#her and blade are in first class

[lorelune]

LORE?

vic the things this woman is going to make you do. you might as well be her second dog. just a more spoiled one with a shinier collar <3

[presiding]

you'll never guess which level we're up to in this dishonored 2 rewrite

[ryanthel0ser]

Looking at all of my favorite media and fixations over the years, how obvious is it that my first anime was Kill La Kill?

[pyr0cue]

I hope my professor knows that I choose to research the saw films not just because I love them but also because I hate her <3<3

[shy9-29]

I actually need a two faced jake where at school hes a sore loser versus when he’s alone with yn—complete menace. Biggest cocky flirt out there. At first, yn didn’t know much about jake until he bent her over and fucked the living shit outta her. I’m just down bad for Jake ok.

Two Faced, One Heart: Who is Sim Jake?

심재윤 x reader

୨ৎ Two versions of Jake Sim—one the shy, clumsy boy who spills his coffee at school, the other the filthy-mouthed menace who had you shaking in his lap just hours before class—and somehow, you’re hopelessly addicted to both. ✉️ wc. 13.1k ⋆˙⟡ ⚠️ warnings : oral (both received), begging, teasing, cream pie, minor slut shamming, bullying, pet names, making out, swearing, harsh language, haur pulling, unprotected sex

📝: thats so fucking hot omg? I need jake so bad rn it’s not even funny

mndi · req open

———

The words come out before you can stop them.

“Do you think I could get Jake to fall for me?”

Your friends stare at you like you just confessed to having a crush on the cafeteria salad bar.

“Jake Sim?” Min gapes. “The guy who thanked the printer for working?” Jisoo raises a brow. “His Instagram only has twelve followers. Twelve. One of them is his dog’s account.” You try not to laugh. “Okay, but he’s kind of… sweet?” Min scoffs. “He wears socks with sandals.” You shrug. “Maybe I like that.” You don’t tell them that two nights ago, Jake had you bent over your tiny dorm desk, fingers tangled in your hair, voice low and smug in your ear while you struggled to stay quiet. Because no one would believe you.

Not when the Jake they know fumbles over his words in group projects and blushes when people look at him too long.

But you’ve seen the other side. The one who locks his door with a click and flips like a switch. You see him again the next day in class, right on time as always. Same oversized hoodie, same messy hair. He sits two rows behind you and doesn’t say a word.

You don’t look at him. Not really. But you feel him watching you. The weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades. Like he knows exactly what you’re thinking about. Then, when you stand to leave, he brushes past you. Just a little too close. His fingers graze the small of your back—light, subtle, hidden. But it sends heat shooting down your spine. You catch up to him by the vending machines, just outside the library. He’s pretending to debate between orange juice and sparkling water.

You stop beside him. “Healthy choices.” Jake doesn’t look at you. “You wore that lip gloss again.” Your lips curve. “Maybe I like the flavor.” He reaches forward, selects a drink without thinking, and pays. His voice drops, just loud enough for you to hear. “I like it better off my tongue.” Your breath hitches. A pair of students walk past, one of them waving vaguely in Jake’s direction. He nods back with that usual shy smile, all harmless and mild-mannered.

The second they’re gone, his hand brushes against yours, fingers curling briefly around yours before letting go. You’re not sure your heart knows how to keep a steady rhythm around him anymore.

You didn’t know when it started—maybe it was the way Jake always sat in the back of class, quiet and unassuming. Or the fact that, every time you glanced at him, he never seemed to notice. He’d scribble in his notebook, the only sound in the room his pencil moving across the paper. You thought he was weird at first. Too quiet. Too in the background. The kind of person everyone else ignored. But there was something about him you couldn’t shake. The way his glasses would slide down his nose when he concentrated, or how he always wore the same hoodie, despite the weather.

The first time you spoke to him was after class. Your notes were mixed up, and you needed help with something—so you took a deep breath, made your way to him, and asked.

He looked up, startled. His cheeks went pink, and he mumbled something about being “kind of bad at explaining things,” but he agreed to help. That’s how it started. He was awkward. Shy. And he was perfect. You thought about him more than you should have, even as your friends teased you about how he was “just a soft loser” or “too quiet to ever be interesting.” But something about the way he treated you—how he never rushed you, never pushed, always listened—had you intrigued.

Then, the texts started coming. Small things at first—like a picture of a puppy he saw that reminded him of you. Or a random meme about books you both liked. They came at odd times, too. Late at night. In the middle of the day. And you found yourself looking forward to them, even though you knew he wasn’t exactly the “popular” guy at school.

One night, after a study session that stretched long into the evening, you both found yourselves alone in the library. It was just the two of you, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights above, the scent of paper and coffee between you. He looked at you like he wanted to say something, but he never did. Instead, he helped you pack up your things, careful not to touch you too much, but his fingers brushed yours when he handed you your coat. You thought you imagined it, the little spark that shot through your hand, but the way his eyes flicked to yours said otherwise.

“Uh, good night,” he mumbled, voice hushed. You smiled, feeling your heartbeat in your throat. “Good night, Jake.” You didn’t know it then, but that would be the night it all started to shift.

The next few weeks were a blur of fleeting glances, stolen moments. You’d catch him looking at you in class, only for him to quickly look away. Sometimes, he’d find reasons to walk the same path as you, his steps light, as if testing the water between you. And each time, the air between you would grow heavier, electric, like something unsaid was hanging in the space between your words. It wasn’t until one rainy afternoon that things finally tipped over the edge. You were on your way to the library when you spotted him standing under the awning of a building, looking at his phone. His hoodie was pulled up over his head, and he seemed to be oblivious to the fact that the rain was starting to soak through the sleeves.

“Jake!” you called out, jogging over to him. “You’re gonna get soaked.” He looked up in surprise. “Oh, uh… I was just trying to figure out when the rain’s supposed to stop.” He smiled sheepishly. “I should’ve checked the forecast before heading out.” You shook your head, already pulling your umbrella out. “Come on. You’re coming with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re not standing out here getting drenched. You’re walking me to the library.”

He hesitated, then smiled, a soft, shy grin. “Okay.”

You shared the umbrella, walking side by side. The world outside was blurred by the rain, everything muted except for the sound of your shoes on the pavement and the occasional brush of his elbow against yours. It felt casual, but something about it—something about him—made your heart race in a way you couldn’t explain.

When you reached the library, you both stood under the awning for a second, the warmth of the building just inside. You were both still close, the air between you thick with unspoken things.

And that was when it happened.

Without saying a word, Jake leaned in just enough to let his breath ghost against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “If I walked you to class every day, would you still act like I’m invisible?” he whispered.

Your heart skipped, and you didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t know what to say, or what he was really offering. But you knew, in that moment, everything between you had shifted.

And you weren’t sure you were ready for it.

But you wanted to be.

You’d never seen Jake without his glasses.

The guy everyone knew—shy, reserved, a little awkward—was always framed by those round lenses. It was part of his quiet charm, the way they softened his features, how he hid behind them like a shield. No one really saw the guy underneath, the guy who barely made waves, who faded into the background of every class.

Until today.

You hadn’t expected this when you got the text. “Roommate’s out. You wanna come over?”

It wasn’t anything crazy. It could be a quiet hangout, maybe some late-night studying. But there was a strange feeling building in your stomach, something telling you that tonight might be different.

When you knocked on Jake’s door, you barely had time to brace yourself before it swung open.

And there he was.

Jake, standing there, no glasses. He was wearing contacts, and the difference hit you immediately. His eyes, normally hidden behind lenses, were now wide open, sharp, clear. They looked darker somehow, and for the first time, you saw something in them that wasn’t there before. Confidence. A kind of intensity that threw you off guard.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice smooth, low—nothing like the awkward, stuttering Jake you were used to.

“Hi,” you replied, unsure of what to say, suddenly aware of how close he was standing.

Jake stepped aside, letting you into the room. You took a quick look around—same dorm, but the vibe was different. The room was tidier than you expected, clean, almost meticulous. No clutter, no random piles of clothes or books. It felt… like a space where Jake had control, where things were on his terms.

“You can sit wherever,” Jake said, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. His posture was relaxed, but there was an edge to it now, something about the way he stood that was different from the usual quiet guy you saw on campus.

You sat on the edge of his bed, but you didn’t know where to look. His eyes were still on you, and the way he watched you made the air between you feel thick, charged.

He took his time, like he wasn’t in any rush. “You didn’t expect this, did you?” Jake’s voice was quieter now, almost like he was daring you to admit it.

You shifted slightly, trying to act casual, but it was hard. “No. I didn’t think you’d be like this.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of shy, soft smile you were used to. It was different. “Like what?”

You hesitated, but then shrugged. “I don’t know. More… sure of yourself. Less… nervous.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, and there was a flash of something dark in his eyes. “You think I’m nervous?”

You nodded slowly, testing him. “Yeah. I mean, you’ve always been… kind of quiet.”

Jake took a step closer, his expression unreadable now, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m not shy. Just don’t feel the need to put on a show for anyone. And I don’t think you’re stupid enough to believe I’m some clueless guy.”

You stayed silent, suddenly aware of how close he was now, how his presence filled up the space between you.

He was different tonight. No hesitation. No awkward stutter. Just… Jake. But the version of him that you never saw—sharp, self-assured, and unbothered by anything or anyone around him.

“Want to see how different I am?” he asked, his voice lowering, the question hanging in the air.

You barely had time to process before his fingers brushed your arm, the simple touch making your heart race. And just like that, you realized you weren’t ready for the change that was happening between you—but you were already in too deep to turn back.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you agreed to come over, but it wasn’t this.

Jake leaned against the wall in front of you, and for the first time, you felt a shift in the way he held himself, like there was something between you that wasn’t there before. His gaze didn’t flicker away from yours, and his posture was different. He was comfortable—too comfortable, and it made the room feel smaller, hotter.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Jake beat you to it, his voice low and steady. “You don’t look at me the same way you used to.”

Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

His smirk deepened. “You’re looking at me like you’re seeing me for the first time. Like I’m not just the quiet guy in the back of class.”

You tried to ignore the way his words made your pulse pick up speed. He was right, and it unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. The Jake you knew was always reserved, always hiding behind his quiet act. But the Jake in front of you now? He was different. More sure of himself. More… commanding.

Before you could find the right words, Jake pushed off the wall and closed the distance between you. He didn’t touch you at first, but you could feel the heat coming off him. You took a shallow breath, the air between you thick with tension.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

You shook your head, but you could feel the unease building in your stomach, creeping up your chest. It wasn’t nerves—it was something else. Something new. Something dangerous.

He seemed to sense it, that tiny shift in your energy, and it made him lean in closer. “You can admit it,” he whispered. “I won’t bite.”

Your lips parted slightly at the sound of his voice, thick and low. There was nothing innocent about him now. You could see it clearly. This wasn’t the guy who stumbled over his words or blushed at the slightest attention. This was a version of Jake you hadn’t been prepared for.

And now that you were seeing him—really seeing him—you weren’t sure you wanted to turn away.

Jake’s hand came up to touch your chin, his thumb brushing over your skin with purpose. He tilted your head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he was dying to solve. His touch was slow, deliberate, and it made every nerve in your body stand on edge.

“Do you like this?” he asked softly, his thumb tracing along your jawline. “Do you like seeing me like this?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you found yourself staring at him, watching how his eyes flickered with something darker, something that made your heart race in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake’s smirk only grew, and before you could react, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t a soft kiss, the kind you were used to. It wasn’t gentle or cautious. No, this was different. This was hungry. It was messy. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for this moment, like he couldn’t wait any longer. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his lips parting against yours as if he was trying to steal every breath from your lungs.

You let him. You let him pull you in, let him show you what he was capable of when there was no one around to see it.

When he pulled away, just enough to let you catch your breath, his eyes never left yours. There was something predatory in his gaze now, something that made your pulse race.

“You’ve been looking at me for a while,” Jake murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “You never thought I could be like this, did you?”

You swallowed hard, your mind scrambling for something to say, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

Jake smiled, that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll show you just how different I can be.”

And that was when you realized—there was no going back now.

Jake’s lips hovered just inches from yours, his breath mixing with yours, the tension in the air making every nerve in your body feel alive. His eyes were locked onto yours, and you could see the way he was waiting for you—waiting for you to decide how far you wanted to go, how far you were willing to let things shift.

You had never seen him like this. The quiet guy you knew had been replaced by someone far more confident, far more intense. His hand was still resting at the back of your neck, and the way his thumb traced small circles against your skin sent a shiver down your spine.

He didn’t kiss you again right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you, watching for any sign of hesitation, any sign that you weren’t ready. His thumb grazed your jaw again, this time a little firmer, almost as if he was marking his territory, making sure you knew he was in control now.

And then, without warning, he pressed his lips against yours again—but this time, the kiss was slower. It was deeper, more deliberate, as if he was savoring it. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

You tried to breathe, but it was hard. It felt like the world was closing in around you, leaving only the two of you in that small, charged space. You couldn’t focus on anything except the way his lips moved against yours, the way his hands shifted, each touch sparking a new wave of heat in your body.

He pulled away just enough to speak, his voice low, gravelly. “I told you… I’m not the guy you thought I was.”

You nodded, your throat tight, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. You could barely process what was happening. Everything about this felt different, so different from anything you’d imagined. The shy, awkward Jake had been replaced by someone who wasn’t afraid to take what he wanted.

His lips trailed down to your neck, and the soft press of his mouth against your skin made your breath catch in your throat. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands never straying far from you. The warmth of his touch spread through you, and you felt your body responding in ways you hadn’t expected.

“Jake,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper as his lips traced along your collarbone.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with something primal. “Tell me what you want baby?” His voice was barely audible, but it cut through the fog in your mind.

You didn’t know how to answer, not with words. You had never been this close to him, not like this, not with the air crackling between you like it was about to catch fire. The way the pet name slipped so easily from his mouth made your pussy clench around nothing. But the look in his eyes, the intensity of his gaze, made something stir inside you.

Without thinking, you leaned in again, your lips pressing against his. This time, there was no hesitation. You kissed him back, a little harder this time, both groaning into the kiss as if you were trying to prove something—prove that you were ready for whatever came next.

Jake didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands slid lower, around your waist, pulling you even closer. You felt the heat of his body against yours, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands were firm, confident as they explored the curve of your back, the tension in your muscles, the way your body responded to him. 

Every inch of space between you seemed to vanish, and soon there was nothing but the heat, the closeness, and the feeling of his hands on your skin.

For the first time, you weren’t sure if you were in control anymore—or if you ever had been.

Jake pulled away from the kiss, his breath ragged as he looked at you with that same intense gaze. There was something in his eyes—an unspoken challenge, a promise of something you couldn’t quite yet name. You could feel the tension building, heavy in the air between you, thickening with each second that passed.

He reached up slowly, his fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, and your heart skipped a beat as he pulled it over his head, revealing the smooth skin of his chest. The movement was casual, effortless, like he’d done it a thousand times before. His muscles shifted under his skin, the soft light of the room catching the contours of his body, and it was like everything about him felt real now—far more than you ever thought.

You couldn’t help but stare, your gaze tracing over the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. There was no trace of the shy, reserved guy from before. Instead, he stood there—bare, exposed—looking at you with a calm confidence that made your pulse race.

Jake didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes spoke volumes as they flickered to yours, waiting for you to respond, to make the next move.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you took in the sight of him, suddenly feeling a shift, a hunger building within you that mirrored his own. It was a quiet power, a tension you could feel in your very bones.

Jake’s eyes never left yours as you stood there, frozen for a moment. The air felt thick, charged, as if time had slowed down, and the weight of his gaze made everything around you fade into the background.

He stepped toward you, his chest still bare, his body moving with a kind of fluid confidence that made your pulse spike. Each step he took seemed to make the space between you shrink, until you were once again within inches of him. He didn’t rush. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring every moment.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice low, steady. The question hung in the air, but there was no hesitation in his tone—only the calm certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted.

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, though words seemed impossible to find. The only sound in the room was the quickening rhythm of your breath, mingling with his.

Jake’s hand reached for the hem of your shirt, his fingers grazing your skin as he lifted it, gently pulling it over your head. You let him, your heart pounding in your chest, your skin heating under his touch. He didn’t rush, his hands tracing the curves of your body with careful attention, like he was memorizing every inch of you.

When your shirt finally joined his on the floor, he stepped back slightly to take you in, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin. His eyes darkened further, a look of quiet admiration in them, but there was something else there too—something predatory, possessive.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, the words low but full of meaning.

You could barely process what was happening, but the way he said it—like he was claiming you, and yet somehow honoring you at the same time—made your chest tighten. His hands were at your waist now, pulling you closer again, and his lips found the curve of your neck. He kissed you there softly, his mouth warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

As he kissed you, his hands moved lower, slowly, deliberately, until he was holding you, guiding you gently toward his bed. There was no rush, no urgency—just the feel of his strong hands, the weight of his body against yours, and the soft pressure of his lips as they trailed down to your collarbone.

Jake was taking his time, savoring the moments. He wanted you—he was showing you that much, but he was also letting you see a side of him that no one else got to experience.

And as he lowered you onto the bed, his lips never leaving your skin, you felt a kind of surrender that you couldn’t explain. He was confident, sure of every move he made. But so were you.

This was new. You were new.

Jake’s lips found the delicate curve of your neck, and you inhaled sharply as a wave of warmth flooded your body. His kisses were slow, teasing, each one leaving a faint, tingling trail on your skin. You could feel his breath against you, warm and steady, as he placed soft, lingering kisses along the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

His hands, still resting on your waist, tightened their grip slightly, pulling you closer to him. Every movement was deliberate, purposeful, as if he was in no rush to get anywhere, wanting to savor every moment.

“You’re such a good girl,” Jake murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough. The words sent a shiver down your spine, stirring something deep inside you. His praise, soft yet commanding, made your heart race even faster, the air between you growing thick with desire.

You couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped your lips, your body reacting to the way his voice made you feel—like you were exactly where you needed to be, like you were his.

Jake smiled against your neck, the words lingering in the air. “So good for me,” he whispered, his lips brushing the spot again. You could feel the confidence in his words, the way he was claiming the moment, claiming you. The heat that had been building between you both was undeniable now, and you knew, without a doubt, that this was no longer the shy, quiet guy from school.

This was Jake. The Jake who knew exactly what he wanted—and wasn’t afraid to take it.

The room felt smaller now, even with the space around you. The air was thick with a quiet tension, a sense of something inevitable hanging between you two. Jake was no longer standing across from you, maintaining that careful distance. He was close—too close—and it was clear that neither of you wanted to back away.

You could feel the pull of him, an invisible force that seemed to draw you in, making it impossible to ignore the heat that had been simmering between you both. You’d known this feeling, this desire, had been building for weeks. But now it was no longer just something you could push aside, something you could pretend wasn’t there.

“Do you trust me?” Jake’s voice was soft, but there was a weight to it, a seriousness that sent a ripple of excitement through you. He was close now, his chest nearly brushing yours, and the way he spoke made it clear he wasn’t just asking out of curiosity.

You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment, the words lost in the heat of the moment. Jake smiled—genuine, a little wicked—and his hand reached out to guide you toward the desk.

The desk that had become a symbol of something you didn’t even fully understand yet. He placed his hands on your hips, his touch firm but not rough, leading you with careful, deliberate steps. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the edge of the desk against the back of your knees.

He stopped, his lips grazing the side of your neck as he whispered, “Stay still for me baby.”

There was an undeniable force in the way he held you, a promise in his words. Your pulse raced as your hands rested against the cool surface of the desk. The room was suddenly quieter, the sounds of your breaths louder than anything else.

Jake stood behind you, his chest pressed against your back. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his breath ghosted over your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. There was a certain thrill in knowing that he was completely in control, that he was in charge.

His hands moved with purpose, sliding from your hips up your sides, lingering over the curve of your waist, tracing slow circles over your ribs. You wanted to press back against him, to feel the weight of him against you, but something kept you still, some tiny shred of self-control.

Jake's hands moved higher, fingers trailing over your collarbone, and you couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped your lips. His touch was firm, possessive, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You wanted to arch into him, to feel the weight of his body against yours, but you kept your hips planted against the desk, fighting the urge.

Jake's lips traced a path down your neck, and you could feel the smile on his face as he spoke, his voice low and rough. "You're doing so well for me," he murmured.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice shaky and desperate, "I need to feel you-need your cock."

You could feel him smirk against your skin, his hands tracing slow, teasing circles over your hips. "You that desperate, you slut?" he scoffed, his words like a taunt, a challenge.

Jake's words sent heat coursing through your veins, the sound of your own whimpering catching you off guard. It was a sound of desperation, of need, and it betrayed a vulnerability you hadn't meant to show.

But he heard it. Of course he did. He was so close to you, his body pressed against yours, and there were no more secrets between you.

You could feel the anticipation building, the air around you thick with tension. Jake's hands moved with purpose, tugging at your skirt, and it came down in a swift motion, pooling around your ankles. He took a step back, giving you space, and for a moment, you were left standing in just your underwear.

Jake's eyes darkened as he watched you, the desire in his gaze unmistakable. He moved closer again, crowding you against the desk, and you could feel the heat radiating off his bare skin, the way it made your skin prickle with anticipation.

You looked back to see Jake stroking his already leaking cock, letting out a low groan in the process. You could feel a smirk form on his lips as he shoves your panties aside. “Jesus yn, you’re dripping.” His words brought a throbbing sensation to your pussy, a desperate whimper leaving your mouth. “Jake…please,” you begged. “I need to feel you.” The heat in your body was almost unbearable now, your words little more than a ragged breath as you plead with him, "Fuck, Jake." It was like all the thoughts had slipped away from you, replaced by a pulsing need.

Jake didn't hesitate. He was still gripping your hip with one hand, his other wrapping around your waist as he pulled you back against him. There was no more waiting, no more teasing. He was hard and ready, and you could feel it pressed against you, and you were slick and wanting, and you couldn't take it any longer.

With a low, guttural groan, Jake slammed his cock inside your soaked cunt in one motion, causing you both to let out the filthiest sound. 

“fuck, look at you,” jake groaned quietly, fingers spreading your ass apart. “such a filthy little thing, huh? letting me use that pussy mouth like it’s all you’re good for.”

his hand is tangled in your hair now, not tugging—just resting there, warm and heavy, like a crown you’ve earned. you try to stay quiet, knowing that the building has thin walls, spit pooling and dripping down your chin as your rhythm falters under the weight of his words. “Jake, it feels go good—“

“quiet,” he snaps softly, and your lashes flutter as you obey.

good. obedient. ruined.

“that’s it, baby. show me how good you are at taking my cock,” he says, voice almost tender if not for the filth of it. “can’t even breathe right, but you don’t care, do you? you love it too much. love being my perfect little toy.”

you whimper around him, and it makes his hips stutter. his thighs tense.

his control cracks just a little.

“god, you’re so good for me. fuck, baby—so fucking perfect.”

he grits his teeth, hand tightening just slightly in your hair. “no one else gets to see you like this. no one else can. only me.”

your jaw aches. your throat burns. but still, you don’t stop. “this pussy is made for me,” he continued, throwing his head back. “Fucking made for me yn.”

Jake was losing control, his words coming out in sharp breaths. He'd never spoken to you like this before, never so openly, so shamelessly filthy. Your mind was reeling, the sensations overwhelming as he took what he wanted from you, his words only fueling your own desire.

“J-Jake- too much.” you whisper cry to him. He giggles a bit, only looking at you the whole time. “And you love it.” he grabs onto your waist gently. 

You help fuck yourself on him a bit faster and he lets out a groan. “You’re so tight around me.. y/n..” he thinks he hasn’t stretched you out enough beforehand. “We can.. do it..” you say, already out of breath.

You spread your legs a bit more, releasing a bit of tension on him. You succeed taking on his big cock, whilst using his shoulders as handles. “You’re taking it so good..” he whispers. You go faster at his praises.

He’s been stretching you out for a while now, and it definitely got easier over time. The slight discomfort turned into satisfying pleasure for you. His swollen tip hits your g-spot every single time, making you want to cum right there. However, he’s been wanting to finish ever since you started. You feel so good wrapped around him he’s surprised he hasn’t let out any further moan yet. 

His hips move faster again, getting closer to cumming again. Your puffy cunt is crying at this point, while you let out a slight moan with every thrust. You keep going for a bit before, before rolling your eyes back to cum. “I’m— gonna… I… oh m… Jake..” you struggle. 

You don’t get to say anything—your body gives out before your voice can even catch up. Your thighs tremble around him, and you’re a mess in his lap, clinging to him like he’s the only thing grounding you. The sound you let out is raw, louder than before, and Jake just leans back in his chair, watching you fall apart with that smug, wrecked grin of his.

His hands tighten around your waist, keeping you moving even as your body begs for mercy. He’s not letting go—not yet.

“You’re not done,” he mutters low against your throat, lips brushing your skin. “Not until I say so.”

You try to respond, but it’s all heat and haze now. Your chest presses against his as your head drops to his shoulder, and he doesn’t stop—he guides you through every slow grind, every twitch of your body that draws another gasp from your lips. His voice is rough, breathless, right in your ear.

Then his body jerks beneath you, and the way he holds you after—tight, possessive—tells you everything you need to know. His hand slides up your back as you both sit there, the room thick with the aftermath, your bodies still tangled.

You think it’s over. You think maybe now he’ll let you breathe.

But then his grip shifts, and he pulls you right back down onto him, your body jolting at the sudden contact.

A gasp leaves you, and his laugh—low and dangerous—rumbles against your collarbone. “Still so sensitive,” he teases, brushing your hair back as he presses a kiss just below your ear. “Thought you could handle me.”

Your arms drape around his neck again, head buried against his skin, and all you can do is hold on. You kiss the sweat-slicked curve of his jaw, trying to catch your breath while he stays buried deep, unmoving, content to just keep you there—full, overwhelmed, and completely his.

And with one hand still steady on your hip, Jake casually slides his chair back toward his desk, like it’s just another night—like you’re not still trembling on top of him.

Just before he grabs his headset, he whispers, “You should hear yourself.”

By the time you got back to class Monday morning, it was like nothing had ever happened. Or at least, that’s how Jake made it seem.

There he was, slouched in his usual seat at the back of the lecture hall, hoodie half-zipped, glasses perched slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose. He was typing away at his laptop like he hadn’t just had you moaning his name into the crook of his neck two nights ago, skin flushed, bodies tangled.

He glanced up as you walked in. His eyes found yours for a second too long—and then he looked away, pretending to be distracted by something on his screen. You swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like he was fighting a smile.

You took your seat a few rows ahead of him, and a minute later, you felt the faintest buzzin your pocket.

“I had fun.”

You turned around. He was staring at his laptop like he hadn’t just texted you that. Like he hadn’t just ruined you on that same voice he used to answer class questions with a stutter.

Jake was still quiet in public, still awkward. He still pushed up his glasses too often and knocked over his water bottle when reaching for his pen. But now, there was a glint in his eyes every time he looked at you. A silent smugness. A private joke only the two of you knew the punchline to.

And when your professor called on him to answer a question, and he stumbled over the words “data structure,” turning slightly pink, you thought—no one else in this room had a clue. No one knew that he’d whispered “stay still for me” against your skin like a command. That the same clumsy guy blushing in front of the class had told you with a dark smirk, “such a good girl, you took me so well.”

You looked over your shoulder again. Jake met your eyes, and this time, he didn’t look away. Just popped a piece of gum into his mouth, chewing slow, gaze steady. And then he winked.

You almost dropped your pen.

You tried to keep it to yourself—you really did. But your friends had spent the last ten minutes at your table giggling over Jake like he was some weird cryptid.

“I checked his Instagram again,” Yuna said, sipping her iced coffee. “He lost a follower. And he posted a blurry picture of a squirrel once.”

“Do you think he even knows how to use Instagram?” Soojin added, snorting. “He gives off ‘my mom made this account for me’ energy.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile too hard.

“What?” Yuna asked, eyes narrowing at you. “Why are you smiling like that? Don’t tell me you actually think he’s hot.”

“I don’t think he’s hot,” you said slowly, stirring your drink.

They leaned in.

You sighed, leaning back in your seat, glancing over your shoulder out of habit.

“Okay,” you whispered. “This doesn’t leave this table.”

Yuna and Soojin practically vibrated with anticipation.

“I went to his dorm,” you started, voice low. “A few nights ago. His roommate was gone. And he wasn’t wearing glasses. He had contacts in. And he—” you hesitated, heartbeat picking up. “He was acting completely differnt. And we kinda.. you know.”

Yuna let out a dramatic gasp. “No way.”

Soojin cackled. “Shut up. Jake? Jake Sim and y/n fucked?”

You nodded slowly, lips twitching.

“And?” Yuna prompted. “And? What, did he trip over his desk accidentally slip his dick into you?”

You hesitated. “We, uh… no…”

Both of their jaws dropped—and then they burst into laughter.

“No, no, you’re joking,” Soojin said, leaning into Yuna for support. “Jake? Jake had you—what, bent over his gaming chair while his twelve Instagram followers cheered him on?”

“I’m serious,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “He’s not—he’s not how you think he is. Not when we’re alone.”

“Okay, now you’re just making it sound like he’s Batman,” Yuna snorted. “By day, he’s a bio major with a screen protector on his calculator. By night—”

“Hey.” A voice cut in behind you.

You froze.

Yuna’s eyes widened.

Soojin slapped a hand over her mouth.

You turned your head slowly—Jake was standing there, tray in hand, his expression unreadable. His glasses were on, hoodie loose, hair a little messy like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Hi,” he said, voice calm, like he hadn’t just caught you mid-confession.

You blinked up at him. “Jake.”

He looked at your friends, then back at you. “You forgot your charger last night.”

He placed it next to your drink, eyes flicking down to your hand for half a second.

“Thanks,” you said, voice quiet.

Jake gave you a lazy smile—barely there, but you knew it. You knew that look now. He turned, walked away like nothing happened, headphones already around his neck.

You turned back to your friends.

Their mouths were hanging open.

“…You’re not joking,” Yuna said flatly.

“I told you,” you whispered, trying—and failing—to hide the grin pulling at your lips.

Your friends were still frozen, processing, as Jake walked off toward the other end of the café like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb and left you to deal with the aftermath. He didn’t look back, but the slow, smug drag of his steps made it very clear—he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I…” Yuna blinked. “Was that your charger?”

You nodded, sipping your drink to hide your smirk.

Soojin finally found her voice. “Did he say last night?”

You nodded again, this time a little slower.

Both of them let out the most synchronized gasps you’d ever heard in your life.

“Girl,” Yuna whispered, leaning across the table like she was afraid someone would overhear, “what the hell is going on? That’s not even—Jake? Like, Jake Sim? He’s—he’s a meme. We literally made a Bingo card of the number of times he trips in the hallway!”

“Yeah,” you said, unable to stop the warmth in your cheeks. “And apparently, he’s also capable of blowing my back out while explaining the difference between RAM and ROM.”

Soojin shrieked. “Stop!”

You were laughing now, the kind that bubbles up and won’t stop. It was ridiculous. All of it. And yet, every time you thought about the way he kissed you—like he knew what he was doing, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to show you—you felt your knees threaten to give out.

“Okay,” Yuna said, gripping your arm. “So, wait. Is he, like… your boyfriend now? Or is this just an elite phase?”

You opened your mouth—then closed it again.

You hadn’t even thought that far.

Jake hadn’t said anything official. No labels. No talks. Just quiet texts. A stolen charger. A wink in lecture. And the memory of him whispering in your ear, voice low and breathless, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly. “But I don’t think this is just a one-time thing.”

At that exact moment, your phone buzzed again.

“also, I meant every word I said to you”

Your head snapped up. Across the room, Jake was seated with his laptop open, headset slung around his neck, biting into a sandwich like the most innocent man alive.

Your stomach flipped.

This menace. This liar. This actor.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen, a mix of embarrassment and fondness curling in your chest.

“you’re actually evil”

“i hate you”

“i hate that i don’t hate you”

A beat passed.

“you’re cute when you fluster. wanna come over after chem?”

Your friends didn’t even need to ask who you were texting. They saw your face and groaned in unison.

And for once, you didn’t even deny it.

Jake was a master of the double life. You didn’t know how he did it, but it was like he could flip a switch whenever he stepped foot in the hallways of the university.

In class? A complete disaster.

The shy, bumbling guy you’d always seen—his glasses slipping down his nose, tripping over his own feet as he made his way to his desk. He’d stammer when he spoke to the professor, barely making eye contact with anyone, and was always the first to look down at his phone when group discussions came up. The Jake everyone saw was awkward, quiet, and somehow endearing in his nerdy way. The one who sat by himself in the cafeteria, fiddling with his notebook, hoping no one would notice him.

And yet, you knew. You knew there was something more beneath that awkward exterior. Something darker, something confident. You’d seen it for yourself, just two nights ago. The quiet guy who barely spoke a word in class had turned into a completely different person behind closed doors.

But here, in the hallway, between classes, you wouldn’t have been able to guess that same Jake was the one who had you shivering under his touch, whispering praises into your ear like he owned you.

You were walking past his usual spot in the library when you caught him fumbling with a stack of books, his face scrunched up in concentration. He didn’t notice you at first, too focused on his task. But when he looked up, the usual blush crept up his neck, and his mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Hi,” you said casually, a teasing grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You need help with those?”

He gave a nervous laugh, adjusting his glasses and dropping the books onto the table like his hands suddenly didn’t know how to hold them anymore. “Uh, yeah, no, I—um, I got it. Thanks, though.”

You could barely contain your laughter. Here he was, this guy who had literally whispered praises in your ear only days ago, looking like a total mess in front of you. He couldn’t even manage eye contact without turning an embarrassing shade of pink.

“So,” you said, leaning against the bookshelf beside him, your arms casually crossed. “You been doing any more squirrel photography lately?”

Jake froze, his face flushing deeper. “Uh, n-no,” he stammered, grabbing his books a little too quickly. “I— I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was like watching a completely different person. Gone was the guy who had held you close, kissed you with authority. Gone was the guy who made you forget everything when his lips were on your neck. Now, he was just a bumbling mess, avoiding your eyes, looking everywhere but at you.

“You’re so weird,” you teased lightly. “You know, I’ve been wondering… is it really the glasses, or is it the awkwardness? Which one is the real you?”

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He just looked at you, a mixture of embarrassment and—was that a hint of guilt? Like he had a secret he didn’t want anyone to know.

“Never mind,” you said with a smirk, walking away from him. “Keep up the good work, loser.”

You could feel him watching you, probably frozen in place, but you didn’t care. It was almost unbelievable how different he could act when it was just the two of you alone in a room. The guy who couldn’t make it through a simple conversation in public had turned into the man who made you forget your own name when he had his hands on you.

But for now, all you could do was shake your head and laugh, marveling at how Jake was pulling off his double life—completely clueless and completely in control, all at once.

The cafeteria went silent the moment you walked past your usual table and headed straight for his.

Jake was sitting alone, as usual—tray of barely-touched food in front of him, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like he was trying to disappear into himself. He was hunched over his phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the social earthquake that was about to hit.

You plopped down across from him without warning.

His head snapped up. He blinked, startled. “Wh—uh… hey?”

Conversations around you dipped, and you could feel the whispers starting. Not subtle ones either. Real, full-body turns. Eyes darting. Forks pausing mid-air. People whispering you’re joking, is that Y/N? and she’s sitting with him?

You just smiled, opening your drink like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Relax,” you said, lowering your voice and leaning forward just a little. “You’re acting like I just declared war on the entire social order.”

He pushed his glasses up and blinked a few times. “You… you don’t usually—uh, sit here.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’. “But today I felt like sitting with my favorite academic weapon slash secret menace.”

Jake choked on his water.

You grinned. “Also, I think I’ve figured you out.”

He swallowed hard. “F-Figured me out?”

“Yup.” You tilted your head at him, keeping your voice low and teasing. “I think your glasses are what activate your awkward personality. Like a switch. You wear them? Jake the human embodiment of a shy turtle. You take them off? Boom. Total menace.”

His ears turned pink. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to look casual but failing completely. “They’re prescription…”

“And yet they’re also your disguise,” you smirked.

Around you, the buzz of conversation slowly picked back up. Everyone was still sneaking glances, but they were getting bored now that you weren’t making out on the table or confessing your love with a boombox overhead. One by one, people returned to their own lunches.

And that’s when he looked up at you—and really looked.

The second your audience was gone, the timid act melted off his face like it had never existed. His back straightened. His expression shifted, eyes sharpening just a little, mouth tugging into that familiar slow smirk that made your stomach flip.

“You like the glasses?” he asked, voice lower now, smooth and lazy.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden switch.

He leaned forward on his elbows, gaze steady and annoyingly smug. “You think that’s what keeps me from bending you over this table right now?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

“There’s the menace,” you muttered, eyes narrowing as your pulse spiked.

Jake smiled like he’d just won something. “You came to my table, remember?”

“And now I’m questioning everything.”

He laughed under his breath, picking up a fry from his tray and tossing it into his mouth like he had all the time in the world.

“Too late,” he said, chewing. “You already made your choice. Better hope no one figures out what I look like without the glasses.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you threatening me?”

He grinned. “I’m warning you.”

And just like that, he went back to sipping his water, glasses slipping again, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Back to harmless, quiet Jake.

But you knew better now.

So did he.

You were two seconds away from dragging Jake by the collar.

He sat stiffly next to you on the couch, surrounded by your friends, looking like someone who’d just been dropped into a completely foreign dimension. His hoodie was zipped all the way up to his neck, hands tucked into his sleeves, legs pressed together like he was trying to take up the least amount of space possible.

Your friends were trying. God bless them, they were.

“So, Jake,” Yuna said, passing him a slice of pizza. “What are you majoring in again?”

Jake blinked. “Um. Bio.”

Silence.

Soojin tried to jump in. “Cool! Are you doing like, pre-med or something?”

Jake stared at the pizza in his lap like it personally offended him. “No.”

You gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs. He flinched. “I, uh… I just like cells.”

More silence.

You shot him a look.

Jake gave a weak smile. “Cells are nice.”

You excused yourself to the kitchen before your soul could physically leave your body from secondhand embarrassment. Jake followed, like a lost puppy—but once the two of you were out of earshot, you whirled on him.

“Are you serious right now?”

Jake blinked innocently. “What?”

“You’re acting like a scared freshman at their first club meeting. Can you just…” You groaned, tugging him by the sleeve. “Be normal. Be you. The you that had me on my knees last weekend.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You want me to flirt with your friends?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I want you to act like you’re not a socially-anxious squirrel.”

He leaned against the counter with a little too much confidence now. “Babe, I already got what I wanted. I don’t need to charm your friends.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “If you keep acting like a brick wall, I swear to god I’m not giving you head again.”

Jake blinked.

Then he straightened.

“You wouldn’t.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

There was a moment of silence. He stared at you like you’d just ripped the moon from the sky and thrown it in his face.

And then—he sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

You watched him walk back into the living room, a defeated slump in his shoulders. But right before he sat down again, he glanced back at you and mouthed, rude.

You just smiled sweetly.

You watched him march right back into the living room like a man on a mission. No hoodie shielding his face, no sleeves hiding his hands—Jake dropped onto the couch next to Yuna like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just been threatening to pretend he didn’t know the English language five minutes ago.

“So,” he said casually, draping one arm along the back of the couch. “Y/N tells me you guys stalked my Instagram.”

Your head snapped up.

Yuna blinked, caught. “W-What?”

Jake smirked. “Twelve followers and still managed to bag your friend. Pretty impressive, right?”

Your jaw dropped.

Soojin choked on her drink.

Yuna looked like she’d just short-circuited.

“I mean, I don’t post thirst traps or anything,” Jake continued, tone light but clearly enjoying himself. “Y/n says I should.”

You were frozen. You hadn’t even known he could talk in complete sentences around your friends, let alone roast them.

He glanced at you mid-sentence, lips twitching. “What? You said be normal.”

“This is not what I meant by normal,” you hissed under your breath.

Jake only smiled wider.

“I mean,” he said louder now, eyes gleaming, “Y/N didn’t really stand a chance. She was obsessed with me from the moment she saw me trip over a recycling bin.”

You stared at him, half-horrified, half-impressed. The duality of this man was actually insane.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, but your voice was shaking with barely contained laughter.

He leaned back on the couch, one leg crossed over the other like he’d been doing this all his life. “I prefer ‘underrated.’”

Soojin blinked at you, stunned. “Is this the same Jake?”

“Sadly,” you deadpanned.

Jake stretched his arms overhead, smirking like he’d just won something. “Told you. Glasses on—loser. Glasses off?” He looked at you over the rim of his drink. “Problem.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

Because he was right.

The conversation shifted, but Jake didn’t shrink back like he normally would. In fact, he leaned in. Tossed out a few sarcastic remarks, made a joke about the weird guy in your chem lecture, and even stole a fry off Yuna’s plate like he’d known her for years.

You sat there stunned, barely able to process the whiplash of it all.

At one point, Soojin gave you a look—eyebrows raised, lips parted like girl…—and you just blinked back, equally bewildered.

Jake caught the exchange, of course. He always did. He leaned over toward you, his voice dropping low, just for you to hear.

“Still mad at me?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You didn’t look at him. “You’re skating on very thin ice.”

He chuckled softly. “You threatening me again?”

You smirked, finally glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t threaten, Jake. I warn.”

That seemed to only encourage him. “You know I love when you talk like that.”

You elbowed him under the table, but he didn’t even flinch—just grinned like the menace he was.

Eventually, your friends began packing up their things, saying goodbye, and heading out one by one. Jake stayed close beside you, still riding the high of finally breaking his “awkward loner” act in public.

As the room cleared, he bumped your shoulder lightly. “So… did I do good?”

You stared at him. “You did too good.”

He raised a brow, amused. “Jealous?”

“No,” you scoffed, gathering your stuff. “More like terrified of the monster I just unleashed.”

Jake slung his bag over his shoulder, his grin never fading. “Told you. You’re the one who wanted me to be social. You made this happen.”

You paused at the doorway, giving him a long look. “You’re still not getting head tonight.”

He laughed, following close behind you. “Liar.”

God help you—he was right again.

Jake walked you back to your dorm with a bounce in his step, like he hadn’t just caused a minor social earthquake in your friend group. You kept glancing over at him, trying to find even a trace of the shy, fumbling version of him your friends had always known—but nope. Gone. Completely replaced by this smug, way-too-proud-of-himself creature strutting beside you like he’d just won an Oscar.

“You seriously said ‘bagged your friend,’” you muttered, shaking your head.

Jake shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I was being honest.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirked, leaning closer so his shoulder bumped yours. “But you love me anyway.”

Your heart did a weird little skip, but you masked it with a scoff. “Mm, debatable.”

He laughed, but you could tell he noticed the way your ears flushed. Jake always noticed. Which made it all the more dangerous when he decided to push.

“You sure?” he said lowly, glancing at you sideways. “Because if I remember correctly, few nights ago you were practically begging—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth before he could finish. “Don’t you dare say that sentence out loud.”

Jake’s laughter vibrated against your palm, and he licked it just to be annoying.

“Jake!”

“What?” he said, completely unbothered, mouth curling into that damn smile again. “I’m just saying, you seemed pretty in love with me when you were—”

“I swear to god, I won’t let you cum tonight.”

He grinned. “Still wouldn’t change what happened on my desk.”

You groaned, unlocking your door and stepping inside, not even bothering to push him out. He followed like he lived there, already dropping his bag on your floor and toeing off his shoes.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” you muttered, tossing your jacket on the chair, “but I kinda miss socially awkward Jake.”

Jake leaned against your desk—the very one he had completely ruined you on—crossing his arms with a smug tilt of his head.

“I’ll bring him back next time we’re around your friends,” he said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to scare anyone.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re the worst.”

He took a slow step toward you. “And yet…”

You backed up until the backs of your knees hit your bed. Jake caged you in without touching you, just that cocky little smirk inches from your mouth.

“…you keep letting me in.”

Your breath hitched.

You hated how right he was.

He didn’t even have to touch you—just standing there, close enough to fog up your brain, was enough to make your breath catch. That same smug little smirk tugged at the corner of his lips like he knew. (And he did. He always did.)

You crossed your arms, trying to look unaffected. “We’re not doing anything tonight.”

Jake tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Didn’t say we were.”

“You were thinking it.”

He grinned. “Can’t a guy hang out with his girlfriend without being accused of crimes?”

You blinked. “Your what?”

Jake froze for half a second—just enough to catch it—then played it off with a shrug, looking entirely too casual. “You. My girlfriend.”

“Jake,” you said slowly, “we haven’t even been on a date yet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, and?”

You stared at him.

He held your gaze, deadpan. “We’ve had sex on your desk.”

Your mouth opened, then shut again. He just kept going.

“I’ve had my tongue in you. Multiple times. You think a coffee date is gonna make it moreofficial?”

You smacked his shoulder, cheeks burning. “You’re insane.”

Jake smiled, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. “You’re stuck with me now. Might as well give me the title.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands found the hem of his hoodie anyway, fingers curling there.

“This better not mean I have to start posting you on my story.”

“Oh no,” he teased. “Anything but that.”

You sighed. “Fine. One date. But you’re planning it.”

Jake smirked, already way too pleased with himself. “Good. I was gonna make you fall in love with me anyway.”

It became… a problem.

First it was your friends catching you two making out in the library stacks. Then it was the quad. Then the empty art building stairwell. At one point, Yuna dramatically threatened to carry a spray bottle in her bag just to spritz you both like misbehaving cats.

You tried to tone it down. Really. But Jake had this stupid, unfair ability to get under your skin with just one look. One whisper. One brush of his hand against your lower back when no one was watching.

And then there was the incident. The one no one dared to speak about—but everyone knew.

You’d followed Jake into the men’s washroom between lectures, heart pounding, brain nowhere near your upcoming lab. One minute you were teasing him red, leaking tip with minor kitty licks, the next—A very unfortunate and traumatized TA walked in at the exact wrong time.

To this day, you’re not sure who was more horrified: you, Jake, or the TA who immediately did a full 180 and walked straight back out without a word.

Jake couldn’t stop laughing. You couldn’t show your face in that building for a week.

Now every time you pass that hallway, he leans in with a whisper and a smug, “Wanna relive the glory days?”

You elbow him. Hard. But your ears still burn.

Because the worst part? You absolutely do.

You hadn’t even had a chance to settle into the cozy atmosphere of a movie night with Jake, Sunghoon, and Sunoo before everything went to hell.

It was supposed to be a simple night. You, Jake, and his friends, chilling on the couch, watching some random movie Sunghoon picked out after a few too many awkward silences. You’d been mentally preparing yourself for this, maybe even looking forward to getting to know his friends better. You’d heard so much about them, and Sunoo had been sending you memes for weeks now, always so sweet and teasing.

But instead of a normal movie night, you ended up on Jake’s lap with your lips pressed to his, unable to hold back as he slipped his hands beneath your hoodie. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, and you completely forgot about the stupid film Sunghoon had started. All that mattered was the heat building between you and Jake, the sound of his breath against your mouth, the way he was slowly getting bolder, moving his lips to your neck—

And then, the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing from across the room.

You froze, eyes widening, and pulled back from Jake just as Sunghoon and Sunoo exchanged awkward glances.

“Well,” Sunghoon said, adjusting his glasses with a little too much casualness, “This is… an interesting way to start a movie night.”

You sat up quickly, heart racing. “We—uh, we weren’t—”

Sunoo cut you off with a laugh that had a slightly knowing edge to it. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse. But wow, didn’t think I’d be walking in on this so soon.”

You could feel your face heating up, but Jake, the menace, only smirked, his arm still casually draped around you. “I was just showing her how comfortable the couch is. Isn’t it nice, babe?”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow at that, glancing between you two. “Comfortable, huh? Good to know.”

Sunoo chuckled. “I guess I’m glad we finally got a front-row seat to Jake’s ‘split personality.’” His voice dropped to an exaggerated whisper, adding, “Who knew the shy, awkward guy could get so… intense.”

You looked at Jake, whose eyes were practically glowing with mischief. You knew exactly what that meant.

“I told you guys,” Jake said, sliding his fingers through your hair, his voice low and smooth. “She’s got me wrapped around her finger. Not just with the whole ‘studious boyfriend’ act.”

Sunghoon chuckled and shook his head. “I’m just here for the popcorn, but whatever you guys are doing, you’re definitely ruining the vibe of the movie.”

You swore you could feel the heat radiating from your face, but Jake was entirely too smug, his hand never leaving your waist. “Movie’s overrated anyway,” he said with a wink. “Better company right here.”

The tension in the room was palpable, but somehow, you knew this was just the beginning. Jake wasn’t about to stop teasing you in front of his friends, and now they definitely knew what he was like when he wasn’t playing the quiet, shy guy.

It had been exactly one month since you and Jake made things official, and somewhere along the way, he had somehow charmed all your friends.

Yuna, especially.

What started off as teasing glances and snarky comments turned into him greeting her with “What’s up, my other girl?” in front of literally everyone—like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You’d laughed the first time. Sort of.

The second time, your smile was tight.

By the third, you didn’t even look at him. Just turned around, grabbed your bag, and left without a word. The silence that followed was deafening.

He texted. Called. Showed up at your dorm with snacks, guilty puppy-dog eyes, and one of your hoodies you’d accidentally left at his place.

You didn’t budge.

Not when he spammed you with voice memos or when he got Sunoo to send you dramatic apologies on his behalf. Not even when Yuna told you that Jake had asked herhow to fix it, which was ironic in the most painful way possible.

A week passed. You were starting to miss him—his touch, his stupid jokes, the way he looked at you like you hung stars in his sky—but you were petty, and prideful, and notabout to forgive him over something as dumb as a nickname that made your stomach twist.

But Jake knew you. And Jake never lost.

The night you finally gave in, he showed up to your dorm without a word, eyes dark, hands careful. He didn’t ask if he could stay. Just got down on his knees, pulled you to the edge of the bed, and showed you how sorry he was.

You didn’t even realize your fingers were tangled in his hair, hips shaking as he flicked your clit around with his tongue, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.

By the time he looked up, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, your legs were trembling and you couldn’t remember what planet you were on.

“Still mad at me?” he asked, voice hoarse, a little smug, but mostly sincere.

You tried to speak, failed. All you could do was blink down at him.

He kissed the inside of your thigh. “Good. Because you’re my only girl.”

And yeah—he won. Again.

The next morning, Jake acted like nothing happened.

He was sprawled across your tiny dorm bed, hair a mess, hoodie half-off his shoulder, munching on the cereal you kept strictly for late-night study stress. Like he hadn’t just given you an out-of-body experience twelve hours ago.

You stood at the mirror brushing your hair, shooting him a look through the reflection. “You’re really just gonna sit there like you didn’t have me literally sobbing last night?”

Jake grinned around a spoonful of cereal. “I figured you forgave me when you couldn’t feel your legs after.”

You tossed a hair tie at him. He dodged, laughing.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call you a cab,” you said, turning back around.

“I am lucky,” he said, voice lower now, more serious, “but not just for that.”

You paused. Met his eyes.

Jake set the bowl aside and stood up, crossing the room to wrap his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder, voice soft. “I’m sorry for the Yuna thing. I thought I was being funny. I didn’t realize it hurt you.”

You didn’t respond right away. He held you tighter.

“You know I only want you, right?”

You nodded, finally. “You’re still an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “But I’m your idiot.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned into him anyway, the tension finally melting.

Later that day, Yuna raised an eyebrow as you walked into the café together, hand-in-hand with Jake.

“Back from the dead?” she teased.

Jake smirked. “Had to perform a little resurrection.”

You buried your face in your drink. Yuna just laughed.

“Oh god,” she muttered. “Don’t tell me it was head.”

Jake shot her a look. “Mind-blowing head.”

You choked.

“Please stop speaking,” you begged.

Jake just kissed your cheek and pulled you closer.

You really were doomed.

You’d completely forgotten your parents were in town until you got the text while Jake was still whispering absolute filth into your ear in the café line.

[Mom]: Just landed. So excited to see you, sweetie! Brunch tomorrow? Bring your boyfriend!

You choked on your iced americano so violently Jake had to pat your back.

“Everything okay?” he asked, smirking like he already knew it wasn’t.

You turned your phone around to show him the message.

He blinked. “Wait. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Like—your parents tomorrow?”

“Yes, Jake. My parents. Brunch. You. Me. And them.”

He stared at you for a full three seconds, then grinned. “I’ve already got the button-up shirt in mind.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re way too calm about this.”

“I’m amazing with parents.”

“You’re amazing at pretending to be someone’s quiet, innocent boyfriend. That’s not the same.”

Jake leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Don’t worry, baby. They’ll love me.”

“You’re gonna wear your glasses, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Act like you’ve never touched me.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll act like I don’t even know what a woman is.”

You snorted, already stressed. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Jake pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Nah. I’m gonna charm them. Just like I charmed you.”

You turned to give him a look. “You charmed me by blowing my back out in a library storage room, Jake.”

“Exactly,” he said, way too proud.

You groaned.

Tomorrow could not come fast—or end—soon enough.

The next morning, Jake showed up ten minutes early to your dorm, looking like he’d walked straight out of a K-drama.

Crisp white button-up, hair brushed neatly off his forehead, his glasses perfectly in place—he even brought your mom’s favorite pastries, like he’d been studying your family’s group chat for weeks.

“You look…” You blinked, slowly dragging your gaze down his outfit. “So well-behaved.”

Jake smirked, tucking the pastry box under one arm and reaching for your hand. “Don’t worry. I left the demon version of me in your sheets.”

You nearly tripped on the way out the door.

Your parents were already waiting at the little brunch spot downtown, and as soon as your mom saw you, she lit up—then caught sight of Jake behind you and blinked like she was seeing a puppy dressed in a tuxedo.

“This is Jake?” she asked, already halfway through hugging him. “You’re even cuter than she said!”

Jake laughed, soft and shy, adjusting his glasses. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s really nice to meet you.”

You sat stiffly across from them, fully prepared for the absolute chaos that was surely coming, but Jake? He played the role like he’d been training for it all his life.

He complimented your mom’s earrings. Asked your dad smart, boring questions about work. Even waited until you were done speaking before cutting into his food.

It was unsettling.

“Jake’s in my organic chem lecture,” you said at one point, trying to keep the conversation neutral.

“Oh, is he any good?” your dad asked.

Jake smiled bashfully. “She usually tutors me, actually. I’m a bit hopeless when it comes to chemistry.”

You almost choked on your orange juice.

Your mom beamed. “I love that. I always told her she’d be such a good teacher.”

Jake nodded sincerely, resting his hand on your knee under the table, subtle and grounding. “She’s been teaching me a lot.”

Your stomach flipped for a very different reason.

By the end of brunch, your mom was begging him to come over for dinner “next time we visit,” and your dad gave him a shoulder pat like he’d just been accepted into the family.

As soon as you were out of earshot, walking back toward campus, you smacked his arm. “You manipulative little bitch!”

Jake grinned, holding up the box of leftover pastries like a trophy. “They love me.”

“You were lying through your teeth!”

Jake shrugged. “It’s not lying if I really do think you’re amazing at teaching me things. Like patience. Self-control.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping in close, voice low in your ear, “your mom just called me boyfriend material.”

You shoved him. “You are never seeing my parents again.”

“Sure, baby. You tell yourself that.”

And yeah, fine—he was boyfriend material. Just not the kind your parents had any idea about.

That night, you laid in bed scrolling through your messages while Jake sat cross-legged at the foot, shamelessly eating the last of the leftover pastries your mom had insisted he take.

Your phone buzzed again.

[Mom]: He’s adorable. Polite, smart, and that accent?? Keeper.

You rolled your eyes so hard your soul almost left your body.

Jake leaned over your shoulder. “What’d she say now?”

You turned the screen toward him. He read it, then bit into a croissant like he’d just won a championship.

“I am polite. And smart. And my voice is sexy, apparently.”

You deadpanned. “You’re a literal demon. With glasses.”

Jake leaned down and nuzzled against your neck with the fakest innocence he could muster. “You weren’t saying that when I was—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth. “No. My mom said ‘keeper.’ Don’t make me reevaluate.”

He laughed into your palm, biting it lightly before you yanked it back. He flopped onto the bed beside you, stretching out with a satisfied sigh like he’d just wrapped up a performance of a lifetime.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Winning over your friends, seducing your parents…”

“Manipulating the entire population,” you muttered.

Jake turned his head, smirking. “But only for you.”

You tried not to melt. You really did. But then he pulled you down beside him, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the warm curve of his body.

“You know,” he whispered, voice dropping back into that cocky, devastating register, “your parents think I’m this sweet, respectful, glasses-wearing boyfriend who can’t even pass chem without your help.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “And they’ll never know what their daughter sounds like when she’s underneath me, begging.”

You slapped his chest with a muffled laugh, face buried in his shirt. “You’re the worst.”

Jake just grinned against your temple.

“I’m yours.”

The next morning, Jake was already pulling on his hoodie, his bags—stuffed with random clothes, books, and a few things that had slowly found their way into your dorm—strewn across your floor.

You sat up in bed, the lingering warmth of his body beside you still making your heart flutter. It had become a regular thing now—Jake staying over, bringing more of his things each time, settling into a routine that felt strangely comfortable. It was a mixture of affection and chaos, and you loved every minute of it.

“You should’ve just left your stuff here last night,” you teased, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Could’ve saved us the trouble.”

Jake smirked, looking up from rummaging through his backpack. “Don’t want to seem too comfortable too soon, babe. You know, I’ve still got that mysterious ‘bad boy’ act to keep up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. That’s what you’re going for.”

He shot you a wink, tossing a hoodie at you. “Anyway, can’t let the world see the ‘good boy’ too much, can I?”

He was back to his cocky self, the guy who showed up to school acting like the confident, teasing Jake you had come to know, and honestly, you couldn’t help but smile at how effortlessly he flipped between his personas.

You both left the dorm and started the walk to campus, his hand in yours, the usual mix of comfortable silence and random teasing that filled your daily routines.

Just as you were about to walk up the steps to your building, Jake, always the graceful disaster, tripped on the stairs and sent his coffee flying across the sidewalk.

“Are you serious?” you asked, blinking in disbelief.

Jake stood there for a second, coffee splattered all over his hoodie and the ground beneath him, looking utterly stunned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You couldn’t stop laughing. “Every time. I swear to god, you’re like a walking disaster.”

Jake turned to you, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck, trying to play it off. “I meant to do that. Just making sure everyone’s paying attention.”

“Yeah, you definitely got their attention, Jake,” you teased. “Don’t worry, I’m sure everyone saw your epic performance.”

He shot you a grin, wiping at his clothes like it would make a difference. “I’m not a loser. I’m just… trying to get a reaction.”

“And you definitely got one,” you snorted, taking his hand and leading him inside.

Even though he tried to play it off as cool, the truth was, you were starting to see a side of Jake that was a little more… normal than you first expected.

And as ridiculous as the whole thing was, there was something about it—the balance of confident teasing and hilarious clumsiness—that felt right.

At least, for you and him, it did.

You nudged him with your elbow. “You gonna be okay, or do I need to get you another one before you wither away in front of me?”

Jake groaned dramatically. “I needed that caffeine. My whole personality relies on it.”

You laughed as you pushed open the lecture hall doors. “Your personality is currently soaked into your hoodie.”

Unfortunately for Jake, your shared class had already started to fill up. A few people looked up as you both walked in—him with wet coffee splatter down his front, you trying not to laugh loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“Is that Jake Sim?” someone whispered behind you.

You heard a snort. “Why does he look like someone’s intern who just got fired?”

Jake sat down beside you with a huff, dropping his bag and whispering, “This is the most humbling morning of my life.”

You rached over, wiped a little splatter off his sleeve, and leaned close. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He blinked at you, caught off guard. “Wait. You think I’m cute even like this?”

You grinned. “I think you’re cute especially like this.”

Jake slumped in his chair, defeated but amused. “I’m literally a walking split personality. Demon boyfriend at night, clumsy nerd by morning. This isn’t sustainable.”

“You say that like I’m not completely obsessed with both versions.”

He paused, looking at you with that soft, wide-eyed gaze he got when you caught him off guard.

“Yeah?” he said, quieter this time.

You nodded, bumping your knee against his. “Yeah.”

Jake smiled down at his ruined coffee cup.

“Still not over the fact I tripped in front of like thirty people though,” he muttered, and you snorted so loud the row in front of you turned around.

At least now, everyone knew—Jake Sim might’ve been a quiet loser to the rest of the campus, but to you?

He was everything.

perm taglist: @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize

[carnalcrows]

STUDY ME

pairing: perfect student! male OC x male reader [faceclaim]

synopsis: No one’s ever ranked higher than Haruki Mikage—until you do. You’re new, unsettlingly smart, and partnered with him for a major project. Haruki’s trying to stay composed, but your odd habits, offhanded comments, and freakish talent in the kitchen are messing with his head. He should’ve ignored you. He doesn’t.

content warnings : 18+, academic rivals to something else, reader is creepy-smart and says weird shit unprovoked, golden boy Haruki smokes under pressure, slow burn with freaky tension, blowjob at the end of ch1 (reader giving), reader’s thoughts are not normal, shared trauma over academic excellence, high-school setting, light humiliation kink energy, some bullying, borderline-obsessive chemistry, they’re both unwell but in different fonts. also: the project does get submitted on time. barely.

word count: 3.4k

The paper wasn’t even all the way up on the board before someone in the hallway let out a low whistle.

“Yo, he’s not first anymore.”

The teacher pressed the last corner of the sheet flat against the corkboard with her palm, used a pin to anchor it in place. She stepped back. The crowd surged forward.

Haruki Mikage didn’t move from his desk.

He didn’t have to. He already knew what it said.

He’d been top-ranked every semester since middle school—longer, if you counted the city-wide assessments and mock entrance exams his mother used to post on the fridge like they were participation ribbons. Everyone knew his name. They whispered it before exams, hated him for it after. Professors adored him. Classmates tolerated him. His grades were a forgone conclusion.

But still, there was that whistle.

That murmur again.

The skin between his shoulder blades prickled with something unfamiliar.

He’s not first anymore.

He set his pen down.

Someone pressed a palm to the open door. “Mikage.”

Haruki looked up.

It was Kinoshita from 2-A. Always too loud, always too nosey.

“There’s a new name up there,” Kinoshita said, eyes wide, half in disbelief and half in that messy kind of glee people reserved for perfect students slipping. “You’re second.”

Haruki blinked once.

Kinoshita grinned. “They only wrote the family name. No one knows who it is yet.”

Haruki didn’t answer. He just turned back to his notebook and wrote the date in the top right corner. Kinoshita lingered in the doorway a second longer, waiting for something. A reaction. A twitch. Even a shrug.

He got nothing.

Haruki didn’t even look bothered.

But the tip of his pen was pressed too hard into the paper. Ink pooling.

∘₊✧

He didn’t go look at the list.

Not during lunch, not after school. Everyone else swarmed the board. The hall smelled like shoe rubber and shampoo and stress. A few people snapped photos. One girl squealed. Someone muttered your last name and said, “It has to be a mistake.”

It wasn’t.

Your name was written in blocky black print above Haruki’s, the gap between your scores barely two digits wide—but it was enough. It was real.

You weren’t in his class last year. No one knew who you were. You didn’t even have a photo in the club yearbook. No whispers, no rumors, no posts online. Just a name no one recognized and a score too high to ignore.

That should’ve been the end of it.

One test. One fluke.

People were curious, but curiosity burned out fast here. Unless you were someone interesting, someone visible, someone like Haruki—nobody lasted more than a few weeks before fading back into academic noise.

Except you didn’t fade. You didn’t do anything. You just existed in the background.

Quiet. Distant. Present. Like static. Like a blank space on a page that never stopped drawing the eye.

He should’ve forgotten it.

But your name kept coming up—softly, between other people’s conversations. No one knew where you were from. Or why your name was never on any club roster. Or what kind of person beat Haruki Mikage and then refused to show their face.

Someone in class said you were weird. That you mumbled to yourself. That you drew creepy shit in the corners of your worksheet margins and then never turned them in.

Another said you laughed in the middle of a chemistry lecture, and no one knew why.

Someone else said they saw you eating cold rice balls under the gym stairs, headphones on, eyes closed, mouthing the words to something that didn’t exist.

None of that made sense.

None of it matched the clean, precise writing next to the top score on the midterm report.

But Haruki remembered it anyway.

∘₊✧

The first time he saw you was two weeks later.

There was no grand entrance. You just walked in a little after the second bell, half-zipped jacket, hair a mess, notebooks clutched to your chest like a bribe.

Haruki was already seated. Already organised. Already done with the warm-up quiz.

You didn’t look at him.

You walked past him, past everyone, and sat in the back corner of the room by the window. The only desk that hadn’t been claimed.

You slumped down. Dropped your bag. Took out a pencil that had bite marks in it and started copying notes from the board with a half-lidded stare.

Haruki stared. He couldn’t help it.

There were no rumours about how you looked—no pictures online, no Instagram stories. But this wasn’t what he expected.

You weren’t particularly neat. Or polished. Your uniform didn’t fit right, like it had been ironed two days ago and then slept in. Your fingers were ink-stained. Your collar slightly crooked.

You were pretty. But in a way that felt… accidental. Or wrong. Like a painting flipped upside down.

There was something strange about your face. Or maybe your mouth. It looked like it wanted to smile, but didn’t know how.

You looked up once during the lecture. Your eyes met his.

Then you winked.

Haruki turned back to his textbook immediately, his throat dry.

He didn’t look at you again for the rest of the period.

But he felt you looking.

∘₊✧

The class project was announced the next week.

“Pairs of two,” the teacher said, holding up a glass bowl with folded slips inside. “We’re going to assign them randomly. You’ll have three weeks to put your presentations together. Graded on both content and performance.”

She walked between rows with the bowl.

Haruki reached in, pulled a number: 9.

He waited patiently while the others filed through their slips. Then your name was called.

You pulled yours out. Paused. Tapped it twice against your palm.

You looked right at him when you said, “Nine.”

Haruki’s fingers twitched around his pen.

∘₊✧

He didn’t say anything until after class.

You were still packing up, slow and disorganised. You dropped your folder and didn’t bother to pick up half the papers that slid out. A few had doodles in the margins. They looked like vines. Or veins.

“Haruki Mikage,” he said.

You blinked up at him, surprised. “Yeah?”

He stared. Then, “That’s my name.”

You tilted your head.

“I know,” you said. “You're the guy with the stupidly perfect eyebrows.”

He stared harder.

You reached for your bag, smiling faintly. “Are we gonna start working on this project, or are you gonna keep staring at me like I just spit in your bento?”

Haruki didn’t respond.

You laughed softly—barely audible. Like you hadn’t meant to do it.

Then you leaned forward and whispered, “You always look like you’re trying not to judge me. It’s okay. You can. It makes your mouth look sharper.”

His stomach twisted. He stepped back.

You turned and walked off like nothing happened.

Like you hadn’t just said the first thing that’s ever made him lose his breath.

∘₊✧

The two of you met for the first study session in the back corner of the library, because, of course, you suggested it, and of course, Haruki said yes, even though it went against his better judgment, instincts, and every fibre of his tightly-wound existence.

“This is where the ghosts live,” you said, dropping your bag to the floor and immediately sitting cross-legged on the chair. “They’re chill, though. As long as you don’t read anything out loud in Latin.”

Haruki blinked at you over the top of his textbook. “I don’t read Latin,” he said flatly.

You grinned. “That’s good. You’ve got exorcism hands, not summoning hands.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s a compliment.” It didn’t sound like one. But also—it kind of did?

You kicked your leg a little, humming under your breath. Then you reached over and grabbed his pen. Didn’t even ask. Just took it. Twirled it between your fingers like a wand and said, “Alright, Harvard. Let’s get this nerd orgy started.”

“…Excuse me?”

You looked at him innocently. “You’re telling me you don’t think studying is a group kink?”

Haruki did not dignify that with a response.

You leaned back in your seat and tilted your head, staring at him like you were taking inventory of something beneath his skin. Then:

“Have you always been like this?”

“…Like what?”

“Like a boy who was genetically engineered to be the president of every club. Like a human version of whatever’s in those vitamin gummies for your brain.”

Haruki frowned, flipping to the next page of the syllabus. “And you’ve always been like this?”

“Unfortunately,” you replied, deadpan. “I tried being normal once. Got a nosebleed.”

He didn’t believe a single word out of your mouth.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Not in the overt, obvious way. Just… his eyes kept landing on the curve of your neck when you tilted your head back to think. Or the way your lips moved when you mouthed words to yourself under your breath. You chewed your pen sometimes, distractedly. 

You had a pretty mouth. Haruki wondered what it would feel like around his fingers.

You tapped your fingers against your leg in a rhythm he couldn’t decipher. You made references he didn’t understand.

“Did you know Freud had a raging thing for eels?”

“…What?”

“He dissected like so many of them. Never found the testes. Drove him insane. I feel like you’re my eel.”

Haruki slowly set his pen down.

“I’m… what.”

“I don’t get you,” you said, voice lighter. Not teasing now. Just honest. “You’re like this shiny, polished, student council-approved perfection android. But then you make these tiny expressions when no one’s looking. Like you’re pissed. Or bored. Or like you wanna scream into a pillow for eight hours.”

He stared. Speechless.

You tilted your head again. “Have you ever screamed into a pillow?”

“No,” he said slowly, carefully. “Have you?”

You smiled. “Only when someone's on top of me.”

Haruki’s brain short-circuited for a second.

You opened your notebook like you hadn’t just dropped a sentence that would require him to pray afterwards. “Okay, let’s start with the thesis breakdown. We can decide if you wanna present or I wanna present, but either way, I get to say the weird part.”

“There’s… a weird part?”

“There’s always a weird part,” you said, eyes sparkling. “It’s the whole point of writing anything. Gotta add the bite.”

He didn’t know what you meant, but his pulse ticked up anyway.

You worked surprisingly well together.

You were smart. Not just academically, but weird smart. You pulled random quotes from obscure films, recalled footnotes Haruki had skimmed past, and made connections he hadn’t even considered. And the worst part was—your instincts were always right.

You were completely unserious about your own reputation, but deadly serious about the work. Which meant that Haruki—perfectionist, ruthless, prideful Haruki—couldn’t even hate you for beating him.

All he could do was sit across from you while you explained why you thought the author used soil erosion as a metaphor for emotional decay and pretend his leg wasn’t bouncing under the table.

When the session ended, you leaned over his side of the desk to grab your drink—and stayed there.

You were too close.

Too casual.

Your hair was a little messy. Your breath smelled like melon soda and mints. And when you pulled away, you laughed like you knew exactly what you were doing.

“I’ll text you,” you said, swinging your bag over one shoulder. “Unless you’d prefer I send smoke signals from the roof.”

“I don’t have your number.”

You blinked.

“Oh. Right.”

You held your hand out. Palm up. Waiting.

Haruki hesitated. Then handed over his phone.

You typed something fast, then handed it back.

The name you saved in his contacts wasn’t your name.

It just said: [threat level: weirdly hot]

He didn’t correct it.

∘₊✧

Haruki stepped out onto the rooftop with his blazer slung over his shoulder, tie loosened just enough not to look sloppy. He didn’t really care if people saw the cigarette between his fingers — nobody ever said anything. Not to him. It was the kind of privilege that came with being him.

Top grades. National mock test finalist. MVP of the volleyball team. Editor of the student journal. The golden boy. Your mother’s favorite. Your teacher’s pride. The one who always knew the answer but never rubbed it in.

And here he was, burning through his second cigarette of the afternoon, hoping it would quiet the spinning in his head.

He hated that it didn’t.

The shouting started before he even made it down the last step.

“Why don’t you just eat somewhere else?” someone hissed.

“I’m not in the mood to deal with this freak show today—seriously, you always pick the corner seat like it’s your kingdom or something.”

Haruki’s foot hit the bottom stair.

He knew that voice. Loud. Entitled. A second-year student from the basketball team who walked around like he owned the school just because he had abs and rich parents. The group around him laughed, but it sounded more like barking.

You were sitting alone, lunch in your lap, face unreadable. Picking at your rice like you couldn’t hear them.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. But your hands had gone still.

Haruki’s voice cut in before he could think about it.

“You talk a lot for someone that far below average,” he said flatly.

Silence.

The air shifted.

The guy whipped around, only to pale when he saw Haruki standing there, jacket off, sleeves rolled, cigarette still burning between his fingers.

Haruki didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Keep walking,” he added.

The group scattered. No one apologised. No one even made eye contact. They just fled, like hyenas realising the lion hadn’t left after all.

You glanced up at him with a half-smile. “Wow. My hero.”

“You shouldn’t let them get to you.”

“I don’t.” You popped a cherry tomato into your mouth. “I just added them to the list.”

“…What list.”

You didn’t answer. You just chewed and smiled.

∘₊✧

Later that week.

You opened the door in a loose black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, hair wet from a shower and sticking to your forehead in damp, clinging strands. You looked cosy in a way that made Haruki’s lungs feel too tight.

“You made it,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. “Wanna see something cool?”

Haruki followed you in, expecting weird posters, weird books, and maybe an Ouija board or something.

What he didn’t expect was—

The kitchen.

Clean. Lived-in. There was a wooden cutting board already dusted with flour. Soy sauce, mirin, and sesame oil lined up neatly on the counter. A cast iron pot simmering quietly on the stove, steam curling like the first exhale of a ghost.

You tied an apron around your waist and turned slightly. “Sit.”

He did.

The scent was unreal.

Rich and savoury. Ginger and garlic blooming in oil, followed by a splash of sake and the quiet crackle of meat hitting the pan. Chicken thighs, if he wasn’t mistaken—bone-in, skin crisping in real time as you basted it with soy and sugar.

The sauce thickened into a lacquered glaze, caramel-dark and glistening. You flipped the pieces with casual precision, face calm in a way he’d never seen in class. Focused. Almost elegant.

You weren’t speaking. Just humming. A low, tuneless little rhythm under your breath.

He watched the way your fingers moved—quick and practised as you sliced scallions into fine curls, sprinkled furikake over the steaming rice. You moved like you lived in the kitchen, like it wasn’t a performance.

The food was simple, but the kind of simple that only comes from knowing what you're doing. Like you’d made this a hundred times for someone you cared about.

No one had ever cooked for Haruki before.

He didn’t realise how tightly he was gripping the edge of the chair until you set the plate in front of him and the smell hit him like a memory he didn’t have.

He blinked. “This is…”

“Chicken nanban,” you said. “I made the tartar sauce from scratch.”

Haruki picked up his chopsticks, swallowed something thick in his throat, and took a bite.

The chicken cracked at the surface, still hot enough to burn, still sweet from the soy and vinegar glaze. The homemade tartar had bits of pickles and onion, just sharp enough to cut through the richness. The rice underneath had soaked up some of the sauce, sticky and warm.

It was stupidly good.

He kept eating quietly. You sat down beside him with your own plate and started scrolling through your phone, legs tucked up under you.

“Why do you know how to cook like this?” he asked finally.

You shrugged. “I like taking care of things.”

“…People?”

“Depends,” you said, tone lazy. “You wanna be taken care of?”

He looked at you. You didn’t look up.

The silence between you stretched like sugar—warm, sticky, slow.

He put his chopsticks down.

You turned to him.

And smiled.

Haruki wasn’t sure what he expected your room to look like, but it wasn’t this.

Simple, mostly. Clean. A little lived-in. The walls were bare except for a stack of books pushed into a crooked shelf, a futon folded neatly in one corner, and a secondhand desk with a few pens left uncapped. A soft hum filled the silence — maybe a fan from the hall or the fridge ticking quietly through the wall.

You tossed your bag down and sat on the floor like you didn’t feel the shift in the air. Haruki did. His skin felt too tight. The space between your bodies suddenly felt loaded.

“So this is where you hide,” he said, trying to sound casual.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. Then shrugged.

“I like quiet,” you murmured. “It’s hard to find in school.”

Haruki didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all.

You watched him for a long beat, then patted the space in front of you.

“C’mere.”

He hesitated. You raised a brow. And then he moved — sat down across from you with crossed legs and a heart that wouldn’t stop thudding.

You didn’t touch him at first. Just stared. Haruki stared back. He wasn’t used to that, either — being looked at like he was something to be read, not admired. It made him feel strange. Exposed.

“Haruki,” you said, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “Do you ever stop thinking?”

His mouth opened — then closed. He didn’t have an answer.

You leaned in, slow like a question. Gave him time to stop it.

He didn’t.

So you kissed him.

Just once, at first — a slow press, the kind that didn’t demand anything. Then again, this time deeper. Haruki inhaled sharply, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to put them. You pulled back only slightly.

“You can touch me.”

The words were soft. Not teasing. Just an offer.

Haruki’s fingers found your shoulders, then your jaw, then finally threaded into your hair like it made sense.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Until you shifted, pushed gently at his chest. He leaned back onto his elbows, lips parted, breath shaky. You sank to your knees in front of him, palms brushing the hem of his shirt.

He watched, stunned, as your hands moved with practised ease — unbuttoning, unzipping, until he was bare from the waist down. The air was cool against his erection. Your breath was warm.

“Wait—” he managed, voice a little broken. “Are you… sure?”

You looked up at him with the faintest smile.

“Very.”

And then you lowered your head.

The first touch of your mouth on his cock made his breath stutter. He’d never—no one had ever—

He clutched at the sheets beneath him, back arching slightly. You didn’t rush. Just took him in slow, deep, unhurried. Your hands on his thighs kept him steady, kept him grounded.

Haruki didn’t know where to look. Your lips, your eyelashes, the ceiling — nothing helped. His brain was static.

You hummed against him, the vibration sending a full-body shiver up his spine.

“Fuck,” he gasped, hands fisting the blanket. “That—wait—don’t—”

But he didn’t want you to stop. Not really. And you knew that.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper, “It’s okay. You can let go.”

And when he did, it was quiet.

His jaw went slack. His head tipped back. Your name curled off his tongue like something reverent. He was shaking.

You swallowed, slow and clean, and wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

Then you looked up at him.

Smiled like it was just another Tuesday.

“You taste like stress and bad decisions.”

Haruki lay there, bare and ruined, heartbeat in his throat.

You stood, grabbed your water bottle, and stretched like a cat.

“Wanna stay for dinner?”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1@timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[sooniebby]

The idea of a singer being a stalker instead of them being stalked is something that needs to explored more. Bonus, if the person being stalked isn’t particularly scared about it.

More specifically, the stalker being the reader. Bottom male reader.

A reader who’s always been watching his classmate since junior high school (middle school). The classmate wasn’t anyone special to others, average grades with average looks.

But you didn’t mind, him being average meant you didn’t have to fight for his attention. It was small things, just paying attention to his favorite foods and leaving them in his shoe locker.

Then slowly it blossomed. You made sure he got home safe. You found out what cram school he visited and made sure to leave snacks for him, can’t study on an empty stomach!

Increasingly, you noticed he began to get a bit paranoid, always looking behind himself. But he never made any effort to report you to the police or anything. Even when his friend suggested it at first, he practically shot it down fast.

However, after graduating to senior high school, you soon realized he wasn’t paranoid over you. He was getting bullied.

It didn’t take you long to handle it. Despite being a loner and a bit on the shorter side compared to the bully. There’s nothing a bully can do against castration. It’s quite easy to incapacitate someone who drinks a lot.

After, you expected him to act the same. And while he did—you noticed that he would look over at you in class. The first time it happened you practically had a panic attack and ran out of the classroom. He’s never looked at you at all despite the two of your being in the same class for four years straight.

You briefly wondered if he knew. Certainly acting like that would’ve confirmed his suspicions.

Luckily for you—he seemed to never look your way again. You’d know, you spend most of the day staring at him. When you finally graduated, you couldn’t be happy at all.

You’d failed to get into the university he applied to. Maybe you should’ve paid more attention to school. You were about to just come up with a back up plan when your sister said she wanted to go somewhere with you.

Just your luck, she tricked you in attending an audition at a music competition. You and her used to sing a lot as kids but you had stopped to focus on him. Of course, the devil was out to get you when you both managed to last until the final round.

Privacy wasn’t a thing for you after that. Your sister persuaded you to get signed at a company. Your parents as well since you technically had nothing else going for you—you did fail the exam for each college you tried at. (That was a lie, you had only applied to one)

Before you didn’t need to dress up to stalk him. You were pretty average as well—but now people recognized you. Especially because the company loved to advertise you as a “emo boy.” You took offense to that—just wearing black didn’t make you an emo.

But in any case, you had to start wearing clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in. Watching him was harder this time… because he was surprising popular at his university. Everyone talked to him more often and invited him to hang out.

You didn’t understand, he didn’t change how he looked. In any case, you thought he was handsome first. You had dibs. It was getting increasingly difficult to just standby as men and women flirted with him.

Then your worst nightmare happened—he had a date. You stalked it, of course. Dressed in a bright pink shirt with white pants. Hair styled nicely compared to the mess you usually kept it. People really didn’t recognize you when you actually put effort into your looks.

You played with your knife as you watched them chat at the table across from you. The blade was too dull for your liking. Though you had only really used it to castrate that guy. And maybe… to scare off a few people in high school… but you’d never kill—seemed pointless.

As the date finally ended, you were pleased to see him turn down the girl’s offer to come to her place. You watched in satisfaction as she walked away dejectedly. She’s a pretty girl, she’ll find someone else.

You were too busy watching that you hadn’t even noticed someone behind you.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Your body froze. You couldn’t move at all. A laugh left him as he tapped your shoulder.

“Are you going to run away again? I didn’t think you’d still stalk me after becoming a singer. You’re…”

You expected him to cuss you out but to your shock he said.

“Dedicated. Really dedicated. It’s cute.”

“A…what?” You whispered, slowly turning around to face him.

He was smiling at you. Smiling as if he was talking to a friend and not his stalker for over seven years. Was he insane?

Well you weren’t one to talk.

“Cute. I’m glad you didn’t run away this time. Here, gimme your LINE ID.” He said, pulling out his phone. You could only stare at him as he waved his phone. “C’mon, I’m speaking Japanese, yeah?”

“I… wait… are you—? Don’t you know I’ve been stalking you for almost eight years?”

“Mhm.”

“And that I almost followed you to your university? It wasn’t even a university I wanted to go, i don’t even know what I wanted, only if it had you.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you listening to me? I castrated a guy for you.”

“So that’s what you did… he wouldn’t tell me what happened at all,” he muttered, effectively ignoring everything else you did.

“….I followed you on a date, why aren’t you…” you couldn’t help yourself and grabbed his shirt, shaking him a bit. “This can’t be real. Why aren’t you scared?”

“You’re telling me things I already know.” He gazed down at you, his hand reached up and grasped the back of your head. “Why would I be scared if I liked it all?”

You blinked just as he kissed your cheek, a wide grin on his lips.

“You’ve watched me for this long,” he whispered, his hand slowly reaching down to grab your chin as he forced you to look up at him.

“But didn’t seem to notice that I was watching you too, (Name)-Chan.”

I’m bored so I made this longer than necessary. I always thought the idea of someone always having known they’re being stalked—making it easier for their stalker to learn stuff about them. That’s what he’s implying, btw. He didn’t stalk you, he just always noticed when you were watching him.

Reader isn’t a reliable narrator.

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @tehyunnie @iwishtobeacrow @chill-guy-but-cooler @star-3214 @remdayz @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @cherry-blossoms-187 @smellwell @euthymiko @rhetorical-conscience @tomoeroi @love-kha1 @secretivemessenger @mooncarvers-world @bensontrechic @yuzuukix @anchoredphoenix @roi-henri-xxii @m00n-b4b3 @ning1e

[sixeyesonathiel]

academic rival!satoru who starts pulling all-nighters and obsessively rewriting his notes not just to beat you—but to catch your attention. he tells himself it’s strategy, war, rival stuff. but deep down, he’s hoping you’ll finally look at him. not glare. look. and when you do—when your gaze sharpens like a blade and you hiss, “how the hell did you score higher than me?”—his heart flutters like it's prom night, like you proposed marriage with your rage. he circles the date on his planner. he writes a haiku about it in his margin. “her eyes could kill me / but in that moment, i’d die / a scholar in love.” he considers submitting it to the campus poetry zine. he doesn’t. but he thinks about it. constantly.

he didn’t mean to start this rivalry, but he absolutely doubled down on it once he realized you were finally taking him seriously. the first time you muttered “smug bastard” under your breath in class, he swore he saw the face of god and got addicted to the sound of your frustration. he spiraled that night. rewrote his planner in pen. made a color-coded timeline of “her fury levels vs my grades.” it’s posted on his wall like an artifact. so now he’s trying harder. not just studying. overstudying. outscoring you on every test, quiz, class poll, kahoot game, group project ranking, and even the stupid little brain break games professors throw in. he shows up with research articles printed and annotated just so he can leave them on your desk, post-it commentary signed with a heart. he calls it “scholarly banter.” his friends call it “a cry for help.”

everything he does is soaked in neon desperation and pastel affection. he's convinced every time your voice raises in exasperation, it’s basically flirting. he calls it “intellectual foreplay.” his friends call it “delusion with extra steps.” you once slammed your textbook shut mid-discussion and muttered something about transferring schools just to escape him. he marked that moment in his journal as “peak chemistry.”

he still steals your pens, but now he leaves behind new ones. personalized. glittery. cursed with horrible puns. your name spelled out in cursive on the cap. once he got one custom-made with your initials and a tiny heart, and when you used it during a test, he almost fainted. he says it's to maintain “balance in the rivalry.” really, he just wants to see you roll your eyes, maybe sigh in that way that means you’re exasperated but not homicidal. progress. baby steps. thesis-worthy milestones. he once emailed the campus stationery supplier to ask if they could make pens that smell like your favorite shampoo. they said no. he cried a little.

his google drive has twelve folders named after you: “rival data,” “her essays (aka masterpieces),” “evidence she’s smarter than me but i’m hotter probably,” and “her favorite snacks ranked by study mood.” he makes spreadsheets comparing your academic scores. one chart tracks your moods based on how many hours you spent in the library, cross-referenced with your spotify activity. it’s color-coded. he thinks it’s romantic. it looks like a CIA threat report. he once gave a presentation with you as a case study on academic excellence. you weren't in the class. he did it anyway. he said it was “practice for when we’re co-professors someday.”

you treat him like a nuisance. a threat. a very loud, very cerulean-eyed glitch in your academic routine. you work harder just to obliterate his smirk. you glare when he gets the top score, mutter insults when he raises his hand, scoff when he compliments your writing. he thinks it’s all part of the enemies-to-lovers pipeline. it is not. you hate him. you're convinced he's mocking you. and he’s too stupidly in love to realize his plan is imploding like a dying star. he writes motivational quotes on his mirror. they’re all just things you’ve yelled at him.

he thinks it’s banter. you think it’s war. he flirts through footnotes, you throw sharpened stares. he doodles hearts on your thesis draft, you circle them in red and write “grow up.” he writes fake references in his essays like “her eyes, personal observation, 2025” and wonders why you haven’t confessed yet. he once tried to footnote your handwriting as a primary source of inspiration. you reported it as academic misconduct. he thanked you for noticing. he still has the warning email. printed. framed.

he believes in your intellectual excellence like it’s gospel. once said, “she’s a walking academic citation,” and got choked up about it. when you won the department award, he clapped so hard he got a bruise. told everyone later he was clapping for the future mother of his academic children. you told him to shut up. he saved the moment anyway. printed the photo. it’s in his wallet. laminated. waterproof. just in case.

his grades are rising but his romantic odds are tanking. he’s winning tests and losing dignity. one time he scored 100%, looked at you for validation, and you said, “congrats, nerd.” he wrote a poem about it. it rhymed. poorly. he performed it at the campus open mic. people clapped. you left halfway through. he said it was symbolic. a metaphor for your metaphorical emotional walls. he made a mood board. labeled it “the walls she built, the man i became.”

to him, you're the rival-slash-muse of his dreams. to you, he’s that annoying guy who somehow has your cat doodle as his lock screen. how? why? you don’t know. you don’t want to know. he says it “inspires him to rise above academic mediocrity.” you tell him to get therapy. he writes that down. “note to self: look into couples therapy.” you threaten violence. he updates his will. adds a note: “to be read by her, preferably with tears in her eyes.”

he's convinced you're in the slow burn arc. you're convinced he’s an incurable idiot. he messages you late at night with things like, “what’s your stance on fate?” or “if we wrote a thesis together, what would the topic be?” you leave him on read. he screenshots it and stares for hours. once he printed out a message you sent—“we’re not friends”—and taped it above his desk like motivational hate mail. then made it his lock screen for a week.

of course you and him aren’t friends. don’t be ridiculous. you’re soulmates, silly. academic rivals to twin flames. enemies-to-lovers speedrun. he’s delusional, yes, but passionately.

his delusions are so loud they echo in the lecture hall. he sees you win a class debate and writes a 2,000-word reflection on intellectual passion. titles it “she spoke, and the earth wept.” submits it anonymously to the school literary mag. signs it with your initials and hopes you’ll take the hint. you do. you write a rebuttal titled “the earth weeps because you talk too much.” he hangs it next to his bed. says it’s proof of your connection. invites people over just to show them.

you once muttered, “you’re a walking distraction,” and he whispered “she noticed me” before fainting dramatically onto his desk. his friend had to fan him with a syllabus. he calls that day “the awakening.” he includes it on his personal timeline of academic enlightenment. writes a song. badly. uploads it to soundcloud under the name “midterm romeo.” it has 101 plays. 99 of them are him.

the only reason he joined the academic decathlon was because you signed up. when asked his motivation, he said “to defeat my nemesis and earn her begrudging respect.” you stared at him. he winked. you nearly punched him. he said, "was that a spark?" and held an ice pack to his cheek with a lovesick smile. wrote a limerick about it. no one laughed but him. he printed it on a mug.

he's tried subtle confessions, like changing his discord status to “she's my thesis.” no one knew who “she” was. except everyone did. the group chat roasted him for six hours. he left and rejoined under a new name: “GPA 4 HER.” it got worse. made a spotify playlist named: “studying her like a sacred text.” you blocked him on everything but email. he started ending all peer reviews with ��ps: hi.”

at some point, your mutual friends start noticing. they ask if you two are dating. you respond with horror. he responds with “not yet.” you threaten violence. he updates his will again. adds a footnote: “if she cries at my funeral, i win.” writes a powerpoint: “our enemies-to-lovers arc: a predictive analysis.” presents it to himself in his dorm at 2am. cries. adds transitions. makes a playlist.

you don’t know he wrote you into his valedictorian speech. he calls you “his greatest academic challenge and muse.” he practices it at night, staring at the mirror, pretending you're there in the crowd, not fuming—but finally, finally smiling at him. he’s rehearsed your nonexistent wedding vows more than his intro paragraph. sometimes he grades fake exams you never wrote and gives you 100 just to feel something. he once drafted a fictional university recommendation letter for you just to imagine what it’d be like to praise you publicly without you throwing a pen at his head.

and maybe, if he’s lucky, when the final grades are out and you tie for first place, you’ll look at him again. not with fury. not with confusion. but with something soft. maybe interest. maybe curiosity. maybe the beginning of something stupid. something sweet. something research paper-worthy.

strictly academic, of course. unless... extra credit?

[i2sunric]

𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐘 (p.sh)

PAIRING: hockeyplayer!sunghoon x classpresident!reader (f)

SUMMARY: after an argument caused by his overwhelming jealousy, you decide to find him in the hockey changing rooms to show him your loyalty, by getting down on your knees.

WARNINGS: jealousy (borderline toxic?) argument, fighting, sunghoon has a bad temperament, smut (blowjob, deepthroat), dirty talking, dom!hoon but reader knows her way with him, cum in mouth, cum eating, high school au (but they’re both 19), hoon is slightly toxic, pet names (slut, baby), messy blowjob, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD

PUBLISHED: 27th November 2024

WC: 2.1k

TAGLIST: permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @destinyhoon @jakeflvrz @emislove @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvr r @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @senascoooop @mitmit01 @cloud-lyy @won4me @slut4hee @leov3rse @aanniikkaa @lvnglysunoo @lovingvoidgoatee @talesofthegreatest @yeonjunswife05 @soobieboo @llearlert @j1sb4e @roslayy @yunhoswrldddd @eneiyri @jakeswifez @malak13567889 @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @hoonics BOLDS COULD NOT BE TAGGED

a/n: peekaboo! guess who rose from not the dead but my drafts? yup, this fic i never actually had the inspiration to write. please REBLOG & COMMENT to share and lmk your thoughts.

The cold air from the rink clung to your skin as you stormed down the corridor, the sound of your heels clicking pounding in your ears.

Every word from the argument replayed in your mind, sharper each time, like tiny blades cutting into your chest. You’d always known about Sunghoon’s temper, how he buried that dangerous, jealous side of himself for you.

He was used to getting into fights and spending more time in detention than in class, but he had tried to change the exact moment you became his girlfriend.

He tried, but sometimes it slipped through the cracks. Sometimes it surged to the surface, fiery and unrelenting, like it had the day before.

For a moment, you just stood there, breathing hard. You thought you’d gotten used to it—the way his jealousy twisted into anger, the way he let it consume him.

It hadn’t, truthfully, but you were going to make everything right again, even if it meant swallowing your pride — and his dick — Because he was more important.

As soon as your council meeting ended, you decided to rush to the hockey changing room in order to get Sunghoon before morning classes.

You waited for everyone to exit, knowing that if your boyfriend was any the annoyed teenage kid he was, he’d take a long shower to calm his nerves.

You ignored all the wolf whistles and viscous smirk as you pushed the door of the male changing rooms open, after making sure everyone except Sunghoon was out.

And there you saw him, sculpted like a Greek god as his dignity was covered only with a towel while he dried his hair with another.

His eyes closed momentarily before quickly snapping back open as his head turned towards the door.

Sunghoon stepped forwards with the towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his hair but his muscles were prominent as he stared down at you

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he spoke, tone harsh and annoyed as he stepped closer to you.

You already knew he was mad, so be it. You stood in front of him with your backpack in hand, your hair perfectly combed and uniform neat “We need to talk.”

Sunghoon's jaw tightened at your words, his eyes narrowing on you as he continued to walk towards you while looking down at you like you were some kind of prey. "Yeah? Well, if you couldn't tell, I’m kind of busy here,"

You sighed, placing your backpack on one of the benches, side stepping him “I can wait.”

"And you think you're allowed to just wait in here? You shouldn't be in here in the first place," He retorted impatiently as he also turned around, walking towards his own locker to grab some clean clothes.

“Then I’ll just have to break some rules.” You replied, letting him know you weren’t backing down. “Why are you mad at me?”

Sunghoon clenched his jaw as he grabbed his boxers, pulling them on under his towel and removing it around his waist before reaching for his school pants.

He didn't bother to turn around to look at you as he was getting dressed, but his attitude changed a bit at your question, scoffing in response. "You really wanna know why I'm mad?" he retorted as he grabbed a plain black t-shirt to go over his head.

You eyed him shamelessly as he got dressed. "That's what I just asked."

Sunghoon couldn't help but notice the way your eyes remained on him, watching as he pulled the t-shirt over his head, his muscles straining against the fabric as he finally looked back at you, eyes dark and expression cold. "It's because of that prick from the council you've been spending so much time with," He responded with venom in his tone as he spoke.

“What about him?” You already knew what was the rant about, you had already heard all of his jealous tantrum the day before.

Still, you needed him to talk to you.

He clearly was not happy about the fact that you were acting clueless. "Don't play stupid with me," he sneered, "You know exactly why I’m mad. You've been spending so much time with that bastard from the council, right under my nose."

You sighed, hands resting on your hip “Because he helps me with my election campaign,” you filled in “Nothing more, don’t act like I’m hooking up with someone.”

Sunghoon couldn't help but scoff again, clearly not believing you whatsoever. "You really expect me to believe that bullshit?" he retorted, his tone cold. "You're constantly with that prick every time I see you. How am I supposed to believe you haven't been doing anything behind my back?"

You raised a brow at him. Clearly, what he had said wasn’t of your liking, “Why do you doubt me?”

"Oh, don't give me that look," He shot back, his expression cold and indifferent as he stared down at you with narrowed eyes. "I have every reason to doubt you. Everytime I see the two of you, you're all chummy, standing way too close together."

You walked close to him, slowly, like a panther ready to attack; waiting for the right time.

“Choose your words carefully.” You said, lowly “Because you know well I would never cheat on you.”

His nostrils filled with the smell of your perfume that he always loved.

He was about to attack again but your words shut him up immediately, his eyes locking with yours as he was slightly intimidated.

However, he still tried to keep his cold, indifferent façade, scoffing again as he leaned against a locker. "I can say whatever the hell I want," he retorted stubbornly.

You looked up at him “What do you need?” you asked “Do you need me to prove myself to you?”

Sunghoon couldn't help but notice the way you stared up at him, and as much as he wanted to keep his cold facade and be stubborn, he was also slightly affected by the fact that you were making it so difficult for him to stay mad at you.

“What are you getting at?" he asked, his tone still harsh as he kept his eyes locked on yours, his arms folded as he leaned against the locker.

Your tone was low “You need my reassurance, Hoon?” his heart skipped a beat as you called him by his nickname, something you never did when you're upset.

"What kind of reassurance?" he questioned, “My loyalty.” you replied.

“And how do you plan on showing me?” your hand slowly travelled up his thigh to squeeze his groin.

Sunghoon reached out for you, his hands gripping onto your hips tightly as he pulled you closer so your body was now pressed against his. "Is this you being loyal?"

You smirked and squeezed him, nodding your head, making Sunghoon suppress a shiver. A mocking scoff left his lips “Yeah? You think that is enough?”

You rolled your eyes, “You think so lowly of me.” you slowly sank down to your knees.

Your long socks weren’t long enough to cover your knees and neither was your skirt, which meant you’d have some serious sore knees later. But it didn’t matter, not when you needed to redeem yourself to your boyfriend.

Sunghoon's eyes widened as you sank to your knees in front of him, now face to face with the prominent tent in his pants he had tried to hide from you moments ago.

“This isn't proving anything yet," he managed to spit out, his tone shakier than ever.

Instead of verbally replying, something you know would only lead to yet another fight, you decided to lower his pants.

Sunghoon wasn’t average, he was thick and long, something you had tried to cope with over the time you dated. Because it hurt, but it hurt so good.

As his boxers and pants fell down to his ankles, his cock sprung free, proud and red in front of you.

“Are you such a slut?” He asked, even if his hands gently gathered your hair so you wouldn’t dirty them “Going to your knees to resolve everything, uh?”

You rolled your eyes and began giving kitten kisses to his prominent bulge, making Sunghoon shiver.

Your hand wrapped around his cock, and you pumped him painfully slowly.

He let out a soft groan in response, especially when your finger brushed against a certain vein that had his hips buck.

Your lips enfolded his angry tip, tasting the salty precum “Fuck,” Sunghoon sighed.

Impatient, and still irritated by your argument, he gripped your hair and pushed his length deep inside your throat.

You gagged at the sudden action, trying to take deep breaths not to actually retch your breakfast.

You looked up at him with an annoyed gaze, making your boyfriend chuckle “Can’t take it?”

You hummed, sending vibrations through his whole body as you bobbed your head back and forth.

Sunghoon leaned his own against the locker, his other hand flexing as he got lost in the pleasure you were giving him.

You pulled away to gather your breath, saliva and spit coating your lips. It was such a hot sight for Sunghoon.

You cleaned your mouth and used your saliva to lubricate his shaft, pumping him and then taking him again.

You tried not to gag again around him, using one of your hands to help you where you couldn’t reach.

“Good girl.” Sunghoon murmured, slowly going back to his usual self.

You smirked around his cock and pushed your head deeper, feeling his thick tip hitting the back of your throat.

Sunghoon let out a low moan, “Fuck, just like that.” he breathed out, “Bet that guy would dream of having you like this, mh? Should I take a picture and send it to him?”

You shook your head, but at the idea of Sunghoon being so jealous he’d even snap a picture while you were sucking his dick aroused you. You squeezed your thighs together to soothe the aching feeling in your core.

“Keep going,” Sunghoon changed as he matched your pace with his own thrust, each one almost making you gag, “Your mouth was made to suck my dick.”

It was a challenge, but you’d endure it if it meant soothing the beast that lay under his skin. Your beast, your demon.

When you felt his legs tremble, you knew he was close, so you hollowed your cheeks and let him fuck into your mouth.

One of your hands dropped limp while you used the other to palm his balls, adding to the already overwhelming pleasure he was feeling.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby.” He said, trying and failing to get you to move away.

You were all dolled up for school, and he had already messed up your hair, he didn’t want to stain your uniform with his cum, however erotic such an image was.

You let out a disapproving hum, which was enough to send him over the edge.

“Ah— Shit.” His cock twitched in your mouth as you wrapped your lips around his length and swallowed all off his seed, greedily taking every drop.

His hips bucked weakly a couple of times before you pulled away and licked your lips.

Standing up on wobbly legs, you took a tissue from the pocket of your skirt and cleaned your mouth, as well as some smudged make up.

“You didn’t have to swallow it.” Sunghoon said as he tucked his softened cock inside his pants, “I know how much you don’t enjoy it.”

It was true. You thought it was gross to swallow whenever you gave him head, but you also knew how much he loved it. He loved when you took his cum, when you gave him a reason to claim you.

“If I didn’t want to swallow, I wouldn’t have done it.” You replied, fixing your hair and taking your discarded backpack.

Just in time, the bell rang. Being the (hopefully) soon-to-be school president, you couldn’t manage to arrive late to class, so you tiptoed and pressed a quick peck on Sunghoon’s lips.

“I’ll see you after school, yeah?” You murmured, smirking when you noticed how flustered he was, “I’ll let you take me in whatever position you want.”

Sunghoon shook his head, wrapping a strong arm around your waist and pressing a hot kiss to your mouth. Argument long forgotten, “Where did I find you?”

You wiggle your brows “In your wildest dreams.”

[cressidagrey]

The Witnesses

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Felicity and Oscar’s Years at Haileybury School through the eyes of their classmates.   

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

I spent every free minute I had in four days writing this and you are getting it today because I'll be busy tomorrow ❤️

Also warning, about a mention of an eating disorder and a bruised sternum and pneumonia...I think that's everything? Wait, I forgot: Teenagers being horrible.

Samir Malik 

Oscar Piastri didn’t talk much when he first arrived at Haileybury.

Not in the way that most new kids were shy. No, Oscar was… quiet. Composed. Too still for a 14-year-old. He never cried. Never complained.

He was gone half the time for Karting, and the rest of the time he had his uniform perfect, his homework early, and his backpack zipped with the kind of militant precision that made most of them suspicious.

He was brilliant. 

Top marks in math and science by week two. Made the cricket team without breaking a sweat.

But he was always alone.

Some of the boys thought he was a bit of a freak. Too good. Too blank. It wasn’t cruelty at first—just curiosity turned sour when Oscar didn’t play along.

By week two, someone had called him Robot Boy.

By week three, it stuck.

Samir had never said it himself. But he’d laughed the first time someone made the joke in the dorms—when Oscar finished a physics quiz in four minutes flat and just… sat there blinking while everyone else panicked.

“Careful, Robot Boy. You’re gonna fry a circuit.”

Oscar didn’t respond.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

He just looked at them, impassive and too old, and returned to his notebook.

Samir remembered thinking: Jesus. Maybe he really is a robot.

Then came Felicity Leong. She had been there since 7th grade. Singaporean, sharp-eyed and scarily good at Latin. The kind of girl who corrected the teacher when the subjunctive case was wrong and then looked bored five seconds later.

And Robot Boy—Oscar—reacted.

Not big. Not obvious. But Samir noticed it.

Oscar sat next to her in every class. Lingered in hallways. Spoke softly to her in the library like he was afraid too many syllables would scare her off. It was weird. And tender. 

And completely recognisable from the stone-faced boy Oscar was around everybody else. 

Everyone saw it.

Everyone.

Which is probably why Josh Whitmore opened his dumb mouth.

They were fourteen. Sitting in the courtyard. Samir remembered it clearly—crisp day, grey skies, the smell of overcooked chips wafting from the canteen.

Josh was laughing about something, flicking bottle caps at a tree, and then said—loudly, and with the smugness only a 14-year-old bully can muster:

“Bet Robot Boy only likes her ‘cause she’s got no tits and doesn’t talk back.”

There was a pause.

Oscar, who had been two benches over reading some engineering book like a pensioner, stood up.

Walked over.

Didn’t say anything.

Just looked at Josh with this dead-calm expression that made the hairs on Samir’s neck stand up.

And , then—without a single word—Oscar shoved him. Hard.

Josh went stumbling into the grass with a yelp, more stunned than hurt, and Oscar just kept walking forward. Not fast. Not angry.

Controlled.

Like something had clicked inside him.

“Don’t talk about Felicity like that,” he said quietly.

Josh scrambled up. “Mate, it was a joke—”

Oscar’s voice cut through him like a blade. “Say it again.”

And the whole courtyard went silent.

Samir remembered Felicity arriving seconds later—hair pulled back, eyebrows furrowed, voice soft with warning.

“Oscar. Stop. It’s not worth it.”

And the moment she spoke, the tension snapped. Oscar took a step back. His fists unclenched. He looked at her like gravity pulled him in place.

And then he walked away.

Oscar didn’t get detention—Josh didn’t dare to report it.

Samir sat on the edge of the Year 9 dorm windowsill that night, watching the courtyard disappear into dusk, chewing the inside of his cheek and thinking about the look on Piastri’s face.

Not rage.

Not even anger, really.

Just… defense. Like he’d been wired to stay calm until someone touched the single thing he wouldn’t let them ruin.

And then he snapped.

Samir had seen blokes lose their heads before. Shouting, flailing, posturing. That wasn’t what Oscar did.

Oscar had moved like someone protecting something. Like something old and silent and raw had cracked open, and all that ice they joked about—Robot Boy and the Circuit Board Brain—had turned into fire instead.

He didn’t look robotic anymore.

He looked like he cared.

Which, to be honest, made everything a bit awkward now. Because once Samir saw it—really saw it—he couldn’t unsee it.

The way Oscar sat on the floor beside Felicity in study hall, backs to the radiator, knees just brushing. The way he always knew if she was too quiet. The way she’d pass him a protein bar without looking, or rest her head against his shoulder when she was reading.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t a performance.

It was just… them.

And suddenly all the stupid jokes—the beep boop, the Emotion.exe not found memes, the Robot Boy name—felt wrong.

Small.

Because Oscar Piastri wasn’t a robot.

He was just the kind of kid who didn’t trust the world enough to show what he felt.

Not until someone gave him a reason to.

And Samir had a feeling that reason had a Singaporean accent, an encyclopedic knowledge of Classical literature, and a deadpan stare that could kill gods.

Oscar made his point.

Nobody called him Robot Boy again after that.

***

The thing about Oscar — and Samir had said this more than once, usually while watching another one of their classmates fumble the bare minimum — was that he had better emotional range than half their year combined.

Because while the rest of them were fumbling through breakups and making disasters out of almost-relationships, Oscar Piastri had already picked his person. And he didn’t waffle. Didn’t wander. Didn’t flirt for fun.

It was ridiculous, really.

Unfair.

Downright confusing at times.

They were sixteen, surrounded by the usual chaos of boarding school — boys who thought vulnerability was weakness, who treated relationships like status badges or games, who ghosted girls because they didn’t know how to talk about feelings without making it a joke.

And then there was Oscar. Unflappable. Quiet. Surgical with his logic. And somehow the most emotionally well-adjusted, devotion-wrapped-in-a-Haileybury-blazer boyfriend any of them had ever seen.

By the time they were 15, Oscar Piastri and Felicity Leong were a couple. 

And Oscar just… adored Felicity. With the steady, unshakeable devotion of someone who knew.

Most guys in their year didn’t know what to do with girls like Felicity. Too smart, too composed, too quietly self-possessed. The kind of girl who could skin you alive in debate club and do it politely.

Oscar, though?

 He adored her. Out loud. No hesitation.

It wasn’t the loud kind of high school obsession, either. He didn’t brag or trail after her like a puppy. There was no performative PDA or “look at us” hallway snogging. 

Oscar didn’t half like her. He didn’t flirt with other girls. He didn’t act embarrassed or annoyed when she beat him on mock exams.

He just… adored her.

Unapologetically.

Even at fifteen.

Samir remembered watching them once in the library — Felicity curled in a beanbag with a thick textbook in her lap, Oscar sitting next to her with his laptop open and a hand casually resting on her ankle like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like it was just instinct now. Like: here is the person I love, and here is how I stay tethered to her.

And he meant it. That was the weird part.

Oscar showed up to breakfast half-asleep but always saved her a seat.

 He remembered her test dates better than his own.

He didn’t need to say it every five seconds. He didn’t do public declarations or grand gestures. 

What he did do was carry her bag when her shoulder hurt. 

Robot boy, Samir thought again, watching as Felicity leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

It was him pulling her into his side when she was quiet for too long — not asking questions, just making room.

Oscar waited for Felicity after her lectures. Learn how she took her tea and get genuinely annoyed when someone else got it wrong.

Oscar brought her snacks during exam week. Walked her back from the library even when it was out of his way. Remembered her coffee order. Looked up random facts about things she liked just to talk to her about them.

Once, when she missed school for a week with pneumonia, Oscar handwrote her notes for every subject and stapled them with colour-coded tabs.

Samir remembered watching Oscar slip into the common room once, find Felicity asleep with her head on her textbook, and quietly set a blanket over her shoulders before sitting down with his own homework like it was just part of his day.

No show. No gloating. No performance.

Just a sixteen-year-old boy with a heart so obvious it didn’t need to be shouted.

“God, you’re like her golden retriever,” Aarya had joked once.

And Oscar, without missing a beat, had said, “Yeah. And I’d bite anyone who tried to hurt her.”

No hesitation.

Samir had seen a lot of boys fake maturity. Fake romance. Fake effort.

 But Oscar Piastri? He meant every word. Meant it with his hands and his actions. 

Oscar Piastri did things no other teenage boy would ever be willingly admit to doing.

He wasn’t embarrassed to sit in the front row of Felicity’s orchestra concerts, even if she only had a three-minute violin solo buried in the middle of a 42-minute program. 

He brought flowers, every time — not some sad petrol station bouquet, but little ones he clearly chose himself, wrapped in brown paper like a scene from a European indie film.

He knew when her auditions were. When her math competitions were. He even showed up to the Year 10 robotics club showcase — the one nobody went to except for teachers and bewildered parents — just because Felicity had designed the sensor rig for one of the projects.

And when Samir had casually asked why, Oscar blinked at him and said, "Because it matters to her."

It was that simple.

It always was, with Oscar.

It was the small things, mostly. The things most guys their age would've called "whipped" or "soft" or "too much."

Like how Oscar had learned to braid hair.

Not just ponytails or messy plaits — proper French braids. Fishtails. Crown braids. Because Felicity would get headaches during exam weeks and needed help when her hands were sore from writing too much, and Oscar — ever the problem solver — had simply watched a YouTube tutorial and figured it out.

He kept extra hair ties on his wrist for her after that.

Or the time she went through a stress baking phase and made it exactly three cupcakes before remembering she hated measuring.

Oscar took over the mixing bowls.

By the end of the term, he knew her favourite cookie ratios by heart — and the best way to sneak extra chocolate chips into the dough without her noticing.

The worst — or best — part?

Oscar even tried ballet.

Ballet.

Oscar Piastri, who had the natural grace of a brick in sneakers, signed up for a beginner’s movement class because Felicity once offhandedly said it helped her de-stress. Samir only found out because someone caught a glimpse of him in the dance studio trying not to fall over during a plié and asked if he was doing it for PE credit.

“No,” Oscar had said flatly, stretching his arms out in second position. “I’m just trying to understand why she likes it.”

And it wasn’t weird. Somehow it wasn’t weird.

Because Oscar wasn’t trying to impress her. He wasn’t performing. He just… cared.

Cared for the things that Felicity cared about. 

***

It was two weeks before the Winter Formal when Samir walked into the common room and saw something that made him stop dead in his tracks.

Felicity Leong — calm, brilliant, terrifyingly precise Felicity — was in the middle of the room, humming under her breath as she corrected Oscar’s posture with both hands on his shoulders. Oscar, meanwhile, was standing stiffly like he was being prepped for battle, his expression somewhere between concentration and mild existential crisis.

“You’re not holding a steering wheel,” she said, deadpan.

“I feel like I’m about to crash anyway,” Oscar muttered.

Samir blinked. “Is this… dancing?”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “Apparently I have the grace of a traffic cone.”

“He’s not that bad,” Felicity said generously, adjusting his grip. “He just counts every beat like it owes him money.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “You try learning footwork after three hours of calculus.”

Felicity only smiled. “That’s why we’re practicing now.”

They had cleared space near the windows — moved the armchairs back, stacked textbooks on one end table, even pushed the coffee table into the hallway. The overhead lights had been switched off, leaving only the soft glow of lamps and the flicker of fairy lights someone had pinned up for the holidays.

Samir watched as Felicity placed one hand in Oscar’s, the other on his shoulder, and gently nudged him into motion.

“One, two, three,” she counted under her breath. “One, two—Oscar, stop anticipating.”

“I’m trying!”

“You’re panicking.”

“I am not—okay maybe I am.”

They stumbled a little — Oscar’s foot knocking into hers — but Felicity just laughed, soft and patient. She never lost her temper with him. Never seemed bothered that he learned slower than she did, or forgot the names of steps, or treated every turn like a math equation. She just… kept showing up. Kept teaching him.

And Oscar — to his credit — kept trying.

Even when he blushed. Even when he muttered under his breath about how stupid he felt. Even when he absolutely did step on her foot and looked so horrified that she had to reassure him three times that it didn’t hurt.

They danced like that for almost half an hour. Him counting. Her humming. The two of them spinning in slow, careful circles like they existed in their own little orbit.

By the end of it, they were both breathless.

Felicity smoothed her hands down the front of his jumper. “You’re not hopeless.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Oscar muttered.

“You’ll be fine,” she said softly. “It’s just dancing.”

“It’s not just dancing,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It’s you. I don’t want to mess it up.”

She smiled. “Then stop trying to get it perfect. Just hold me and move.”

And when the formal finally came around — when Samir saw them gliding across the dance floor in that same easy rhythm, Oscar whispering something that made Felicity laugh into her hand — he thought back to that night in the common room. To the effort. To the nerves.

To the way love didn’t always look like big declarations.

Sometimes it just looked like a boy learning to waltz because the girl he loved wanted to dance.

And sometimes, that was more than enough.

***

Oscar never bragged.

He never looked around to check if anyone noticed. He just did it — quietly, consistently, like loving Felicity was the most natural thing in the world. Like of course he’d learn basic hairstyling and baroque composer facts and pointe shoe padding techniques. 

Like he got how brilliant she was, and just wanted to make the world a little easier for her to keep being that brilliant.

It was also everything most girls in their year didn’t even dare ask for — consistency, care, quiet protection. Not flashy gestures, but a soft kind of loyalty that said, I choose you. Every time.

Samir once watched Oscar press a cold bottle of water to the back of Felicity’s neck after an exam because she looked faint. No drama. No “look at me.” Just calm, practiced concern. Like he knew her body better than she did.

They called him “Robot Boy,” but Samir was starting to think the rest of them were the malfunctioning ones.

Because Oscar had cracked something early — something the rest of them hadn’t figured out yet. That being soft for someone wasn’t weakness. That loving your person out loud didn’t make you less cool. That being emotionally available wasn’t some humiliating thing you had to disguise with bravado.

Oscar didn’t pretend he wasn’t in love.

He was in love.

He knew it. Felicity knew it. Their entire year group knew it.

And Oscar Piastri didn’t give a shit.

Samir once saw Felicity walk into the dining hall in one of Oscar’s hoodies, three sizes too big and clearly stolen that morning. Oscar just smiled at her like she was the sun.

Fifteen years old and that boy looked at her like he’d already found the rest of his life.

And somehow, Samir thought, he probably had.

And when someone once dared to suggest that he was “whipped,” Oscar had looked up from his physics homework and said, without a trace of embarrassment:

“I’m in love. That’s not weakness.”

And Samir, for the first time, hadn’t had a comeback.

Because somehow, the most emotionally competent teenage boy in their entire school… was the one they all thought had no feelings to begin with.

Robot boy, his ass.

Oscar Piastri was the gold standard of emotionally intelligent teenage boys since 2016.

***

Aarya Patel 

Aarya had come to Haileybury on a scholarship.

The full-ride kind. Interviews, essays, and recommendation letters from teachers who had to dig their nicest shirts out of the back of their closets just to help her prepare. 

Aarya knew the weight of price tags, the stress of term fees, the exact moment each of her shoes started to fray. She knew how to patch the inside hem of a school blazer so no one noticed. Knew how to say no when her friends wanted to go into town for sushi.

So she noticed things. She had to.

She noticed when girls wore real gold instead of plated. When someone's watch wasn’t for fashion, it was family inheritance. When a hair tie cost more than her whole pencil case.

Which was why Felicity Leong had confused the hell out of her.

Because Felicity was rich.

Not new money, not dad’s-got-a-tech-startup rich. ​​ Not the noisy kind. Not the constantly-proving-it kind.

She was old money. Singaporean old money. The kind that whispered.

That quietly owned real estate portfolios on three continents. 

The kind that came with family foundations. 

The kind that embroidered initials into silk pillowcases.

The kind that never checked price tags and had luggage that matched — properly matched. 

Aarya had heard the whispers early on. 

Leong family. Raffles Girls. Mandarin spoken like silk. Designer uniforms tailored to fit better than any off-the-rack brand. Someone had once said her mother wore Van Cleef like it was costume jewelry. Another claimed Felicity had pearls for every mood.

Felicity’s family didn’t have money. 

Felicity had capital-W Wealth.

It was the kind of old, Singaporean, intergenerational wealth that didn’t need to prove itself. The kind that came with century old family trees, and museum-grade jade quietly worn under school jumpers.

Felicity Leong had the kind of posture that came from years of ballet and finishing school, the kind of enunciation that sounded like every word had passed inspection before being spoken. 

Her family, Aarya overheard once, lived in an estate in Bukit Timah. Had staff. Flew private when they visited Europe. Somebody once said they had an art collection they anonymously lend to museums. 

And Felicity had things.

Tiny pearl studs that had to be real — the soft lustre gave them away.

Blouses that always sat just so at the collarbone. 

A cashmere jumper in Year 11 that no one ever commented on, but Aarya had once googled out of spite. It had cost more than Aarya’s family paid for rent in three months. 

Felicity had real diamond studs tucked in velvet-lined boxes, pristine skirts that probably cost more than Aarya’s entire wardrobe, and a collection of tailored trousers that could’ve walked straight out of a Vogue editorial.

Silk hair ribbons. A monogrammed Smythson planner. A designer school bag Aarya had only ever seen in glossy fashion magazines.  Her shoes were always leather. Her pens were engraved. Engraved. 

Felicity had matching pyjama sets. She had a vintage Cartier tank watch she never even bragged about. She had cashmere socks for winter term. She packed her designer shoes in individual dust bags when they went home for the holidays. Her luggage had wheels that actually worked. 

Felicity probably didn’t even know how much her shampoo cost.

And she didn’t show off any of it. That was the worst part.

She didn’t flaunt it.

Felicity walked around like all of this was normal — not curated, not performative, just part of the atmospheric pressure of her life.

And at first?

Aarya hated her for it.

She hated Felicity for how effortless it looked.

 For how quietly beautiful Felicity was, in a way that didn’t try.

For how softly she spoke. 

For how her handwriting looked like it had been lifted out of a calligraphy book. For how teachers always nodded when she raised her hand — not indulgently, but with interest.

For how Felicity could be so nice and still walk around in tailored coats and diamonds.

Aarya couldn’t even afford a coffee from the library vending machine. Felicity carried tea sachets in a silver tin and never even mentioned it.

It burned.

It seethed.

Because if you’re going to be that rich, Aarya thought bitterly, at least have the decency to be horrible.

But Felicity wasn’t horrible.

She was polite. Warm, in a quiet, shy way. She said thank you to staff.

She offered her umbrella to someone once during a sudden downpour — someone she didn’t even know. 

She tutored a Year 9 boy in maths after he cried in front of the headmistress. She knew the names of the cleaners and left sticky notes for the librarian when she borrowed extra books.

And the worst part?

Felicity never talked about the money. Never even alluded to it.

Aarya had been waiting — waiting — for the moment the mask would slip. When Felicity would say something out of touch or condescending or make a comment about “the lower sets” or sniff at a secondhand jumper.

But it never came.

Aarya hated that more.

Because if Felicity had been awful, mean, or arrogant, it would’ve been easier. She could have ranted about privilege, weaponised her bitterness into snarky commentary.

But Felicity just... was.

She tucked herself into study carrels like she was trying not to take up space. She said thank you to the dining hall staff. She read novels between classes and didn’t raise her hand in lectures unless she was sure she wouldn’t dominate the conversation.

She turned up to group projects with colour-coded folders.

And when they got partnered in chemistry for three weeks, Felicity had quietly brought extra gloves because Aarya’s had a hole.

She didn’t say anything. Just passed them over with that quiet kind of grace that made Aarya want to scream.

It wasn’t just that Felicity had wealth.

It was that she had elegance. Ease. A kind of unbothered generosity that made Aarya feel every frayed seam and secondhand paperback like a flashing neon sign.

And the worst part?

Felicity didn’t even seem to notice.

She wasn’t trying to make anyone feel lesser. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She had just... grown up differently.

With rooms named after ancestors and furniture older than some countries. 

With a family who collected art, not Air Miles. With a mother who’d taught her how to arrange flowers and match emeralds to skin tone.

And despite all of it — all of it — Felicity still sat beside Aarya in physics and offered Aarya her muffin from lunch without blinking.

Felicity still invited her to study sessions. Felicity still lent her a scarf when it got too cold in the dorms.

Felicity didn’t try to be likable.

She just was.

And that, eventually, was what made Aarya stop hating her.

And the resentment, eventually, turned into a grudging admiration.

Then into friendship.

Then into the kind of quiet, no-bullshit loyalty that only happened when two girls survived adolescence together — one of them with patched seams, the other with pearls and perfect grades, both of them brilliant in entirely different ways.

Even if Aarya still thought the pens were a bit much.

***

It started with a hoodie. 

A battered blue thing with a cracked HP TUNERS on the front. It looked like it belonged to a mechanic. It even had frayed cuffs. 

Felicity had the sleeves pulled over her hands like she didn’t even realise she was doing it, the drawstring half chewed from stress. It didn’t match anything else she wore — not the fine-strapped watch, not the clean ballet flats, not the pearl earrings tucked discreetly into her lobes. 

Felicity was, by all accounts, elegant. She wore her school uniform like it was custom-tailored. Her hair was always neatly pinned or knotted or braided, and her posture could make a royal court jealous.

And that hoodie also was…huge. Like, swamp-her-entire-body huge.

Aarya squinted.

And then Oscar Piastri walked into the study room, said, “Hey, you found it,” and tugged at the hoodie’s shoulder playfully.

Aarya blinked.

 Oh.

Felicity didn’t blush. She didn’t really do that kind of fluster.

 She just shrugged and muttered something about “cold lecture halls” and kept reading.

But after that, it became a pattern.

Every couple of days: a hoodie that was too long in the sleeves. Sometimes even one of Oscar’s t-shirts in the common room in the evening…or while working out — old and soft and worn thin from washing. 

And always, always, Felicity wore them like they were hers. Like she forgot they weren’t.

Felicity could’ve worn Chanel to breakfast if she wanted. Could’ve wrapped herself in silk and cashmere and hand-stitched blouses from Orchard Road boutiques. 

She had worn a Hermes scarf last year, that had made a couple of girls nearly choke with jealousy. 

But somehow Felicity Leong always ended up in something that belonged to Oscar—like she’d rather have cotton that smelled like karting fuel and shampoo than diamonds on her collarbone.

Felicity’s favourite thing in the world seemed to be Oscar Piastri’s hoodies.

She wore them like a clockwork.

Like a habit.

Like comfort.

Aarya remembered watching her slip into one after cross-country practice—hair damp, trainers muddy, too tired to talk. The hoodie was washed soft, practically shapeless, sleeves pulled over her knuckles like armor.

Felicity had a Burberry coat in her wardrobe. A cashmere trench. A silk blazer with the tags still on. But she reached for Oscar’s hoodie instead.

Always his.

It unsettled Aarya. 

 Because she didn’t get it.

 Didn’t understand how someone who had grown up in private jets and penthouses would choose something so ordinary. So threadbare. So unpolished.

So… him.

And Aarya couldn’t help thinking about that. 

***

It was a rare quiet Saturday.

Most of the boarding house had scattered…library, practice fields, town runs. Aarya had stayed behind to finish a chemistry write-up, tucked into the corner of the common room with Felicity, who was curled up in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, reading something with six bookmarks and a page full of margin notes.

She was wearing one of Oscar’s hoodies again.

Navy blue. Faded print on the front. Sleeves too long, cuffs tucked between her fingers.

And below it—her skirt and dainty chanel flats.

The contrast struck Aarya like it always did.

“You know,” Aarya said, “I’ve always wondered something.”

Felicity didn’t look up. “Is it the secret to cold fusion? Because if it is, you’ll have to wait until I finish this chapter.”

Aarya huffed a laugh. “No. Just—” She gestured vaguely toward the hoodie. “You always wear his stuff. But everything else you own is, like, designer. Hermes. Dior. Chanel. Your school coat’s got pearls on the buttons.”

Felicity slowly lowered the book and met her gaze with a raised brow. “And?”

Aarya shrugged. “Just wondering why. You don’t have to wear secondhand hoodies. And you obviously don’t care what anyone thinks, so… why do you?”

Felicity was quiet for a long moment. Not in a dismissive way. Just… careful.

Then she said, very simply, “Because I picked the hoodies.”

Aarya blinked.

Felicity looked back at her book, fingers absently smoothing the creased corner. “The rest of it? The labels, the cuts, the colours? My mother picks all of that. I’ve been wearing what she tells me to wear since I was born.”

Her tone wasn’t bitter. Wasn’t even resigned. It was like Felicity was describing the weather.

“She says it’s about presentation. About honouring the family, and making the right impression. I don’t get a say.”

Felicity paused. “But Oscar’s hoodies? Those are mine. I choose them. They don’t fit right and they don’t match and she’d probably faint if she saw me in them—but I chose them. No one else.”

Aarya sat back, something slow and sharp settling in her chest.

“And he never asks for them back,” Felicity added, softer this time. “Not once.”

She didn’t say what that meant.

She didn’t need to.

Aarya got it.

The hoodie wasn’t just fabric. It was freedom. A small rebellion. A claim staked quietly in a world that tried to dress her up and keep her still.

And Oscar—quiet, loyal Oscar—had just let her take it. Again and again. Without question.

Aarya didn’t ask any more questions that day.

But she never looked at those hoodies the same way again.

Because Felicity Leong had everything money could buy.

 And she chose something that couldn’t be bought.

 She chose a boy from Melbourne with karting calluses on his hands and softness in his eyes.

 She chose his hoodie.

Over pearls. Over diamonds. Over all of it.

***

Lara Pearson 

Felicity was that girl.

Not in the mean, perfect-blonde-hair, head-girl-with-a-clipboard way. No. She was terrifyingly quiet, borderline surgical with her pens, and once corrected a Year Nine on their French conjugation without looking up from her sudoku.

Here’s the thing about Felicity Leong:

She wasn’t just smart.

She was unreal.

Lara had known it since Year Seven—since the first science lab, actually, when everyone else was still figuring out how to hold a test tube without shattering it, and Felicity was calmly correcting the teacher on which dilution would give the most accurate result.

At eleven.

With pigtails.

And a voice like honeyed ice.

Lara remembered turning to Samir afterward and whispering, “Did she just—”

And Samir, wide-eyed, had nodded. “Yeah. She did.”

By Year Nine, Felicity had memorized three Shakespeare plays for fun and was tutoring older students in calculus.

By Year Ten, she’d won the national science fair, debated a university professor on climate policy (and won), and casually designed an app to help Aarya’s dyslexic younger brother learn phonics.

And by Year Eleven?

Well.

By Year Eleven, Felicity could walk into a room and silence it with nothing more than a glance and a perfectly worded dismantling of someone’s half-baked argument about capitalism.

But it wasn’t just her academics.

It was everything.

The way she saw the world—like it was a system of interlocking parts, and if she looked long enough, she’d figure out the code. Like she could disassemble reality and rebuild it better if she only had the time.

Felicity Leong was terrifying in that quiet, precise way genius often is.

People underestimated her sometimes—mistook her silence for shyness, her neat clothes and high-achieving record as nothing more than that. But Lara had seen behind the curtain.

She’d been there when Felicity, at thirteen, explained quantum entanglement using toast and jam. She’d watched her annotate the entire syllabus of a new elective subject over one day, then act like it wasn’t a big deal.

She once caught Felicity solving a university-level maths problem on the back of a napkin at lunch. Just because she was bored.

Lara had always done well in school. Top sets. Good grades. Solid work ethic.

But Felicity?

Felicity operated on a different plane entirely.

It wasn’t just brainpower—it was how her mind moved. Fast and sharp and endless. Like she could zoom out to the big picture and zoom in to the minutiae at the same time. Like nothing ever truly surprised her because she’d already run every possible version of the conversation in her head.

***

But Felicity’s intelligence was why Lara didn’t get it.

She really didn’t.

It wasn’t that she disliked Oscar Piastri — he was fine, in that blank-expression, too-polite, probably-a-robot way. 

But if you’d asked her in Year 8 whether the smartest girl in school would end up with the guy who spent weekends elbow-deep in axle grease and came back smelling like burnt rubber, she would’ve laughed in your face.

Felicity Leong was dazzling. Quiet, yes — but only in the way old libraries were quiet: full of brilliance and backbone. 

Felicity Leong was elegance and sharp wit and competence in every form. Her handwriting looked like it belonged in a museum. She’d fixed Lara’s broken laptop charger with a paperclip once and had taught herself enough German to read Goethe in the original by the time she was fifteen.

Oscar Piastri, by comparison, was… a boy. A nice boy, sure. A talented one, okay. But still just a boy.

What Lara didn’t understand was why Felicity — of all people — had chosen to orbit him.

It wasn’t that Oscar was awful. He wasn’t. He was fine. He was kind, soft-spoken, occasionally funny when he forgot to overthink it. And it was clear he’d rather set himself on fire than say anything cruel. But he was also… well, kind of boring.

A “karting wonderboy,” sure. But what did that even mean? Half the school didn’t know what F4 was, and the other half thought racing was just glorified Mario Kart.

Meanwhile, Felicity was Felicity. Lara had watched Felicity take down Year 11 boys in ethics class and build model bridges like she was auditioning for a structural engineering firm.

And now Lara was watching Felicity:

Felicity reminded Oscar of deadlines. 

Edited his physics papers. 

Built him an study schedule complete with snack reminders. 

Used highlighters to colour-code his flashcards.

Taught him how to waltz before the formal. 

She once hand-sewed a new velcro patch on his racing gloves because he didn’t want to replace them before the season was over.

Once, Lara had caught her baking cookies. When she asked why, Felicity had said, “Oscar hasn’t been eating properly again. He’s stressed about qualifying.”

Qualifying. Like this was Formula One. Like the boy with the still-cracked phone screen and perma-oil-stained hoodie was actually Lewis Bloody Hamilton.

Felicty bought extra headphones because Oscar kept losing his.

Wrote out study notes for both of them in neat, annotated colors. 

And the worst part was, Felicity didn’t even seem to notice she was doing it.

“She could be doing anything,” Lara muttered to Aarya once. “She could build rockets. Or code AI. Or date someone who doesn’t smell like petrol.”

Aarya just shrugged. “She wants Oscar.”

“But why?”

Lara didn’t get it. Couldn’t get it. 

Not when she watched Felicity spend hours printing laminated flashcards for Oscar’s media training, or reorganizing their entire joint Google Drive so he wouldn’t have to fumble around for assignments while competing. Not when she skipped out on a party because he had food poisoning in a hotel halfway across the world and she wanted to FaceTime him through it.

Lara noticed all of it. The little ways Felicity folded herself around Oscar’s life — like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And it drove her mad.

Not because she didn’t like Oscar. But because she couldn’t see it. Couldn’t understand why Felicity wasn’t bored out of her mind dating some karting wannabe who barely looked up from his data logs.

“Why him?” she asked once, in a rare late-night moment when it was just the two of them brushing their teeth in the bathroom.

Felicity paused. “What do you mean?”

“You could have anyone. Like, literally anyone. You’re… you. Why Oscar?”

Felicity blinked, then smiled a little — that soft, steady smile that meant she’d already thought about this a hundred times.

“Oscar listens,” she said simply. “He makes space for me.. He’s kind. I don’t need to be brilliant for him.”

Lara frowned. “That’s it?”

Felicity laughed. “That’s everything.”

Lara didn’t get it then. Not really.

***

Lara had always assumed that Felicity’s thing with Oscar was a phase.

A soft rebellion. A teenage distraction. Something tender and temporary — the kind of first love you always remember but eventually outgrow.

Because surely Felicity Leong — with her perfect grades and National Science Fair medals — wouldn’t tether herself to a life that revolved around… motorsports.

But the thing was, Felicity didn’t tether herself to Oscar’s world. She learned it. She mastered it. She made it her own.

At first, Lara thought it was just a phase as well.

Felicity started watching every single race Oscar was in — even the low-res, buffering-on-a-good-day livestreams from some freezing karting track in Belgium. She could quote qualifying lap deltas off the top of her head. 

Lara thought Felicity would get over that as well. That she'd stop rearranging their study sessions around free practice and qualifying streams. That she'd eventually tire of kart gear ratios and F2 team hierarchies and why certain drivers struggled in wet conditions. 

But she didn’t.

If anything, it got worse.

By the time they were sixteen, Felicity could name every FIA junior formula, describe the mechanics of a front wing configuration, and explain the difference between a wet setup and a quali setup like she’d invented them herself. She talked about tire degradation the way most people talked about poetry.

Felicity watched every livestream — even the terrible, stuttering ones from F4 UAE, or the Renault Eurocup feeds that froze any time there was contact. She knew the race engineers by name, the team principals by accent, and she corrected Oscar’s telemetry notes when he was too tired to spot his own oversteer correction patterns.

“I didn’t even know she liked motorsport,” Lara said once, baffled.

Aarya had just raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t.”

“Then why—?”

“Because he does.”

That was when it hit Lara — the sheer scale of it. Because Felicity Leong never did things halfway. Not for school, not for people, not for love. Especially not for Oscar.

Felicity never said it aloud. Not in a performative way. There was no “supportive girlfriend” act. No posts, no attention-seeking, no fake fandom.

She just... learned. Every single detail. Every rule and reg. Every pit strategy and suspension tweak. Quietly, methodically, fiercely.

By 17, she was the only girl in their year with a solid working knowledge of torque curves and Marxist literary theory. 

***

It happened on a Thursday.

Lara would remember that forever, because Thursday was chicken katsu day in the dining hall, and she had just sat down with a plate she was emotionally invested in when Thea dropped the bombshell:

“Felicity and Oscar are graduating next year.”

Lara blinked. “What?”

“They’re doing all their A Levels in one go. Like—next year. And then they’re out. Bye-bye, Haileybury.”

Lara looked down at her tray, then back at Thea. “That’s not a thing people do. That’s not legal.”

Thea shrugged. “It is if you’re both freakishly smart and barely sleep.”

“That’s—what? No. No. They’re in Lower Sixth. We’re in Lower Sixth.”

Thea gave her a look. “Felicity has been in Upper Sixth since she was twelve, spiritually. You know that.”

Lara stood up, plate forgotten. “No, I’m sorry, what do you mean they’re graduating?”

“Ask them.”

So Lara did.

She found Oscar and Felicity exactly where she expected to: curled up together in the corner of the Sixth Form study lounge, surrounded by papers and highlighters and a bottle of cold jasmine tea. Felicity had one leg slung over Oscar’s and was annotating a textbook with deadly precision. Oscar was typing something on his laptop while absentmindedly twisting a strand of her hair around his finger.

“Is it true?” Lara demanded.

Oscar looked up. “Is what true?”

“You’re graduating this year. Both of you.”

Felicity didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“HOW?”

Oscar yawned. “She made a study plan.”

“She made a—”

“Calm down,” Felicity said mildly. “I just doubled up our course loads. With enough independent research modules, the board approved it.”

Lara stared at her. “The exam board approved it.”

“Of course they did. I wrote a proposal.”

Oscar added, “And she’s been ghostwriting half my essays, so I’m fine.”

“You WHAT—”

“Not ghostwriting,” Felicity corrected. “I just build the argument outlines and annotate the sources. He still writes them.”

“She gave me a quote bank last week that was 36 pages long,” Oscar added proudly.

Lara made a noise that was not human.

Felicity finally looked up. “You know this place isn’t built for students like us, right?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve had to correct the teachers twice this term already. And I edited the chemistry revision guides because they had typos. And Oscar needs more time for racing and less writing brain numbing essays for computer sciences.”

Lara sat down slowly, like gravity had finally caught up with her.

“You two are insane.”

Felicity offered her a chocolate from the stash hidden in Oscar’s pencil case. “Thank you.”

Oscar smiled around the bite of his protein bar. “Hey, on the bright side—you get to keep the top spot in the year. We’re gone in May.”

Lara took the chocolate like a woman defeated.

“Do your parents know?” she muttered.

Oscar just shrugged. “Mum said it sounded like something we’d do.”

Lara looked at them—two overachieving academic weapons, casually breaking the rules of reality with matching stationery—and groaned.

“I swear to God,” she said. “If you both end up solving world hunger and winning a Nobel Prize by twenty-five, I’m going to riot.”

Felicity smiled faintly. “I don’t want a Nobel.”

Oscar raised a brow. “What do you want instead?”

“I want a family. And a kitchen that’s mine.”

Oscar leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Lara watched, sighed, and leaned back in her chair.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you graduate early and still come first in everything, I’m slashing your tires.”

“Fair,” Felicity said, already back to highlighting.

***

The thing about Felicity Leong was that she didn’t do things halfway.

That applied to everything — coursework, violin practice, her color-coded study calendars, the banana bread she baked to perfect moisture ratio — but especially, especially, to Oscar.

It was easy to assume Felicity had fallen into Oscar’s world — that she was the brilliant girlfriend dragged into a boy’s motorsport pipe dream. Lara had assumed that, once.

But she’d been wrong.

Because Felicity didn’t fall into things.

She researched them. She learned them.

And when it came to Oscar, she practically earned a damn degree in motorsport before she ever turned 18.

She didn’t just support Oscar’s career. She understood it. She translated it.

And somewhere between late nights watching practice footage on a shared laptop and Oscar ferrying between boarding school weekends and regional races, Felicity changed her future for him.

Not theoretical physics. Not aerospace. Not architecture, even though she had a mind for structural form that made half the teachers beg her to apply to Cambridge.

Mechanical engineering.

Because, as she later explained in the most matter-of-fact voice imaginable: “If he’s going to race cars, someone has to make sure the people designing them aren’t idiots.”

Lara had wanted to laugh. To shake her and say you don’t have to build your life around some boy in a helmet. But she didn’t.

Because Felicity wasn’t building around him.

She was building with him. Every skill she added, every race she studied, every piece of obscure motorsport knowledge she collected — it wasn’t submission. It was strategy. Partnership.

That was the thing about Felicity Leong.

Felicity never asked for recognition. Never asked for thanks. She just poured everything she had into a boy she’d picked at fourteen years old — all the brilliance, all the discipline, all the love she didn’t know how else to express.

And that boy?

He kept every handwritten note. 

Every flashcard. 

Every time she’d saved his arse with last-minute essay corrections. 

He memorized the way she liked her tea, the sound she made when she was tired but trying to hide it, the exact point of her back that hurt after a full day in the ballet studio.

He knew.

He always knew.

And Lara, watching them from the outside, had to admit — even if she never quite understood it, even if it had seemed ridiculous once — that it wasn’t about karting. Or racing. Or obsession.

It was about building a world around each other.

And somehow, Felicity and Oscar had managed to do exactly that.

***

Theodora “Thea” Wheeler: 

Thea didn’t really notice it at first.

Not in the way that mattered.

Because Felicity Leong was the kind of girl who did everything right. Always neat. Always on time. Always top marks and clean shoes and perfect plaits in her hair. She didn’t miss things, and nothing about her looked broken.

But then there was the pancake.

It was a Saturday morning at school, and brunch had been served in the big hall with the sunny windows. Everyone had queued up in pyjamas and slipper socks, because it was the weekend and the rules were a little looser, and someone had convinced the kitchen staff to make pancakes with chocolate chips.

Thea remembered being excited.

She remembered how good it had smelled. How the syrup had pooled just right on her plate. How loud the hall had been—laughter, clatter, sugar-fuelled chaos.

She also remembered looking over and seeing Felicity with a plate in front of her.

Empty, except for one plain pancake.

No syrup. No toppings. Just sitting there, going cold.

Felicity didn’t touch it.

She was talking to someone—Samir, maybe—and smiling politely, like everything was normal. Like she wasn’t hungry. Like she wasn’t supposed to be hungry. Her fork didn’t even move. Her hands were folded in her lap like she was trying not to be seen.

Thea frowned. “You’re not eating?”

Felicity looked over. Blinked once. “I’m not really hungry.”

Which… okay. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’d had toast earlier. Or maybe she didn’t like pancakes. But it happened again.

And again.

Over and over, Thea would see her at meals with only a few bites of food on her plate. Or skipping dessert. Or picking at soup with a spoon like it was some kind of science experiment.

She started making excuses.

I had a big breakfast. My stomach hurts. I’m fine.

Always with that same quiet voice. That same polite smile.

Thea tried not to stare. Tried not to wonder, too hard, why Felicity would leave halfway through lunch and come back ten minutes later with red-rimmed eyes. 

Or why Oscar—new, quiet Oscar—had started appearing next to her at meals, always coaxing, always gentle, always watchful.

By the time they were 14, Thea had stopped offering her sweets. Felicity never said no outright. She’d just look at them, like they were something too loud, too bright, too much.

Oscar Piastri arrived in Year 10 — quiet, weirdly calm for a 14-year-old, brilliant in the kind of way that made the top sets nervous. 

He didn’t talk much. Not at first. But he sat next to Felicity one afternoon in Maths, and by the end of the week, it was like they were always together.

Always.

At meals. In the library. Walking between classes. Doing study in the common room, two heads bent over one laptop with her notes and his logic and some weird telepathy that meant they barely even had to speak out loud anymore.

And then there was the toast.

It was a rainy Tuesday morning when Thea walked into the common room and saw Felicity curled up in her usual corner of the sofa, Oscar beside her with a plate balanced on one knee.

He handed her a slice.

She took it.

Ate it.

Just like that.

Thea tried not to stare.

And over the months that followed, it kept happening. Toast at breakfast. A tangerine at break. Half a sandwich at lunch. Then a whole one. Then soup and salad and seconds. Slowly. Carefully. Like she was relearning hunger and safety in the same breath.

It wasn’t perfect. Some days, Felicity still picked at her food. Some days she was quieter than others, her hands shaking just slightly as she tore a muffin into a hundred pieces and only ate two.

But Oscar always noticed.

Always passed her water. Or offered a bite of whatever was on his plate. Or distracted her with quiet jokes or flashcards or that look—the one that said, I see you, and I’m not going anywhere.

And slowly, Felicity changed.

Her face rounded out. Her jeans fit better. She started wearing Oscar’s oversized hoodies more often—not to hide, Thea thought, but because she liked them. Because they smelled like comfort and safety and someone who never made her earn softness.

It hadn’t been school that helped. Or housemistresses. Or whispered conversations between girls who didn’t know how to help.

It was Oscar.

Oscar, who never pushed but always stayed. Who never made her a project, just held space. Who gave her quiet things: time, food, choice.

It was slow, the way she changed.

But steady. Stronger, somehow.

Like someone finally gave her permission to be a person again. Not a perfect doll. Not a flawless student. Just… Felicity.

And Thea?

Thea didn’t say anything. Not then.

But she smiled more when she looked at them. And saved them seats in the dining hall.

Because not everyone gets someone who sees the storm and still stays.

But Felicity did.

And thank God for that.

***

Jian Chen: 

Here’s the thing about Oscar Piastri:

He wasn’t loud.

He didn’t announce his feelings, didn’t broadcast his loyalties, didn’t write grand gestures for the world to see. He mostly kept his head down, did his work, and blended quietly into the fabric of Haileybury life, except for weekends when he’d disappear for races and come back holding another trophy.

But when it came to Felicity Leong?

Oscar was something else entirely.

Jian first noticed it one grey, rainy afternoon in the common room. It was supposed to be revision time—half the year group crammed onto sofas and beanbags, surrounded by textbooks and lukewarm cups of tea—but nobody was really paying attention.

Felicity had claimed one end of the sofa, curled up small and quiet, eyes closed, a pale crease between her brows like something hurt.

Jian had seen that look before—his sister had cramps like that sometimes, the kind that made her shrink into herself and hiss out quiet breaths, counting down seconds until they passed.

But Felicity didn’t say anything. Didn’t complain. Didn’t ask for sympathy.

She just sat there, curled around her discomfort, trying to make herself invisible.

And Oscar?

He didn’t even ask. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait for her to explain.

He just walked in, glanced at her, and without a word, fetched a hot water bottle from his own room. He placed it gently into her hands, as if he’d done it a hundred times before. And then he sat beside her—not too close, not crowding her—but quietly there. A solid, steady presence.

Jian watched him reach into his bag and pull out a little packet of painkillers, nudging it towards her with his knuckles. Felicity murmured something too quiet for Jian to hear, but Oscar nodded anyway, looking at her like she’d made perfect sense.

Felicity settled the hot water bottle against her stomach and finally let her head rest on Oscar’s shoulder, eyes shut tightly, breathing carefully.

Oscar didn’t move.

Not when Samir shouted something about the rugby game. Not when someone accidentally dropped a textbook and everyone laughed. Oscar just stayed there, shoulder steady beneath her cheek, his own textbook forgotten, his posture relaxed but watchful.

And Jian realised something important then:

Oscar wasn’t just taking care of Felicity.

He was guarding her quiet, letting her rest, silently building a wall around her so the world couldn’t touch her until she felt better again.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. It was just Oscar—steady, calm, gentle Oscar—doing exactly what Felicity needed without being asked.

Jian never said anything about it.

He just knew, quietly, in that moment, that Felicity Leong had someone who cared about her in a way most people never experienced at sixteen.

***

It had looked bad on the livestream.

Jian hadn’t been watching the race — not live, anyway — but by Monday morning, the clip had already made it to their year’s group chat. A hard hit to the barrier, fast and sharp. Everyone winced when they saw the replay.

“He’s definitely hurt,” someone had said.

“Maybe just winded?”

Jian hadn’t been sure.

But when Oscar walked — no, shuffled — back onto campus with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a tight grip on his ribs, it was obvious.

He was doing that thing where boys tried not to look in pain. Jaw clenched, back straight, breathing shallow. Stubborn. Stupid. Trying to out-think biology.

Jian was coming back from the vending machine when he saw them: Oscar moving stiffly toward the dorms and Felicity, already heading toward him from across the quad like she’d been waiting all morning. Not hurrying. Not running. Just moving with this terrifying sense of purpose.

She didn’t say anything when she reached him.

She just looked him over, eyes scanning his posture, his expression, the way he held his bag. Then she reached up, gently tugged the strap from his shoulder, and took it for him.

Oscar let her.

That was the first sign something was properly wrong — not the bruising, not the wince, but the fact that Oscar Piastri let someone carry his karting bag.

“Chest?” she asked softly.

“Sternum,” he admitted.

“Show me.”

“Fliss—”

She was already guiding him off the path, out of sight. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just decisive. And he followed her.

Jian didn’t mean to watch. But he did. From behind the hedge, from just the right angle, he could see Oscar unzip his hoodie, slowly and carefully, and pull it open just enough to show the purple-green bloom of bruising across the center of his chest.

Felicity inhaled sharply. Not loud — not even really angry. Just that soft, immediate breath that said: that’s worse than I thought.

She didn’t scold him.

She just pulled a small, square cold pack from her coat pocket — who just had those on them?? — cracked it to activate the chill, and handed it to him.

“Ten minutes,” she murmured. “Then I’m getting you a wrap.”

Oscar nodded like she was the team physio. Like she was the only one allowed to call the shots.

Jian watched her wrap a hoodie around his shoulders, help him sit carefully on the edge of the planter, and sit beside him without saying a word. Her hand hovered near his elbow — not touching unless he needed it.

And later that night, when Jian passed the study lounge, he saw them again.

Oscar was half-reclined on the couch with a pillow behind his back, wrapped snug in a hoodie and blanket. Felicity had brought him tea. Actual tea. Like from a ceramic mug, with honey.

She was retyping his notes for him — because writing hurt — and every few minutes, she’d reach over and tap his side, reminding him to breathe properly.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

They talked softly. Shared a few bites of biscuit. Argued gently over whether or not Oscar needed to skip gym the next day.

And it wasn’t romantic in the hearts-and-roses kind of way.

It was just serious.

Two teenagers acting like they’d already figured out what commitment looked like.

***

Jian remembered the first time Felicity didn’t show up to class.

It was Year 11, early winter. Frost bit at the windows and the whole school smelled faintly of overboiled radiators and wet wool. Normally, Felicity was the one person you could count on being there — with her pens neatly aligned, hair pinned back, eyes alert like she’d memorised the textbook the night before.

But that Tuesday, her desk was empty.

Oscar showed up late. Which was already weird. He looked like hell — hoodie zipped all the way up, jaw set, hair damp from rushing across campus.

He didn’t say anything when he dropped into his seat. Just opened Felicity’s notebook alongside his and took notes for both of them.

By Wednesday, people were whispering.

“She has a cold,” someone muttered. “Nothing serious.”

“She’s just resting.”

But Oscar looked worried. Not anxious. Worried. That quiet kind of dread that sat behind the eyes and didn’t leave room for anything else. He stopped responding in group chats. Barely ate at breakfast.

Jian finally caught him in the library, elbows deep in a pile of flashcards that clearly weren’t his.

“She’s not just sick, is she?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “She can’t breathe right.”

Jian froze. “What?”

“She’s got this rattling sound in her chest. Can’t sleep. Keeps saying she’s fine, but she passed out in the bathroom yesterday.”

“What the hell—did she go to the nurse?”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “The nurse said it’s a bad cold. Told her to hydrate and rest.”

“But it’s worse?”

“She couldn’t stand up long enough to brush her teeth this morning.”

Jian swallowed. “Shit.”

Oscar finally looked at him, eyes bloodshot and furious. “Her family thinks she’s being dramatic. Her mum called and told her to stop being soft.”

That made something cold crawl down Jian’s spine.

“She’s got pneumonia,” Oscar added quietly, voice like steel.

Jian blinked. “How do you know?”

“I looked up the symptoms. She should be in a hospital. She needs antibiotics and oxygen.”

“Did you tell the school?”

Oscar gave him a look. “Do you think they’ll listen to me? Or to her surname?”

It was the first time Jian truly understood that something wasn’t right in the Leong family.

Two days later, the air outside was the kind that turned your fingertips numb within five minutes. Jian was walking back from the dining hall when he saw someone pull up to the front gate in a sleek black car — too expensive, too polished, definitely not a school-run vehicle.

Out stepped a man in a sharply cut coat. Mid twenties, maybe. Cold expression. Perfectly gelled hair.

Henry Leong.

Jian had heard of him. Older brother. Oxford grad. Worked in finance. Apparently one of Singapore’s “most eligible bachelors” if the gossip was to be believed.

Henry Leong walked into the reception office like he owned it.

Jian didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But the walls were thin, and Henry wasn’t exactly quiet.

“My sister is exaggerating,” he said crisply. “She does this. I’m just here because Mother insisted someone check. Is she actually ill, or just emotionally delicate again?”

Jian felt something clench in his gut.

He slipped around the side entrance. Oscar was with Felicity in the common room, holding a bowl of lukewarm soup with one hand and adjusting her blankets with the other. She looked pale — really pale — her lips tinged slightly blue. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were glassy.

She still said, “I’m sorry I didn’t clean up,” when she saw Henry in the doorway.

Oscar muttered, “Don’t apologise,” and touched her forehead gently. “You’re burning up again.”

That’s when the door banged open.

Henry walked in like a storm in cufflinks.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. “Why are you wrapped up like some invalid?”

Felicity blinked at him, confused. “Henry?”

“I told Mother I’d come. You didn’t pick up your phone. What’s this I hear about you being bedbound over a little cold?”

Oscar stood up.

Jian didn’t know what he expected from Oscar Piastri — the quiet, methodical one. But it sure wasn’t the way he stepped between Felicity and her brother like it was instinct.

“She has pneumonia,” he said flatly.

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Felicity coughed weakly. Henry turned toward her. “You always do this. Turn minor problems into some dramatic cry for attention.”

Oscar’s voice went quiet.

“I think you should leave.”

Henry blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

“I’m her brother.”

“And I’m the one who’s been here while she can’t stand without help. I’m the one who held her when she couldn’t stop coughing. And you showed up days late with condescension and talking to your sick sister like she is some kind of burden.”

Henry’s expression twisted. “You’re just some scholarship kid with a go-kart.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But I know what love looks like. You clearly don’t.”

The silence that followed was icy.

Henry left within five minutes.

Jian didn’t say anything. He just sat quietly while Oscar rubbed gentle circles into Felicity’s back until her breathing evened out.

It happened the next morning.

Jian had just made it to the dining hall, still groggy and halfway through buttering his toast, when Samir came in wide-eyed and pale.

“She collapsed.”

The knife slipped out of Jian’s hand.

“Felicity?” he asked, already on his feet.

Samir nodded, winded. “Oscar found her on the floor. She tried to get to the bathroom and—he said she couldn’t breathe. They’re calling an ambulance.”

Jian didn’t remember running, but the next thing he knew, he was outside her dormitory block, shoulders heaving, the gravel scraping under his shoes. A crowd was already gathering. One of the teachers was ushering students back like this was some normal incident and not something serious.

But Jian could see Oscar through the glass door. Kneeling on the floor, arms around Felicity, talking to her in that soft, steady voice like the sheer force of his calm could pull her back from the edge.

She was barely conscious. Her lips were bluish. Her head lolled.

She looked nothing like the girl who used to correct teachers’ maths on the whiteboard. Or the one who wore pearls with her hoodie. Or the girl who could keep five group projects afloat by sheer force of will.

She looked tiny.

Like a girl who had been telling everyone she was in pain and nobody had listened.

Someone—maybe the new nurse—tried to take her pulse, but Oscar didn’t move until the paramedics arrived. And even then, he rode in the ambulance.

Jian watched them go with a kind of hollow, stomach-dropped dread.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not her. Not Felicity.

The fallout came fast.

That afternoon, the head of pastoral care called an emergency staff meeting. People were whispering in the halls. The school nurse who had told Oscar it was “just a cold” didn’t come in the next day.

And suddenly, all the teachers were tripping over themselves — asking if anyone had noticed anything. If there were signs they missed. If perhaps Miss Leong hadn’t been given the appropriate care plan.

Jian nearly laughed when he heard that.

Because everyone missed it. Everyone except the boy with the quiet voice and the karting calluses on his fingers. The one who showed up with ginger tea in his thermos and sat through every night reading beside her bed.

They called Felicity “stoic.” “Well-mannered.” “Mature beyond her years.”

What they meant was that she didn’t complain loudly enough to be taken seriously.

Oscar never once said I told you so.

But Jian could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders when he finally came back onto campus, two days later, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. His hoodie was wrinkled. His jaw was tight.

“She’s okay,” he told Jian quietly, like he’d been rehearsing it. “They’re keeping her a few more days for observation. But her fever’s gone down. The oxygen’s helping.”

And then, for the first time in all the years Jian had known him, Oscar’s voice cracked.

“They didn’t listen,” he whispered. “She told them she couldn’t breathe, and they still didn’t listen.”

Jian didn’t know what to say. So he just sat down next to him.

Because it wasn’t just that Felicity had been sick.

It was that she’d almost disappeared in front of everyone — and they’d let her.

But not Oscar.

Never Oscar.

***

Jian wasn’t sure when it happened.

When Oscar Piastri — robotic, unflappable, ice-cold-under-pressure Oscar — became the kind of boy who let his girlfriend tuck a tissue packet into the sleeve of his school jumper.

It was week six of term. Cold season had arrived like a tidal wave. Half the year group was coughing like they were on the brink of death, and Oscar — who rarely got sick — had finally succumbed. He was pale and sniffling, his voice a little croaky, and he kept blinking like his head was full of fog.

But he still showed up. To every class. Even cricket conditioning.

Jian watched, slightly baffled, as Felicity intercepted him between classes with a packet of throat lozenges and a thermos of ginger tea that very obviously wasn’t from the dining hall.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she muttered, dragging him by the elbow toward a bench in the quad.

Oscar flopped down obediently. “I tried. My nose betrayed me.”

“You sound like a gremlin.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Felicity made a face but pulled out a folded blanket from her bag anyway — a blanket, for god’s sake — and tucked it around him like he was a grandparent in a chilly church pew.

Jian blinked. He wasn’t even surprised anymore. 

That was when Oscar’s phone rang. He fished it out of his blazer pocket, glanced at the screen, and handed it straight to Felicity without a word.

“Hi, Nicole,” she said, already standing up and pacing away, the phone pressed to her ear. “Yeah. I’m with him. No, it’s not the flu. Just a head cold. Yes, I made sure he’s drinking water. Yes, I made him soup yesterday. No, he didn’t like the ginger but he drank it anyway. I’ll make sure he sleeps early.”

Jian just stared.

Because Oscar was sitting there under a blanket. Sneezing into a tissue. Looking more exhausted than usual. And still — still — he watched Felicity pace the quad with that tiny half-smile he only seemed to wear when she was around. Like he liked being taken care of. Like he trusted her with all of it.

By the time Felicity returned, she handed the phone back and crouched to check Oscar’s forehead with the back of her hand. It was so natural. So practiced. Like this had happened a dozen times before.

“Your mum says she’s going to mail you a care package,” Felicity murmured. “Also, that I deserve a medal.”

Oscar leaned his head against her shoulder. “You do.”

Jian watched them quietly — the boy who always smelled like karting fuel, and the girl who wore cashmere socks with chanel boots — and thought, Okay, maybe this isn’t some weird co-dependency thing. Maybe it’s just… love.

The strange, soft kind.

The kind that comes with tea, and tissues, and phone calls home.

***

Group Chat: Haileybury Survivor Squad 2020

Jian, Samir, Thea, Lara, Aarya

Aarya: guys GUYS I HAVE NEWS 🚨🚨🚨

Jian: this better be good it’s 2 am, Aarya

Samir: omg did Mr. Forrester finally admit Felicity was right about quantum physics?

Aarya: EVEN BETTER

Lara: Aarya if this isn’t genuinely life-changing I’m kicking you out of this group chat

Aarya: Oscar and Felicity got married

Thea: 😂😂 very funny no seriously what happened

Aarya: No I’m dead serious Felicity literally just texted me

Samir: WHAT NO WAY HOW??? THEY GRADUATED LIKE 3 WEEKS AGO??

Aarya: She sent me a picture of the certificate They legit got married YESTERDAY

Jian: Oscar? Like Oscar PIASTRI? our Oscar? Oscar “I once put almond milk in béchamel sauce” Piastri??

Aarya: YES THAT OSCAR OUR OSCAR FELICITY’S OSCAR

Lara: hang on… I thought they were joking about Vegas???

Samir: wait so that entire convo about Elvis marrying them at a drive-thru chapel was serious? bc I laughed for a week about that

Aarya: not Elvis (sadly) but yes, very real, very married she sent me a selfie she’s wearing Oscar’s hoodie over her wedding dress

Thea: Omg of course she is She probably married him for unlimited hoodie access

Lara: this tracks tbh they graduated early bc they were bored of A-levels got married early bc they were bored of being the smartest teenagers in Britain

Samir: honestly if they weren’t disgustingly cute I’d be so annoyed rn like how do you top getting MARRIED at 18??

Jian: “oh what did you do over summer?” “just got married, no biggie” — Oscar, probably

Thea: Jian, remember when you thought you had a shot with Felicity for exactly 12 minutes in Year 8 😂😂

Jian: STOP THAT NEVER HAPPENED IT WAS TEN MINUTES MAX

Aarya: anyway, Felicity wanted me to tell you guys bc we are “Oscar-and-Felicity-certified not-annoying people”

Lara: that’s genuinely the nicest thing she’s ever said about us I’m touched

Jian: same but also still processing that Oscar “let me just casually carry my wife-to-be across campus” Piastri is an actual husband now

Thea: do we call Felicity Mrs. Piastri now??? or do we call Oscar Mr. Leong bc that’s actually hilarious

Samir: I vote Mr. Leong

Aarya: it’s Mrs. Piastri actually Felicity said so herself and she sounded very smug about it

Lara: OF COURSE SHE DID Oscar’s probably already changed all his racing gear to say “Property of Felicity Piastri” anyway

Samir: ok but imagine their babies tiny little brilliant creatures raised on soba noodles and karting strategies

Thea: they’re probably already planning their kids’ GCSEs as we speak

Aarya: honestly wouldn’t put it past them

Jian: this group chat is now dedicated to tracking Oscar and Felicity’s completely ridiculous married life all in favour say aye

Samir: AYE Lara: AYE Thea: AYE Aarya: AYE

Samir: it’s unanimous long live the Piastris ✨👑✨

[botanicsoul]

Petty

College AU | Shouto Todoroki x petty!Reader

₊⊹𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

You knew what heartbreak felt like before, but betrayal? That was something else entirely.

Your hair was a mess, makeup smudged, and your mouth dry like you’d swallowed sand. You trudged into the kitchen of your college dorm expecting nothing but coffee and quiet. Instead, Mina’s voice sliced through your skull.

“God, you missed it last night! Hagakure ended up in the closet with Kirishima after spin the bottle—”

You stopped mid-pouring your coffee.

“She totally sucked him off,” Mina added, oblivious, laughing like it was no big deal. “Did not see that one coming.”

You couldn’t even breathe. The world started to blur around the edges. The words barely processed. “What?” you blinked.

“Oh yeah, it was sometime after you headed to bed…” her giggling died after seeing your reaction. “The party was starting to die down a little so a group played spin the bottle. Kami dared hagakure. Closet. Seven minutes. She sucked his dick.”

Mina glanced at you for a moment before realizing. “Wait… weren’t you crushing on him?” Crushing wasn’t the word. You’d spent months soft-liking Kirishima. Sitting close in class, joining gym sessions, sharing earbuds at study nights. Your throat burned.

The question ‘She what?’ kept playing in your head. You left before your vision could blur anymore. The worst part? You told her. Told Hagakure you liked him. That you’d been working up the courage to say something. Flirting a little more. Getting closer. She smiled through it all. “Omg do it!” she’d said. “You’d be so cute!”

She waited till you were gone to get on her knees for him.

⸻

She found you later that day, fake-innocent voice and that same chipper tone that made your stomach turn now.

“Are you mad?” she asked, walking beside you her clothes floating next to you.

You smiled. “Mad? No. I’m good.” you lied.

She smiled with a relieved look. “Great! I was just suuuuuper drunk”

Your smile got so wide it was sharp enough to slit skin. “Not like I owned him.”

And just like that, the plan wrote itself. You remembered every time she stared too long at Shouto Todoroki. The way her invisible ass always somehow ended up next to him. The giggles. The failed attempts at small talk.

And lucky you… you knew how to strike where it hurt. She might’ve been bold, might’ve made the first move when you were too shy to—but you? You were calculated. Visible. Petty enough to weaponize lust like a blade, and wield it right where she bled.

⸻

You got him slowly.

A shared bench at lunch. A casual laugh during class. Sitting just a little too close. Pretending to struggle with the homework you’d already done.

He was quiet, reserved, polite—but the flush on his cheeks didn’t lie. And when you asked, “Want to hang out after this?” He said yes.

That night, you kissed him first. Pulled him down by the collar and moaned against his mouth like he’d been yours for years.

“You sure about this?” he whispered, voice breathless as you slid into his lap on his couch, straddling him. You smirked. “Positive”

⸻

The next night—your masterpiece began.

You were sitting in his dorm,laying in his bed in nothing but one of his half-zipped hoodies, cheeks warm from the tea he made, thighs still sore from the night before. He was out grabbing a charger from a friend upstairs.

And you had his phone. Quick fingers, perfect timing.

—

6:38 PM. - “Hey, Can I borrow your chem notes? Left mine in the library. Could you just drop them at my door? Thx”

—

Send.

Door unlocked. Just barely cracked open.

You sat back down. Smiling.

⸻

7:08 PM.

Shouto’s cock was buried deep inside you.

You were riding him. Slowly. Viciously. All deliberate bounce and filthy grind, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you circled your hips. Wet, noisy, disrespectful.

“Shit,” he groaned, eyes fluttering. “You’re so—tight, fuck—”

You leaned in, breath hot in his ear. “You like watching me fall apart on you?” He moaned. He couldn’t even answer.

You were moaning shamelessly, riding him like he was the only man left on earth. Slick noises echoed off the walls, obscene and wet, your thighs shaking with every grind of your hips.

He was so deep. So thick. Every drag made you see stars. You tilted your head back, pretending to cry out from the pleasure—when really, you were listening.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers bruising, and you smiled as your rhythm stayed steady— And then the door creaked.

You didn’t stop moving. You looked. Right over your shoulder where Hagakure stood, notes in hand, frozen like a ghost just watching. Her quirk must’ve shimmered out from the shock because you saw her. Fully. Your eyes met. And you grinned.

Big. Wicked. Satisfied.

Bouncing faster now, voice dripping in pleasure and poison. “Wanna leave the notes?” you panted.

She bolted.

Shouto groaned, completely unaware. “What—was that—?” You turned his chin back toward you, nails raking down his chest. “Nothing that matters, baby,” you whispered.

And you fucked him harder—moaning loud, messy, vindicated—until you came with a cry and collapsed against his chest, skin sticky and sweat-slicked, heart thudding with perfect, evil joy.

You didn’t just win.

You burned the whole game board down.

₊⊹𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

[cl0udy3]

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄

ellie williams x dina's sister!reader fluff, some angst occasionally i think, slow burn wc: 9616 a/n: first time writing something this long, i had a friend beta read but she didn't see the whole thing so it might need some work near the end but hope its okay for now :D (also this is the first part of the acts, i'll be working on the next one soon, a little busy with class) ✩ pt2 | pt3

She was new.

Not new-new–Ellie had been in Jackson for over a year by the time you really met her--but still new enough that people said her name with a little weight behind it. Joel's girl. The one who came in from the Fireflies. The one who survived.

You'd seen her around. Heard rumors. And honestly? You thought she looked like kind of a dick.

Always glaring. Always muttering. Always pulling her sleeves over her hands like she didn't want to touch the world.

You didn't plan on talking to her.

It just sort of... happened.

You were coming back from a short patrol loop near the creek, boots soaked and mood worse, and you passed by the stables where Ellie sat crouched behind one of the sheds. Knife in one hand. Dead rabbit in the other. Her sleeves were pushed to her elbows, red with blood. Her fingers weren't steady.

You almost kept walking. You probably should've kept walking.

But something about the way she kept slicing and reslicing the same patch of skin made you stop.

"You're gonna ruin the meat," you said.

She froze. Looked up. She had this wild, cornered-animal lookin er eye--like she'd been alone for a long time and didn't like being seen.

"What?"

You pointed. "You're cutting it wrong. Want me to show you?"

Ellie blinked at you like you'd just offered to skin her instead. Then, slowly, she held out the knife.

You stepped forward, knelt down next to her, and slid the blade down cleanly, quick and practiced. You didn't look at her, but you felt her watching.

"You always sneak up on people like that?" she muttered.

You smirked. "You always ruin perfectly good rabbits?"

And then she laughed. Just a huff. Barely there. But it cracked through something all the same.

You handed the knife back. "I'm Y/N."

She hesitated. "Ellie."

"Yeah, I know."

Of course you did. Everyone knew Ellie.

You didn't expect to see her again.

And then, a week later, you were assigned to patrol with her.

She was always with Joel. Or sketching on his front porch. Or slipping through the front gate with blood on her knuckles and a scowl that dared anyone to ask. You'd just seen her around enough to recognize the shape of her, the short temper, the thousand-yard stare she got when she thought no one was looking.

But you didn't speak much after the stables. Not until the morning you were both assigned to patrol.

The day was bleak, but a normal, snowy day in Jackson. 

Maria handed you your slip, eyes already moving to the next person in line. "West loop. You're with Ellie."

You hesitated.

Ellie didn't.

She glanced at you--brief, unreadable--and said, "Cool," like it didn't matter. Like you were just any other name on a page.

You followed her out to the stables in silence. She moved quick, didn't wait up, didn't look back to check if you were behind her. It didn't offend you. You weren't sure she was even capable of small talk.

You saddled your horse quietly. She did the same. Neither of you spoke until you were past the gates and the trees swallowed up the sky.

The snow was light that morning, soft enough to let the horses keep pace without slipping. You didn't say anything for the first twenty minutes. Figured she'd appreciate the quiet.

Then she said, suddenly, like she couldn't help herself. "So. You new, or just quiet?"

You blinked. "I've been here. Just not loud."

Ellie glanced over, eyebrow raised. "You on patrol before?"

"Yeah. Mostly with Tommy or Nora. Sometimes Jesse."

"Damn," she said. "They  really threw me a wild card."

You snorted. "You're not exactly subtle either, y'know."

She didn't answer, but you caught the smirk pulling at her mouth before she turned her head. The first thread of something loosening between you.

The next time either of you spoke, it was after spotting a limping fox slipping between the trees.

"Front left leg," you whispered, pointing. "Injured. Look how it leans."

Ellie followed your gesture. "You got good eyes."

You shrugged. "I get bored easy."

"Bored enough to track limping foxes?"

You glanced at her. "Better than staring at your back the whole ride."

Her laugh was quick and surprised. "Okay. You're kind of funny."

"Only kind of?"

"Don't get cocky."

You didn't say it, but your chest felt warmer all of a sudden. Like something was working its way open. Like maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Later, when you stopped to check a half collapsed shed for signs of infested, she waved you back with one hand and went in first. Cleared the corners like she'd done it a thousand times. You stepped in after, the air inside stale and cold, and sat on a crate while she double-checked the trapdoor.

"Clear," she said, and plopped down beside you, close enough for your knee to knock. 

Neither of you moved to fix it.

You pulled a half-crushed protein bar from your coat and offered her half. She look at it like it might explode. "That thing's probably older than I am."

"It's either this or whatever weird jerky Maria gave me this morning."

Ellie took it. Ate it. Looked like she regretted every bite.

"You're right," she said. "That was awful."

You smiled. "And yet you still ate it."

"I'm not wasteful."

"Mm. Brave."

She laughed again, this time quieter. The sound stayed with you.

After a while, the cold started to settle in deeper, and neither of you said anything. You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, breath visible in the air between you.

She looked down at your hands, then her own. "You always this calm out here?"

You shrugged. "I like quiet."

She tilted her head. "That's rare."

You glanced over. "You don't?"

"I do," she said, after a beat. "I just never get to have it with anyone else."

Something tightened in your throat, but you didn't let it show. Just nodded.

"Get we're both a little rare, then."

She looked at you a second too long. Then stood. "C'mon. Still got two markers to check."

The rest of the ride back, the silence felt different. Like a thread had been tugged, something delicate but present, stretching between you with every word you didn't say.

When you got to the gate, she slowed her horse beside yours and said, "You did alright."

You raised a brow. "High praise."

"I mean it."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, "You're not bad yourself."

She nodded. Looked like she wanted to say something else. Didn't.

As you left your horse in the stables again, you watched her walk away, hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.

You didn't know what any of it meant. 

But you knew you wanted to ride with her again.

And thanks to some miracle, it wasn't the last time they paired you.

You weren't sure who requested it--if anyone did--but it kept happening. Quiet little loops on the outskirts. Traps. Check-ins. One infected, two at the most. Not much conversation at first, just her voice cutting through the silence when it mattered. "Right side." "Stay back." "You okay?"

Eventually, the silences weren't so sharp. They softened. Turned into something like... habit.

A week passed. Then two.

A third patrol ended later than planned. Snow came down heavy, faster than expected, and by the time you made it back, the sky was nearly black and your hands were numb through your gloves. You didn't go straight home. Neither did she.

Ellie sat with you on the back steps of the weapon shed, both of you still half-geared up. Her knife lay across her lap. You were eating something cold and miserable from your pocket, she was chewing a toothpick she'd found god-knows-where.

"You ever think about leaving?" you asked, after a long stretch of nothing.

She didn't look at you.

"Like... just walking past the perimeter. Seeing what's out there."

Another beat.

"Yeah," she said eventually. "All the time."

You nodded. "But you stay."

She shrugged. "Don't know if I'm supposed to."

"What do you mean?"

Ellie finally looked at you then, eyes darker than usual in the low light. There was something strange in her face. Not sad, not angry. Just tired. Hollow in a way you hadn't noticed before. 

"Sometimes I think I should've died a long time ago."

The words landed like a gut punch. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just matter-of-fact. Like she'd said it before. Like she believed it.

You didn't know what to say.

She was still looking at you, watching for something--maybe judgement, maybe fear--but you just sat there with her. Let the silence stretch.

"Why?" you asked, careful.

She pulled the toothpick from her mouth, rolled it between her fingers.

"Just feels like... I keep walking away from shit other people don't get to."

You swallowed, throat dry. "Maybe that's not a bad thing."

Ellie didn't answer. Just turned her head toward the dark tree line, like she could see past it. Past Jackson. Past all of it.

"Survivor's guilt," you said, quieter. "That's what they call it."

She laughed, but it was a small sound. "That's a dumb name."

"Most things are."

You nudged her knee with yours. She didn't pull away.

After a while, she asked, "Do you ever feel like that?"

You looked down at your hands.

"Not in the same way," you admitted. "But... yeah. Sometimes."

She nodded. Didn't press.

You sat there until the cold soaked through your coats and your bones started to ache. She stood first, offered you a hand, pulled you up without a word.

That night, when you got home, your fingers still tingled where they'd brushed hers.

***

After another quiet patrol, you followed each other to the kitchen for dinner. You don't ask her to sit with you. But she does.

Slides her tray across from yours in the cafeteria and grumbles about the soup like she's always been there. You both eat in silence, your knees occasionally brushing under the table neither of you pulling away.

When you stand to leave, she follows. Doesn't ask. Doesn't even glance up--just tugs her jacket on like it's a habit.

Outside, the sky's streaked with purples and gold, bleeding into the snowy mountains. The air smells like wet bark, like winter giving up.

Ellie kicks a half frozen pile of slush. It splashes your boot.

You side-eye her.

"Oops," she says.

You continue to walk in silence after that, boots squelching in the softening snow. She keeps her hands buried in her pockets, head tilted like she's listening to something you can't hear.

At one point, her shoulder bumps yours--not hard, just enough to make you look. She doesn't apologize. You don't say anything.

The silence is weightless. Safe.

Right before the path splits, she slows.

"Tomorrow?" she asks, voice low.

You nod, almost without thinking. "Tomorrow."

She turns towards Joel's place. You watch her walk for a few steps, like maybe you forgot to say something.

But there's time.

You tell yourself there's always time.

That night, you set your alarm earlier than usual.

You don't know why. You just want to see what her face looks like when she tastes the worst coffee ever made.

The next morning, you find her barely conscious, slouching against the mess hall wall like she spent all night fighting off a bear. Her hoodie's half-on, eyes half-open.

You hand her the mug wordlessly. She takes it like a reflex. 

"What is this?" she croaks.

"Liquid motivation."

She sips. And then freezes. Then winces. "You trying to kill me?"

"It's artisanal," you say, straight-faced. "Crafted with love and desperation."

She glares at you like you've insulted her ancestors. "This tastes like betrayal."

You raise an eyebrow. "Drink it or go back to bed."

She sighs, dramatic as hell, but drinks it. Grimaces the entire time. When the mug's empty, she slams it on the table like it's personally wronged her.

"I'm telling Maria."

"You're welcome."

She rolls her eyes. But when she walks off, she mutters over her shoulder, "Next time I expect a real gift."

You don't forget that.

Two days later, she finds you behind the library, elbows deep in stubborn, frostbitten roots. You're trying to make something out of frozen soil and leftover hope. It isn't going well.

She crouches beside you, not saying anything first.

"Gardening now?" she says eventually.

"You glance at her. "Killing time."

She digs into her pocket and pulls out something small and purple, wilted but not dead. She brushes it off gently and holds it up to you like an offering.

"It reminded me of you."

You blink. "Because I'm beautiful and radiant?"

She gives you a look. "Because you're stubborn. And you grow in places you shouldn't."

You snort. "Wow. Romantic."

She shrugs like she's done her part and stands.

You watch her goes, flower still in your gloved hand, heart thudding for reasons you don't name. 

That night, you press it in your notebook. The petals stain the page.

After that, she starts showing up more.

You try to write it off at first. Jackson's not that big. People cross paths.

But then she's on your patrol shifts. Leaning against fences during training. Sitting in the market like she's waiting for someone--and she always leaves when you do.

One afternoon, you catch her watching you spar with Jesse. She doesn't blink when you spot her. Doesn't look away.

You wipe sweat off your forehead and walk past her without a word. She falls into step beside you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You following me?" you ask, half-teasing.

She shrugs. "You're just everywhere."

You don't say anything. Neither does she. But later, when she isn't around, you notice.

It's a week later, late afternoon, when you find Ellie again. 

She's sitting with her back against the barn wall, sketchbook in her lap, pencil smudged against her fingers. Her brows are furrowed, jaw slack, totally focused. The sun hits the side of her face in patches through the warped wooden slats, making her hair look redder than usual, like something burning low and slow.

You don't say anything at first. You just watch her.

Then she notices you.

"What," she mutters, barely looking up, "do I have something on my face?"

"No," you say, smirking. "Just surprised to see you doing something that looks... meditative."

She sticks her tongue out at you and goes back to her sketch. "I meditate all the time."

"Bullshit."

Ellie shrugs. "Fine. But drawing is kind of like meditating. Except when it pisses me off."

You inch closer and tilt your head to peek over her shoulder. "What is it?"

She hesitates for half a second before letting you look.

It's... a tree. Something about is it ethereal. She had somehow managed to capture the essence of the real thing in her drawing. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but it was somehow her.

You stare at it for a long moment. "It's beautiful."

She stiffens. Just slightly. Then shrugs again, like the compliment doesn't mean anything, even though it does.

"Thanks," she says. "You do anything like this?"

You blink. "Like drawing?"

"Yeah. Art. Hobbies. Fun shit."

You pause. "I garden sometimes."

Ellie turns to look at you. "That's it? Gardening?"

"I like it."

"Yeah, so do old people."

You glare. "Thanks."

"I mean, come on. You're telling me you've got nothing else in there?" She gestures vaguely to your head. "No secret skill? No tragic backstory? No like... knife-throwing championship title?"

You hesitate. Then sigh.

"I write."

She perks up. "Like what?"

"Just... stuff."

"Stuff?"

You give her a look. "Poetry."

There's a pause. Not a long one. But just long enough for you to regret saying it.

Then Ellie raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah, okay. Laugh."

"I'm not laughing," she says. And she isn't. She's smirking a little, but it's more... curious than mocking. "That's actually kind of cool."

"It's stupid."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Feels personal. And I haven't written anything good in a long time."

Ellie leans back, the corner of her mouth twitching. "You got any of it still?"

You shake your head. "No."

She raises both brows now. "No?"

"I mean... yes. But I'm not showing you."

"Why not?"

"Because you'd make fun of me."

"I just said I wouldn't."

"You lie."

She grins. "Constantly. But not about this."

You look at her then. Really look. She's sitting there, sun in her hair, dirt on her knees, pencil still tucked between her fingers--and she's listening. Not just asking. Not just humoring you.

You're not used to that.

"I don't know," you say finally. "It's dumb."

Ellie opens her mouth like she's going to argue--but doesn't. She just shrugs and flicks her pencil against the paper a few times.

"Whatever. I'm still gonna bully you about it later."

"I'd expect nothing less."

You stay there a while long, talking about nothing, the kind of nothing that fills your chest like it's everything. And when the light starts to dim and your stomach growls and she makes some shitty joke about eating tree bark if the cafeteria runs out of food again, you walk with her. Shoulder to shoulder. Quiet.

That night, you stare at a blank page for twenty minutes before writing a single word. 

And once you start, you can't stop.

You write about the way Ellie walks--fast like she's got somewhere to be, slow when she's next to you. You write about the way she talks, like every word is a dare, like silence is something she hasn't figure out how to live with yet. You write about the way her laugh hits you in the gut, sharp and sudden and rare.

And then, quieter--you write:

I have never wanted to be a place until I met you Now I want to be the ground you rest your boots on.  The window you stare out of. The air that makes you stay.

It's not perfect, or polished, or even good. But it's true.

The next morning, you fold the page three times and slip it into your jacket pocket. Find her near the greenhouse where she always ends up when she thinks no one's watching. She's sitting cross-legged in the dirt, a pencil tucket behind one ear, her sleeves rolled up like spring isn't still pretending to be winter.

You hand her the folded paper without a word.

She doesn't ask what it is. Just unfolds it slowly, her eyes scanning each line, mouth moving just slightly. Reading it out loud in her head.

She doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then she folds it again--smaller this time--and tucks it into her jacket pocket, right over her chest.

"You should write more," she says. 

And you do. 

Because now you have a reason.

***

The next day, she’s gone.

Not in a dramatic way—no patrol assignment, no emergency, no blood trail leading into the trees. Just… gone. No Ellie at breakfast. No Ellie in the usual hallway corner with her boots half-laced and a sarcastic comment on her tongue. Not even a glimpse of her jacket disappearing around a corner.

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

She probably overslept. Or went out early. Or just needed space, like she sometimes does—quiet days where she holes up with her sketchbook or disappears into the woods with a bow and a scowl.

But still.

You feel it.

You feel it in the way your steps fall too loud on the gravel.

In the way your breakfast feels longer.

In the way you start listening for a voice that doesn’t come.

You keep catching yourself turning, expecting to find her slouched against a doorway or perched on a fence like a cat, arms crossed, that smug glint in her eye. And every time you don’t see her, something unsettles a little deeper in your ribs.

It’s not until late—near sundown, the sky fading soft orange and bruised lavender—that you notice the shape in your coat pocket. Something light. Hard. Small.

You stop walking.

Reach in.

It’s a cassette tape.

Old. Beat up. The label on the front half-peeled, the ink faded like it’s been thumbed over a dozen times. Someone’s handwriting still clings to it—smudged and slightly tilted.

The Cranberries – Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We?

No note.

No explanation.

Just the music.

You turn it over in your hand, wondering when she even could’ve slipped it in there. Maybe the night before. Maybe at dinner. Maybe while you were talking about something else, your hands too close together on the table, your eyes everywhere but on her.

You don’t even remember telling her you liked The Cranberries.

Maybe you didn’t.

Maybe she just knew.

You ask around quietly until you can borrow an old Walkman from Joel—told him you needed to check on some inventory tapes. He looked skeptical but didn’t press. Just handed it over with a grunt and a warning to rewind it when you’re done.

And then you go. Not far—just behind the greenhouse, where the sun spills in crooked beams through the broken glass and the air smells like mint and tomato vines and damp earth. No one really goes there unless it’s planting season.

It’s quiet.

You sit in the dirt.

You press play.

The first track starts—slow, a little dreamy, a little sad in that way that doesn’t ask for pity. Just wants to be felt.

Your chest aches before the chorus even hits.

By the second song, you’re not blinking as much as you should be.

The third track plays like it knows your name. Like someone cracked your ribs open just enough to slide it in there, leave it humming behind your heart.

It’s dumb. You know that.

It’s just a tape.

Just music.

But this—this is the closest thing to a love letter either of you have ever given. Or maybe received.

And just as the next song clicks in, you hear it:

Boots in the dirt.

Your pulse stutters.

You don’t turn around.

You don’t breathe.

The steps stop behind you.

Then—quietly—Ellie sits down beside you, close enough that the edges of your sleeves catch when the wind shifts. She doesn’t say anything.

You don’t either. Not right away.

The music keeps playing. The Walkman hums gently in your lap. You can feel her, there beside you, like static in your bones.

“This is a weird way to flirt,” you murmur, still staring ahead.

Ellie scoffs under her breath. “I’m not flirting.”

You glance sideways, trying not to smile. “You gave me sad girl music.”

“You said you liked sad girls with guitars.”

A pause.

You’re not sure why you say it, only that it tumbles out before you can stop it.

“I like you.”

It’s not loud. Not dramatic. Just honest.

Ellie blinks. The faintest hitch in her breath. Then she looks away, out toward the greenhouse, lips pressed together like she’s trying not to bite them.

It happens maybe a week later.

You’d just finished helping unload some supplies, arms aching and smelling like old wood and diesel. She found you near the mess hall, hair frizzed from the wind, dirt smudged across her cheek.

“Wanna ditch?” she said, half a smirk on her face, like she already knew your answer.

So you did. Followed her across the back fences, up the rusted fire escape of the old building by the east wall—one of the quietest spots in Jackson. No guards. No foot traffic. Just peeling brick and a half-collapsed roof where the stars come out clearer than anywhere else.

The climb up to the roof wasn’t exactly safe—half-rotted boards, rusted metal rungs, one narrow ledge that made your stomach drop when you looked down. But Ellie had done it before, and when she offered her hand without saying a word, you took it without thinking.

The air up there was colder, sharper. Windy. You pulled your coat tighter and tucked your chin down as you stepped out onto the flat part of the roof, your boots scuffing against gravel and ash. She’d already set up the usual spot—a half-dead blanket she kept hidden in a dry metal box, two dented mugs for whatever sad drink she’d brought, and a lighter with a chipped Firefly logo on the side.

She was sitting with her back to the roof’s edge, legs out in front of her, a blunt already half-rolled between her fingers.

“You ever fall off this thing?” you asked, settling beside her.

She smirked without looking at you. “Once. Broke my ass. Joel was pissed.”

You smiled at that, your gaze trailing out over Jackson. It looked different from up here. Softer. The flickering porch lights. The warm yellow glow from the rec hall windows. Someone had a fire going—you could smell it, faint but smoky, riding the breeze. It made the whole town feel small. Far away.

Ellie sparked the lighter, cupped it in her palm, and lit the blunt like she’d done it a thousand times. Which, honestly, she probably had. She took a slow hit, the ember flaring, her eyes squinting slightly as she exhaled. Then she held it out to you.

You froze.

“C’mon,” she said, brow raised. “Don’t make me smoke the whole thing.”

You looked at it like it might bite you.

“I’ve never—”

“That’s the point,” she said, soft. “First time’s with me.”

Your fingers brushed hers as you took it. You tried not to make a big deal out of it. Tried not to seem like you cared. But your pulse was in your throat.

You took a hit, choked almost instantly, and doubled over coughing.

Ellie just laughed. Loud and mean in that affectionate way she had. “Jesus. You’re such a baby.”

You glared at her between coughs, but your eyes were watering too much to make it effective. “This sucks.”

“No, you suck. Give it back.”

You passed it to her and wiped your mouth with your sleeve, feeling your heartbeat skip a little too fast. After a minute or two, though, the edge of it dulled. Warmth crept up your chest. Your limbs got heavy in a nice way. The town lights started to blur a little.

“Okay,” you murmured, leaning back on your palms. “Maybe not that bad.”

Ellie grinned and took another hit. “Told you.”

Silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... weightless. Safe.

Your legs dangled off the edge of the roof. Hers did too.

The stars were out—more than usual. Jackson’s lights didn’t reach this far, so the sky looked bigger. Like you could fall into it. Like it might fall into you.

“You ever think about leaving?” she asked suddenly, voice low, rough from smoke and cold and maybe something heavier.

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched your breath curl in front of you.

“Sometimes,” you said. “Not for good. Just... for a while.”

Ellie was quiet for a second. Then:

“Where would you go?”

You shrugged. “Nowhere. Everywhere. Maybe west.”

“West,” she repeated. Not mocking. Just thoughtful.

Then she said it.

“Take me with you.”

You turned to look at her.

But she wasn’t looking at you. She was staring up at the sky again, her profile sharp against the starlight, eyes reflecting nothing.

“I would,” you said.

Too soft. Too fast. It slipped out like it had been waiting at the back of your throat forever.

And she must’ve heard it. Really heard it. Because after a second, she looked over.

And something flickered behind her eyes.

Like maybe she knew.

Like maybe she was about to lean in, just slightly, just enough. Like she felt it too.

But then she blinked.

And whatever was there—it was gone.

She passed the blunt back without a word, eyes already turned away.

You didn’t say anything else.

Just smoked in silence, and told yourself the chill on your skin was from the wind.

Another week passes. 

It’s late when she shows up.

You’re already in pajamas, curled on your bed with a half-read book and the radio whispering something low and folky. Rain taps at the windows, steady as a metronome. Everything smells like wet earth and lavender—you forgot to blow out the candle on your shelf.

There’s a knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

You open the door and she’s standing there, hoodie damp from the walk over, hair pulled back messily, eyes flicking past you like maybe she’s reconsidering.

“You busy?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Nah. Just reading.”

She steps inside.

Drops her boots by the door, shrugs off her hoodie, walks up the stairs to your bedroom and settles herself by the headboard of your bed. Like this is her space too. Her sketchbook is under one arm.

You toss her a blanket. She catches it without looking.

The room is quiet except for the rain and the occasional flip of a page—your book, her sketchpad. You don’t ask what she’s drawing. You’ve stopped asking.

Eventually, you shift. Lay your book on your chest and close your eyes, just for a second.

Just to rest.

You don’t mean to fall asleep.

But you do.

The blankets are warm. The candle burns low. And Ellie is close enough to hear breathing. So you drift.

You’re not sure how long you’re out—twenty minutes? an hour?—but when you stir, it’s still raining. The candle’s gone out. And she’s still sitting there.

Cross-legged on your floor. Sketchbook in her lap. Eyes flicking between the paper and—

You.

You blink. Groggy. Voice scratchy. “Are you… drawing me?”

She looks up.

Doesn’t deny it. Just chews the inside of her cheek, then shrugs. “You make a good subject.”

You roll onto your side, burying your face half into the pillow. “You’re a creep.”

She grins. “You like it.”

You do. God, you do.

You don’t say anything, but your cheeks burn, and that’s answer enough.

She doesn’t leave that night.

She stays until the candle smoke fades and the rain stops and your breath evens out again.

And you don’t even realize she slipped something into your coat pocket until a week later—when you're on patrol, digging for gloves in the early cold.

Your fingers brush paper.

You pull it out.

It’s the sketch.

Charcoal and pencil on torn notebook paper—creased from folding, smudged at the corners. But it’s you. Not just how you look, but how you were. Curled up, soft and half-asleep. Mouth parted. Hands tucked under your chin like you were dreaming of something sweet. Like you weren’t carrying so much.

She made you look kind. Gentle.

Loved.

You stare at it for a long time.

And then fold it back up, press it against your chest like a secret.

Because that’s what it is.

She never mentioned it. Never asked if you saw it.

But sometimes, when you pass her in the mess hall or catch her sharpening her knife outside the barracks, she’ll look at you a little too long.

Like she’s still drawing you.

Like you’re still the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.

She comes by your house again.

It’s late.

Later than either of you meant to stay up. The kind of late where the silence starts to hum. Where the lamps buzz faintly and the edges of everything feel a little blurred.

You’re both on your bed, backs against the wall, legs stretched out, a bowl of stale popcorn between you. Some shitty cassette tape hums low in the background—something folksy and quiet Ellie brought over weeks ago that never made its way back to her place.

You’ve been talking for hours.

Not about anything important. Just… stuff.

“Okay,” she says, voice thick with sleep. “Worst food you ever ate. Go.”

You snort. “The canned tuna Joel tried to make tacos with. That shit was criminal.”

Ellie hums, almost a laugh. Her head tips back against the wall.

You keep going.

“Or—wait—no, the beans at the winter festival last year. They tasted like dirt and broken dreams.”

That makes her grin, but it’s a slow one. Fading around the edges. Her eyes are half-lidded, lashes low. You can see how heavy her body’s getting, the way her shoulders slump just a little more every few minutes. The way her head sways when she laughs too long.

She’s tired. You know she’s tired.

But she doesn’t move to leave.

So you just… keep talking.

Low and rambling now. About dumb things. The book you found in the library about edible weeds. The guy in the stables who swears by talking to horses like they’re people. That time Jesse slipped on ice and pretended he meant to break his ankle because it got him out of patrol.

You feel her shift beside you.

Then a weight.

Slow and soft—her head, slipping down from the wall, finding your shoulder like gravity pulled her there.

You stop mid-sentence.

And don’t move.

Her breath is warm against your collarbone. Steady. Even.

She’s out.

Fully asleep.

You freeze—your whole body electric with stillness, afraid to even breathe. Her weight settles into you, solid and real, like something fragile you’re terrified to disturb. One of her hands brushes your leg, curled loosely like she meant to hold onto something and missed.

And god, you want to kiss her.

Right there, in the quiet. While the music hums and her fingers twitch slightly and she looks so impossibly soft and yours that it hurts.

But you don’t.

You just shift a little, careful, and lean your head against hers. Let your eyes close. Let yourself have this.

Just for now.

You wake up an hour later.

The tape’s stopped.

The popcorn’s cold.

She’s still there.

And she doesn’t move when you reach for the blanket and pull it over both of you.

Just sighs in her sleep.

Like she’s safe here.

Like you are, too.

The hangouts continue—quiet, unspoken, intimate in a way neither of you dares to name.

Two weeks pass.

Normally, you’d be paired with Ellie on patrol. You always were. But the day before, Maria handed out the assignments, and your name landed next to Jesse’s.

You frowned but didn’t argue.

Now, it’s still dark when you show up at the gates. Cold, too—your breath curls in the air like smoke. Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you shift your weight, rubbing your hands together to keep them warm. The town sleeps behind you, quiet and still, the sun not yet bleeding into the sky.

You go through the usual routine. Check your pack—rifle, water, rations, bandages.

Then your fingers close around something unexpected.

A switchblade.

Not yours.

Yours is back home—half-dull and chipped from too many close calls. But this one?

This one’s clean. Balanced. The blade shines faint in the pre-dawn light. The handle’s worn just enough to feel like it belonged to someone else first.

You turn it over.

There, on the hilt, a tiny scratch.

You’ve seen it before.

Ellie’s.

Something twists in your chest.

You glance up—and she’s there. Leaning against the fencepost a few feet away, hoodie half-zipped, hands in her pockets. Watching you.

She nods toward the knife. “Just in case I’m not there to save your ass.”

You try to play it cool, try not to let the heat crawl up your neck. “You worried about me?”

She shrugs. “I don’t like it when people die stupid.”

You grin. Quiet. “I’ll treasure that.”

She pushes off the post and walks past you like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just give you something you’ll probably sleep next to for the rest of the week.

You tuck the blade into your belt and try not to feel too much.

Jesse shows up a minute later, mid-yawn, chewing on half a protein bar. He clocks the switchblade, then glances at Ellie’s retreating back.

“Well,” he says, smirking. “That wasn’t subtle.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods at the knife. “She give you that?”

“…Maybe.”

Jesse lifts his brows like he already knows the answer. “That’s, like… romantic. In Elliespeak.”

You roll your eyes, though your pulse is still a little too loud. “Shut up.”

He falls in step beside you as you start toward the trail. “I’m just saying. The girl’s stitched you up, lent you her tapes, sketched you—”

“She didn’t sketch me.”

“She did.”

“She just said I was a good subject.”

“She said it with the dumbest look on her face. You’ve got her wrapped around your knife-gifted little finger.”

You shake your head. “It’s not like that.”

Jesse kicks a rock off the path. “Sure. But do you wish it was?”

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t know.

But because you do.

The day stretches long.

You and Jesse move along the outer edge of Jackson, horses in hand, checking the usual spots. Routine stuff. Peaceful, at first. Too peaceful. The kind of stillness that sets your teeth on edge if you think about it too long.

You make small talk—nothing important. It’s easy with Jesse. It always has been. Comfortable in the way old friendships are.

Just past noon, you make it to the north trail.

The air is crisp, sweet with pine. Hooves clop steadily over damp earth. No broken branches, no overturned tracks. You like patrols like this. Quiet. Familiar. Almost enough to forget what the world’s become.

“Y’know,” Jesse says, breaking the lull, “I was sure Tommy was gonna stick me with the new guy. I’ve got a streak going.”

You smirk. “Guess your luck’s finally turning around.”

“Or maybe he just didn’t want you scaring another recruit off.”

You kick a clump of snow toward him. “I’m delightful.”

“You’re something.”

The rhythm’s easy. The kind that only comes from years of knowing someone. Jesse’s always had a way of grounding you—pulling you back to yourself. Maybe because he never pushes too hard. Maybe because he doesn’t have to.

The trail narrows, and you both dismount. The horses plod behind as you lead them into a hollow—low, sloping, shadows spilling between snow-patched trees. Brown earth peeks through the frost like spring’s trying to fight its way in.

You adjust your pack and walk beside Jesse in silence until he slings his rifle over his shoulder and speaks.

“So,” he says casually. “You and Ellie. That’s… new.”

You don’t meet his eyes. “There’s no ‘me and Ellie.’”

“Right,” he says, dragging the word out. “You’re just attached at the hip for fun. Totally platonic.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh. And I herd horses because I enjoy the smell.”

You kick a rock off the trail. “What are you getting at?”

Jesse shrugs. “Nothing. Just—you’ve been through a lot. And you seem… lighter, lately. Like something’s finally clicking back into place.”

You don’t respond at first. Just watch the sunlight breaking in fractured beams through the trees.

“It’s not like that,” you say eventually. “She just… gets it. That’s all.”

He gives you a long look, like he’s reading a sentence you didn’t mean to write out loud. “Well. Whatever it is—just don’t screw it up.”

You let out a snort. “Is that the official Jackson policy?”

“That’s the friend policy,” he says, bumping your arm with his elbow. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m being emotionally available.”

“Emotionally available with side-eyes and judgment.”

“It’s a package deal.”

You’re just about to laugh—really laugh—when the sound cuts through the air.

Not sharp. Not loud. Just wrong.

You both freeze.

Then it comes again.

Wet. Guttural. Clicking.

Your hand flies to your belt. Ellie’s switchblade presses into your palm—cold, familiar. Jesse’s already raised his rifle, eyes scanning the trees.

“Shit,” he mutters. “How the hell did one get this close?”

You don’t get the chance to answer.

It crashes from the tree line—snarling, fast, all teeth and rot and bone.

Jesse fires. The shot hits—but the infected doesn’t stop.

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You shove Jesse aside, bring the blade up—

Too late.

It catches your side with a swipe of its claws—white-hot pain ripping through your ribs. You stagger, gasping.

But you’re still standing.

Jesse gets a second shot off.

The clicker drops.

You drop with it.

Your knees hit the ground. Then your side. Blood seeps through your coat, warm and terrifying. You press your hands to the wound, instinctive, useless.

“Fuck,” Jesse breathes, already at your side. “Hey. Hey—look at me. We’ve got this. You’re okay.”

You nod. Try to. The world’s blurring at the edges.

Your horse is still there. So is Jesse’s.

Somehow, he gets you into the saddle. Somehow, you stay upright.

The ride back is a blur—half-shadow, half-pain.

You don’t remember much. Just the thudding of hooves beneath you, the steady burn in your ribs, the way Jesse’s hand stays braced on your back like it could hold you together. You focus on the rhythm of it. One-two. One-two. Like if you keep count, you won’t pass out.

But the world starts pulling sideways anyway. Everything going soft at the edges.

Until it doesn’t.

Until you hear Jesse shouting.

And you lift your head, just barely, and see the gates of Jackson coming into view.

And her.

Ellie.

She’s leaning against the fencepost just beyond the stables, a little crumpled daisy held between her fingers like some stupid inside joke. Her hoodie’s half-zipped, hair tucked behind one ear, eyes scanning the trail like she’s waiting for something—waiting for you.

You see it hit her in real-time.

She straightens. The flower falls. And then she’s running.

“Move!” she yells, shoving past the people near the gates, boots skidding on gravel. “Move—fuck—what happened?”

You’re not even off the horse before her hands are on you.

“She’s losing blood,” Jesse says breathlessly, dismounting fast. “Clicker got her. Not a bite—just a gash, but it’s deep.”

Ellie doesn’t say anything. She just loops your arm over her shoulder and pulls you down from the saddle like you weigh nothing, like panic makes her stronger.

Your knees give. Her grip tightens.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You try to speak. Maybe say her name. Maybe say sorry. All that comes out is a breath.

Then she’s moving—hauling you through the gates with people scattering out of her way. The infirmary’s not far, but it feels like another lifetime before she’s through the door, barking orders like she owns the place.

“I need a table! Gauze, sutures—now.”

Someone moves to help. She snaps without looking, “Don’t touch her. I’ve got it.”

Jesse’s still behind her, shadowing every step. His face is pale. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Ellie lays you on the table with terrifying gentleness. She’s breathing hard, eyes flicking between your face and your ribs. Her hands hover over your coat before she finally tears it open.

Blood’s already soaked through your shirt.

“Shit,” she breathes. Her voice cracks. “Okay. Okay.”

You want to tell her it’s not that bad, but your body’s gone heavy, useless. Your head lolls to the side, vision doubling. All you can really do is feel the way her hands work—pulling off your shirt, swabbing the wound, pressing down with shaking fingers.

“Ellie,” you rasp, barely above a whisper.

Her head snaps up. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Her face wavers, but you catch enough—her jaw clenched, jaw tight, eyes glassy with something she’s trying very hard not to let fall.

“I’m gonna fix it,” she says. “Okay? You’re not gonna die over some dumb clicker. Not like this.”

She moves fast. Efficient. Her hands shake, but the stitches are clean, tight. You feel every pull of the thread. It grounds you—just enough.

“Almost done,” she says, even though she’s not.

And then, quieter: “Don’t do this again. Please.”

You try to smile. It’s barely there. “You gave me the knife, remember?”

She laughs, breathless, more of a tremble than anything real. “Yeah. So you could not die with it.”

You feel her finishing the last stitch, the bandage going down over your ribs. She tapes it with shaking hands, presses her palm over it like she can will it to heal faster.

You reach out. Fingertips barely graze her wrist.

“Ellie.”

She looks at you.

And this time, she doesn’t hide it. The fear. The ache. All of it.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

“No,” she says, voice low. “You’re not. But you’re gonna be.”

You try to nod. She leans closer instead—forehead almost brushing yours. Her fingers still wrapped around your wrist like she’s afraid you’ll slip away if she lets go.

And she stays like that. Even when the others finally come in. Even when Jesse’s voice floats from the doorway. Even when everything else starts moving again.

She stays with you.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One second, Ellie’s bent over you, hands stained with your blood, breath coming fast like she’s been holding it since the gates opened.

The next, it’s quiet.

Dim light filters through the infirmary window. Outside, Jackson murmurs with its usual distant hum—boots on wood, a horse whinnying, someone shouting about feed. Life going on.

But here, in this room, everything’s still.

You blink groggily. Your ribs throb with each breath, the sting of stitches tugging at your skin. Your mouth is dry. Head fuzzy.

Ellie’s in the chair beside your bed.

She’s pulled it close—knees almost touching the mattress. Her hoodie’s half-off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, knuckles scabbed from where she must’ve scraped them carrying you in.

She’s asleep.

Or close to it.

One hand rests on her thigh, fingers curled like she forgot to relax them. The other is on the edge of the bed, just barely touching yours. Like she meant to hold your hand and changed her mind halfway through.

There’s a smear of your blood on her cheek.

She didn’t clean herself up. Didn’t change. Just sat down and… stayed.

You shift slightly, wincing at the sharp tug under your ribs.

Her eyes open instantly.

She straightens, alert in an instant. “Hey—hey, don’t move too much. You’re still fucked up.”

You try to smile. “Technical term?”

She doesn’t laugh. Just leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking for damage all over again.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“Jesse got me back.”

Her jaw ticks. “I know. But I should’ve been there.”

“Ellie…”

“No, just—” she sits back, swipes a hand down her face. “I knew something felt off this morning. I fucking knew. And instead of saying something, I gave you a knife and walked away.”

You look down at your belt. The switchblade’s still there, tucked beside your hip.

“You kept it,” she says softly.

You nod. “Didn’t wanna lose it.”

Her expression falters—like maybe she wasn’t expecting that answer.

“Good,” she says after a moment. “It’s yours.”

Silence settles in again. Heavy, but not bad.

Then you whisper, “I thought I was gonna die out there.”

Ellie’s face crumples just slightly. “Don’t say that.”

“But I did. Just for a second.”

She swallows hard, then leans in again. This time she doesn’t stop herself—just reaches out and lets her hand rest over yours. The contact is warm. Solid. A tether.

“You didn’t, though,” she says. “You didn’t. You’re here. With me.”

You don’t say anything. Just turn your hand so your fingers lace with hers.

Her shoulders sag like she’s been holding up too much.

And for a little while, neither of you talk.

You just stay like that. Breathing together. One steady beat at a time.

***

You end up staying with Ellie and Joel.

Not because anyone says you should—but because the night after you’re stitched up, Joel just sort of… picks you up and carries you.

“No point in your tryin’ to do stairs,” he mutters, pretending not to notice the way you bite your lip against the pain. “You’ll be safer with us for a bit.”

Ellie barely lets you get through the door before she’d set up a space on the couch—blankets, pillows, water, one of Joel’s flannels she swears she’s not emotionally attached to but won’t let you give back either.

It’s quieter than you expect.

No big gestures. No fuss.

Just Ellie sitting beside you every night, sketchbook in hand, music playing low from the older speaker she scavenged with Joel forever ago. Sometimes she reads. Sometimes she doodles. Sometimes you talk about nothing at all.

Joel brings you food, and doesn’t say much, but he checks your bandages with a gentleness that makes you wonder how long it’s been since he let himself care like this again.

There’s a comfort in it. A kind of peace you didn’t realize you were missing.

And somewhere in the middle of all that—not loud, not sudden—Ellie starts staying.

She doesn’t go back to her room most nights. Just ends up half-asleep next to you, her feet tucked under your blanket, fingers brushing your arm as she nods off. She doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t make it a thing. But you start brushing teeth together. You start sharing her hoodies. You start knowing which socks she steals from Joel and which mugs are her favorites.

Days pass like that. Easy. Close. Warmer.

They your birthday comes.

You don’t make a big deal out of it. You never do.

But when you come downstairs that morning, Ellie’s already waiting—leaning against the kitchen counter with something small in her hands.

“Morning, old lady,” she says, grinning. “Made you something.”

You blink. “You made something?”

“Okay, Joel helped. But I did, like most of the thinking part.”

She hands it over—it’s a little carved figure. A horse. A little lopsided, a little burnt on one side,  but clearly painstakingly made. Yours.

You don’t even know what to say. So you just hug her.

***

The kitchen smells like spice cake and melting wax. 

You lean against the counter, picking at the edge of the plate in front of you while Ellie wrestles with a crooked candle in the middle of the cake she somehow baked without setting the house on fire. There’s flour on her cheek and a smudge of chocolate near her thumb. She hasn’t noticed either.

“You’re gonna burn the house down with that thing.” you say, nudging a second matchbox toward her.

She shoots you a look. “I’m being careful.”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“Same thing.”

You smile despite yourself watching her fuss over the tiny, flickering candle like it matters more than anything else in the world. It kind of does.

The party’s supposed to start soon—Jesse and Dina are bringing the drinks, Joel and Tommy said they’d stop by. You’re not sure how everyone managed to organize it without tipping you off, but Ellie’s never been good at hiding when she's planning something. Her nervous energy practically buzzes through the room.

“Hey,” so say after a beat, quieter now. “Can I tell you something?”

She looks up immediately, all that snark draining out of her expression like a switch flipped. “Yeah. Always.”

You shift, eyes on the candle. “I’ve just been thinking a lot. After… everything. With the attack. Getting patched up. Lying around Joel’s house like a lump for a week.”

“You weren’t a lump,” she mutters. 

“Kind of was.” You smile, but then it fades. “You didn’t have to take care of me like that. My sister could’ve stayed to help me. But you did. You and Joel. And I don’t know if I ever really said thank you.”

Ellie’s face softens. She shakes her head. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I think I do,” you say, voice catching a little. “Because it mattered. More than I know how to explain.”

There’s a pause. Ellie watches you like she’s afraid you might vanish if she blinks too hard.

You open your mouth. The rest is right there—on your tongue, ready to tumble out. I care about you. I think I’ve cared for a while. I feel safer when you’re around. Like I’m breathing easier.

You want to say something. You almost do.

The words get stuck behind your teeth, caught somewhere between the fear of saying too much and the fear of saying nothing at all.

Ellie turns back to the counter, and grabs the cake, fixing the candles like it matters.

“C’mon,” she says, voice softer now. “Everyone’s waiting.”

You follow her out of the kitchen, holding the screen door open for her as she walks out, cake in hand. 

“You sure you won’t trip on the way over?” you murmur as you walk down the steps of Joel’s porch.

Ellie huffs a sarcastic laugh and rolls her eyes. “I’ll manage.”

At your house, the lights are low, the music’s soft, and the air inside smells like smoke, cake, and someone's overly enthusiastic cologne (probably Jesse).

Jesse’s already halfway through a drink, deep in a dramatic retelling of some patrol disaster to Tommy and Joel, who are both pretending not to bed amused. A few of your other friends are clustered near the record player, arguing over what to play next.

You settle carefully onto the couch, back against the cushions with a sigh that’s half relief, half ache. The stitches still tug a little when you breathe too deep. Ellie’s only a few steps away, fussing with the drinks she brought out, her flicking to you now and then like she’s making sure you haven't collapsed when she wasn’t looking.

There’s a knock at the door.

You move like you’re going to stand, out of instinct more than anything—but the pull in your side flares sharp and immediate. You wince, halfway up. 

“Hey,” Ellie says, already stepping toward you. “Sit. I got it.”

You sink back down, grateful.

She crosses the room, pulling open the front door—and then pauses.

The girl on the other side of the door is bundled in a jacket and holding a lopsided little box, curls tucked messily into her beanie. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. She looks up—her smile blooms, crooked and immediate.

“Hey,” the girl says. “I’m looking for—uh, sorry. I’m Dina.” 

Ellie blinks. “...Oh.”

They look at each other for a second too long. 

Not awkward. Not confused. 

Just—still.

Like they’ve both just walked into something unexpected and kind of strange and kind of… good.

You hear her voice from where you’re sitting, and your heart lifts without thinking. 

You push up from the couch, ignoring the way your ribs bark in protest. 

“D?” 

Dina steps around Ellie just in time to catch you coming down the hall. Her face lights up.

“Shit—look at you,” she says, half-laughing, half-crying as she pulls you into a hug. “You dumbass.”

“I missed you too,” you murmur into her shoulder. She smells like cedar and rain.

You’re aware—just barely—of Ellie still by the door. 

She hasn’t moved. Still watching. Still quiet. 

Dina pulls back, brushing her knuckle under her eye with a laugh. “Sorry, I got held up. Patrol’s been hell. But I brought your favorite cake.”

You glance at the box, then at Ellie.

“This is Ellie,” you say.

Dina turns—and for the first time, really looks.

Ellie gives her a small, lopsided smile. “Hey.”

Dina matches it. “Hey.”

It's nothing, on the surface. Just a hello. Just a new face.

But there’s a flicker between them—quickly, subtle, almost unnoticeable if you weren’t standing right there. A glance that lingers just long enough to feel different. 

You feel it before you understand it. A change. 

Like something small just clicked into place.

You don’t know what it means yet, so for now, you pretend not to notice.

You’re curled on the couch now, Dina beside you, a blanket thrown over both your legs like old times. She’s half-talking, half-scolding—about how she would’ve never let you go out on patrol if she’d been around, how you're lucky she loves you too much to throttle you.

You grin through it. Let her fuss. Let her care.

“I swear,” she’s saying, hand on your arm, “you attract trouble like it's a job. Is that a Jackson patrol requirement now? ‘Must be proficient in chaos’?”

“First of all,” you say, nudging her lightly, “I’m very responsible. Mostly. Jesse was there too, y’know.”

“Yeah, and Jesse didn’t get ripped open, so.”

Behind you, Ellie makes a sound—almost a laugh, but sharper. You glance over your shoulder.

She’s leaning against the wall now, arms crossed, listening in.

“Pretty sure she got the knife after the rip,” Ellie says. “Not exactly her best moment.”

Dina grins. “So, you’re Ellie.”

Ellie raises a brow. “Me?”

“Well,” Dina says, “you’re the only person I’ve heard about more than twice in every letter.”

You feel your face heat. “Dina.”

“What? I’m just saying. Ellie this, Ellie that. Ellie drew me, Ellie saved my ass, Ellie made me soup—”

Ellie’s mouth twitches. “It was bad soup.”

Dina laughs, and it’s easy and bright. “I feel like I should be jealous.”

“Maybe you should be,” Ellie fires back, and it comes out fast, almost automatic.

There's a second of silence.

Then Dina laughs again, brushing it off. “Alright, soup queen. Duly noted.”

It’s a short exchange. Barely anything, really.

But something about it sticks with you. The way Dina’s posture shifts slightly toward Ellie, open and relaxed. The way Ellie—who usually hesitates with strangers—doesn’t, not this time.

You shake it off. You’re overthinking. It’s just your two favorite people finally meeting. It should feel good.

And it does.

Mostly.

this was so long but i needed to write it so bad AHH

[bleulikedaylight]

Cite Me Later

pairing: academic rival! natasha romanoff x academic rival! reader

synopsis: you’ve always been top of your class—sharp, confident, and unbeatable. in your world, there’s no such thing as a worthy rival. that is, until natasha romanoff strides into your class with a smirk and a sharper argument that throws your entire carefully controlled world into chaos.

warnings: none !! <3 | wc: 2.2k | genre: academic enemies-to-lovers

note: posting a lot 'cause i'm bored as hell. someone pls give me a hobby or a thesis deadline or smth. 🥲

also, to the anon who asked if i have a masterlist—i do now. yay !! here it is: bleu's intro & masterlist !! ♡

You’d always believed in one thing: there is no such thing as a worthy rival.

People either got in your way or trailed behind. You were always two steps ahead, first in every list, most respected, and most feared. That is, until Natasha Romanoff walked into your sophomore political theory class like she owned the world and immediately raised her hand with a better argument than yours.

You’d never hated someone faster.

And you’d never thought about anyone more.

For two years, the two of you danced through every class, every competition, every student council election like twin flames destined to clash. Professors took bets. Students whispered. Even the president of the university made a comment about how you two should “either get a room or co-author a research paper.”

You had no plans to do either.

That is, until your university’s elite debate championship dropped the bomb: final round—1 vs 1 debate: Natasha Romanoff vs Y/N L/N.

Of course. Who else would it be?

You were doomed.

Not because you thought you’d lose. No. You were doomed because last week, Natasha Romanoff looked you dead in the eye after a mock trial and said, “You blinked. I win.”

You did blink.

Because she smiled.

And your brain short-circuited.

—

You arrived at the auditorium ready for war—blazer ironed, cards memorized, hair sleek, lipstick perfectly placed. The student auditorium was packed, buzzing. Wanda, your roommate, waved at you with both hands from the front row while mouthing KILL HER.

Across the stage, Natasha adjusted her sleeves like she was getting ready for a date, not war. She wore her signature dark-red lipstick and a subtle smirk like it was custom-made. Her black turtleneck somehow made her look smarter. Infuriating.

The moderator explained the rules. Each of you got five minutes to open, followed by three rounds of rebuttals.

The topic: “Surveillance in modern democracy—boon or bane?”

You took the negative. Natasha took the affirmative.

Game on.

You were flawless. Your opening statement was clear, concise, cutting. The audience nodded, impressed.

But Natasha?

She spoke like every word was silk dipped in poison.

She paced slowly, making eye contact with the audience, then you, then the panel. Her hands moved just enough to make her point but never enough to be dramatic. And she had the audacity to say, “My opponent makes an excellent point—hypothetically.”

The crowd gasped.

You wanted to scream.

But you rallied.

The third round came fast. You delivered your argument with surgical precision—facts sharpened like blades, your voice unwavering, confident, borderline smug.

And then she took the mic.

Natasha leaned forward, lips brushing the foam cover like it was an invitation. Her tone? Silky and laced with that Romanoff mischief that made half the room forget how to breathe.

"L/N," she said smoothly, eyes gleaming with something dangerous, "you’re making this almost too easy. You always do."

You narrowed your eyes, unsure if she was insulting you or complimenting you—or both.

She continued, "But don’t worry. I’ll let you explain your logic to me again... over coffee, maybe? My treat. Winner buys."

A ripple of laughter tore through the audience. You blinked, thrown off for half a second.

Did she just—

You slapped your hand over your mic and hissed, “Romanoff. Are you flirting with me right now?”

She tilted her head, all smug and no shame. “No,” she whispered back. “I’m distracting you.”

The moderator cleared their throat.

You turned back to the mic, mind rattled.

The final bell rang.

The debate ended.

And the audience? Lost their minds.

—

You stormed out of the auditorium with heels echoing your fury. Behind you, Natasha followed, calm as ever.

“You cheated,” you snapped, whirling around.

She looked amused. “By being charming?”

“By distracting me.”

“I only distract you because you like me.”

You froze. “Excuse me?”

She stepped closer, the hallway quiet and dim. “Come on, Y/N. You only argue with me like that because you want to see if I’ll push back.”

“I argue with everyone.”

“But you only blush with me.”

You touched your cheek instinctively.

Damn it.

“This is why you’re still single,” you said, crossing your arms.

She tilted her head.

“No,” she said, smile softening into something dangerous. “I’m still single because you haven’t confessed to me yet, Y/N.”

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Your heart forgot how to beat.

And for the first time in your entire academic life—you had no rebuttal.

—

Back in your dorm, you paced while Wanda watched from the bed, popcorn in hand.

“Say it again?” she asked.

“She said—she’s still single because I haven’t confessed yet.” You paused. “Like, what even—what was I supposed to say?!”

“I don’t know, ‘yes, Natasha, I’ve secretly wanted to kiss you since Intro to Gov.’ Maybe that?”

“I’m not falling for her.”

Wanda gave you a look.

You fell back onto the bed. “This is bad. I can’t be falling for my rival.”

“You’re already gone, babe.”

You groaned and fell face-first into your pillows.

—

Fate, or some chaotic god, had a sense of humor. The next class project? Partnered research. Your professor announced the pairings with casual indifference.

Of course, the professor paired you with Natasha.

“She requested you,” your prof said casually.

“Sorry?”

“She said no one else could match her.”

Great.

Just great.

You met her at the library the next day, heart pounding.

“You look like you’re about to fight me,” Natasha said, sliding into the seat across from you.

“I am.”

She chuckled. “Good. I like it when you fight.”

You glared, opening your laptop. “Let’s just get this done.”

Hours passed in chaos. You bickered about citations, rewrote the thesis four times, and debated tone until your heads hurt. But each time her fingers brushed yours, your pulse jumped. When she leaned over to point at your screen and her hair brushed your cheek, you froze.

Once, she leaned over you to point at your screen, her hair brushing your cheek.

You froze.

“You smell good,” she murmured.

“Shut up,” you muttered, ears burning.

She grinned. “Make me.”

You stared at her.

“I will.”

“Do it.”

And just like that, the library air turned electric.

You broke the tension by knocking her water bottle over.

Twice.

—

It happened again at the library—but this time, it wasn’t her. It was Enzo—the third-year International Studies major who always managed to appear when Natasha wasn’t around.

Today, he came bearing coffee. Your favorite.

“You look stressed,” Enzo said, placing the drink beside your laptop. “Thought you could use this.”

You blinked. “I—uh. Thanks. That’s… really sweet.”

He grinned, leaning against the table a little too casually. “I was wondering if you’d want to co-present for Model UN next month. You’re kind of amazing, and it’d be an honor.”

Before you could even respond, a shadow fell across your table.

“She already has a partner,” Natasha said coolly, appearing out of nowhere.

Your heart stuttered.

Enzo straightened. “Oh. Hey, Natasha. Didn’t see you there.”

“I know,” she said. “Maybe next time, announce yourself with a trumpet.”

You choked on your coffee.

Enzo blinked, confused. “It’s just a coffee. No need to be—”

“Possessive?” she cut in smoothly, slipping into the seat beside you. Her arm brushed yours. She didn’t move away. “Good. Just clarifying.”

Enzo left shortly after, citing “a class,” but he looked like he might transfer universities.

You turned to her. “What was that?”

“Coffee makes me territorial.”

“That wasn’t your coffee.”

“No,” she said, voice lower now, “but you’re mine.”

You stared. “Excuse me?”

She smiled sweetly, pulling your laptop toward her. “Now. About that conclusion paragraph.”

You spent the next twenty minutes typing in silence while your brain combusted.

—

The moment it all came to a head happened on the rooftop.

You’d just submitted your joint paper—the professor emailed to say it was “the best submission of the semester.”

The sun was setting, city lights flickering awake one by one beneath your feet. You held a cup of coffee in one hand, a slice of banana bread in the other. Natasha leaned on the railing beside you, hair tousled by the breeze.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

“It’s kind of annoying,” you said finally.

“What is?”

“That we’re good at everything.”

She laughed, brushing a crumb off your blazer. “We are.”

You turned to her. “I didn’t think we’d work well together.”

“I knew we would,” she said.

“Why?”

She met your gaze.

“Because you’re the only person who scares me,” she said. “And excites me. At the same time.”

You blinked. “Is this your way of flirting again?”

“It’s my way of confessing.”

You froze.

“Y/N,” she continued, voice quieter, “I’ve liked you since you corrected Professor Ross on a constitutional clause in front of the whole class."

“That was two years ago.”

“I’m very patient.”

You didn’t know what to say. You tried to say something witty. Clever. Deflect.

“This is bad. I can’t be falling...”

“…for you,” you finished, barely audible.

You expected her to tease you. Maybe crack a smug grin or say something borderline insufferable.

Instead, Natasha just looked at you like she already knew. Like she’d always known.

“I know,” she said softly, stepping closer. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

You laughed, breathless. “We’re rivals.”

“Rivals don’t stay up editing each other’s citations,” she countered. “They don’t memorize each other’s coffee orders or steal pens just to watch you pout and roll your eyes.”

She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“And they definitely don’t make each other blush this much.”

You hated that she was right. And loved it, too.

Your lips parted to respond—but the rooftop door creaked open.

Wanda.

Of course.

She squinted at you both, eyes darting between your flushed face and Natasha’s proximity.

“I KNEW IT,” she screamed. “I KNEW YOU WERE FLIRTING DURING THE DEBATE.”

You groaned. “Wanda—”

“I’m telling the group chat.”

“You are not telling the group chat—”

But it was too late. She was already running back inside, shrieking something about ‘endgame lesbians’ and ‘slow burn finally burning.’

You turned back to Natasha, exasperated. “You’ve doomed me.”

“I’ll take responsibility,” she said, grinning. “Want me to draft a public statement?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

You didn’t deny it.

—

You and Natasha showed up to your next class five minutes late.

Everyone stared.

You were glowing.

Natasha’s lipstick was smudged.

Wanda fist-pumped like she’d won the lottery. The professor didn’t even blink.

Later that week, your university released the final overall academic rankings.

You and Natasha?

Tied for first.

For the fourth time in a row.

She leaned over and whispered, “We’re good at sharing, huh?”

You smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

—

You didn’t sleep that night.

Part of it was the caffeine, but most of it was her.

You lay in bed staring at your ceiling, replaying the rooftop, the smile she gave you, the way she said “you’re mine” like it was a truth she never doubted.

At 2:41 a.m., your phone buzzed.

You stared at the message.

—

You met her outside your dorm, both in hoodies and sneakers, the city quiet and glimmering.

“I was hoping you’d say yes,” she said, falling into step beside you.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re lucky I’m already in too deep.”

You walked aimlessly, passing quiet cafés and flickering lamp posts, your shoulders brushing now and then like it meant nothing. But it meant everything.

“You know,” you said, hands stuffed in your hoodie pocket, “when I first met you, I wanted to push you down a flight of stairs.”

She snorted. “I thought you were a robot. Like, no emotion, just pure ambition.”

You smiled. “You were the first person who made me feel… nervous.”

She glanced at you, eyes soft. “You made me want to be better. And I hated you for it.”

You stopped walking.

“So what now?” you asked. “Are we... a thing?”

“I hope so,” she said, then leaned down, pressing her forehead to yours. “Unless you’d rather we keep flirting through footnotes and rebuttals.”

You grinned. “Maybe both.”

She kissed you.

And it felt less like the end of a rivalry—and more like the start of something real.

—

Your friends started asking questions. The professors started smiling when you bickered in class. You still debated her over everything—lunch menus, political philosophies, even what the best seat was in the student lounge.

But now, when you won, she kissed you.

When she won, you let her.

She still brought up the Enzo moment sometimes.

“Would’ve punched him if he asked you out,” she muttered once.

“You can’t punch diplomacy majors.”

“I can try.”

—

You lost your next debate to her.

On purpose.

She kissed you right after.

You decided maybe losing wasn’t so bad.

Not when it was to Natasha Romanoff.

And especially not when she pulled you aside after the crowd cleared and whispered, “Still rivals?”

You kissed her.

“Always.”

[yongility]

ATZ TV # the bloom beneath the frost ꗃ╭╯ park seonghwa.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / detective!seonghwa / figure skating au / f!reader insert.

𒄬 summary: a professional ice skater’s life is shattered when an anonymous admirer’s innocent gestures turn into an all-consuming obsession. With the help of detective Seonghwa, she must fight to reclaim her life—before the darkness consumes her for good. 𒄬 word count: 25k.

𒄬 warnings: stalking and obssesive behavior / invasion of privacy / psychological manipulation / anxiety / implied violence / emotional distress / mentions of crying, panic and fear of safety / harassament / police involvement / mentions of knife/blade and guns — not a warning but it's mentioned that it's winter season, also a lot of rainy scenes. — english it's not my first language, poor proofread tbh.

The ice rink was empty, and the sound of your blades was the only thing accompanying the silence.

The light was dim, bluish, as if the dawn still hesitated to peek through the tall windows of the arena. It was cold—not the kind of cold that cuts to the bone, but the kind that feels familiar, almost cozy, when the ice is the closest thing to home.

Because, in truth, it is home.

You adjusted your gloves, exhaled slowly. The steam from your breath dissolved in front of you. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the ice beneath your skates surround you.

An imaginary beat began in your mind. One, two, three... And then you glided.

Each turn, each jump, each invisible line you drew in the ice told a story only you knew.

Being a professional figure skater was something you'd dreamed of since you could remember.

Or at least, that's what you thought.

But in that moment, when your blades glided over the ice and your body moved almost automatically, you could almost swear that it all had started that cold afternoon when your grandfather, with his big hands rough from years of hard work, took you by the hand to an ice rink for the first time. You were five. You had been walking through town after buying freshly baked bread, and just before crossing the street, he stopped in front of a billboard with bright letters: "Free ice skating class, this Saturday only."

You didn't say anything. You didn't need to. You just saw his eyes light up with that mischievous spark that used to appear when you were about to do something your grandfather disapproved of.

But the following Saturday, there you were. With used skates that were a bit too big, a hat that covered your eyebrows, and your knees already full of band-aids before even stepping onto the ice. The first step was a disaster. The second, worse. And the third ended with you face down, palms burned by the ice and your breath cut off by the fall. But you remember everything clearly: the cold smell, the crunching of the ice under the skates of other kids, your grandfather's soft voice saying: "Falling is not failing."

And then it happened. Between one fall and another, there was a moment—brief, magical—when you glided without losing balance. The wind brushed your cheeks, and you felt as if the whole world had stopped just to watch you float.

That's when you knew. This was your place.

The ice learned your name, and you learned its.

And since then, you never stopped.

Your grandfather didn't either. He, being the tireless doting he was, became your first fan, your chauffeur, your cheerleader in the stands. When, weeks later, he saw a poster about open registrations for formal classes at the local rink, he didn't hesitate for a second to sign you up. He bought your first second-hand leotard, fixed your skates with duct tape more times than you could count, and learned how to use his cellphone's camera just to film your pirouettes.

It all started months ago, with a bouquet of peonies.

After a morning practice that had been as exhausting as always, the fatigue accumulated in your legs, but the satisfaction of having reached the goal for that particular morning kept you on your feet.

You entered the locker room, ready to shower and prepare for the rest of the day. It was there, on your bench, where you found it: a bouquet of peonies, fresh and perfectly arranged in a small vase.

It didn't surprise you. Nor did you think too much of it. You knew it wasn't the first gift you'd received. Being a recognized skater, gifts from admirers were common. Flowers, letters, a stuffed animal... small gestures of affection, ways to express the admiration that surrounded you. None of it bothered you. You accepted them with a smile and left them in your locker, amidst the competition and practice, without thinking too much about them.

This bouquet of peonies, in particular, was pretty, but nothing out of the ordinary. You thought, like all the others, that it was just another show of admiration from some fan. You didn't even bother to look at the envelope or search for a signature to indicate who had sent it.

You left the bouquet there, on the table, and took off your skates. With a tired smile, you continued with your routine, unaware that this simple bouquet of flowers would be the beginning of something much bigger, darker. Something that, as time went on, would make you question how many other "admirers" you truly knew... and how many others hid behind the appearance of a simple flower.

Time passes in the blink of an eye, the practices are no longer just routine, now you're preparing for the nationals that will take place in a couple of months.

This year was supposed to be different from the others, because despite finishing with a good ranking in previous years, this year the main goal was to go to the internationals.

You had prepared your whole life for this. The internationals were the dream you still needed to fulfill, and you wouldn't rest until you brought that trophy to your grandfather. No matter the tears, sweat, or blood you had to shed to achieve it. That accomplishment wouldn't be just yours, but also your grandfather's.

Your first and number one fan.

Time passes in the blink of an eye, but to you, it feels like everything is out of place.

You didn't exactly know what it was, nor how to name it, but there was something in your daily routine that had started to unsettle you. At first, you thought it was just fatigue or stress—after all, you were giving your all to succeed in the nationals, and that was taking a toll on your body. But it felt like more than just discomfort from the pressure of the competitions. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was building up in the air, like an invisible pressure weighing on your chest. There was no exact description for it.

The flowers kept coming.

Peonies, daisies, orchids. Almost always from the same mysterious hand. You placed them in your dressing room and left them there, giving them no more thought, as if they were part of the decoration. But something changed each time. The first time you found them, you simply thought it was a fan who left a bouquet just because. It wasn't the first nor the last time someone had recognized your talent this way, and although you appreciated the gifts from your fans, there was something about this particular admirer that made something stir inside you.

At first, it was just flowers, with no signs or markings to indicate who was sending them, but then the letters started arriving.

At first, they were brief—sweet even. Written with neat, almost perfect handwriting. The person writing them put a lot of care into it, as if it was the most important thing in their life. "You have great talent," they said. "I've seen you skate in several competitions. Your gift is admirable. Keep working hard," "You're so beautiful when you're on the ice."

You could read them without much concern. After all, it was just another fan. Nothing you hadn't experienced before. However, as time passed, there was something about them that didn't sit right, a feeling that made you doubt, something that began to take shape.

You decided to ignore it. You wanted to think that you were just imagining things and there was nothing to worry about. After all, fans are part of the deal. That's what you thought at first. But then, the letters grew longer, and the flowers became more frequent.

The first of those letters came one morning, right after a long practice. You found it in your dressing room, next to a bouquet of lilies. The envelope was sealed with a wax you hadn't seen before. You opened it indifferently until you read the first paragraph.

"Please, never stop skating. The beauty with which you do it and the way you look on the ice makes me feel like you belong to me. It's strange, because the time I spend watching you skate is the only thing that makes me feel complete. I can't wait for our paths to cross."

A chill ran down your spine. It wasn't exactly fear. It was a discomfort that grew slowly. The letter continued, describing in detail your way of skating, mentioning your subtle movements, as if it were a meticulous observer. But what disturbed you the most was how they seemed to know every one of your moves, your gestures, your pauses. There was something in their words that made you feel watched, as if they were right there in front of you, staring.

"I know you're looking for me, even though you can't see me. I'll be waiting until you realize that we're meant for each other."

Far from comforting you, those words planted doubt in your mind. You looked at the letter in your hands again, then at the bouquet of lilies. The admirer seemed to know more about you than anyone else.

And you didn't know what to think about that.

That thought stayed with you all afternoon. Even when you sat down to dinner that night, you couldn't stop wondering if all of this was real. If you weren't exaggerating. Maybe it was just a fan too passionate. But the feeling of being watched didn't go away.

Not even for a moment.

In the following weeks, the letters arrived more frequently. Each one is more personal, more direct. The same elegant, well-marked handwriting—almost perfect—showed up in every one of them. One mentioned the way you spent your mornings, detailing your morning routine in a way you wouldn't have even thought of. Describing moments and aspects that only those closest to you could know. Suddenly, you felt like there was something in your life that was no longer yours, something someone else knew better than you did.

The next bouquet of flowers appeared at your house on a rainy night. A large bouquet of tulips. You hadn't gone to the rink that afternoon. So, it was unsettling to think that someone had been there, near your house, leaving that gift on your doorstep, especially when you asked the receptionist if they had seen anyone leaving the bouquet for you and their answer was no.

That only heightened the feeling of invasion in your mind.

A brief letter accompanied the tulips:

"You don't have to worry. Everything will be fine. I need you. Do you feel it too? When you finally get that, there will be no turning back."

You read those words over and over with your heart racing. You felt trapped, but you didn't know in what. The feeling of being stuck between who you were and who you were forcing yourself to be intensified with each letter, with each bouquet of flowers.

And even though the growing discomfort was forming, something inside you told you that you couldn't do anything. It was paralyzing. You didn't know who would believe you that an admirer could become a potential threat. You didn't want people to think you were turning into a paranoid person. But deep down, you knew something wasn't right.

So the practice the next afternoon wasn't the same as the others. For the first time in weeks, the ice rink didn't seem big enough, nor the air cold enough.

You felt distant.

Your movements became more mechanical and less fluid. When you attempted a double Axel jump, something went wrong. You landed badly on one foot, losing your balance and falling awkwardly. The sound of the ice cracking under your weight was louder than it should have been.

You couldn't remember the last time that had happened to you.

"Are you okay?" Your coach's voice snapped you back to reality. He looked at you sideways, frowning as he noticed your absent expression.

"Yeah..." you replied, but even you noticed you sounded empty. You didn't feel the same connection with the ice, as if you were separating from it, from yourself. You hurriedly took off your skates, letting the silence take over the rink. But as you took your first step off the rink, you felt the weight of the others' stares. One of the guys on the team, Wooyoung, was watching you with a frown, exchanging glances with his training partner.

Your mind wasn't there. It was occupied with the letters, the flowers, and that damned feeling of being watched. But the discomfort, the one you had tried to ignore for so long, was starting to show in the little gestures. In the practice, where you couldn't stop looking over your shoulder, as if you expected to see something or someone. The noises in the locker room were different now, pulling you out of your thoughts, making you feel like there was someone behind you.

When you were getting dressed to go home, a knock at the door made you jump in place. It wasn't a normal knock; it was insistent. You slowly approached, a knot of worry in your throat, opening the door cautiously and with fear, but on the other side, there was no one. Just a small package.

Another bouquet. A bouquet of small lilies and a letter. But the words it contained froze your blood.

"Every time you fall, I'll be there for you. I'm always there for you."

Your hands trembled, the paper creased between your fingers as you read it, and that cold sensation intensified.

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, and even if you don't understand it yet, everything I do for you has a reason. I want to see you, feel you, be part of you. We will meet soon."

Panic began to form in your chest, the letter slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor. You scanned the room, expecting to find something, something that would give a clue. You couldn't put a name, much less a face, to the person sending those letters, but it was someone intelligent. Someone who could have access to the practices and locker rooms without raising suspicion, because you no longer believed it was a joke, and if it was, it was going too far.

But before you could process it, the locker room door opened and after jumping, you tried to relax when you saw your grandfather enter with a cup of coffee in his hands.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" His gaze didn't go unnoticed. You could distinguish the reflection of unconditional support and a slight concern that flickered in his eyes. "I've seen you distracted lately. Have you been getting enough rest? You haven't told me how things are going on the rink."

You tried to smile, but for your grandfather, who knew you better than anyone, he could notice something was different in your face. "Nothing important, Grandpa. Just tired."

He looked at you closely, not buying the excuse. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on the package on the floor, but he didn't say anything. A silence between you two became awkward.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and for a second, you felt like you couldn't hide anything from him. But before you could respond, he turned around, giving you the space you needed to calm down.

"I want to see you, feel you, be part of you."

With nationals just a few months away and performance down in the latest practices, the pressure seemed about to crush you. There was so much at stake, and it had been a while since you'd felt that suffocating frustration, that feeling that none of your moves were being executed the way they should, that you weren't achieving what you set out to do. It made you feel distant from your goal, but even further from yourself.

The ice rink, which had always been your safe place, no longer felt like that. Today, the soft music echoed through the speakers, but it didn't calm you, let alone help you focus. Even though you were alone on the rink, a thick emptiness surrounded you, but it wasn't loneliness you felt. It was something much more unsettling. Each glide of your skates on the ice seemed to echo louder in your ears, as if the sound was amplified by the growing anxiety invading your mind. The cold air wrapped around you, but it wasn't the cold of the ice, it was the cold of being watched, as if someone were there, and you couldn't see who.

The reflection of your face in the glass of the window looked strange, as if a shadow was lurking from the other side. The tension in your muscles grew with every spin you made, but you couldn't stop. Training had always been an escape, but this time, it wasn't. Each breath felt heavier, more tense.

Suddenly, a faint crack made you stop abruptly. The sound was so subtle you could have ignored it, but you didn't. A chill ran down your spine. Your heart beat faster, and the feeling of being watched intensified. You looked quickly around, but the rink was empty. Nothing unusual. The crack could have been the ice, it could have been the wind. Or maybe, something else.

You tried to keep skating, but another crack sounded closer. Something, or someone, seemed to be following you. Your mind began to spin, questioning every little detail. Was there someone there after all? It wasn't paranoia if it was really happening.

Each spin you took on the ice seemed to amplify the growing pressure in your chest. Your breath quickened, and you felt the urge to look over your shoulder, but you restrained yourself. The shadows seemed to move with each step you took, as if you were trapped in a spiral of thoughts and fears.

This wasn't normal.

The next practice came, and although the company of your teammates should have been a relief, you felt more uneasy than ever. Taking a brief break and sliding to the edge of the rink, you let out a sigh of exasperation, trying to relax your tense shoulders, but the heaviness in your chest wouldn't disappear. That's when Wooyoung, one of your closest teammates, approached with his usual smile, but there was something different in his expression. His gaze was more curious, almost worried.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, leaning toward you. His tone, slightly concerned, didn't match the usual lightness of his words. "I saw you were a little distracted on the rink."

You forced a smile, though it wasn't a genuine one.

"Just tired. Nothing to worry about."

Wooyoung seemed to hesitate, but then shrugged and changed the subject.

"Well... it looks like you've got a secret admirer, huh?" His tone was lighter, almost joking, but his gaze didn't stop watching you closely. "I saw you leave the café this morning, and a note was right on your backpack."

The air left your lungs. You couldn't remember where you had left your backpack that morning, much less seeing a note on it. Your heart raced, and a lump formed in your throat.

"What kind of note?" you asked, trying to stay calm, though your voice trembled.

Wooyoung smiled again, but he didn't seem as amused as usual.

"I don't know, I couldn't see it clearly, but it looked like a letter. I thought maybe another admirer..."

His playful tone didn't ease you. A flash of alertness ignited in your mind, making your whole body tense. What if Wooyoung was right? What if the admirer was closer than you thought, following you every step of the way without you realizing it? The feeling of being watched grew stronger, more persistent, like a shadow over your shoulders.

That night, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was stalking you. The letters and messages you had received didn't seem so innocent now. The idea that someone was in your personal space, watching you, touching your things... filled you with growing anxiety.

"I don't like being possessive. But I also don't like someone else seeing you the way I see you. Your teammates seem very close. I don't know how to feel about it. The way they smile at you... it does something to me. No one deserves to breathe the same air as you. You're unique. You're incredible. I know you're made for me. And you'll know it soon."

The pain from the fall took you by surprise, but the anguish in your mind was even worse. As you fell, the blade on your right skate slid with more force than usual, and before you could stop yourself, the ice struck your wrist with a sharp pain. Breathing became difficult as the pain spread quickly through your arm, but the worst part came when you looked at the damage on your skate.

The blade was visibly damaged, as if someone had deliberately tampered with it. An accident? No, it couldn't be. You knew your skates, took care of them, kept them perfect. Someone had sabotaged your equipment. Fear and shock overwhelmed you. There was no way this was random. Someone had been following you—close enough to damage your skates without you noticing.

Terror settled in your chest, and you grabbed your aching wrist with your other hand, as blood rushed to your face. The sensation of being watched was so intense, you could almost feel eyes fixed on you.

"Every time you fall, I'll be there for you. I'm always here for you."

The feeling in your wrist didn't go away. Every time you tried to move it, the sharp pain reminded you of what had just happened—the fall that not only left a mark on your body but had also left much deeper scars. 

The ice, once your refuge, now felt foreign, dangerous. You had come to the conclusion that something wasn't right, but you couldn't keep ignoring the growing need for answers.

You had found your life on the ice, but now you feared it might end there.

You had bandaged your wrist quickly, without paying much attention to how clumsy the job was. The bandage covered the pain, but not the doubts piling up in your head. The admirer's letter kept spinning in your mind, and Wooyoung's words—though they had seemed innocent at the time—now echoed loudly.

There was something else. A real danger, something you couldn't just ignore.

Your teammates looked at you with curiosity—some concerned about your wrist, others unsure how to handle your growing distance. Somehow, that made you feel even more vulnerable, like everyone could see what was really happening, even if they didn't fully understand it. You felt fragile, exposed. The paranoia had gotten to you, but the warning signs were as clear as the damage to your wrist.

The dull noise of your own thoughts intensified as you walked through the ice rink's lobby, your breathing slightly more agitated than usual. You couldn't stop looking toward the shadows stretching in the corners—the feeling of being watched had never been stronger. The echoes of those messages seemed to follow you everywhere, like they could pierce every thought you tried to keep steady.

As you left the rink, you realized the sun was beginning to set, darkening the world around you. A familiar place, but with an atmosphere that no longer felt safe. A couple of times while walking, you turned quickly, feeling like something moved behind you. But there was nothing. Or at least, that's what you thought.

You came to a sudden stop. You felt the urge to talk to someone, to share your fears, but with who? You didn't want to overwhelm your grandfather, let alone worry him. He had already done so much for you over the years, and you didn't want to add another burden—and even if you tried, your words would get stuck in your throat. You needed more than comfort. You needed answers. You needed to know if you were just being paranoid, or if what you felt was actually happening.

You wanted to put a face to the author of your nightmares.

With a sigh and all the strength you could muster, you pulled out your phone and searched for the police number. Your fingers hovered over the screen.. You had to do it, but the mere idea of facing reality paralyzed you.

You decided to go through with it.

The phone rang several times before a deep, calm voice answered on the other end. "Seoul Police, how may I help you?"

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "I'd... I'd like to report something. Someone is stalking me, but I don't know what to do."

There was a brief silence on the line, as if the officer was assessing the seriousness of your words. "I understand. I'll need you to give me more details."

The police station smelled like stale coffee, dusty paperwork, and anxiety. The perfect blend to make you feel even more out of place. The air was thick with that uncomfortable silence that only blooms between white walls and eyes that don't linger long enough. You felt like you didn't belong the moment you walked through the door, arms crossed over your chest as if you could protect yourself just by pressing your elbows tighter against your ribs.

You were sitting on one of the hallway chairs, too straight, your back stiff like holding onto perfect posture might keep you from falling apart inside. You clutched a cloth bag against your chest, tight like a shield. Inside, neatly folded, were the letters. The small gifts. Each one was proof that what haunted you was real. Each one a piece of the invisible presence that had crept into your life.

If someone had asked you at the start of the year what your expectations were, you never would've imagined it would come to this.

Your leg wouldn't stop shaking. You breathed through your mouth in shallow attempts to keep a composure that no longer felt like your own. Around you, the low voices of officers, the occasional slamming of doors, the sound of phones and keyboards being tapped in a hurry—everything felt too present. As if the world outside had kept spinning without you. No one seemed to notice you. And paradoxically, that made you feel even more exposed. Like a whisper in the middle of a storm—ignored but precariously there.

"Kong (Y/N)." The voice came from your right, and as you looked up, your breath caught for a moment.

Two men approached. The first had a serious face, neutral but resolute expression, and a black folder in his hands. The second... had the most intense eyes you'd seen in a long time. He was tall, firmly built, with a straight posture and a quiet presence—like he moved cautiously even within chaos.  His face held a cold, precise beauty, but not a distant one. He looked at you directly—not with pity, not with judgment—but with attention. As if he was already trying to understand you.

"I'm Detective Kim Hongjoong, the one who took your call yesterday, and this is Detective Park Seonghwa," said the shorter one gently, while they both showed their badges out of habit. "We're in charge of your case."

You nodded with a barely perceptible motion, clutching the bag even tighter. You wanted to say something, but your voice stayed trapped in your throat.

"Can we speak in private?" Seonghwa asked, respectfully, without moving too fast—as if he knew you needed space to process each word. He didn't pressure you, didn't try to touch you or rush you. He just waited.

You stood up clumsily, feeling like your legs still hadn't decided to follow you. You noticed how Seonghwa's eyes dropped for a second toward your bag before meeting yours again.

"I brought... everything I've received," you finally said, voice low, as if admitting it made you more vulnerable.

Seonghwa nodded slowly. He didn't interrupt.

"Perfect. We'll go over it together," he replied, guiding you with an open hand toward one of the more discreet rooms in the station. He didn't touch you but walked by your side, keeping a respectful distance—balanced between professionalism and protective presence.

Kim Hongjoong walked behind you both, flipping through the folder while muttering something about the timeline of the incidents. More practical. More direct. But all you could feel was Seonghwa's glance from the side—subtle but constant, as if he wanted to make sure you didn't fall apart on the way.

Park Seonghwa was tall, with a lean but defined build, like someone whose body had been sculpted with the precision of someone who always had to be ready. His posture was impeccable—straight back, slightly tense shoulders, neck stretched as if his whole body was on quiet alert. Each of his movements held a deliberate restraint, like he avoided taking up more space than necessary... and yet, he filled the room the moment he entered.

He wore the standard civilian uniform with a near-dangerous sobriety: dark pants, fitted shirt, the first button always fastened, and a black coat made of thick fabric that fell to his thighs like a shadow clinging to his frame. His boots echoed in steady rhythm against the concrete floors—unhurried, unshaken.

But the most striking part was his face.

Seonghwa had a severe beauty. His features were sharp, almost sculpted—high cheekbones, firm jaw, thin lips, and eyes as sharp as a scalpel. The kind of face you wouldn't forget, even if you'd only seen it once in the rain. His skin was pale, contrasting with the darkness of his clothes and the jet-black hair falling over his forehead in slightly messy strands, dampened by the evening mist.

His eyes were the most unsettling: dark, calm, but full of observation. He always seemed to be looking beyond the obvious, dissecting intentions, analyzing gestures, collecting information. The kind of gaze that made you feel bare even without a single touch.

Despite all that, there was nothing aggressive about him. His voice was low, soft, like a stream of water in winter. He spoke little, with well-measured phrases, and never raised his tone unnecessarily. When he addressed someone, he did so with a mix of respect and distance that was confusing. He listened attentively, but did not offer undeserved sympathy. His neutrality was his shield. And behind that shield, something else seemed to be hiding.

At the police department, some considered him an enigma. Others respected him without fully knowing him. Little was known about his personal life, and he never bothered to refute rumors. The only clear thing was that he had an impeccable record solving complex cases, especially those where the line between victim and perpetrator wasn't so clear.

Park Seonghwa was a man made of silence, of intuitions, of unspoken truths.

And now, he was in charge of your case.

"We'd like to hear your story, Miss Kong," the black-haired detective's voice pulled you out of your trance.

You slowly lifted your gaze from the floor, as if your eyes were heavy, and adjusted your body in the cold office chair. The icy metal seeped through the fabric of your coat, a sharp reminder that you were far from comfort and control. Detectives Park and Kim's eyes were fixed on you, attentive, patient... dangerously penetrating. They were waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to say something, to untie the invisible knot clinging to your chest.

You were supposed to be safe here.

That's what you kept repeating. What you wanted to believe. Because you didn't want to be just another case. You didn't want your life to be reduced to a few pages in a file, a series of black ink notes among hundreds of others.

Seonghwa settled into the chair in front of you with a calm that seemed rehearsed, but not fake. There was something almost soothing in his posture, in the way he interlaced his fingers on the table without hurry, without pressuring you. Kim Hongjoong, on the other hand, remained standing by the door, flipping through the file with such well-executed indifference that it made you suspect how much he was really absorbing. Because you knew nothing escaped him. Every word, every gesture, every silence was being recorded in his mind.

"Start whenever you're ready," Seonghwa said. His hands rested folded on the table, no notebook, no recorder on yet. Just him. Just his voice. "Take your time."

You took a deep breath. The air tasted like metal and old paper. You closed your eyes for a second, as if that could help you organize your thoughts, jumbled together with sleepless days and that constant feeling of being watched.

"Umh— I'm a professional skater," you began with a trembling voice, barely a whisper breaking through your dry lips.

Seonghwa knew that. He had seen your face on TV once on one of his days off. He knew who you were and the fame you carried. But now, sitting in the office chair, you looked nothing like the girl who moved with confidence and poise on the ice rink. Now you looked like a life without a soul, with lost eyes and pale skin.

"When you're part of entertainment, it's normal to have a fanbase— some people find a kind of inspiration in you and we like that. We like knowing that our talent is appreciated, that our effort makes some kind of difference," you clutched your bag to your body and your voice cracked, drawing even more attention from the detectives. "Never, in all the years I've been in this sport, did I think something like this would happen to me. At first, I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, at first I didn't see anything abnormal, but now I'm scared," you declared.

"Detective Kim mentioned you've received a series of items that have made you feel unsafe," Seonghwa gently interrupted, waiting for you to continue.

"Yes," you said. Shifting your gaze from the floor to the two detectives. "It started with flowers, something innocent. That's why I didn't think much of it... then the letters started," you said, your fingers finally releasing the bag, as if a piece of your soul slipped away with that gesture, and you placed it on the desk. Both detectives put on gloves, the latex making a subtle sound as it adjusted over their hands. With meticulous care, they removed the contents of the bag.

"When they started, they were also innocent. They just praised my work and what I do on the ice. I wasn't alarmed by that. The letters were short— direct. They had no signature, no seal, not even an address that might tell me who they could be from, but like I said, it didn't seem like a threat. It wasn't the first time I'd received gifts from a fan, or letters of admiration."

"What was it that made you feel alarmed?" Seonghwa asked while Hongjoong began taking notes without lifting his eyes.

You swallowed with difficulty. The knot in your throat burned, and with it came all the memories. All the moments you turned around and no one was there, but you felt someone had been. All the days you questioned if you were paranoid. All the mornings you had wished you didn't have to leave home—

It was a nightmare.

"The first time I noticed something different was with a letter. It was longer than the others. It said something about not being able to wait for our paths to cross. That's when I started to feel uneasy, but even then, I chose to ignore it. Then the letters kept coming. The next one arrived at my apartment. That time... I hadn't even gone to practice. It made me feel vulnerable. They were already entering my private life and managed to do it without anyone at the front desk noticing. The following letters kept the same purpose; they said we were meant for each other, that even if I didn't know it, we were destined to be together."

Now the detectives weren't looking at you, but reading the letters laid out on their desk.

You decided to continue. "Since that moment, I haven't been able to live normally. The fear is always present. I feel watched. Like someone is always there, just behind me, but when I turn around, there's no one. In the last letters, they say they'll always be there for me. My training has been affected. My performance isn't the same. I make more mistakes now than I did when I was a rookie. At first, I didn't care, but now it's interfering with my life, with my work, and it's overwhelming."

The detectives remained silent, analyzing what you said and what was written in the letters. Although there was still nothing concrete, having taken that weight off your chest made you feel a little lighter. You moved your hands on your lap and let out a groan when the gesture tugged on your bandaged wrist.

It didn't go unnoticed by Seonghwa. He looked up quickly, his eyes fixed on your expression, on the reflexive gesture as you grabbed your aching wrist with the other hand, making a small pout without realizing it.

"How did you hurt your hand?" Seonghwa asked without preamble.

You stayed silent.

You had forgotten about that part.

"Yesterday... yesterday I had practice. I was alone. And I fell on the ice," you said.

"Well, I guess with everything on your mind, lack of concentration is enough to cause an accident," Hongjoong murmured without stopping his writing.

Seonghwa, however, didn't take his eyes off you.

You swallowed, feeling the vertigo of what you were about to say.

"I think— I think whoever's sending the letters caused me to fall," you blurted out, and both looked at you, waiting for you to continue. "My skates... the blade of my left skate was damaged, like someone had tampered with it. It couldn't be wear and tear— my skates are always taken care of, there's not a day I don't check them."

"Is this person capable of accessing your belongings?" Seonghwa asked.

"Unless they know the password to my locker... but they had sent a letter before, it's the one with red ink," you pointed out.

"I don't like being possessive. But I also don't like someone else looking at you the way I do. Your teammates seem very close. I don't know how to feel about that. The way they smile at you... it does something to me. No one deserves to breathe the same air as you. You are unique. You are incredible. I know you're made for me. And you'll know it soon." Seonghwa read aloud.

The air that followed that reading felt like a slab on your shoulders. You felt the air grow heavier, harder to swallow. Even the distant hum of the fan in the corner of the office seemed to stop for a second.

Seonghwa lowered the letter slowly. His eyes, which had shown professional calm before, had now hardened. There was something in his gaze you couldn't name... contained fury? Concern?

"The tone changed completely here," he said, without looking up. "This is no longer admiration. It's a declaration of control. Of possession."

Hongjoong nodded. "These kinds of phrases aren't just expressions of affection. They are signs of obsessive disorder. The language is controlling, invasive... and potentially dangerous."

You felt your skin crawl. As if the words had clung to your clothes, your skin, as if that 'admirer' could hear them from some hidden corner of the building.

"Have the letters continued arriving regularly?" Hongjoong asked, pen ready over his notebook.

"Yes," you replied in a low voice. "About one per week. But... the last one came three days ago. It wasn't in my locker or in my apartment's mailbox. It was inside my dressing room, at the private practice rink. No one else had access. That rink was closed for maintenance. Only I had the key."

That made both detectives look at each other. It wasn't just any look. It was one of those silent looks, filled with professional understanding. With alertness.

"Have you ever noticed someone out of place? Someone who seems to watch you too much? A constant figure in the audience or near your personal spaces?" Seonghwa inquired, lowering his voice slightly, as if afraid to push your memory too hard.

You thought for a moment. Part of you didn't want to relive those small moments you had chosen to ignore for the sake of your mental health. But now, each of them returned like a sharp knife:

"Recently... After one of my late-night practices, I felt like someone was following me to the parking lot. I didn't see anyone when I turned around, but I felt the gaze. Then, one night... I found my water bottle uncapped. I hadn't left it like that. I threw it away just in case."

"Did you report it?" asked Hongjoong.

You shook your head. "I didn't want to seem paranoid. In this world, when a woman raises her voice about something that might be a threat, she's sometimes labeled as dramatic. I was taught to endure, to keep going. But this..." you lowered your gaze, hands gripping the edge of the chair, "this is breaking me."

Seonghwa slowly stood up, walking toward a filing cabinet at the back of the room. He opened a drawer, pulled out a form, and returned to his seat. He slid the paper toward you.

"We're going to open a formal investigation," he said firmly, "and we're assigning you protection."

You looked up, confused. "Protection?"

"From now on, someone will be with you during your training, at least until we have more information. And we're going to review the facility's security cameras. All of them. I also want you to give us that key. We're going to check if it was duplicated without your consent. And we're keeping these letters. We'll have them analyzed. We'll try to see if we're lucky enough to find some DNA on them."

For the first time since you entered that office, something close to relief seeped into your chest. But it was a strange relief, twisted, mixed with an even greater fear: the fear that, despite everything, that man might already be closer than you imagined.

"And one last thing," Seonghwa said, stopping you before you could pick up the pen. "I want you to call us if anything out of the ordinary happens. Any shadow. Any note. Any unfamiliar face."

You nodded slowly.

His eyes found yours again, this time more human, warmer. "You're not alone, Ms Kong. I promise you that."

The white lights of the training center flickered as if they too felt the winter cold seeping through the cracks in the building. The rink was empty at that hour; only the distant murmur of an industrial dryer and the buzz of the fluorescents accompanied your steps.

The metallic echo of your blades on the ice rang through the vast space. It was a familiar sound, almost comforting... but today, it didn't sound the same. Something felt off. As if someone was breathing in the shadows, just beyond your line of sight. You took a deep breath. The vapor escaped your lips in a small cloud. You closed your eyes for a second, forcing yourself to remember the music, the choreography, the reason you were there.

"Focus. You're not alone. Detective Park is nearby."

You had asked for it. Not directly, of course. But in your statement at the station, your trembling voice said more than words. And he understood.

Seonghwa watched from the upper stands. He wasn't in plain clothes this time, but wearing a black jacket with no insignias, seated with legs crossed, his eyes following your every move as if he could read your mind through your body.

You spun. A simple one. Then a more complex figure. The ice responded to your commands as always... but you were no longer the same. Your movements were precise but lacked soul. Grace had been replaced by stiffness, fluidity by vigilance.

On the final jump, you landed poorly. The blade scraped an uneven groove on the rink and you lost balance for a few seconds. Your arms lifted to regain posture, but the imbalance felt deeper than a mere technical error.

You stopped in the center of the rink, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. Your eyes scanned the stands.

Seonghwa didn't move.

But he didn't look away either.

You slowly skated to the edge of the rink, right where you had left your water bottle and towel. But that's when you saw it. Your backpack, open. The zipper is halfway undone. You were sure you had closed it. You always did.

Your pulse quickened.

You looked around. No other skaters. No one else in the hallways. Only Seonghwa in the stands, who had now stood up, his brow just slightly furrowed.

You approached cautiously, breathing through your nose, trying not to give in to panic too quickly. You opened the main pocket.

It was there.

A white envelope. No sender. No markings.

A new one.

You couldn't move.

"(Y/N)?"

Seonghwa's voice broke the silence.

You felt the warmth of his presence at your side just seconds later. He had come down without you noticing. His eyes lowered to the envelope. He didn't take it from you. He waited.

You took it with trembling hands. You opened it.

"Don't be afraid. I'll always be here to protect you. The rink is only for us."

The paper trembled in your hand.

You let go of it before your knees completely gave out.

Seonghwa didn't say anything as you shook. He just watched you.

The way your shoulders barely rose with each shaky breath. How your fingers didn't seem to know whether to cling to the envelope or let it fall. In the end, it fell.

Seonghwa picked it up without looking at you. He immediately pulled a plastic bag from the inner pocket of his jacket and stored the letter as if it were a fragile relic. The paper was still warm from your hands.

And that infuriated him.

So close.

The guy had been so close. Not just as a shadow in your mind, but physically, in your space, touching your things. He sealed the bag with surgical precision.

He looked up again.

You were still there, rigid, your eyes fixed on the ground. For a second, Seonghwa didn't see a professional skater or just another victim. He saw a woman exhausted from within, standing only out of sheer inertia.

"Let's go," he said softly. "There's nothing else to do here."

He didn't touch you. He offered the exit with a barely visible gesture, giving you time to gather yourself. He walked beside you to the locker room, silent. Only after you closed the door behind you did he take out his phone.

"Unit 03, this is Detective Park. I need a review of the training center's perimeter cameras from the last three hours. I want eyes on all entrances. And someone to check the list of employees with building access after closing time." He paused briefly, glancing at the closed door. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "This is no longer a game."

He hung up. Leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring into nothing as if he could solve the case through sheer willpower.

Everything was too clean. The guy was careful, methodical. No prints, no mistakes.

And yet... Why leave a letter where he knew Seonghwa would be? Was it a provocation? A warning? The rink is only for us...

A shadow moved at the end of the hallway. It was you.

He met your eyes for a moment. Nothing was said, but you nodded, as if his presence alone was enough.

__________________________________________

The hallway lights flickered above your heads as they walked side by side. You had already changed clothes, the hood of your coat covering part of your face, arms crossed as if trying to protect yourself from the entire world. Your skates hung from one hand, hitting your leg with every step.

Seonghwa kept a respectful distance, but his eyes never stopped scanning the surroundings. Every shadow was a threat. Every corner, a possible hiding place.

Outside, the cold was dry and biting. The Seoul sky was overcast, with that urban glow that never allowed complete darkness. Seonghwa walked a few steps ahead to open the car door for you without saying anything.

You hesitated. Just for a second. The guy—the admirer, the stalker, whatever he was—had been there, in the same building, watching you, maybe closer than you could imagine. The night air suddenly tasted like confinement. Like invisible eyes.

You got into the car.

Seonghwa closed the door softly and then walked around the vehicle to take the driver's seat. When he started the engine, the silence became denser. Not uncomfortable. But heavy with everything that wasn't being said. During the first few minutes of the drive, neither of you spoke. The car moved smoothly down the nearly empty avenues, the low sound of the tires on the asphalt filling the space. You clutched at the sleeves of your coat, turning your face toward the window, but he could still see your reflection in the glass.

Seonghwa wasn't one to talk just to fill silence, but his eyes were thorough. He saw how your chest rose and fell faster than normal. How your jaw was clenched. How your hand trembled slightly when you adjusted the scarf under your chin.

He knew you were afraid. And that you were fighting not to show it.

"Do you want me to stay close tonight?" he asked suddenly, without looking at you.

You took a while to answer. The red traffic light cast flashes across your faces.

"I don't want to be alone," you finally whispered, also without looking at him.

That simple phrase—so vulnerable, so direct—hit him like a silent shot. He didn't say anything. Just nodded with a brief movement of his head.

"I'll secure the perimeter of your building," he added, as if he needed to justify his presence. As if protecting you was the only way to stay without crossing the line.

The rest of the drive was a silent truce. A truce between fear and vigilance. Between duty and something softer that didn't yet dare to be desire.

When you arrived, you didn't move right away. Your fingers played with the zipper of your coat, your gaze fixed on the building's entrance.

"Do you want to come up?" you said, without turning around.

It was a simple offer. Almost practical. But Seonghwa understood it was more than that. It was a crack in the wall. A door opened to something neither of you knew how to name.

"Yes."

The sound of the door closing seemed louder than usual. As if it sealed off the outside world and, with it, everything that had happened that night. The apartment was dim, barely lit by the city lights slipping through the living room window. Seonghwa stood by the door for a few seconds, quickly scanning the surroundings. A mechanical sweep, the usual. He did it every time he entered an unknown place: number of exits, blind spots, visibility angles. You dropped the skates by the entrance in silence. You took off your coat slowly, as if it were heavy. The space carried a faint smell of vanilla, mixed with lotion and something sweet. Something of yours. The space was small, tidy. But there were signs of presence: an open book on the table, a folded blanket on the couch, a used candle on the windowsill.

Seonghwa said nothing. He didn't ask if you lived alone, although he already knew the answer. He didn't comment on the place, didn't try to ease the tension. He walked toward the window and glanced out at the street, hands behind his back.

"The hallway lights were on, but there are no cameras in that area," he finally said, his tone low and firm. "He probably knows that."

You nodded from the kitchen, pouring a glass of water with careful movements. You wanted to keep your composure. But the phrase "he probably knows" echoed bitterly. That nameless "he" was already part of your everyday life. Already lived here, among your things, in your routines.

"Do you want anything?" you asked, just to break the silence. The glass of water trembled in your hand.

"No. Thank you."

He turned toward you. Watched you for a second longer than necessary. The shadow of the curtain danced across your face. The exhaustion was beginning to show in your eyes, even if you tried to stay strong. It wasn't fear that hurt the most in your expression... it was exhaustion.

"Do you always train this late?" he asked, not out of curiosity, but as part of his assessment.

"Sometimes. When I need to think," you drank. "Or to stop thinking, really."

Seonghwa nodded slightly, without responding. There was something about the way he listened that disarmed without demanding anything. He didn't intervene. He didn't fill the void. He just was there.

"I'm going to check the locks," he then said, direct, as if trying to divert attention from any vulnerability.

You let him do it. Followed him with your eyes as he moved through the place with that meticulous calm, checking each window, each latch, making sure everything was in place. When he finished, he stood again in front of the door.

"Everything is in order for now," a pause. "I'll leave you my personal number. If anything happens tonight, any unusual noise, call me. No matter the hour."

"Are you leaving?"

Seonghwa hesitated.

Just for a moment, but long enough for you to notice. It wasn't fear that held him back. It was... something else. Something he didn't even want to name.

"I can stay in the car," he finally replied, neutral. "I won't be far."

You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening around the empty glass. You didn't stop him. You didn't ask him to stay either. It wasn't that kind of bond. But the silence that followed weighed more than any plea.

"Thank you for being here tonight," you said, barely audible.

Seonghwa nodded, and when he opened the door to leave, he looked once more inside the apartment. Not out of suspicion. But because there was something about that space that seemed important.

And then he left.

The day hadn't quite begun.

The clock read 5:37 a.m., and the city still yawned under the orange glow of streetlights and the distant murmur of traffic just beginning to stir. The curtains barely moved with the cold dawn breeze, and in the room, the only sounds were the hum of the old radiator and the persistent throb in your temples.

You'd been awake for more than an hour. Body at rest, but mind in constant motion.

You slowly lowered your feet to the cold floor. The wood creaked under your weight, a minimal sound that startled you nonetheless. You walked barefoot to the window, wrapping yourself in a blanket as if that could protect you from something more than the cold.

And there it was. The black car.

Parked right out front, like a silent presence. Unmoving. Watchful.

You were grateful to see it. Seonghwa was meticulous, even more than he appeared. Cold, maybe. But never careless.

Your phone vibrated once on the table.

Park Seonghwa: All quiet for now. Let me know if you go out.

You said nothing, though your chest fluttered a little. You didn't know if it was from relief... or from the fact that someone was watching so closely. For the first time, it wasn't the admirer. It was someone who could give you back a sense of control. Even if it was with the same stillness he used to watch a case.

The station coffee was bitter and lukewarm, and Seonghwa didn't bother to hide his distaste at the first sip. He set it on the table without further interest, returning to the open folders in front of him.

Photographs. Letters. Schedules. Maps.

All perfectly organized, like a choreography only he seemed to understand. He had already read every word at least ten times, had reviewed the recordings one by one, and still... something was slipping through.

Too clean. Too controlled.

The envelope found in your backpack had no fingerprints. No DNA. No mistakes. Only words. And that was the most unsettling part. The admirer knew what he was doing. Played with confidence. And did it close. Very close.

He paused a recording on his laptop. A shadow crossing faintly in the background of the rink, just as the lights flickered. A blur. Not even a clear silhouette. But enough to confirm something: it wasn't imagination.

Seonghwa remained still a few seconds longer. Then he closed the folder with surgical precision, stood up, and grabbed his coat.

It was no longer the time to stay behind a desk.

The building rose in silence beneath the dull gray of an overcast morning, its tall, cold walls like mute witnesses to something yet to be discovered. The wind barely brushed against the windows, but the stillness had weight, as if the air were holding its breath.

Park Seonghwa crossed the glass doors without announcing himself. His badge rested in the inner pocket of his jacket, out of sight. For now, he wasn't a detective. He shouldn't look like one. His presence needed to blend in with that of any other visitor—someone ordinary, harmless, perhaps waiting for an elevator or visiting the rink.

The echo of his footsteps rang against the polished marble of the lobby, as though each movement fractured the silence. The place smelled of trapped moisture and cheap cleaning products. In the back, the reception desk was just starting its day. A young woman flipped through a logbook with her head down, distracted, not noticing his arrival.

"Excuse me," he said, in a calm voice, as if he didn't carry the weight of a looming threat on his back. "Is Mr. Lim from maintenance still here?"

She looked up, surprised more by the sound than by the question. She hesitated for just a second, then nodded slightly.

"He's in the boiler area, down the emergency door. Would you like me to call him?"

"No, thank you. I know him."

He lied naturally. He didn't know him, but he had read his name among the employees who signed the technical inspection reports.

The emergency door creaked like a rusted hinge. The sound dragged down the stairwell as Seonghwa descended, his footsteps muffled by bare concrete. The walls showed signs of neglect: peeling paint, dampness creeping like dirty veins. Old security cameras watched him from corners—some with blinking red lights, others dead, blind.

On the lower level, an electric hum and the metallic scent of hot copper led him to a narrow room. There, Lim was kneeling in front of a fuse panel, adjusting cables with trembling hands.

"Mr. Lim? I'm Park Seonghwa, from the police department."

The man jumped, accidentally hitting the panel with his knee.

"Did something happen? Is it the hot water again?"

"No," Seonghwa replied. "I came to ask you some questions about the building's access points. Specifically, the south changing room."

Lim blinked, clearly confused.

"What about that changing room?"

"Have you noticed anything out of place lately? Doors left open, someone entering after hours?"

The man frowned, trying to remember.

"Now that you mention it... about three nights ago, when I finished my shift, I could've sworn that door wasn't closed properly. I thought it was a slip-up from the cleaning girls, but..."

"Did you report it to anyone?"

"No. I locked it and left. Didn't think it was serious."

Seonghwa nodded. He made a mental note.

"Are there cameras covering that area?"

"Yes, two. But..." Lim scratched his head. "One hasn't been working properly for weeks. And the other is... well, kind of tilted."

He led him into a dark room that smelled of burnt plastic and stale coffee. A dozen dusty screens showed fragmented mosaics, blurry images, with no clear sync. Lim searched the system for the file from the previous week. The footage played for minutes without showing anything relevant, until—on Wednesday night—a figure appeared.

Hooded. Slim. Barely a shadow in the lower corner of the frame. It didn't look at the camera. In fact, it avoided it with almost choreographed precision. It stood still for a few seconds, watching something off-camera. Then it disappeared, as if it knew the exact moment to leave.

"Can you zoom in?"

Lim tried, but the quality was awful. Grainy. The outlines faded into static. Only a trace of movement could be made out, a shade of dark colors.

"I can't give you much more," he said, apologetically.

But Seonghwa didn't look away. There was something in that figure's posture, in the exact way it waited before moving, that wasn't random.

It was calculated.

He captured a screenshot of the frame.

"This will help. Thank you, Mr. Lim. If you remember anything else, no matter how small, call me."

He left him his card. Walked out into the hallway without another word, his pulse tight.

The subject had been there. And not far from where you used to change every night.

He cursed under his breath, jaw tightening as he headed upstairs. In the distance, he could barely hear the sound of blades gliding over the ice. Scattered voices and music trickling through the speakers created an almost unreal atmosphere. The contrast between the latent threat and the apparent normalcy of practice made him more alert.

He knew you hadn't come today. After what happened last night, you decided to stay home. A sensible decision. Just in time.

Park Seonghwa was a meticulous, methodical detective. There wasn't a case he couldn't close. For him, the victim was always the priority. But this case... this one felt different.

Too clean. Too calculated.

The sender wasn't seeking immediate attention. He didn't want to be seen—not yet. And that made him far more dangerous. The letters you received contained no fingerprints other than your own. The paper, the ink, the envelope: all handled with gloves. The cameras: evaded with surgical precision. Your routine: memorized in detail.

It was a silent game. A hunter studying every step before the strike.

And Seonghwa still didn't have a single solid lead on his identity.

Judging by the silhouette in the recording, the stalker was a young, slim man, between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. But that didn't help much. In your daily life, surrounded by fellow skaters, coaches, admirers... there were at least a dozen who fit that description.

"Sorry, today's practice isn't open to visitors," a voice pulled him from his thoughts as he neared the ice rink.

Seonghwa looked up. A young man approached him wearing skates, long tousled hair and a polite but curious expression.

About twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Approximately five feet eight inches. Slim.

"Jung Wooyoung, right?" the detective said, tilting his head to the side.

The boy frowned slightly and nodded, hesitant.

"Could we talk?" Seonghwa reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge. Wooyoung raised his eyebrows and motioned toward the rink.

"Coach!" he called. "I'm taking a break!"

He glided over to the bleachers and sat next to Seonghwa. The ice in front of them stretched like a vast shining surface, barely marked by the lines of skates. The laughter and background music contrasted with the growing tension between the two men.

"Is this about (Y/N)?" the question came bluntly.

The detective didn't respond immediately. He watched the rink, recalling the last time he saw you practice. Your movements were precise, but that night they were filled with anxiety, as if your thoughts were skating faster than your feet.

"Why do you think this is about Ms Kong?"

Wooyoung sighed. "(Y/N) is one of our top skaters. She's always in competitions and no one's more dedicated to this sport than her... She doesn't skip practice, she's always here. In morning sessions and night ones if necessary. The world could be ending, and she wouldn't stop skating."

Seonghwa made a face that almost resembled a crooked smile.

"You know her well, it seems."

The boy shrugged. "I've known her for five years."

"Mr. Jung, have you noticed any strange behavior during your practices? Anything or anyone that seems out of place?" the detective asked.

Wooyoung shook his head. "I train four days a week, sometimes double sessions. The rest of the week I'm at the gym or home," he replied firmly. "The only thing I've noticed is how distant (Y/N) has become. For months now, she always seems distracted or looking over her shoulder. That's why I figured this was about her."

"Anyone in particular who seems out of place?"

"The training schedules are posted on the board at reception. Of the five service days, two are open to the public. People can come in and watch us practice—some have been coming for a long time, others come and go. It's hard for me to be sure about that. I don't usually pay much attention to the stands."

Seonghwa nodded, but his gaze didn't leave the ice.

Every word, every detail, was building an invisible web.

And at the center of that web... was you.

That night, the rain beat insistently against the windows of your apartment. The glass vibrated softly with every gust of wind, as if the building were breathing with difficulty. Outside, the streets were almost empty, covered by the wet veil of the storm. The sound was constant, a muffled symphony that slipped between the walls, mixing with the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

You had forced yourself to stay busy. You had cleaned the counter three times, reorganized the cutlery drawers, and folded all your towels with almost military precision. But nothing worked. Every shadow on the wall looked like movement. Every creak in the floor, a footstep.

You were sitting on the couch, a blanket over your shoulders and a cup of tea cooling between your hands, when the doorbell rang. A single dry, abrupt chime. Your heart shrank instantly.

You stood up cautiously, without making a sound, as if the bell could hear you in return. You looked through the peephole and, on the other side, you recognized the figure. The relaxed posture. The unshaken expression, even under the rain. Park Seonghwa.

You breathed a sigh of relief, though you didn't know why.

You opened the door.

He wore a soaked jacket and his hair was slightly wet. Drops fell from his jaw down to the collar of his coat. But his gaze was the same: focused, serene.

"Sorry for coming without warning," he said, without even shaking off the water. "There's something I need to show you."

You let him in.

You were surprised by how easy it was to let him in.

Seonghwa walked slowly through the narrow hallway of your apartment, observing without judging, yet alert to every space. He pulled out his phone and showed you the image. The still frame. The hooded figure near your dressing room.

Your body tensed. It was small, barely a silhouette, but you knew—you knew—they had been there for you.

"This was three nights ago," he explained. "They came in through a back door. No locks were forced. They knew how to move."

You said nothing. You felt the air in the room grow denser, as if the pressure increased with each word. Your throat closed, but you forced yourself to speak.

"What now?"

"We don't let our guard down."

He sat across from you, without invading your space. He looked at you in that way of his that seemed to scan everything without saying much. But his eyes, this time, weren't cold. There was something else. Compassion? Maybe.

"You're not alone in this."

You stayed silent. It was the first time someone said those words out loud.

You're not alone anymore. The knot in your chest, the one you'd been dragging for weeks like a stone under your sternum, loosened just a little.

You stood up and offered him a towel. He accepted it with a slight nod, as if he weren't used to small gestures, to warmth without conditions.

After that, without saying anything, he stayed a while longer. He looked around, scanned the locks, the windows, even the kitchen.

"I'll change the locks in the morning. And I'm going to request a camera for the entrance."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Then we'll install more. I'm not going to let this escalate."

That "I'm" was an unspoken pact. You didn't ask him to stay. You didn't invite him. But he had made a decision: he was now part of this.

There was a long silence, but not an uncomfortable one. A silence in which two people understand that safety can also come in the form of presence.

The rain kept hitting the window.

"Do you always work like this, Detective Park?" you asked, with a slightly ironic tone. "Do you usually soak your clients' carpets?"

He let out a soft laugh, almost mute, but genuine. It was the first time you truly saw him smile.

"No. Normally I'm much less charming."

"Lucky me, then."

Your fingers toyed with the blanket you had placed on your lap.

"Are you going to stay all night?"

He didn't answer immediately.

"Just until you stop looking out the window like something's about to break the glass."

That made you smile, even though it hurt.

That night, you didn't sleep together. He stayed in a chair near the door, keeping watch in silence. But his presence was enough for you to close your eyes for the first time in weeks... without fearing what would be on the other side.

"Today you were beautiful even when you didn't realize it. I like when you pretend not to be afraid. I like it more when I know you can't sleep. I'm no longer satisfied with only watching. Soon, you'll know how it feels when I finally have you close. Very close. You look gorgeous when you check the locks twice."

One month later.

It was as if everything had slowed down, as if the echo of those intense days had gradually faded—like a song that didn't quite end, but no longer played as loud. The world moved around you in a strange rhythm, the harsh reality of the past giving way to a fragile peace.

Weeks had passed since the last time the admirer had sent a letter. No flowers. No signs. The cameras installed by Seonghwa caught only the comings and goings of pigeons and bored neighbors. Almost every day, Seonghwa checked them with a mix of skepticism and contained anger, his eyes scanning the footage with an intensity that seemed to question the quiet. As if his instincts refused to accept what his eyes confirmed: nothing.

But something wasn’t right.

For Seonghwa, silence was worse than the letters you used to receive. It wasn’t a sign of surrender. No, it was the calm before the storm. A storm that he couldn't predict, couldn't explain, but feared all the same.

His investigation continued, quiet and relentless. His report folder grew like an open wound, a testament to sleepless nights, endless contacts, and hours spent reviewing the footage again and again. His determination burned fiercely, but he never burdened you with it. Instead, he watched. As if, by simply watching, he could ensure everything would be okay.

And, for the most part, it was. Life went on. You went on.

Training resumed. Your schedule became organized once again, as if the chaos had never existed. The first time you put on your skates after everything, your legs felt tense, as if the ice might shatter beneath you, as if it could betray you. But it didn’t. The ice held you, steady and familiar, as it always had.

Slowly, the fluidity returned. Mistakes still happened, but they became less frequent. You were regaining yourself, inch by inch. Your teammates would occasionally ask if everything was okay. And you—well, you could only offer them a half-smile, a sigh, and a nod.

Seonghwa often accompanied you to practice. Not on the rink, of course, but you’d find him in the stands, watching you with that focused expression of his, a contrast to the white, clean expanse of the ice. At first, his constant presence felt wrong, out of place. But eventually, you began looking for him.

One day, while you were on the ice, you caught him watching you. It wasn’t invasive. Not the way someone would look at you with desire or longing. It was different—quiet, careful. He seemed to be studying something he didn’t fully understand: the way you moved, how you breathed, the way you glided across the ice.

You said nothing. You simply smiled at him.

He blinked, as if surprised by the exchange, and quickly looked away. But then, he smiled too. Small. Honest.

And that was how it began—small gestures. Small conversations. A coffee at dawn after training. A silent walk home. Sometimes, you'd talk about trivial things. Other times, about nothing at all. It wasn’t quite closeness—not yet. But it was something. Something real. Like the warmth in your hands when you rub them together on a cold winter day.

Seonghwa didn’t cross the line. Neither did you.

But there were moments when the line became blurry, and neither of you knew how to keep it clear.

All the while, the admirer wasn’t asleep.

He was watching. And when he watched, he saw everything.

He saw how Seonghwa accompanied you. He saw how you laughed. How you awkwardly offered him your gloves, joking. How Seonghwa dared to hold your wrist a second longer than necessary.

That was unforgivable.

The notes he had once left you were now torn to pieces, crumpled and thrown away in rage. The flowers he had carefully chosen now lay trampled beneath his feet, discarded in the trash. He had become a ghost of what he once was—obsessed, wounded, and consumed by a jealousy that boiled over with every passing moment.

He had seen you first. He had chosen you.

And seeing someone else take his place? That was a betrayal he could not—would not—tolerate.

The day had been cold, but not biting. But on the ice rink, your world had been something else. Getting back to training felt almost normal. The icy breeze as you spun, the crackling of the ice beneath your blades, your breathing in rhythm with a body used to effort... all of it gave you an illusion of control, as if you could slowly take the reins of your life again.

And he was there, as always.

Leaning against the rink's window, Seonghwa watched you in silence. Not watchful. Not inquisitive. Just present. His presence had become a constant—like a coat that doesn't weigh you down, but still keeps you warm. The coffee in his hands steamed faintly as his eyes followed your every movement with a focus that didn't seem purely professional.

That afternoon, when you finished your routine and came out with cheeks flushed from exertion, he smiled in a way so gentle it seemed to melt a little of his usual seriousness.

"How did you feel today?" he asked, handing you a water bottle.

"Like I could finally breathe," you answered, with a smile that came more easily now.

"I saw you fly a little."

You let out a laugh. It was strange to hear someone describe it like that. Fly. Not skate. Not perform. Not deliver.

Fly.

You looked at each other a second too long. Then, as if both of you sensed something invisible beginning to grow between you, you looked away at the same time.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" he asked suddenly, breaking the tension with a calm tone.

"Yes. But nothing fancy," you said with a shrug. "Just... something simple."

The place you went to wasn't in any tourist guide. A small shop hidden among the alleys, with hanging lanterns and worn wooden tables. You ate tteokbokki, mandu, and some hot soup. The heating was minimal, but the atmosphere was warm. Outside, the wind dragged dry leaves across the sidewalk. Inside, steam rose in swirls from the bowls.

"I never thought this would be my life," you said, staring at your soup without touching it. "Training, looking over my shoulder, sleeping a little... and having to be strong all the time. But with you... I don't know. Sometimes I forget to be afraid. Even if it's just for a while."

Seonghwa looked at you with that quiet intensity that defined him.

"You're not alone in this," he said. "Not while I'm around."

You looked up. There was something in the way he said it that didn't feel like duty. Something more human, more intimate.

"Sometimes I wonder..." your voice dropped, "if he's still out there. Watching."

Seonghwa took a few seconds to answer. Then he nodded, his eyes shadowed. "Profiles like his don't disappear. They just hide."

The answer was blunt, but you were grateful. You didn't want sweet words—you wanted the truth. But the weight of that truth was easier to bear with him at your side.

After paying, you walked for a while. The city had that deceptive calm of a Friday afternoon. The sky deepened into a rich blue while the orange lights of the streetlamps began to glow like urban fireflies.

You walked beside him, hands in your coat pockets, beanie covering your ears. Seonghwa said nothing, but his presence was steady, protective.

Passing a closed flower shop, you stopped.

"Do you like peonies?" you asked suddenly.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow.

"The flowers?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. I've never thought about it," he said, looking at you curiously. "Why?"

You smiled, but there was a hint of melancholy in it.

"I just think it's strange how something so beautiful can end up having such a... terrible meaning."

He didn't say anything. But he looked at you a little longer than usual.

When you reached the building, something about the night felt heavier. It wasn't the cold, or the silence. It was a subtle vibration in the air, like a whisper hidden between the bricks. But you didn't notice. Or didn't want to.

Because you were thinking about how nice the walk home had been. How well you had eaten. How Seonghwa looked at you without pressure. About that safety that came from knowing you weren't alone.

As you climbed the stairs, you dared to joke:

"Are you staying for another cup of coffee in my kitchen again? Because you're wrecking my caffeine budget."

Seonghwa let out a short, low laugh—but it was genuine.

"If you let me, I'll bring my own coffee tomorrow."

You smiled. A simple moment. A warm moment.

And just before opening the door, you thought: maybe, just maybe... everything's going to be okay.

But you turned the key.

And then the air changed.

The door opened with a faint creak. The sound of the lock giving way didn't seem unusual, but something—a dull vibration, a tremor beneath the skin—made both of you freeze on the threshold.

The first sign was the silence.

Too absolute. Too heavy.

You stepped inside, and the creak of your boots on the wood was so loud it seemed to shatter something invisible in the air. Seonghwa, right behind you, tensed instantly. His hand brushed the belt where he usually kept his weapon, though he wasn't carrying it now.

The living room didn't look messy. At first glance, everything was in place. But it took you less than a second to notice. "Something's wrong," you whispered.

The couch cushions weren't how you'd left them. The vase of dried flowers on the coffee table was shifted slightly to the left. Just a few centimeters. The coat you'd hung that morning was on a different hook. And one of your mugs—your favorite one, the one you always left upside down in the sink—was face-up.

It was as if someone had been there. Walking through your home. Breathing your air. And then, carefully, had put everything back.

But not quite the same.

"Don't move," Seonghwa said, voice deep, his arm stretching out in front of you to stop you. His dark eyes scanned everything quickly and precisely.

He moved first. Every step, silent. He opened a door. Checked behind furniture. Looked at the window. Nothing.

You followed, heart starting to race. When you reached the shelf where you kept your trophies, you froze.

And there—emptiness.

Where your first regional trophy used to rest—that slightly tarnished silver figure with your name engraved—there was now only dust. A perfect outline where it had once stood. "He took it," you said, barely a whisper. "My first regional trophy. It's gone."

Something inside you twisted, a mix of nausea and adrenaline rushing through your body. Your lips trembled, your legs faltered—and you weren't ready for what came next, because when you turned slightly to the right and saw your bedroom door ajar, the knot in your stomach tightened.

You ran to your bedroom. The air inside smelled different. Of something disturbed. Of hands that weren't yours. And then you saw it.

The drawer with your underwear was slightly open. Not just open—items were in disarray, some unfolded as if they had been selected, touched, examined slowly. As if someone had taken their time. Your favorite set, the black one you always kept at the back, was on top. Missing a piece.

You stepped back, as if someone had punched you in the chest. The humiliation, the rage, the helplessness... all swirled into a storm.

"Seonghwa!" you cried out, your voice breaking. The first time calling him by his name shouldn’t be like this. Shouldn’t be this afraid.

He came immediately. And when he saw the scene, his expression changed completely.

It wasn't fear. It was fury.

The kind of fury born when someone you care about has been violated, touched, exposed.

"Son of a bitch..." he muttered.

And then something made him turn. A shadow. A fleeting movement past the bedroom window. Just a reflection. But enough.

"Stay here!" he ordered, pulling out his phone immediately to alert the unit. He didn't wait for a response. He ran to the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

And you stood frozen in the hallway, unsure whether to run after him or collapse onto the floor.

The night air slashed his face like icy blades, but he didn't feel it. All his focus was on the figure running into the darkness. Tall. Thin. Wearing a black hoodie that seemed to swallow the streetlights.

"Stop! Police!" Seonghwa shouted, his voice thundering through the streets.

But the figure only ran faster.

The chase began with violence. Asphalt underfoot, the flickering lights of the streetlamps, the echo of his own footsteps thudding like deafening heartbeats. The streets were nearly empty, but not silent—a dog barked in the distance, a car alarm blinked, the distant hum of the city never ceased.

Seonghwa turned a corner, his boots squealing against the damp pavement. He was gaining ground. He could feel it. The guy tripped on a stray garbage bag and nearly fell. Seonghwa didn't stop. He followed him into a narrow alley, flanked by tall walls covered in graffiti like scars.

The guy vaulted over a low gate, and Seonghwa followed without hesitation. He landed hard on the other side, muscles screaming from the effort. The guy was still running, never looking back—but something in his movement spoke volumes: he wasn't an amateur. He knew how to disappear. He knew how to become one with the night.

They ran past the backs of industrial buildings. Seonghwa was panting, but he didn't slow down. Rage kept him going. The memory of the violated room, the open drawer, the trembling in your hands—every image fed him.

They reached what looked like a dead end... or so he thought. But the guy seemed to know every hidden path. A broken fence let him slip between two warehouses.

"I've got you, bastard," Seonghwa muttered, leaping after him.

But then, the man veered into an underground pedestrian tunnel. Dark. Narrow. Seonghwa didn't hesitate. He entered the throat of shadows.

The world turned gray and black.

The sound of his footsteps warped along the damp walls. The other man was just a few meters ahead, but his hood moved quickly, ducking and weaving. Seonghwa tried to reach for his phone, but he couldn't take his eyes off the corridor.

The tunnel ended at a small exit to the street... and that's where he lost him.

The figure vanished among a cluster of containers. Seonghwa spun in circles, gasping, eyes scanning.

Nothing.

Only the night.

Only his own breathing—desperate and furious.

He struck the nearest wall with his clenched fist. Pain shot up his arm like an electric jolt. He didn't care. He closed his eyes for a second, frustrated, helpless. He'd escaped again. Again.

The guy was toying with them, like puppets dangling from an invisible string. Like he'd only been there to remind them that he'd never really left.

And now, he was closer than ever.

He came back empty-handed. And with a throat tight with rage. Not because he was tired—though his body felt like lead—but because everything inside him was burning.

Burning with anger, with helplessness, with the kind of fury that makes you want to break your knuckles against the nearest wall just to silence the scream inside.

He crossed the apartment threshold with controlled, almost mechanical steps. The sound of the door closing seemed louder than it was. And then he saw you.

Sitting there, on the floor of your room.

The lights were off, just a faint glow from the street filtering through the window. You looked like a shadow.

Your body was tense. Knees pulled to your chest and eyes fixed on some vague point in the void. Your cheeks were streaked with nearly dried tears, and for a moment, all he could do was stand there, watching you.

The world felt so fragile. Your space, your body, your memories... everything had been violated. And you were there, as if you'd stopped breathing altogether.

He moved closer, slowly, as if his movements might shatter you even more. His eyes took in every inch of the chaos. He didn't know what hurt more— the empty space on the shelf where the trophy used to be, something that wasn't just an object. It was your story. Your effort. What you meant.

Or the thought that those filthy hands had touched something so intimate. Seonghwa swallowed hard. He tasted the metallic tang of fury on his tongue.

"You're not safe here anymore," he said quietly, more to himself than to you.

You blinked. You hadn't noticed him until that moment. Your voice came out in a hoarse, fragile whisper:

"I know."

And you did know. Because the only place where you'd felt safe had been violated. And that hurt more than any threat ever could.

Seonghwa clenched his fists. He forced himself not to touch you—not yet—even though the impulse was overwhelming. He wanted to take you by the shoulders and pull you out of that corner. He wanted to see you breathe without fear. But he knew the only thing you had left was control over your personal space. And even that wasn't intact anymore.

Then your body trembled. You didn't sob loudly. It was a small, almost invisible sob. But Seonghwa felt it like a punch to the chest.

That guy wasn't just stalking you. He was unraveling you. Piece by piece.

"I can't take this anymore..." you said softly, like a confession you didn't want to admit aloud.

Seonghwa held his breath. Closed his eyes for a second.

"What if... I go to my grandfather's? He lives outside the city... in Yangpyeong."

He shook his head with a bitter grimace.

"No," he finally said, voice firm. "If he found a way in here, he'll know how to find you there too. I don't want him following you there. I don't want him hurting your grandfather. I don't want..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

I don't want him to take anything else from you.

A thick silence fell between you. Seonghwa slowly walked toward you. He crouched to your level, watching your trembling hands, your shattered gaze, your body curled in on itself like you were trying to disappear. You stayed quiet. Looking at him. And he saw your eyes begin to fill with tears again. It was the look of someone surrendering to the inevitable.

Then he saw your hands. They were shaking, even though you pressed them tightly to your body.

He took them. Gently. As if he were afraid of hurting you. As if you were made of glass. You felt his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his palm covering yours, tremble against tremble.

He didn't say a word. But he held them tightly. Warmly. With a silent promise he didn't yet know how to fulfill, but he wanted to. Because you weren't just another victim anymore. You weren't just a case.

You were you. And that changed everything.

"You can stay at my place," he said plainly. "At least until we figure something out. Until I find that bastard."

His lips were pressed tight. His breathing held back. His whole body tense, and the way his eyes wouldn't stop scanning your face, searching for signs of what you felt. And what he felt.

You nodded. Because you didn't have the strength to argue. Because you had nowhere else to go. Because, in the middle of all this... it was him who was holding you up.

The ride was silent.

Your world was dimmed. You clung to your backpack as if doing so could anchor you to some faint sense of safety. You carried the essentials: a change of clothes, your documents, your phone, and not much else. You didn't want to think about what you were leaving behind. You couldn't. It all hurt too much.

The streets passed by in blurred smudges, the orange glow of streetlights reflecting on the car window. You didn't speak. Neither did Seonghwa. But his silence wasn't indifference—it was restraint. And that, in some way, gave you room to breathe.

When you finally arrived, the building wasn't what you had expected. It wasn't elegant or modern, but it was clean, quiet... safe.

You rode the elevator in shared silence. And when the doors opened, he broke the calm with a low voice. "This floor is directly connected to the station," he glanced sideways at you. "There are cameras throughout the building, constant surveillance. I'm not the only detective living here."

The hallway was softly lit, white.

"Hongjoong— Detective Kim lives down the hall," he added while searching for the keys. "He's on double shift this week, so you won't see him much. He's... quiet." The door opened with a soft click.

It was the opposite of you. A silent space. No decorations. No photos. No colors. Gray walls, functional furniture. Everything neat, orderly... impersonal.

Seonghwa lived as if he were always about to leave.

You stood there for a few seconds, as if unsure whether you belonged. You felt out of place. Like the world had spun too fast and you didn't know where to fit anymore.

"I can sleep here," he said, nodding toward the couch. "It's not the first time I've done it. You can use my room. It's clean. It has a lock."

"You don't have to do that..."

"I want to." His voice was firm in a different way—not commanding, but resolute. "I'll be here, in the living room," he added. "I have to write tonight's report. Your apartment is now officially under investigation. We're going to comb through every corner in case he left something behind. We'll catch him. I promise."

You felt a knot form in your throat. You clutched the backpack to your chest and nodded silently. You didn't say "thank you." The word felt too small for everything he was doing for you.

You walked to his room with dragging steps, and when you closed the door behind you, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. The bed smelled like Seonghwa's cologne. The blanket was neatly spread. There was nothing personal in sight. Everything in that space spoke of someone who never let their guard down.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your backpack still packed, hands resting in your lap and your eyes fixed on the carpet.

You didn't want to think. You lay on your side. You didn't close your eyes.

And in the other room, you knew he was still there. That he wasn't going to sleep. That he was wrestling with his own helplessness.

That certainty was enough for one single tear to escape you.

Sleep was impossible.

You tossed and turned in the sheets, legs restless, your mind flooded with images and sensations you didn't know how to sort.

The apartment's silence was absolute, interrupted only by the occasional hum of the refrigerator or the soft creak of wood reacting to the temperature shift.

Your body was exhausted, but your mind stayed alert. Too alert.

It was as if the walls of the room were slowly closing in, as if that promised safety was only an illusion you couldn't quite grasp. You knew you were safe there. You knew. But you didn't feel it.

You got up quietly, barefoot. The blanket dropped to your feet.

The door opened without a sound, and when you peeked out, you saw him.

Seonghwa, on the couch, a folded blanket beside him that he hadn't touched. Sitting, slightly hunched forward, his laptop opened in front of him. There were papers scattered across the low table, and a steaming mug that must have gone cold by now.

The desk lamp cast light on his profile. Furrowed brow. Tense jaw. Dark circles under his eyes. He was so focused he didn't notice you were there.

You didn't want to interrupt him. But the silence... weighed on you.

"I can't sleep," you whispered.

He looked up immediately, not surprised, as if he'd been expecting you.

"I figured."

He gently closed the laptop and moved aside on the couch, inviting you to sit. You approached slowly, like someone stepping into sacred ground, and sank into the opposite end, hugging your knees.

There were a few seconds of silence.

"Are you okay?" he asked. It wasn't a superficial question.

"No," you whispered. "I'm not."

Seonghwa didn't respond right away. He just looked at you. And for the first time, he didn't try to fill the void with explanations or solutions. He was simply there.

"It all started on the ice," you murmured after a while, your voice breaking. "That's where he saw me for the first time. Where he chose me. And now... I can't be there without feeling like he's watching from some corner."

His gaze softened.

"We'll take that away from him," he said gently. "That power he has over you. We're going to break it."

His words hurt—because part of you wanted to believe them. And another... was shattered.

"Today, when I saw the drawer open... When I realized he touched my things. That he took something of mine... something that means so much... I felt like I have nothing left that's truly mine. Nothing. No privacy, no peace, no control. Like I'm just... a story to him."

Seonghwa looked at you, and for a moment, the pain in his eyes mirrored your own.

"I swear I won't stop until I find him."

You didn't say anything. You just looked at him. And it was there, in the middle of insomnia, in the midst of chaos, where something else began to take root.

Seonghwa turned on a warmer light, lowered the brightness of his laptop, and began telling you details about the case—not the worst ones, not the most painful, but enough to give your mind something else to hold on to.

And before you knew it, your head was resting on the arm of the couch. Your eyes drifted shut. And you fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

Seonghwa fell silent when he noticed. He gently laid a blanket over your shoulders without a sound, and stayed there, with you, without reopening his laptop.

Because that night, for the first time, fear wasn't the only thing that united you.

The days that followed felt strange.

Not exactly calm—there was still tension in the air, like the low hum of a warning siren you couldn’t switch off—but quieter, somehow. Easier to breathe. As if the storm had paused mid-rage, its thunder still echoing somewhere in the distance, but for the moment, the rain had stopped falling. You moved like someone underwater—every gesture a little heavier, a little slower. Your routine stripped itself down to the bare essentials: sleep, eat, exist. Nothing more, nothing less. The bag with your few belongings remained by Seonghwa’s bedroom door, untouched, a quiet reminder that part of you hadn’t fully arrived. Part of you was still holding on to the idea that at any moment, you might leave again.

Seonghwa worked long hours. Sometimes you woke up and he was already gone, the lingering scent of coffee and cologne in the kitchen the only proof he had been there at all. Other times, he’d come back late, footsteps soft, jacket damp with night air. Often you’d find him planted in the living room, brow furrowed, shoulders tense, going through reports or listening to audio files with his headphones on. He lived like a man trying to outpace something—chasing shadows or running from them, you couldn’t always tell.

And yet, even within that quiet chaos, you shared moments.

Moments so heartbreakingly ordinary that they made your chest ache with how badly you needed them. A silent breakfast, where he poured your coffee just the way you liked it and you made him toast, passing the butter without asking. A long, quiet afternoon where he helped you stretch on the living room floor, guiding your limbs with patience, never once mentioning skating. It wasn’t about routines or recovery—it was about reminding your body how it felt to simply move, to be touched without fear.

There was the way he always left the blanket neatly folded on the couch before heading to bed, though he never used it himself. Maybe because part of him hoped you would. Maybe because he wanted you to know you had a choice, a space that was yours without asking.

There was the sound of his voice drifting from the kitchen when he called Hongjoong, and you, standing just around the hallway corner, listened without meaning to. There was nothing special in the words exchanged—but in the tone, in the warmth of domesticity, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time. A home. Not a place of defense or preparation or paranoia—but a home.

There were no conversations about emotions. No confessions. No trembling declarations in the middle of the night.

But there were long glances from across the hallway, quiet pauses that filled entire rooms. There were dishes washed together in companionable silence. And there was one night—so trivial and so monumental—when you both reached for a fallen spoon at the same time. Your fingers brushed. You froze. So did he. And then the moment passed, suspended in the air like a held breath. Neither of you mentioned it.

Until one night, over two simple plates of rice and kimchi, you finally said it.

"I'm not going to Nationals this year."

The words shattered in the room like glass hitting the floor. No warning. No lead-up. Just impact.

Seonghwa didn’t react right away. He simply set his chopsticks down, gently, deliberately, as if afraid anything more abrupt might break something. But when he looked at you, you knew it wasn’t gentleness he felt.

"Is that what you want?" he asked.

You nodded, your throat tightening around the truth.

"The ice..." you began, voice so low it barely belonged to you, "it's not the same anymore. That’s where he saw me. Where he became obsessed. And now, every time I imagine stepping onto it, I feel his eyes on the back of my neck. I can't... I don’t want that sacred place to hurt too."

Seonghwa didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to fix it. He just listened.

"My grandfather..." your voice cracked, and you paused to breathe through it, "he always dreamed of seeing me win the internationals. That’s the one I want to bring to him. That’s the dream I still hold. But I can’t do it now. Not with him out there. Not with everything so fragile, like it might collapse with one wrong step."

You looked down at your half-eaten food.

"Maybe next year. If things get better. Maybe..."

It wasn’t a decision. Not really. It was more like a temporary surrender, one that still felt like a wound. An open one, raw and unresolved.

Seonghwa didn’t try to reassure you. He didn’t offer empty promises or hollow encouragement. He just looked at you, steady and silent, as if trying to shoulder the weight of your heart through sheer presence alone.

The next day, it was public.

"The rising star of figure skating temporarily steps away from the road to Nationals." Through close sources, it’s been confirmed that the athlete has decided not to compete this year. Although it’s not a definitive retirement, her absence leaves a mark on the competition.

You read it together on the screen of his laptop. The cursor blinked at the bottom like it was waiting for a response neither of you would give.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But somewhere else, in the darkened quiet of a cluttered room, the stalker read it too.

And something in him broke.

Because ever since Seonghwa had entered your life, ever since he started building something steady where there used to be chaos, the perfect fantasy—the delusion he had nurtured—was falling apart. And he couldn’t let that continue.

“I told you not to stop skating. You can’t do that. You’re a star. My star. How can you leave me like this? That bastard... he’s pulling us apart, don’t you see? He doesn’t want you near me.”

The days with you were slipping through his fingers like fine grains of time—unnoticed in the moment, but mourned once lost. And though he never spoke it aloud, never dared let the weight of the words hang in the air between you, Seonghwa looked at you the way someone looks at something they’re afraid of losing. His gaze lingered too long sometimes, tracing the lines of your face, the gentle curve of your shoulder, the soft rhythm of your breath—memorizing. Holding on. As if your presence might dissolve with the morning light.

The tension in the apartment had shifted. It wasn’t gone. But it had taken on a new shape—no longer sharp, no longer fear laced with adrenaline and shadows. It was quieter now, threaded with something warmer, something unspoken that bloomed in the silence between moments. In the way he sought your eyes across a room. In the way your steps softened when you walked past him. In the hush that filled the space after laughter, neither of you quite knowing what to say next.

You both felt it. That stillness that didn’t come from fear. That warmth that didn’t demand anything. The strange comfort of safety that you were slowly learning to trust.

“Do you want to come with me today?” he asked one morning. The words felt casual, but something in his voice—gentle, almost hesitant—made you look up from where you were picking up your keys.

You nodded before you could think about it. You didn’t want to stay behind. Not in that quiet apartment where the walls whispered memories, where your thoughts could turn on you in seconds. And more than that—you didn’t want to feel far from him.

You didn’t ask where you were going.

You just got into the car, and let the hum of the engine and the city’s soft static be your lullaby. The buildings faded behind you, replaced by stretches of gray and green and road. The further you went, the more your body surrendered to the stillness, and your eyes—though they tried to stay open—gave in.

You slept. Without planning to. Without permission. And that, in itself, felt like a kind of trust.

When the car finally stopped, it was the sudden absence of motion that woke you. The silence wrapped around you gently, and you blinked slowly, the light pouring in through the windshield painting your skin in pale gold. You sat up, sleep still clinging to your bones, and turned your head.

And then you saw it.

An ice rink. Small. Secluded. Tucked into the edge of a quiet landscape like a forgotten memory.

You knew this place. Not exactly—but deeply. The kind of place that looked like a hundred others you had trained in. But it was more than recognition. It was the ache in your chest. The breath that caught. The sting behind your eyes.

“What...?” Your voice cracked as it left your throat. “What are we doing here?”

Seonghwa unfastened his seatbelt and turned toward you, calm and steady, as if he had carefully built every part of himself for this moment. His eyes were soft—no longer the sharp eyes of a detective. Just a man, looking at you with all the care in the world.

“I want you to feel free,” he said. “To be yourself. Even if just for a little while.”

You stared at him, words tangled behind your lips, caught in that place between gratitude and grief.

“What if he…?” you started to ask, the fear flickering back like a shadow.

“He won’t know,” Seonghwa said, firm but gentle. “We’re far. No one followed us. We have time. Just... trust me.”

And somehow, you did. Maybe because his voice held that same certainty it always did when you were scared. Maybe because his gaze held no doubt. Just quiet faith. Faith in you.

You stepped out of the car, the cold air biting at your skin. Your shoes crunched against the frozen ground, and the sight in front of you took your breath. The rink—empty, glowing under string lights like stars fallen from the sky—waited. As if time itself had been holding its breath.

“I didn’t bring my gear,” you murmured.

Seonghwa didn’t miss a beat. “It’s in the trunk.”

You turned, eyes wide, as he opened it. And there it was. Your skates. Your coat. Even your backpack, the one you always used for training. The knot in your throat tightened. He had planned this. Every detail. For you. Just to see you happy.

Your heart stuttered.

The inside of the rink was colder, but it was a cold you welcomed. A cold that belonged. The lights above made the ice gleam like glass, and you sat on the bench, breath shaky, hands trembling as they laced your skates with a muscle memory you thought you’d buried. The blades shimmered beneath your fingers.

And then, you stood.

One breath.

Another.

And stepped onto the ice.

At first, your legs protested. Your muscles tensed. But then—something clicked. The rhythm returned, slow and steady. The ice welcomed you back like an old friend.

You glided.

One turn. Another.

The air kissed your face.

Your arms moved without thought. Your hair caught the wind. Your body remembered the poetry—the language only you spoke. The one that didn’t need words.

And then you saw him.

Seonghwa. Skates on. Both hands clinging to the rail. A look of sheer uncertainty on his face. It was ridiculous. And precious.

“What are you doing?” you called, laughing as you approached him.

“I’m risking my physical integrity for you,” he replied, so serious you couldn’t help but laugh again—this time with your whole chest.

“Who made you do this?”

“Your smile.”

The air caught in your lungs. The words hit somewhere deep. You looked at him. Really looked.

“I wanted to be with you,” he said softly.

You offered him your hands. He hesitated. Then placed his in yours.

His fingers were cold. Yours curled around them anyway.

“Put your weight here,” you murmured, guiding his palms to your waist. “Let go. Trust the momentum.”

And he did.

He stumbled.

You steadied him.

You glided.

He followed.

Step by uncertain step, you led him. You were elegance. He was effort. But together... you were something else. Something balanced. Something honest.

You fell into laughter again. Into each other.

That rink—tucked in the middle of nowhere—became sacred. Not because of the ice. Not because of the movement.

But because, beside him, for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you belonged to yourself again.

You were alive.

And you were in love with Park Seonghwa.

The rain had deepened by nightfall. No longer the gentle tapping of earlier, but a steady, rhythmic pulse against the windows, like a second heartbeat echoing through the apartment. It blurred the outside world into watercolor—soft streaks of yellow and red lights bleeding into each other, distant car horns muffled by the glass. Inside, the stillness reigned. The lamps remained off. Only the dim spill of the city crept in, laying delicate shadows across the floor. The apartment smelled faintly of rain-dampened concrete and the trace of something warm from earlier—tea, maybe, or the scent of his cologne clinging to the cushions.

You sat together on the couch—too close to be casual, too far to be lovers. Your knee brushed his once, then again, as if by accident. But neither of you moved away. His hands were clasped, knuckles pale, gaze cast forward like he was trying to stop himself from looking at you. You had your legs tucked under, fingers gently fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. Every breath you took felt tethered to his, like the air itself had narrowed to fit only the space between you.

“Thank you for today,” you said, voice barely louder than the rain. You didn’t look at him when you said it, afraid that if you did, your chest would give away just how much it had meant. “It was…”

“Nice,” he finished, voice rough and low, like the words had scraped their way out of him. He tilted his head just slightly toward you. “With you, everything feels nice.”

You exhaled, caught off guard by the way your heart reacted—immediate, uncontrollable. A quiet laugh slipped from you, uncertain and breathy. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe them.”

And then—he looked at you. Really looked. The turn of his head felt like a tide shifting, and when his eyes met yours, they pulled you under. They weren’t sharp like a detective’s, not then. They were dark, yes—but warm. Soft. As if they'd already memorized the shape of your face and still wanted to keep tracing it, just to be sure.

“Believe them,” he said.

That’s when the world held its breath. The sound of rain dulled. The air thickened, electric with something unspoken. You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned until you felt the brush of his breath across your cheek. His hand came up slowly, reverently, like he was reaching for something sacred. The backs of his fingers skimmed your skin—featherlight, trembling—and your eyes fluttered closed as your throat tightened with everything you couldn't say.

“Can I…?” His whisper was fragile. Not a question of desire, but permission.

You didn’t answer with words. You just tilted your face up to his, and closed the space.

The kiss was barely a kiss at first—just the whisper of his lips against yours. It tasted of patience, of hesitation, of the unbearable weight of longing. He kissed you like you might disappear if he moved too fast. Like your mouth was a secret he’d waited years to learn.

You pressed closer, your fingers finding the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like an anchor. And he made a sound—soft and raw—as his other hand rose to cradle the back of your neck, threading into your hair. He deepened the kiss, slow and steady, with a hunger he tried to rein in and couldn’t. His lips moved against yours with the kind of intention that makes the world drop away. You forgot the rain. The room. Your own name.

When your lips parted, he didn’t pull back. His forehead leaned into yours, breath catching. “What are you doing to me…?” he whispered, eyes still closed like he didn’t trust them not to betray too much.

You smiled, real and a little shy, your heart hammering like a secret you’d just confessed. “The same thing you’re doing to me.”

And when you kissed again, it was no longer tentative. It was certain. A little desperate. The air around you buzzed with something electric. His mouth moved with more need, more trust. His tongue brushed yours, and the sound you made—soft, surprised—was met with a quiet groan from him. His hand gripped your waist. Your hands were in his hair now, feeling the damp strands between your fingers. He melted into you, as if this was the only place he’d ever wanted to be.

You were both breathless when you parted, your noses brushing. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. But your eyes said it all.

Then, quietly, you said it: “Sleep in the room tonight.”

His lips curved into a smile. No teasing, no hesitation—just softness. He nodded, and gently took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The walk to your bedroom was wordless, quiet save for the rain. Something sacred passed between you in that stillness. When he opened the door, you slipped beneath the covers, heart racing in your chest. He walked around the bed, pausing before slipping in on the other side. He faced you, eyes searching your face in the dark.

“Can I…?” he asked again, voice like a hush.

You moved toward him. That was your answer.

His arms came around you, one strong arm wrapping your waist, the other threading gently beneath your neck. He pulled you in, your back against his chest, your bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces meant to fit. You exhaled, and so did he. His breath tickled your neck.

“This is good,” he murmured. “This puts me at ease.”

His hand rested against your stomach, warm and grounding. And when he kissed your temple, it wasn’t just affection—it was gratitude. Worship. A promise, whispered without words.

“Good night, love.”

“Good night, Hwa.”

Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside that room, time slowed. The air wrapped around you like his arms had. There was no fear. No distance. Just breath syncing breath, heartbeat syncing heartbeat. You didn’t flinch when sleep came.

Because he was there. Because you weren’t afraid. Because for the first time in a long, long time— You were home.

Everything had changed since that night. Since the moment you and Seonghwa kissed under the dim light of the living room, with emotions running high and words trembling on your lips. After so many weeks of uncertainty, of loaded silences and glances overflowing with things left unsaid, you had finally surrendered to each other. And since then, life had been different.

Waking up with his arms wrapped around your waist, his warm breath on your neck, his fingers reaching for yours even in sleep... Every moment with him felt stolen from a parallel world where everything was softer, safer, more real. In the mornings, you shared coffee and lazy kisses. At night, you shared love in whispers and laughter, as if the rest of the world didn't exist. It was like living inside a protective bubble, built with caresses and unspoken promises.

Your side of the bed had a different blanket, a small scented candle on the nightstand, which Seonghwa said smelled like you. There were moments of passion, kisses that stole touches and touches that made you forget even your own name... but there was also love in the little things: in how he looked at you when you were focused on cooking, in how his fingers stroked your hair without saying a word, in how he seemed to read every one of your emotions without you having to speak.

But peace, as always, was fleeting.

That night, you had decided to stay home. The rain pounded against the windows persistently, as if the sky was trying to slip through some crack in the city to warn you that it was about to break. You wrapped yourself in Seonghwa's hoodie, the one you shamelessly stole and he didn't even bother to reclaim anymore. The scent of him—wood, bitter coffee, and something warm you couldn't name—kept you company as you leafed through a book you barely read, more attentive to the clock than to the words.

Before leaving, Seonghwa had leaned over you, one hand on your cheek.

"Don't stay up too late. I'm just a phone call away," he said, kissing your forehead like a promise.

At the station, the clock read 10:46 p.m. when the door to his office creaked open. Seonghwa looked up from his desk. In front of him, Hongjoong stood pale-faced, with an envelope in his hands.

"Hwa... this came. It has your name on it."

It was a white envelope. No sender. Sealed. Seonghwa felt a sharp sting shoot through the base of his neck. He took it without saying a word and opened it carefully. Inside: a USB drive and a handwritten note.

"I thought you might like to see this, detective. Since you're as interested in her as I am."

Seonghwa's heart skipped a beat, barely perceptible. He connected the device to the monitor without a word, his fingers suddenly cold on the keyboard. The file took a few seconds to open. A video, untitled. No sound. The image trembled slightly at first. It was a recording made from a distance, with a hidden camera. And there you were. Sitting on a bench in front of a café. Cloudy day. White scarf around your neck, the one he had given you on a winter afternoon when you were shivering and pretending not to.

The lens zoomed in. Then another cut. You walking. You buying something at a convenience store. Entering the subway. Entering your home. Recordings made in different places, on different days. Some recognizable. Others older. The video showed them one after another, unhurried, as if documenting a carefully observed routine.

And then, in the reflection of a store window, for just a second, Seonghwa saw a face. Not entirely clear, but enough to stir something icy in his chest.

The video changed. Another file. This time, there was audio. The voice that came through was male. Young. Unnervingly soft.

"She was so beautiful that day..." said a male voice, almost tender. Seonghwa felt his stomach tighten. "She skated like she was flying. You know what I thought when I saw her for the first time? That the gods were sending her to me. For me. So I could protect her. So I could love her. But you... you came to ruin it all, detective Park."

That voice...

He rewound the video. Paused. Enhanced. The face again. Brown hair. Glasses...

The assistant coach from your first nationals. The one who always seemed in the background. The one who congratulated you with a hug too long for his position. The one you said you had forgotten over the years.

"He was there... all this time..."

Seonghwa stood up abruptly. His chair fell back. He grabbed his coat. He didn't even ask for backup. "If he's nearby... if he's sent this... then she's probably in danger. Now."

A movie played in the background, but your eyes followed none of it. Sometimes love feels like peace, and other times, like a sweet knot in your chest that won't let you think of anything else. You were thinking of him—of Seonghwa—of the way he touched your face like you were made of glass, of how he kissed you with the care of someone who finally understood what it meant to belong to another heart.

You had felt broken for so long. But with him... the pieces were starting to take shape again.

You stood to turn off the television and the lights, leaving only the corner lamp on. Its warm light painted dancing shadows across the walls, moving with every gust of wind that slipped through the cracks.

Something changed.

It was a tiny sound. A creak. The kind of noise a house makes as it settles... except this one didn't come from the roof or the walls. It came from the hallway. From inside.

"Hwa?" you called, hesitantly, just in case. Because sometimes he came home unannounced. "Babe, did you forget your snacks again? I left them next to..." but you looked at the kitchen counter, and the snacks you had picked out for Seonghwa weren't there.

You turned slowly, as if your body knew something your mind still refused to accept. And when you saw him—when his figure emerged from the shadows—the world stopped spinning for a whole second.

He was standing by the doorway, as if he'd been there for hours. As if he'd been watching you since Seonghwa left the house. His face was almost exactly as you remembered. Minjae... the ex-assistant of your coach. The one who was always behind your trainer, harmless... almost invisible. The one who could disappear into any crowd... until he didn't. Years had passed since you last saw him, since your first nationals—the same ones from the trophy the stalker—Minjae had stolen. Your heart raced. Breathing became difficult. Your mind slipped in and out of denial. Because it couldn't be. Not him.

"It's been a long time," he said with a calm voice, too calm, laced with malice that made you immediately step back.

"What are you doing here?" you managed to say, your throat dry, hands shaking.

He took a step forward, unfazed by your tone. "You're asking the wrong question, love," he answered with a twisted smile. "You shouldn't ask what I'm doing here... but why it took me so long to come."

His voice was soft, almost affectionate, and that made it all the more horrifying. Like a lover returning from a long journey, instead of the man who had been hiding behind every one of your fears these past months. You tried to move, but your body wouldn't respond as quickly as you needed. Your skin bristled. Your stomach turned. Your instincts screamed at you to run, but fear had roots, and they had grown deep into your feet.

"No... I don't understand. How did you get in?" you asked, more to buy time than to get an answer.

"Did you really think this security system would stop me?" he laughed softly, humorless. "I've entered your world long before this. I entered when no one else saw you. When you cried in secret after failing to rank. When you trained until you bled. When your fingers cracked from the cold and you kept going anyway. I saw you. I was there. Always."

His devotion made you sick. His words were blades, growing sharper, more intimate. He didn't speak like a stranger, but like someone who had been secretly living with you for years.

"You're sick," you murmured, taking another step back. Your eyes scanned the room, searching for your phone. You had to call Seonghwa, had to ask for help.

"Don't say that, my love," he whispered. "True love isn't learned. It's revealed. And you revealed it to me, without even realizing. Every movement you made on the ice was a poem to me. Did you know that? Did you know the gods sent you to me? You are a miracle. An answer. My destiny."

"You have no right..." you started, but he interrupted you, his voice now tinged with restrained rage.

"And that damn detective does? He has the right to touch you, to kiss you, to sleep with you like he knows you?" his face twisted, fists clenched. "You don't get it, do you? He doesn't know you like I do. He hasn't seen everything I've seen in you. I love you like one loves the sacred. With faith. With sacrifice. I've waited. I've endured. I've watched you drift away... forget me– but I never stopped loving you!"

The air in the room was dense, as if every word filled your lungs with poison. Sweat ran down your back. The trembling wasn't just in your hands anymore, but in your legs, your lips, your voice. You wanted to run, but he lunged. He grabbed you by the wrist with a strength you didn't expect, his fingers digging into your skin with terrifying determination.

"Let me go!" you screamed, desperate.

"NO!" he shouted, eyes wild. "Not until you hear me. Not until you feel me. I love you!"

"You're crazy!" you struggled.

"I'm in love! And it hurts! You don't know what it's like to truly love! Because if you did, you wouldn't look at me with such disgust!"

"Because you scare me!" you managed to break free with a yank, stumbling backward. Your legs hit the dining table, knocking over a candle. The thud was sharp, and for a moment you thought that would be enough to make him back off. But no. He was still there, looking at you with sick, pleading eyes.

"You don't have to be afraid of me... I would never hurt you. Just..." his voice dropped, broken, "just let me stay. Just one night. Just look at me. Like you did when you were alone, when you had no one. I was that 'no one' for years. And still I loved you. I still did everything for you."

"Leave me alone."

"Don't throw me out!" he shouted, stepping toward you violently. "Don't throw me out again! I can't go back out there knowing you're here, in this house, with him!"

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You felt like you were going to faint at any moment. Your hands groped blindly, and finally your fingers brushed your phone, lying between the couch cushions. You didn't make any sudden moves. You just kept looking at him, weighing each word.

He took a step. Then another. As if your fear didn't exist. As if it were part of the game. As if it excited him.

"Don't come any closer," you repeated, your voice now firmer, but also more frightened. "This isn't love!"

And his face... changed. It tensed. The smile disappeared, as if someone had switched off the light inside him. The muscles in his jaw clenched. The light in his eyes turned into something dark, threatening.

"It's not love?" he repeated in a low, hoarse voice. "It's not love to spend sleepless nights watching every one of your performances? To keep every ticket from where you competed? Isn't it love to carve your name into my skin because you're already etched into my soul?"

He rolled up his right sleeve, and there, with jagged lines and old scars... was your name.

Tattooed. With a knife or blade.

Your stomach churned. You wanted to vomit. You wanted to cry. You wanted to disappear.

"I love you so much it... hurts," he said, taking another step toward you. "And you're hurting me now. I don't understand why. You were mine... before him."

His eyes burned at the mention of Seonghwa.

"He stole you," he spat. "He contaminated you. But I can still clean you. You can still be mine again."

"I never was. Never." Your words came out between sobs, through the trembling of your jaw and the grip you had on your phone. "I never loved you! I never wanted this!"

That made him snap. He punched the wall with a closed fist, so hard the frame shook. You screamed, curling into the corner. Adrenaline boiled in your veins, but your body trembled like a leaf swept by the wind.

"Don't say that!" he roared, eyes filling with tears. "You don't know what you're saying. You don't know how much I've done for you!"

And suddenly, in a swift movement, he got too close. His hand clamped around your wrist with overwhelming force and the phone slipped from your grip. You screamed, struggling, and his hot breath hit your face.

You didn't know how, but the tears began to fall. It wasn't an outburst. It was that kind of crying that drips silently, like your body trying to warn you that everything inside you is breaking. The air was still poisoned. His closeness suffocating.

"Don't cry..." he murmured, wiping your cheek with terrifying tenderness. "I don't like seeing you like this. Not when I've given you so much. Everything. All you have to do is say you'll stay with me. Just that, (Y/N):"

Your voice came out torn.

"Never."

The silence that followed was thick, like a pause before collapse. His hand, which had been trembling before, hardened. The smile vanished. And in its place settled a blank expression. Dry. Lethal.

"Then you leave me no choice," he whispered, as if talking to himself.

He took a step back. Slowly. As if weighing a punishment. And then, with a calm that chilled more than any scream, he pulled something from his pocket that gleamed under the dim hallway light.

A small blade.

Light. Precise. Cold.

"You don't understand..." he said as he spun it between his fingers with sickening skill. "But if you can't be mine... you'll be no one's. And certainly not his."

Your legs wanted to move. Run. Scream. Something. But fear had already placed invisible chains around your ankles. It was like being trapped in a lucid nightmare: you could see every detail, but you couldn't wake up.

"Do you know what I thought, that time I saw you skating with him in the stands?" he continued, his voice dropping even lower, brushing a whisper. "I thought about how your hands would look covered in blood. Not from hate. No..." he shook his head gently. "From art. Because everything you touch is art. Even pain could be... if it's mine."

Then he raised the weapon and pressed it gently to his own cheek, barely cutting the skin. A thin red line appeared and began to slide down his face.

You wanted to vomit. You felt bile rise to your throat and your eyes kept spilling tears. You couldn't believe what you were seeing; you couldn't fully accept that the Minjae you had known years ago was the same sick man who seemed to have lost his mind.

"Look what I'm capable of doing for you. Look how far I'm willing to go. And if that's not love... then love is dead."

You backed up until you hit the doorframe. The wood creaked. Your fingers searched for something —anything— to defend yourself with. He noticed. His gaze changed.

"Don't run. Don't make me hurt you. I don't want to. But I can. You know that, right?" he took another step toward you. "Because if you don't come with me now, (Y/N)... he'll be the first. I'll kill him. I'll make him suffer. And then I'll take you far away. No one will know anything. You'll be mine. Like it was meant to be from the start."

Your heart pounded like a drum on the verge of breaking. Everything was too fast, too slow at the same time. And then...

A bang.

Not on your body. On the door.

A dry crack. The sound of a lock being forced.

And then a voice. Deep. Sharp. Full of fury.

The door burst open with a violence that shook the walls. The sound was like a gunshot, tearing through the dense air, shattering the sickening bubble you were trapped in.

"(Y/N)!"

Seonghwa's voice. Firm, furious. Alive. Your head turned toward the sound and, for a moment, it was as if time had stopped. He was there, soaked by the rain, eyes ablaze, chest heaving. In his eyes, the promise that it was all over. That you had been found. But it wasn't that simple. Minjae took a step back, startled, but not defeated. His knife gleamed between his fingers. His breathing quickened. And then, something changed in his face. Like a mask falling. Fear melted into rage. Into jealousy. Into madness. "You..." he spat. "You're the problem. You always have been." "Drop the weapon!" Seonghwa ordered, aiming straight at his chest. "You're not going to touch her. Not now, not ever again." "You don't understand anything, do you? She's mine! MINE!" he shouted, his voice cracking, almost childish, like a kid losing his favorite toy. "She doesn't belong to anyone. Least of all someone sick like you." "She chose me first!" he yelled, throwing the knife forcefully to the side. It hit the wall with a metallic clang, but he was already charging at Seonghwa, fists clenched, with animal fury. You screamed. It was like watching two opposing forces collide at the center of a ruined world. Seonghwa didn't hesitate and landed a direct punch to the stomach that made Minjae double over for a second. But he writhed like a cornered beast and hit Seonghwa's jaw with a dry punch. The force pushed him back. Blood. From Seonghwa's lip. From Minjae's brow. "YOU CORRUPTED HER!" Minjae shouted as he threw another punch. "You put ideas in her head! She loved me before you!" "You don't know what love is!" Seonghwa roared, grabbing him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The plaster cracked. "You suffocated her! You stole her peace, her safety, her dreams!" "I saved her! I protected her! No one else saw her like I did..." "You followed her! You stalked her! YOU TORTURED HER!" You could only watch. Legs trembling, body pressed against the wall, wanting to scream but voiceless. It was too much. Watching them fight. Watching Seonghwa bleed for you. The silence lasted only a second. But it was a long second, dense, like a bottomless pit where your senses sank. Seonghwa and Minjae wrestled in the center of the apartment—the same one where you'd slept last night, where you'd cooked, where you'd tried to reclaim some normalcy—and now it looked like a battlefield. Papers, picture frames, shards of glass. A lamp on the floor. Blood beginning to stain the wood. Your ears rang. Your heart pounded against your ribs in a frantic rhythm. "LET ME GO!" Minjae screamed, desperate, scratching Seonghwa's face with his nails, as if that could give him an advantage. Seonghwa growled, but didn't loosen his grip. He had him pinned against the wall, fingers digging into his wet jacket. "I won't let you touch her ever again!" "You don't get to decide that!" Minjae spat. "YOU don't know what we shared! She was happy before you! HAPPY!" "You don't know what happiness is! What you did wasn't love, it was obsession, it was control!" Minjae laughed. A broken, coarse, sinister laugh. "If you hadn't shown up in our lives... we'd still be together." Your legs gave out. "No..." you murmured, barely audible. "That's not true..."

"SAY IT!" Minjae shouted, turning his face toward you, panting, soaked, pupils dilated.

"Say it! Tell me you didn't think of me when you skated. Of your admirer... Tell me you didn't read my words over and over. TELL ME YOU DIDN'T KEEP THEM!"

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Only tears.

And that vacant look that gave you away: you were broken.

"LOOK AT HER!" Seonghwa roared. "LOOK AT HER AND SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

But Minjae wasn't listening. He wasn't reasoning. He was a swarm of twisted emotions: nostalgia, rage, jealousy, delusion. And in that moment, you felt it. He wasn't a person.

He was a loose threat.

Then, the unexpected.

Minjae let out a very low laugh. Something changed. Not his face—that was still contorted—but his energy. As if a terrible idea had just crossed his mind.

"You know..." he murmured, looking around, "if she can't be mine, she won't be yours either."

Seonghwa pushed him, but Minjae staggered toward the kitchen, limping. Something flickered in his eyes. Something... dangerous.

You could barely process it.

But when you saw him open a drawer quickly, you knew it wasn't just an attempt to escape.

"No!" you shouted. "No, please!"

Seonghwa ran after him, but it was already too late. Minjae had grabbed something. Not a knife… A lighter.

And a shattered bottle with alcohol spilled on the floor.

"You're not thinking..." Seonghwa froze. "Don't you dare."

"You think I'm going alone?" Minjae hissed, with terrifying calm. "This place... this damn place you built together... I'm going to watch it burn. And you with it."

The smell of alcohol was already in the air.

Your vision blurred. Fear became something absolute, almost unreal. Everything seemed distant, as if you were watching your own end from outside your body.

"Minjae," you stammered. "Stop. You don't have to do this. We can... we can talk."

"Talk?! Too late for that! You ignored me. You replaced me. And you..." he pointed at Seonghwa, with a deranged smile. "You ruined everything."

Then, he raised the lighter. The dry click of the mechanism echoed like a gunshot.

Once, twice, three times.

And the flame appeared.

It was a second. Just one second.

But Seonghwa couldn't allow it.

With lightning speed, he ducked, rolled across the floor, grabbed his gun—the one he'd dropped earlier for safety—and aimed.

"NO!" you screamed, but it was already too late.

Bang.

The shot echoed endlessly in your ears. The flame died before it touched the floor. The lighter fell, bouncing against the tiles.

And Minjae…

Dropped to his knees.

Then backward.

A dark flower bloomed on his chest.

Silence.

A murderous silence.

A silence like a grave.

Your knees buckled. You collapsed to the floor, not feeling the impact. Eyes locked on his lifeless body. You didn't cry. Didn't scream. You couldn't.

You just wanted it all to end. For someone to turn the world off.

Seonghwa lowered the weapon slowly. His hands trembled. His face was drenched in sweat and blood.

He didn't move for long seconds. And then, he took a step toward you. Then another.

The gun still hung from his hand, but his gaze was no longer on Minjae, only on you. Just you.

"(Y/N)... baby" his voice was barely a whisper, broken by the effort, by the rage still burning in his chest, by the fear that hadn't left his skin. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

You didn't know how to respond. The words had hidden somewhere deep in your body. Everything hurt. Everything shook. The air was heavy, like you had to swallow the past just to breathe.

Seonghwa approached slowly, as if afraid of scaring you more, as if aware that any sudden movement could break you.

He knelt in front of you.

"I'm here," he said softly, locking eyes with yours. "It's over. I swear, it's over."

His hands hesitated for a second before touching you. But you—before even thinking—threw yourself at him.

You held him with a strength you didn't know you had left. Clung to his chest, to the warmth of his body, to the restless drum of his heart. Your face buried in his neck, in his shoulder, in any part of him that proved you were alive.

And he held you. Held you like you were home.

"I'm here, love," he murmured. "I'm here. You don't have to run anymore. You're not alone anymore."

The crying came without warning. Not a soft sob, but a total breakdown. A tremor that started in your abdomen and shook every part of you. You screamed. You cried. You fell apart.

"I couldn't breathe..." you managed to say through tears. "Seonghwa... I... couldn't take it anymore..."

"I know," he answered, his lips against your temple. "I know, sweetheart. But it's over. No one's going to hurt you again."

The stomping of boots on the stairs was the only thing that broke that moment. Voices. Orders.

And then, Hongjoong's silhouette appeared in the doorway, with two armed agents behind him.

"Seonghwa!" he shouted, gun at the ready, but when he saw the body on the floor, the blood, and the way you trembled in his partner's arms, he lowered the weapon immediately. "God... Are you okay?"

Seonghwa did not respond immediately. He just tightened his embrace, as if afraid you would fade away if he let go.

"We need an ambulance," he said at last, without looking at them. "Not for us. For him. Make sure he's really... done."

One of the officers approached Minjae's body. He checked it. Nodded.

"He's dead."

That word floated in the air. Dead.

It should have relieved you. But it only brought more tears.

Not for him. For you. For what he had stolen from you. For what would never come back.

For the lost innocence. For the months of paranoia, of insomnia, of constant fear.

For the silences that screamed inside you.

Hongjoong approached cautiously, looking at Seonghwa and then at you.

"We have everything under control," he said firmly. "I'll talk to headquarters. You two... stay here for a moment."

Seonghwa barely nodded. He couldn't, he didn't want to let you go.

And you weren't going to let him.

"I've got you," he whispered, slowly caressing your back. "I'm with you. I'm staying. Can you hear me?"

You nodded, your forehead against his neck.

"I'm so scared..."

"You don't have to be strong now. You just have to be here. With me."

His words were like threads sewing your torn soul. They didn't promise a perfect future, but they offered the closest thing: presence. Real love. A refuge.

And for the first time in a long time, amid the pain, the broken glass, the blood and the screams, you felt something like peace.

Not because everything was fine. But because you weren't alone.

And in that embrace—desperate, dirty, hurting—there was a silent promise: life would go on.

And you were going to fight for it.

A knot tightened in your throat.

"But no more." His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, as if he needed to feel your existence to calm his pulse. "You don't have to hide anymore. Not with me."

Your lower lip trembled. You wanted to speak. Tell him you were broken. That maybe you would never be whole again. But he had read you before. As always.

"Listen to me." His hands gently took your face, guiding you to look at him. "You're not weak. You're not fragile. You survived. You're still here. You're still fighting. And there's nothing braver than that."

The sincerity in his eyes pierced you like a sweet stake. It hurt, but not like before. Not like the fear. It was a different pain. One that came with relief. With the possibility of healing.

"I swear that as long as I'm with you, no one is going to hurt you again. No one is going to touch you, silence you, make you doubt yourself."

Your breath hitched. The tremor in your body turned into a muffled sob. And he didn't pull away. He held you tighter. As if with just his arms, he could keep you whole.

"You're everything he could never understand," he whispered against your hair. "Everything he wanted to control, because he couldn't stand you shining without him."

One more silence. Loaded. Emotional.

"And I..." His voice dropped. More intimate. More vulnerable. "I just want to see you free. I want to see you laugh. I want to see how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. I want to see you live without fear."

Tears fell on their own. Not for Minjae. Not for the wound. But for what you had just heard. For everything they had never told you.

"What he did to you doesn't define who you are," he said with strength. "What defines you is that, after everything, you're still here. And I—I'm so fucking proud of you."

Your fingers sought his. You intertwined them. Like a silent promise. Like an anchor.

He stayed there with you. Without hurry. Without demands. Accepting your silences. Accepting your crying. Accepting you whole, even in your fragments.

And in the middle of the chaos, the crime, the storm, the dark story that had just closed, there was a corner of peace.

Just you and him.

Just the warmth of his chest, his voice in your ear, his fingers tangled in yours.

A promise: that winter, finally was starting to melt.

It all started two years ago, with a call to the police station.

No one could have imagined that night — with the phone trembling between your fingers, your breath stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat, fear sinking into your bones like ice water — would be the beginning of something bigger than justice. Because that night, although you were looking for help, what you found was him. Park Seonghwa. The detective who didn’t just answer the call — he heard you. Who followed every lead with an almost reverent devotion, who believed you without needing proof, who never looked at you with pity or fragility, but with the steadiness of someone who saw past your fear and into your strength. As if he already knew that your story wasn’t ending there. That, in fact, it was just beginning.

And it was.

Because if the ice had once been your first love — sharp, demanding, all-consuming — then Seonghwa became the second. A quieter, warmer love. One that didn’t ask you to be perfect, but simply to breathe. A love that taught you how to fall asleep again without needing every light on. That helped you reclaim the silence. That whispered safety into the spaces where panic used to live. That held you, night after night, until your own body stopped flinching at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. That waited for you — patient and whole — as you learned to trust the world again. Learned to trust yourself.

Coming back to skating wasn’t instant. It was slow, like thawing after a long winter. A daily ritual of placing one foot in front of the other, while fear still clung to your shadow like static. The ice didn’t feel like home at first — it felt foreign, fragile, like it might crack beneath your weight at any moment. But you had changed too. You were no longer the girl who danced between crystals for applause and gold. You were the woman who had survived. Who had crawled through darkness and decided to return. Not because it was easy, but because it mattered. One fall at a time, one trembling glide at a time, you took the ice back. And slowly, like healing, it accepted you.

And now you’re here.

Not in practice. Not in secrecy. But in the grand final of the International Championships — the summit of the dream you once buried beneath trauma, now resurrected in full bloom. The stadium around you is thunder and light. The rink beneath you glows like a frozen lake kissed by the stars. The crowd is roaring, but your gaze seeks only two faces: your grandfather, the root that never let go, the soul who once sold candy just to buy you skates. And beside him, Seonghwa — your fiancé. Your future. The man who taught you that love can be a shelter and a promise.

They’re both standing. Applauding. Crying without shame.

The music begins — a haunting, rising melody — and you move.

But not for medals. Not for revenge. Not for anyone else’s redemption. You skate for the girl who once locked herself in a bathroom, unsure if she'd ever feel whole again. You skate for the hands that shook opening threatening letters. For the nights when your breath would vanish for no reason. You skate for every moment Seonghwa held you close, saying nothing, simply being there — constant, calm, present. You skate for your freedom.

And you skate like you’ve never skated before.

Not just graceful — transcendent. Each spin carves out pieces of your past and sets them free. Each jump is a defiance, a declaration: I am still here. You become something more than a performer. You are poetry in motion. A flame on ice. A survivor wrapped in sequins, dancing in her own rebirth.

When the final note fades into silence, the applause shatters the sky.

The score flashes. It’s impossible — record-breaking. The kind of score that silences even the loudest doubts. You’ve won. The championship, yes. But more than that. You’ve won your right to exist in the light again. You’ve reclaimed your life.

You drop your hands over your mouth as the tears come — heavy, endless, necessary. You cry for everything it took to get here. For everything you lost and everything you reclaimed. You cry because you’re still standing, still skating, still alive.

In the crowd, you hear it — your grandfather’s raspy voice echoing above the rest: "THAT’S MY GRANDDAUGHTER!"

He’s waving a crumpled handkerchief, cheeks damp, eyes bright. He looks like the man who once lifted you up after every fall — and he is. He always has been.

And then — him.

Seonghwa.

No longer the stoic detective, no badge or suit to hide behind. Just him, in a long black coat, his hands in his pockets, his eyes locked onto you as if you are his entire world. When your eyes meet, his lips curve into the softest, surest smile. The kind of smile that says: we made it. He places a hand over his heart, and then points at you.

Always with you. Always for you.

And you smile — broken, breathless, whole — because you know. Because now, you can believe it.

The medal glints against your collarbone. The trophy weighs golden in your hands. But nothing is heavier — or more sacred — than the love inside your chest. The love that survived the darkness. The love that healed beside you.

Later, backstage, he finds you.

No barriers. No cameras. Just you, and him, and the moment you both fought for.

He walks straight past the restricted zone as if nothing could stop him. And when he reaches you, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in, burying his face in your shoulder. “You did it,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “God, you really did it.”

You hold onto him, trembling. “I came back,” you whisper, “And you were there. Always.”

He leans back, just enough to look at you. His fingers trail down your cheek, brushing away a tear. The engagement ring glints on your finger — delicate, silver, chosen without fanfare but worn with quiet pride. A promise already made. A future already unfolding. His thumb brushes just beneath it, lingering there like he’s reminding himself that this is real — you are real — and not just a dream he kept chasing through case files and sleepless nights. And then he kisses you.

It isn’t rushed. It isn’t frantic.

It’s everything.

A kiss that says thank you and I’m here and we survived. A kiss that tastes like tears and hope and home. A kiss that rewrites the story of what you thought love could be.

You kiss him back. Fully. Fiercely. Without fear. With everything you have left in you — all your fight, all your grace, all your light. Your hands clutch at his coat like a lifeline, because he is. And you know it now: you will never run again. You don’t need to.

This is the end of a dark chapter. And the beginning of something entirely new.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, your breaths tangled. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, voice thick. “So fucking proud. And not because you won. Not because of the score. But because you learned to love the ice again... without forgetting to love yourself too.”

You smile through your tears. “I love you,” you whisper back, because there’s nothing else truer than that.

And when he says it in return — low, fierce, full — your grandfather arrives, eyes swollen, heart wide open. He wraps you both in his arms like he’s holding onto a dream that finally came true.

And it’s in that exact moment that you understand it — all of it.

The fear. The fight. The pain. The recovery. The love.

It was all to get here. To this.

Your life didn’t end in fear. It began when you faced it.

And the ice? It’s no longer just a stage. It’s your voice. Your sanctuary. Your freedom. Your home.

Because the ice may still be cold — But it will never, ever freeze you again.

taglist: @hwasflower @queenofdumbfuckery

a/n: well, here we go with the first fic of the new atz section on the blog. i hope you liked, if you did — repost, comments and likes are always welcome.

you can leave asks here. go back to navigation.

[badjokesbyjeff]

One day at the end of class, little Johnny's teacher asks the class to go home and think of a story to be concluded with the moral of that story. The following day the teacher asks for the first volunteer to tell their story. 

Little Suzy raises her hand. "My dad owns a farm and every Sunday we load the chicken eggs on the truck and drive into town to sell them at the market. Well, one Sunday we hit a big bump and all the eggs flew out of the basket and onto the road." When the teacher asked for the moral of the story, Suzy replied, "Don't keep all your eggs in one basket."

Little Lucy went next. "My dad owns a farm too. Every weekend we take the chicken eggs and put them in the incubator. Last weekend only eight of the 12 eggs hatched."; Again, the teacher asked for the moral of the story. Lucy replied, "Don't count your chickens before they hatch."

Next up was little Johnny. "My uncle Ted fought in the Vietnam war, and his plane was shot down over enemy territory. He jumped out before it crashed but could only take a case of beer, a machine gun and a machete. On the way down, he drank the case of beer. Then he landed right in the middle of 100 Vietnamese soldiers. He shot 70 with his machine gun, but then he ran out of bullets! So he pulled out his machete and killed 20 more. Then the blade on his machete broke, so he killed the last ten with his bare hands." The teacher looked a little shocked.

After clearing her throat, she asked what possible moral there could be to this story. "Well," Johnny replied, "Don't fuck with Uncle Ted when he's been drinking."

[mommyslittlebird]

Everything You Need

Stepmom!Wanda x Reader

Summary: Wanda takes great responsibility with being your mama. Maybe even too much responsibility at times. She’s determined to be everything you could ever need.

CW: Breastfeeding, Somnophilia (so noncon), loss of virginity, first kiss, fingering, arousal tasting, Wanda is a little freak

Word Count: ~3.5k (I didn’t check)

A/N: The final chapter. It’s very bittersweet. I have loved this story quite possibly more than anything I’ve written before. However, I’m very proud to wrap it up and put a little bow on this series as a finish project at last.

Part 6 of Her Special Girl

———————————————————

Infuriatingly enough, Wanda’s milk came late one morning when you weren’t home. In fact, you weren’t going to be home at all until later that evening, after all your classes were over. It took every bit of her willpower not to text you as soon as it happened. She wanted it to be a surprise.

But all it would take is one text. You could be home in ten minutes. The two of you would have all afternoon to yourselves. She could have Vision pick the boys up from school. Email Natasha and take the rest of the day off. Your father wouldn’t be home until tonight.

No. No, your schoolwork was important. She would let you finish up your classes, and you would be home in six hours, and then she could slip into your room after the boys and your father went to bed. After pumping this morning, she probably wouldn’t have much more milk until then anyway.

It was a noble goal, truly.

She made it 45 minutes. She sat in front of her desk, trying to work through an excel sheet. But she couldn’t focus. All the cells twisted and melted together as her brain swam with daydreams. You were going to be so excited. She imagined your smile when she told you: your eyes would crinkle at the corners, squinting into crescents so tight it looked like they were nearly closed. Your cheeks would form your perfect dimples, 2 on your left cheek, 1 on the right. The one on your right cheek only made an appearance when you were really happy.

Finally, she caved. She shot Natasha a short, nondescript email, Vision a short text, and you an equally brief text, asking if you could come home early because she had a surprise. She paced around your bedroom, obsessively folding and unfolding the throw blanket at the foot of your bed.

She fluffed the pillows, made up the sheets, flattened out the comforter and tucked it in at the sides of the mattress, only to then strip the bed completely and put on new, clean sheets, even though she just changed them three days ago.

She truly hadn’t been this excited in ages. She hadn’t even been this neurotic when she learned you were coming home for the first time in three years. Of course she cleaned in the weeks leading up to it, a lot. But she hadn’t necessarily had time to prepare for the immediate event of your arrival, given that you had arrived a bit unexpectedly a week early.

She felt like a pregnant dog obsessively digging through her whelping box, or a mother bird perfecting every twig of her nest in preparation for her hatching eggs.

Her baby was coming. Everything had to be perfect.

—————

Wanda laid awake, staring at the vaulted ceiling until it appeared to be stretching, tightening the walls around her that threatened to swallow her up. It was well past midnight, probably around 2am, but she hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. She couldn’t stop thinking about today: the twin’s kindergarten orientation.

She held it off for as long as she could, just like she had with every other aspect of their growing up. Every milestone they’d ever reached had been a blade through her heart. They all felt like the world’s cold hands were ripping her babies from her arms.

If it weren’t for Vision, they might not even be potty trained despite having shown signs of readiness very early.

She hated how fast they were growing up. How all the other adults in their life fawned over how “independent they were for their age”. She loved her boys more than anything in the world, but god she wished they were more clingy and needy. They never even wanted to sleep in the bed with her. She had tried to force the habit, but they always managed to wriggle their tiny bodies out of her loving arms.

It didn’t help that they were twins so they could rely on each other for some things instead of just her.

And then there was kindergarten orientation. She watched as all the other children cried and clung to their mothers with desperation. She knew it bordered on sadism, but she felt a slight tinge of hope that her beautiful boys might feel the same desperation at the thought of being separated from her.

But they didn’t.

They pranced into the classroom together, elated by the prospect of new toys and friends to play with. They hardly even gave her a second glance. They were no longer her tiny, helpless babies that relied on her for everything. She tried to tell herself that independence was good. Natural. But her heart felt like it was being ripped apart. Her babies weren’t babies anymore. They didn’t need her like they had before.

She couldn’t have any more children. She had a stepdaughter, but you hated her as far as she knew. Not to mention you were old enough to move out on your own. You didn’t need her at all.

And soon her boys wouldn’t either. She would be left all alone: the empty husk of a woman rotting away with no purpose. No one to care for. No one to love her unconditionally. No one to love her at all.

Alright. She was spiraling. She needed to take a walk.

She threw her robe over her thin pajama shirt and headed for the kitchen. Maybe some tea would clear her mind.

But before she could head down the stairs, she heard something odd. Was that the shower? No one should be in the shower at this time of night. You had gotten in the shower before she went to bed, but that had been hours ago.

She cracked open your bedroom door, finding your room empty. She knocked on the bathroom door. “Honey? Are you okay in there?”

No answer. Her stomach churned. Something wasn’t right. She stood on her tiptoes, reaching for the key they kept above the doorway in case of emergency and unlocked the door.

“Honey?” She called, stepping quietly into the bathroom. She didn’t want to invade your privacy, but she could feel in her gut that something was wrong.

That’s when she saw you, limp and freezing on the bathroom tile. She flung open the glass door in a frenzy, braving shutting off the freezing water and pulling your wet, naked body into her arms. “Oh! My sweet girl. How long have you been in here? I just woke up to use the restroom and I heard the water still running. You poor thing, have you been in here all night? You’re freezing. Your poor lips are purple! Come on, let's get you warmed up.”

She picked you up cradling you against her chest like a baby. Her baby. She looked down, taking in your face. Your lips were purple, but slightly parted. Your little noises mimicked a baby’s coos, chirps and whines made in place of words. She laid you down on top of a blanket, carefully folding the ends over your freezing body into a comforting swaddle.

When your small, shaking body inched closer to her, wrapping around her waist like a scarf, her heart melted. She pushed the wet hair from your eyes, gently caressing your head. And as she looked into your eyes, something in the universe clicked. She had spent all night feeling so empty, like her very purpose was fading away, but it was all restored by the look you gave her. It was the same look she wished to see on her boys’ face this morning: clingy, needy, and completely reliant on her.

You needed her, and she needed you to need her. “Aww my sweet girl. You’ll be alright. I’m not going anywhere. Mama’s here.”

When you tugged weakly at her nightshirt, pulling her towards you with tiny, desperate hands, she did not hesitate to crawl under the blankets and pull you into her arms. “You poor thing, you're still freezing. It’s okay, mama will keep warm.”

She thought nothing of it when you started to pull the nightshirt over her head, exposing her bare skin to your own. You were still ice cold to the touch, but she pressed your entire body to hers, cradling you to her chest. She held you like she would have if you had just come into the world, laying you bare against the skin of her chest. She cradled the back of your head with her hand, inhaling your smell. The smell of her baby. “Mmm, you’re right this will get you all nice and warmed up. You're a very smart girl.”

“I love you, mama.”

“I love you too, sweet girl.”

She kissed your head, enveloping you with her warmth. She held you tight, even as she finally felt your body go limp on top of her. She sang you sovokian lullabies as you slept, rubbing up and down your back, circling the swell of your ass. You were so soft. You were so little. She pressed her fingers into your palm, watching as your infantile reflexes caused you to wrap your hand around them.

She felt as you unconsciously shifted, nuzzling your face into her neck. She giggled as your warm breath tickled her skin. She held your face, placing her thumb just in between your parted lips. “My beautiful girl,” she whispered, lifting your face to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Your first kiss, completely forgotten by your unconscious mind.

There were other things you didn’t remember. Many nights when she had crept in after you had fallen asleep to explore your soft body. You only ever wore slips to bed, when you wore anything at all. You loved the feeling of soft blankets on your skin. In some ways, she imagined you did it just for her: leaving yourself as a little present to unwrap at the end of the day.

She always treated you so delicately, with the utmost love and respect. She did love you, after all. She would take care of you just as any mother would. So when your body started to yearn for more, responding to her gentle caresses with an arched back and whiny breaths, she couldn’t bring herself to deny you.

“Shhh,” she soothed, positioning her body over yours, “Mama’s got you. Just relax. Let mama take care of you.” She eased her hand down your body, slowly pushing up the hem of your slip and rubbing her fingers over your panties. She could feel a damp spot growing over the thin, silky material under her fingertips.

You whined and bucked your hips against her hand.

“Oh angel,” she breathed, kissing your temple. “You poor thing. So needy for mama. It’s okay baby. I’m gonna take of Every. Little. Thing.” She slipped her hand under the fabric and circled your clit slowly before sliding a single finger inside of you.

“God you’re so tight. I bet no one’s ever touched you here before, have they, sweet girl?” She whispered. You stirred, whining and rubbing your eyes. “Shshsh, go back to sleep baby. Let mama take care of your needy body.”

She slowed down, stilling completely until she was sure you were asleep. Only then did she start to move, slow and gentle. She kissed your temple, soothing your writhing, sleeping body. She cooed praises into your ear as she pumped a single finger in and out of you. Her palm massaged your clit in perfect, gentle circles. It was enough to make your untouched body cum in minutes.

“That's my good girl,” she whispered. “Letting mama take care of you like this.”

She slowly pulled her finger from you, drinking down the remnants of your first ever orgasm. One you would never remember, but she would, forever.

She was gentler with you than anyone else would be, she told herself. You were too good for anyone. She would have to protect you from them. She had to make sure you never wanted for anything. She would be your sole source of happiness and safety, more than your own mother, or anyone else for that matter, ever had been. She would feel your entire life with so much laughter and love you would forget there was even a world outside of her. She was determined to be your mother, your lover, your best and closest friend. She would be everything you could ever need.

—————

When she heard the sound of your keys in the front door, she practically jumped down the stairs. She was in the foyer before you could even unlace your shoes, holding something conspicuously behind her back.

You smiled at her with giddy excitement, bouncing on the balls of your feet. She licked her lip, slowly pulling a small plastic container from behind her back. At the bottom of the container was a small amount of a yellowish white liquid. You looked at the liquid, then back up at her beaming face. “Is that…” you asked knowingly.

She eagerly nodded. You ran into her arms excitedly, beaming from ear to ear. She pulled you into a deep kiss, practically bending you backwards with the ferocity of it. You reached up to grab the back of her neck, holding her face in your other hand. By the time you pulled back, you were both breathless, but you could hardly keep away, following the kiss with several more pecks punctuated by smiles and bits of laughter. You nuzzled your nose against her, rubbing your excitement all over her.

She moved away only far enough to set the plastic container down on the nearest surface available before pulling you back into her arms.

“Can I drink it?” you asked, cradling her cheek once more.

“Not that one,” she responded. She had read it was best to pour the first milk out. As much as she loathed to throw any of the precious liquid away, your health was too precious to risk. “But every other drop I ever make is for you.” She kissed you again, resting her forehead against yours. “All for you.”

You smiled, wrapping your arms around her neck and jumping up to wrap your legs around her waist. She caught you with practiced ease, looping her arms under your butt and making her way up the stairs.

You tried to kiss her more, but she chuckled. “Careful, sweet girl. You’re gonna make mama fall.”

It wasn’t until she made it into your room that she gently laid you down on your back and bent over to press her lip to yours.

Your hands slid up under her shirt, pulling it up over her head as she crawled on top of you. Her bra came shortly after, sliding down over her shoulders revealing her perfect chest. She had grown nearly an entire cup size since she had started pumping two months ago. Luckily she was a small C to begin with, so most of her bras still fit, if not a little snugly.

You impatiently moved down to her swollen nipples, trying to secure one between your lips in the awkward position. She buried her hand in your hair, pulling you back firmly. “Be patient, sweet girl. Let me sit down first.”

You nodded, mouth still eagerly open and eyes blown wide with hunger and desire. “Yes, mama.”

She sat at the headboard, adjusting the pillows around her lap. She beckoned you up. You crawled into her lap, laying down with your head cradled in the crook of her elbow. “There you go,” she cooed, easing you into her chest.

Your lips gently closed around her nipple. Despite your prior impatience, your position in her arms eased your eager mind. Your suckling was slow and methodical, keeping a gentle and consistent rhythm. Wanda ran her hand through your hair, cooing gently. “That’s my sweet girl. Just like that.”

There was a tense thirty seconds where she worried the milk would not come. She had just pumped hardly an hour ago. But, in time, she felt the smooth start to flow from her breast. She inhaled sharply. The hand that combed through your hair started to shake as she brought it to her own mouth. She had waited so long for this moment: she was feeding her baby from her own body. Nothing had ever felt so magical.

“Oh,” she sighed, bringing her hand back down to caress your soft cheek. The thin peach fuzz on your face felt so unbelievably soft under her knuckles as she felt the rhythmic pulse of suckling from the outside. “My baby.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, gently rolling down her cheeks and neck onto her bare chest. She was so happy. She could sit here just like this forever, listening to the peaceful sound of your suckling. Your eyelids fluttered blissfully, as if you were drinking some magical elixir that calmed every muscle in your body. You were completely limp in her arms, maybe even more so than you would be if you were sleeping. Your head was emptied of every thought. There was just Wanda and her sweet, warm essence pouring down your throat.

Wanda chuckled softly as a small drop of milk formed at the corner of your mouth. She wiped it away. “Messy girl,” she whispered playfully. Her hand worked its way down to your stomach, lifting your shirt and circling the soft skin there. She imagined it filling, swelling with her milk until you were completely sated. Until you didn’t need anything else but her.

There wasn’t very much milk, at the moment. Between both of her breasts, you were probably only able to get about an ounce. But there would be more. There would always be more for you. She would make sure of it. There would always be as much as you needed.

You moved to pull away, but she held you close. “Not yet, little love,” she requested quietly. Her hand moved lower, trailing down your bare stomach until it slipped its way under the waistband of your pants. “Let me take care of you.”

Her hand slid between your legs, edging them apart slightly. Her middle finger gently traced your slit, stopping to circle your clit. You moaned into her chest causing a small moan to escape her lips as well. She pushed your underwear aside, pushing two fingers past your entrance. The rhythm of your suckling faltered as she pumped her fingers.

The angle was slightly awkward, but it was heavenly. It was the same angle she had used to give you your first ever orgasm, with an extra finger. You didn’t know, as you had no recollection of it, but she surely did.

The base of her palm rubbed perfectly against your clit with every stroke. The pads of her fingers curled so perfectly inside of you. Your eyes, already heavy with relaxation, rolled back. Your body, already limp in her arms, molded perfectly with hers. Your mind, already void of all stress and thoughts, was overtaken with pleasure.

She could feel every whimper and moan amplified with her nipple still tucked securely between your lips. Your pleasure became her pleasure in a perfect combination of two bodies.

When you came on her fingers, the moans and vibrations that rang through her chest sent her into her own orgasm, one she didn’t expect and, quite frankly, didn’t know was possible.

After coaxing every drop of your excitement your body would allow, She brought her fingers to her mouth, swallowing down your essence as you had swallowed hers.

She finally allowed you to pull away, adjusting your body to lay on top of hers. You kicked your pants and shirt off, removing any clothes she had from her body as well. There would be nothing in between. You couldn’t bear to feel anything but her skin against hers. Your legs tangled in with hers as you rested your head in her neck.

“Mmm, I love you mama.” You hummed pleasantly, craning your neck you to kiss her jaw.

“I love you too, sweet girl,” she said, pressing a long kiss to your forehead. “More than all the stars in the sky.” She rubbed soothing circles into your back. She rocked you quietly singing you the same Sovokian lullaby she had all those years ago, coaxing you to sleep.

There was no greater place of peace anywhere in the world. You were sure of it. She was everything you needed. Everything you would ever need.