forever throttle you onto a different path for your future—with him. You can feel every perfect inch slide along your walls as they adjust and welcome him. It’s like sliding home; he is the perfect fit for your body, filling you completely.

The pace you set, at first, is languid. An easy rise and fall of your hips as you both learn the body of the other. Jungkook’s hands mold around your breasts, his thumbs caressing over the pert points of your nipples.

“You feel so good,” you tell him, emphasizing your words with a generous roll of your hips. “So much better than I imagined.”

“You imagined it often?” he asks, a teasing tone to his words.

With the amount of teasing photos and videos you’ve shared with each other over the last few weeks, he knows you have. You can tell he’s just giving you a hard time. That’s fine, because you can…

Jungkook throws his head back as you arch yours, letting his cock hit that special place inside that has you both seeing stars. “Fuck!” His hands drop to your hips, landing with a satisfying smack. His grip tightens, dimpling the supple flesh around his fingers. “Can I knot you?” he asks with a breathless moan. You’ve never taken an alpha’s knot. The idea has your body pulsing around his, flooding slick onto his pelvis as you continue to roll your hips. “Fuck, baby girl, do you like that idea? You want to take my knot like a good girl?”

You can’t even form a coherent thought, much less answer him. The only thing that comes out of your mouth is a panting keen, your chin jerking up and down as you frantically nod your want.

Jungkook braces his feet against the mattress and uses his grip on your hips as leverage to thrust upward, sending you forward onto your hands. He’s relentless, pounding into you from below to the point your eyes roll back, and you have to squeeze them shut. Tiny pinpricks of light burst behind your lids as your body coils tighter than ever before.

You cry out as he sends you over the edge, your body careening into an unfathomable abyss of pleasure. The sounds coming from around his cock as it pounds into you are slick and obscene, debauched yet wholly satisfying.

“Alpha, need your knot,” you mewl, your lips finding the triskelion tattoo over Jungkook’s left pec muscle. You nibble at it, your teeth sinking softly into the skin.

“Oh, baby, fuck…fuck…Fuuuckkk!” Jungkook shouts, the sound turning into a guttural snarl as his body goes primal.

He seats himself completely inside of you with one final, deliberate thrust, and then you can feel the swell of his knot capture within you. It hurts, your pleasure turning into a moment of pain and panic. You squirm, trying to lift your hips from his, but the clasp of his hands on your body won’t let you go far. You whine, “J-Jungkook.”

“I know, baby girl, I know. Relax. Let your body do what it needs to do.”

It’s like those words unlock some inner Omega part of your brain, and suddenly you feel your body rush with endorphins and dopamine as it accepts the thick jets of his cum now flooding in. Like administering a drug, it’s such a fast transition that you feel lightheaded and giddy, sheepish and almost silly over your moment of panic.

“Gods, that feels so…good.” You wiggle in his arms, gasping as his knot pulls tight. You want more, need more of that feeling…need more of his cum. “More, Alpha, please.”

Jungkook pants, a tired smile on his face. You can feel it when his cock pulses inside you, dribbling even more liquid heat into your body in answer to your plea. “That’s my pretty girl,” Jungkook coos, brushing a hand across your forehead. “You’re so beautiful taking my knot, full of my cum.” He curses softly, reverently, and another gush of heat fills your body. “I’m going to take such good care of you. I swear it.”

You fall into a half-sleep, content and sated as you are. There are no worries about the future, nor the past. You are happy…all thanks to a pair of golden cufflinks.

#jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook abo #alpha jungkook #omega reader #alpha jungkook x omega reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagines #jungkook smut #bangtanwritershq

1K notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 8 months ago

Note

Your Charles series was so good. And your writing is amazing.

Could you maybe do something where reader is friends with Arthur’s GF- Jade or someone in his friend group and she meets Charles and he literally has a fall in love at first sight moment with her and maybe he becomes a bit obsessed 🫶🏻🫶🏻

LOVE ME, BABY | CL16

an: i did a mix of a smau and written for this one and since i'm moving to france again soon i'm making her french ehehe

jade_distinguinn

liked by yourusername, arthur_leclerc, yourbestfriend and 28,428 others

look who's finally come to visit @/yourusername

*tap to load more comments*

userone: facecard never declines for both of them

usertwo: i need them both

userthree: omg finally getting to see yn in monaco

yourusername: take me to the port, i need to find a sugar daddy

jade_distinguinn: enough.

userfour: they're so pretty

yourbestfriend: it's fine leave me behind, i'll cope

yourusername: you had work??

jade_distinguinn: i tried to pay you to come??

yourbestfriend: shh don't expose me.

userfive: i would commit war crimes to be apart of their friendship

monaco casino, arthur's birthday

The night buzzed with a certain energy Charles knew all too well. The Casino de Monte-Carlo was alive with high society types, gamblers, and tourists, all bathing in the golden glow of the chandeliers. A typical night in Monaco, he supposed, but something about tonight felt different.

Charles had come here to celebrate Arthur’s birthday, content with blending into the backdrop. The Austin Grand Prix was just a week away, and while most people recognised his face, tonight wasn’t about the spotlight. That was Arthur’s role tonight, surrounded by his circle of friends. For once, Charles was glad to slip into the shadows.

He’d just stepped away from the table, heading towards the bar when it happened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you, gliding through the crowd like you didn’t belong in all this glitz, as though you were in your own world. Your dark hair fell effortlessly over your shoulders, and the understated elegance of your dress caught his eye. Not flashy, not trying too hard.

Then, in one brief, perfect moment, you brushed against him.

The light contact jolted him from his thoughts, and before he could even react, you turned, eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Your voice, soft and clear, carried the unmistakable lilt of a French accent.

Charles’s world tilted as your eyes met his. He wasn’t used to this—the sudden quiet that seemed to fill the room, as though all the noise had fallen away in your presence. And yet, here you were, pulling him into that stillness.

You didn’t look at him the way people usually did. There was no spark of recognition, no polite nod that said, I know who you are. Just calm, curious eyes, waiting for a response.

Charles cleared his throat, his usual confidence faltering. “Yes… sorry, I—”

“Are you alright?” you asked, a faint smile playing at your lips, almost teasing.

He couldn’t help but laugh softly, surprised by how easily you handled the situation. Handled him. That never happened to Charles Leclerc. People usually fumbled over their words, especially in places like this where Formula One drivers were practically worshipped. But you? You were treating him like he was just another guy in a suit, standing in your way.

“I’m… Charles,” he managed, extending his hand automatically.

You glanced at his hand, but instead of shaking it, you smiled politely and looked past him, scanning the corridor. “Nice to meet you, Charles. But I really need to find the bathroom before I get even more lost in here.”

And just like that, you were leaving. The most baffling part? You still had no idea who he was.

“Uh, it’s just down that corridor to the right,” he said, voice a bit steadier now but still trailing after you as you moved away.

“Thanks.” You shot him one last glance, smiled briefly, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving him standing there with an unfamiliar feeling settling in his chest.

Charles was used to attention. But this? This was different. A fleeting encounter, barely lasting seconds, yet it had left something behind he couldn’t quite shake. You’d treated him like anyone else. Not a celebrity, not a driver—just another person. And that intrigued him more than anything.

With a sigh, Charles turned back towards the bar, trying to push the thought of you out of his mind.

But minutes later, back at the table with Arthur and the others, his thoughts kept drifting. He couldn’t shake the memory of you, couldn’t help but glance at the entrance now and then, half hoping, half expecting to see you again.

And then, there you were.

You moved through the crowd with a quiet confidence, your head held high, walking straight towards the table. Charles’s pulse quickened as you drew closer, your gaze sweeping across the group until it landed on him.

Jade noticed you first, her face lighting up. “Darling! There you are!” She jumped up, pulling you in for a quick hug.

Charles watched in amusement, barely concealing a smirk. You hadn’t recognised him yet, still oblivious to the fact that you’d just met him.

You sat beside Jade, and Arthur leaned over, gesturing towards Charles. “I don’t think you’ve met Charles here, have you?” His grin was wide, completely unaware of the encounter that had already unfolded.

You glanced his way, and for a split second, something flickered in your eyes. But you kept your expression composed, only hesitating for a moment before replying smoothly.

“No, I don’t think I have.”

Charles leaned forward, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. You were good. Playing it off like the two of you hadn’t just crossed paths minutes ago. The fact that you weren’t acknowledging it only made him more curious.

He extended his hand again, this time with a knowing look in his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you replied, your gaze meeting his directly, a glint of challenge flickering there.

Arthur, still oblivious to the undercurrent between you two, continued on casually. “Charles’s been in Monaco as long as you. Just got back from testing in Italy.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Testing?”

“He’s a Formula One driver,” Jade added, glancing between you and Charles.

Charles didn’t take his eyes off you. He saw the moment of realisation in your eyes, just the slightest widening before you regained your composure. But he caught it. You’d finally connected the dots.

You recovered gracefully, your voice smooth and unaffected. “I guess I’ve been too busy to follow sports.”

Charles let out a low chuckle. You were definitely good at this game. And the best part? You weren’t going to make it easy for him.

“That’s what makes it interesting,” he replied, his gaze steady on you.

Jade quickly pulled your attention to something else, and Charles watched as you turned away, part of him disappointed, but another part relieved. It gave him a moment to take you in fully, to process what had just happened. You hadn’t recognised him—not as a Formula One driver, not as anyone of importance. You’d smiled, thanked him, and carried on.

As the conversation at the table continued, Charles found his thoughts drifting back to you, glancing your way more often than he should. There was something about the way you carried yourself—an effortless kind of allure, unpretentious and completely disarming.

He realised he’d been too quiet when Arthur nudged him, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Charlie, you alright?” Arthur raised an eyebrow, his tone curious.

Charles blinked, forcing a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Just thinking.”

Arthur chuckled, clearly unconvinced. “About your next race or something?”

Charles’s eyes flicked back to you, now laughing at something Jade had said, completely unaware of the fact that you were occupying his mind.

“Actually,” Charles said, lowering his voice so only Arthur could hear, “I was wondering if you could give me her number.”

Arthur looked puzzled. “Her? Really?”

Charles rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, she’s... different. I’d like to get to know her.”

"Alright, I get it," Arthur said, his voice low enough so the others couldn’t hear. He glanced over at you, then back at Charles, his smile fading into something more serious. "But no can do, mate. She’s Jade’s best friend."

Charles blinked. "What’s that got to do with anything?"

Arthur shrugged, his grin returning. "It means I’m not getting involved. If you want her number, you’re going to have to ask her yourself."

Charles felt a jolt of panic surge through him. "Ask her myself?" The words came out louder than intended, and he quickly lowered his voice when you glanced in their direction. He cleared his throat, trying to appear nonchalant. "I mean, you can’t just—"

"Nope," Arthur cut him off, his expression completely unyielding. "I’m not risking it. Do you know how long it took me to win over Jade? If I mess this up by playing matchmaker and it doesn’t work out, I’m screwed."

Charles groaned inwardly. Arthur’s girlfriend, Jade, was lovely, but he had to admit—Arthur had a point. The last thing he wanted was to stir up any drama, especially with you being Jade’s best friend. But still, the thought of approaching you directly made his pulse quicken.

"You’re really not going to help me out here?" Charles asked, trying one last time.

Arthur grinned like he was thoroughly enjoying the sight of a Formula One driver getting flustered over a girl. "Not a chance. But look at it this way—you’re Charles Leclerc, mate. You can handle it."

Charles stared at him, deadpan. "You realise I drive at 300 kilometres an hour for a living, right? This is way more terrifying."

Arthur burst out laughing, slapping him on the back. "Good luck, mate."

Charles watched as Arthur leaned back in his chair, clearly done with the conversation. He couldn’t believe it. Ask her myself. He glanced at you again, and his heart did that strange, unfamiliar thing where it skipped a beat. This was insane.

But there was no way around it.

He took a deep breath and downed the rest of his drink, trying to steel his nerves. The next race was nothing compared to this. Alright, he thought, just go over there and act normal. But even as he thought it, he knew ‘normal’ was the last thing he’d be able to pull off around you.

How had this become the hardest thing he’d ever done?

charles_leclerc

liked by arthurleclerc, jade_distinguinn, carlossainz55 and 986,583 others

celebrating 24!

*tap to load more comments*

userone: my fav grid siblings

usertwo: oh my who are the girls at the end?

arthurleclerc: merci frero

userthree: i want to know what a leclerc party is like

jade_distinguinn: @/yourusername we got put on blast in that final picture

arthurleclerc: @/charles_leclerc eyes

jadedistinguinn: what?

arthurleclerc: nothing mon amour

userfour: i wish i was there

userfive: happy birthday arthur!

yourusername: oh god i look awful

charles_leclerc: i think you look quite the opposite actually

texts between jade and arthur

jade's apartment

You were lounging on the sofa, the late afternoon light filtering through the blinds, casting soft, golden streaks across Jade’s apartment. She was curled up in the armchair across from you, scrolling through her phone and sipping tea. It was one of those rare, lazy afternoons where nothing was pressing, and the air was filled with the comforting hum of nothingness. A perfect break.

“So, what are you and Arthur up to tonight?” you asked absently, flicking through the channels without much interest.

Jade glanced up, shrugging. “Not sure yet. He mentioned something about Charles going to England tomorrow for testing, so we might just go out for dinner and come back unless he wants to go and see Charles.”

Before you could respond, there was a soft knock at the door.

“That’ll be him,” Jade said, setting her cup down and stretching.

You got up to answer the door, opening it to find Arthur standing there, a familiar cheeky grin on his face.

"Alright, ladies?" he said, stepping into the apartment with the ease of someone who's done it a hundred times before. He gave Jade a quick kiss on the cheek before plopping himself down beside her on the armchair, completely at home.

"Hey, Arthur," you said, sitting back down on the sofa. "Heard Charles’s off to England tomorrow? Are you going to see him tonight?"

“Yeah,” Arthur says, leaning back and draping his arm across the back of Jade’s chair. “Got some testing to do, nothing major, just a quick day trip, so we’ll be home tonight.”

“Must be exhausting,” you commented, more out of politeness than anything. Formula One life sounded glamorous, but you couldn’t imagine the constant travel.

Arthur chuckled. “Yeah, he’s got a crazy schedule, that one. Actually…” He hesitated for a moment, shooting a glance at Jade that you didn’t catch, then continued, “Charles is looking for someone to dogsit while he’s away. Just for the day, really. His usual sitter fell through.”

You blinked, surprised. “Charles has a dog?”

“Yeah, a small dachshund. Leo. Sweetest thing you’ve ever seen,” Arthur said, his voice casual but you missed the slight edge of anticipation that lingered beneath his tone.

You glanced at Jade, who was suddenly very interested in her tea, and shrugged. “I could do it. I’ve not got any plans tomorrow anyway, and I’ve been wanting an excuse to get out for a walk. Might be nice to have some company.”

For a brief moment, neither Jade nor Arthur said anything. It was like they’d frozen, and you were about to ask if you’d said something weird when Arthur cleared his throat.

“Yeah? That’d be brilliant,” he said, flashing a quick smile at Jade before looking back at you. “Charles will appreciate that. Leo’s great, really. You’ll get along.”

You nodded, thinking it was no big deal. “Happy to help. I love dogs.”

Jade set her cup down a little too carefully, and you missed the look she shared with Arthur—a quick, knowing glance, a barely-there smile. It was the kind of look that was exchanged between people who were clearly up to something, but you were oblivious, already thinking about what you’d need to bring for Leo’s day out.

Arthur leaned forward, grinning now, clearly pleased with how smoothly things were going. “I’ll let Charles know. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and drop you off at his place?”

“Perfect,” you said, pulling your knees up to your chest and settling back into the cushions. “I’ll make sure Leo’s well looked after.”

Arthur and Jade shared another glance, but you were too busy scrolling through your phone now, thinking about where you’ll take Leo for a walk. Maybe the park nearby?

Jade stretched, standing up and nudging Arthur’s arm. “We should probably get going, yeah? Need to go pick something up from your mother’s salon.” she said, clearly making something up on the spot.

Arthur jumped to his feet, playing along smoothly. “Right, yeah, can’t forget about that.”

You waved them off, entirely unaware of the little conspiracy brewing right under your nose. “See you tomorrow, then.”

As they left, Jade turned back, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’ll love Leo, trust me.”

“Looking forward to it,” you called back, smiling.

yourusername

liked by jade_distinguinn, arthurleclerc, charles_leclerc and 3,853 others

dog sitting duties

*tap to load more comments*

userone: omg is that leo??

usertwo: chat if they date, my glock is finna be locked and loaded

userthree: is that charles' place??

arthurleclerc: my nephew is so adorable

userfour: i want to be her so god damn bad

userfive: i must have been the worst sort of person in my past life WHY IS THIS NOT ME

jade_distinguinn: cutest ball of fluff ever

usersix: parents?

charles_leclerc: thank you for this

charles' apartment, late at night

Charles dragged his suitcase behind him, feeling the familiar ache of travel settle into his muscles. The testing had gone well, but the flight back from England had drained him more than usual. All he could think about was getting home, maybe grabbing a quick bite to eat, and collapsing into bed.

As he unlocked the door and stepped inside, something felt off. Normally, Leo would be at the door within seconds, his tail wagging like crazy, eager to greet him after any amount of time apart. But today, there was no thundering of paws, no excited whining. The house was still, unusually quiet.

“Leo?” he called out softly, frowning as he dropped his bag by the entrance.

No response.

His concern grew as he walked further into the living room, the sight before him making him stop in his tracks. There, curled up on the sofa, was Leo—and beside him, fast asleep, was you. Your head was resting on a cushion, and Leo’s small dachshund head was draped lazily over your legs. Both of you looked completely peaceful, completely unaware of the world.

Charles blinked, feeling something in him soften at the sight. He’d forgotten for a moment that Arthur had mentioned you’d offered to look after Leo while he was away. Seeing you there, though, sprawled out on his sofa, completely at ease with Leo beside you, was… unexpected. But in the best possible way.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he quietly stepped closer. Leo’s ears flicked up as he noticed Charles, but the dog didn’t move, simply blinked sleepily before resting his head back on you, clearly not ready to leave his comfortable spot. Charles chuckled under his breath. Traitor.

His eyes moved back to you. You were still in your casual clothes, one arm draped across your chest, your breathing soft and steady. He felt his chest tighten, this strange warmth creeping up on him as he stood there watching. He could see why Leo hadn’t come rushing to the door—you were good company, after all.

Charles sighed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. As much as he wanted to crash right there on the sofa himself, beside you, he knew you’d be more comfortable in a bed. He hesitated for a second before moving closer, carefully reaching down and gently sliding one arm under your legs and the other under your shoulders. You stirred slightly as he lifted you, but didn’t wake, your head leaning into his chest as he carried you through the apartment to his bedroom.

You felt light in his arms, your face peaceful as he laid you down on the bed, tucking the covers around you carefully. His heart gave an unfamiliar lurch as he stepped back, watching for just a moment as you settled into the blankets, still fast asleep.

Charles smiled softly to himself, shaking his head as he quietly left the room, closing the door behind him. He glanced back at the sofa where Leo had curled up, already resuming his nap. “Looks like I’ll be taking your spot tonight, mate.”

text between yn and jade

charles' apartment, following morning

The first thing you felt was warmth. Your body was cocooned in softness, the kind of comfort that made you want to sink deeper into sleep. But something didn’t feel right. You blinked your eyes open slowly, expecting to see your familiar surroundings—the sofa, Leo, maybe even your shoes kicked off somewhere on the floor—but instead, you were in a bed.

You sat up quickly, blinking against the morning light streaming through a nearby window. Your heart skipped a beat as you took in the room around you. This definitely wasn’t your apartment. The walls were unfamiliar, the duvet softer than yours, and the faint scent of something cooking wafted through the air. Panic settled in your chest.

The events of yesterday start rushing back. Leo. Charles. You’d agreed to dogsit while Charles was in England for testing. You must have fallen asleep on the sofa—but how did I end up in bed?

Oh no. Did Charles put me here?

You felt a rush of mortification as the realisation hit. He must have carried you. Carried you. Heat rose in your cheeks as you glanced around the room, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were lying in his bed. His bed!

Throwing off the covers, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood up, running a hand through your hair. You didn’t even know what time it was, but it felt later than it should be. God, how long have I been asleep?

You headed towards the door, trying to shake off your embarrassment as you stepped out of the bedroom and made your way into the main part of the apartment. The smell of food grew stronger, and as you rounded the corner, you froze.

Charles was standing in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, and flipping something in a frying pan. His back was to you, but there was no missing the fact that he was shirtless—completely shirtless. The morning light caught on his tanned skin, highlighting the defined muscles of his back and shoulders. Your brain momentarily short-circuited, and you stood there like an idiot, staring.

Oh God, this is so much worse than I thought.

He turned around, catching sight of you standing there, and smiled, completely unfazed. “Morning.”

You blinked, feeling the heat rush to your face again as you tried to form coherent words. “Uh… morning.”

He set the pan down and wiped his hands on a nearby dish towel, seemingly unaware of your internal struggle. “I hope you slept alright. Sorry if I startled you by moving you to the bed, but I thought you’d be more comfortable.”

Your heart was still racing, and you were pretty sure you were about three shades of red at this point. You fumbled for a response, trying to keep your eyes from drifting back to his very toned, very bare torso. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to just… fall asleep on your sofa like that.”

Charles chuckled, clearly amused by your flustered state. “No problem at all. You looked comfortable, and Leo clearly wasn’t moving anytime soon.” He nods towards the dog, who was lying by the kitchen, tail thumping lazily against the floor.

You let out a breath, still feeling a bit mortified but tried to compose yourself. “I just… I didn’t realise I was that tired.”

“No harm done,” he said, waving off your apology. “I’m actually glad you stayed. Saved me from dealing with an overly energetic dog first thing in the morning. He pawed at your door to join you last night and only came out 20 minutes ago, all calm.”

You managed a small laugh, feeling slightly less awkward now, though your eyes kept darting to his chest before you forced them back up to his face. Focus.

Charles seemed to notice your discomfort, his smile softening. “I was just making some breakfast. Do you want to join me?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah, the thing people eat at the start of the day?” he said sarcastically and casual, as if this whole situation was perfectly normal. “I’m making eggs and toast, nothing fancy. But you’re welcome to stay.”

Your stomach betrayed you by rumbling softly, and you realise you hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. Despite the lingering embarrassment, the idea of sitting down with him, maybe getting to know him better, didn’t sound half bad.

You nodded, feeling yourself relax a little. “Yeah, okay. I could eat.”

Charles grinned and gestured to the kitchen island. “Great. Grab a seat, I’ll get you a plate.”

yourusername

liked by arthurleclec, charles_leclerc, jade_distinguinn and 33,539 others

"nothing fancy" and "just eggs and toast"

*tap to load more comments*

userone: LEOOOOOOO

usertwo: that last pic gIRL??

jade_distinguinn: oh no the charles fans found you

yourusername: fuck

jade_distinguinn: good luck

userthree: who is she omg?

userfour: i think she's arthur's girlfriend's bestfriend from paris?

yourusername: yo that is insane, how did you find out i'm from paris

arthurleclerc: i'm sorry for what's about to happen

yourusername: THERE IS WORSE??!?

userfive: she is gorgeous

usersix: idk who i want more

charles_leclerc: if you were impressed by this, wait until you see what dinner consits of

yourusername: are you inviting me to dinner?

charles_leclerc: only if you say yes

yourusername: yes

userseven: WE ARE WITNISSING HISTORY

twitter

charles' apartment, one night

The evening sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the apartment. Charles had insisted on cooking dinner for the both of you, despite your half-hearted protests. Now, the smell of something delicious—a mix of garlic, herbs, and roasted vegetables—filled the space, making your stomach rumble.

You were seated at the small dining table, watching as Charles moved around the kitchen with surprising ease. He wasn’t wearing a shirt again, but this time you’d had a little more time to get used to it. It wasn’t helping your concentration, though. Every time he turned to grab something or stir a pot, your eyes seemed to betray you, drifting toward the defined muscles of his back, the curve of his arms as he worked.

He caught you staring once or twice, shooting you a quick, knowing smile, which only made you look away, cheeks burning.

“Alright,” he said finally, bringing over two plates and setting them down on the table. “Hope you like pasta.”

You glanced at the dish in front of you—perfectly cooked spaghetti, tossed with olive oil, garlic, and roasted tomatoes. “It looks amazing,” you said, genuinely impressed.

He sat across from you, pouring some wine into your glass with a teasing smile. “Thought I’d try to impress you.”

You laugh, taking a sip of the wine. “Consider me impressed. You didn’t strike me as the cooking type.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, smiling lazily. “What, just because I drive fast cars for a living, I can’t handle a kitchen?”

“Well, yeah,” you tease, twirling some pasta around your fork. “It doesn’t really scream ‘domestic life,’ you know?”

He chuckled at that, but there was a soft, almost thoughtful look in his eyes as he watched you. “Fair enough. But there’s more to life than cars, you know.”

You take a bite of the pasta—perfectly seasoned, of course—and nod. “I’ll admit, you’re a man of surprises.”

As the conversation flows, you start to relax, the initial awkwardness of the morning fading away. You tell him about your time in Paris, about how you’ve been studying film and journalism at university. Charles seems genuinely interested, leaning forward slightly as you talk.

“So, you’re a filmmaker then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Hopefully one day,” you say with a laugh. “I still have a year left at uni. Right now, it’s more learning than making.”

Charles takes a sip of his wine, considering. “What kind of films do you want to make?”

You pause, twirling the wine glass in your hands. “I think... films that make people feel something. You know? I want to tell stories that resonate, that make people look at the world a little differently. Journalism’s the same for me. It’s all about storytelling.”

He watches you as you speak, his gaze intense but soft, like he’s taking in every word. “That’s... really cool,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I think the world could use more of that.”

You smile, feeling a strange warmth spread through you—not just from the wine, but from the way he looks at you, like he’s genuinely interested in who you are, not just the surface-level stuff. “Thanks. I leave tomorrow, though, back to Paris to finish my term.”

There’s a brief silence, and for a moment, the lightness of the conversation shifts. Charles sets his glass down and leans forward, his eyes not leaving yours. “You don’t have to go tomorrow, you know.”

You blink, surprised. “What?”

He shrugs, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I mean, what’s a few more days? Stay a little longer. We can get to know each other better.” His tone is light, but there’s something deeper in his eyes—a hint of something more serious, more intent.

You hesitate, your mind racing. Stay longer? You’d planned to leave tomorrow, get back to your routine, your studies… But the way he’s looking at you now, the thought of leaving suddenly feels less appealing.

“I—” you start, but Charles interrupts, his voice dropping a little lower, his gaze never wavering.

“Look, I know we just met, but… there’s something here, right? Between us?”

The words catch you off guard, and your heart skips a beat. You weren’t imagining it, then—this pull between you two, the way your pulse quickened whenever he was close, the way your eyes kept finding him without meaning to.

“I don’t know,” you say softly, feeling your heart race. “Maybe…”

He stands up then, walking around the table slowly, his eyes locked on yours. Every step closer makes your breath catch in your throat, the room seeming to shrink as the distance between you disappears.

When he’s standing in front of you, he reaches out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so that you’re looking right into his eyes. “Stay,” he says again, his voice almost a whisper now. “Just a little longer.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you meet his gaze, your heart caught between indecision and desire. You open your mouth to say something—anything—but before you can, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is soft at first, almost tentative, but then it deepens, heat flooding your body as you feel his hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer. Your hands move instinctively, finding their way to his chest, the warmth of his skin under your palms sending a thrill through you.

The rest of the world falls away, leaving only the feeling of his lips moving against yours, the taste of wine still lingering, his breath warm and steady. When you finally pull back, your forehead resting against his, you’re both breathing a little heavier, your heart pounding in your chest.

He looks down at you, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your knees feel weak. “Stay,” he whispers again, his voice rougher now, more urgent.

And suddenly, leaving feels like the last thing you want to do.

You stare up into Charles’s eyes, still catching your breath from the intensity of the kiss. His forehead is still pressed gently against yours, and the weight of the moment is thick in the air, like the world’s holding its breath along with you.

His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly along your skin. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, his chest rising and falling a little faster than usual, mirroring your own heartbeat. He leans in again, his lips just a whisper away from yours, and his voice is low, thick with desire.

“Say yes,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. “Stay, just a little longer.”

You swallow, your pulse pounding in your ears, your body still buzzing from the kiss. It feels impossible to think straight with him this close, with the way his touch sets your skin on fire. But then, as his fingers slide down the side of your neck, his lips just barely grazing yours, you make your decision.

“Yes,” you whisper.

His lips crash into yours again, more intense this time, like the word had unleashed something in him. His hands slide down your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. You gasp into the kiss, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as the world blurs around you. The only thing you can focus on is him—his warmth, his touch, the way his mouth moves against yours like he can’t get enough.

Charles backs you gently against the edge of the dining table, his lips never leaving yours, and you feel the solid wood press against the small of your back. His hands find your waist again, lifting you effortlessly onto the table. You gasp as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours, and you feel every inch of him—strong, solid, and warm.

Your hands slide over his bare chest, feeling the taut muscles under your fingertips all over again. He groans softly against your lips, the sound sending a thrill through your entire body. The kiss deepens, more urgent now, and you feel his hands wander—one slipping up your back, the other gripping your thigh, pulling you even closer.

It’s overwhelming, this rush of heat, of wanting. Your heart pounds harder with every movement, every brush of his lips. His mouth moves from yours, trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering closed as you let yourself get lost in the sensation.

Then, just when you think you might drown in the feeling, he pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against yours again. His hands are still on you, holding you close, like he’s afraid to let go.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathes, his voice husky and low.

You smile, breathless and still dizzy from the kiss. “I think I might.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and intense, searching yours. There’s a softness in his expression now, something deeper that makes your heart flutter all over again. “So, you’re staying?”

You nod, unable to tear your eyes away from him. “Yes. I’m staying.”

The smile that spreads across his face is slow, but it lights up his entire expression, making something inside you melt. He leans in again, pressing one last soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back and gently brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Good,” he whispers, his voice low and full of promise. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

yourusername