#im. beyond infuriated | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lowkeyren · 7 months ago

Text

in which : alhaitham speaks to you in 5 different languages, unaware that you understand every word he says.

wc 7.3k (pls give it a chance lol), academic rivals to lovers, unrequited hate, attempt at humor, college au, denial + pinning.. crazy ik, he falls first (and harder), tw stalking by a drunkard, a genius on paper but a total dumbass when it comes to crushes, lil smau at the end!, ft. sumeru gang. art by @/gamegatchihaja on x.

ps. translations ay nasa maliliit na titik, katulad neto!!

ps. translations will be in small letters, like this!!

PROLOGUE: GOD I HATE THIS GUY! (DOES HE THINK IM STUPID?)

the semester is nearing its conclusion, and the imminent approach of finals marks the most critical period of the year; students rush through the halls, clutching their notes and textbooks like lifelines, while you pour every ounce of effort into your studies —not just for your grades, but also to surpass a certain arrogant scholar.

alhaitham.

the name tastes like spoiled milk on your tongue, a sour reminder of all the times he’s bested you, even if it’s just by a small margin, leaving you dumbfounded when the difference between your marks during the last exam was a mere 1%.

you were groveling in front of your professor, “please, just round the marks up?” you could practically feel your dignity slipping away. and the worst part? you were so desperate that you started mentally calculating how many odd jobs you’d be willing to do just to sweeten the deal.

(maybe you’ll help organize the office, run around the campus to buy him drinks every day, or even wipe down the windows of his car…)

disclaimer: he ultimately said no, but he did compliment your impeccable taste in coffee so, a win is a win?

anyhow, alhaitham’s nonchalance only adds to your frustration, especially when he switches to a different language mid-conversation. it feels like he’s rubbing salt in your wounds, why of course you can understand him perfectly —after all, you aren’t majoring in linguistics for no reason, plus he's not the only one who’s fluent in multiple languages.

though you keep that to yourself, perhaps because the things he says in those languages, which he assumes you don’t understand, are far from innocent, unknowingly letting you have a glimpse into his true feelings.

ACT I: WHOLEHEARTEDLY, I DETEST YOU.

alhaitham would never fall in love —such irrational and illogical emotions held no value to him.

that was what he always believed, but then he saw you.

the way you laughed so unapologetically at cyno’s jokes, how you always stood firm by your beliefs, your refusal to compromise who you are; you were a breath of fresh air in a world that often felt stifling.

as much as he tries to act unfazed, he can't help the heat prickling his skin nor the way his composure falters just slightly in your presence. and when his heart raced for the first time in what felt like forever, he knew —he was completely, utterly screwed.

(“fix me, kaveh.” / “hah. who do you think i am, ‘y/n’?”)

when kaveh told him that he just had a simple “crush”, he nearly rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck there permanently.)

likewise, this ugly arrogant handsome bastard here, is one you’ll never fall in love with.

he’s infuriating, completely insufferable, and yet there’s something about him, something hidden beneath that arrogance, that draws you in. the idea that you could ever fall for someone like him seems laughable, impossible even. he's exactly the kind of person you should avoid and you know better than to be charmed by someone like him. yet, there's that nagging feeling, deep down, that perhaps you’re not as immune to him as you think.

by some stroke of luck, you’re in the same major, same year, and even enrolled in the same lecture periods, which means you end up in the same place at the same time more often than not.

but you can’t deny that, in some twisted way, you admire him. his intellect is beyond impressive, even if it annoys you to admit it. so surely, in his eyes, you’re still inferior, and you often wonder if he even considers your ideas as worthy of attention.

(they are.)

ACT II: YOUR WATCHFUL EYES, I CAN’T IGNORE.

your pen glides across the pages as you jot down notes, fully absorbed in your studies, barely registering the faint sound of distant chatter.

unbeknownst to you, a group of students has gathered just outside the lecture hall, peeking in from the door with curious, amused expressions. they’re clearly there for you, exchanging glances and murmurs, waiting for the moment you step outside.

you don’t notice, but alhaitham, seated a few feet away, certainly does.

his eyes narrow slightly as he takes in the scene. he doesn’t say anything at first, but his jaw clenches ever so subtly. as you begin to pack up, you glance up to find him standing in front of you, his tall figure effectively blocking the group outside’s direct line of sight to you.

with a discreet glance over his shoulder, he shoots them a cold, unmistakable glare. they visibly shudder, seemingly getting the message as they awkwardly shuffle away.

“what was that about?”

alhaitham leans against your desk, “nothing important,” his tone is dismissive, laced with irritation, his gaze still fixed on the now-empty doorway.

you narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “really? you just scared them off for no reason?”

“just getting rid of some… distractions,” he says casually, turning his attention back towards you. you raise an eyebrow, clearly not believing his words. “distractions? they weren’t bothering me.”

his expression remains impassive, “khi họ cứ để ý đến em như vậy… em thấy không phiền, còn tôi thì có.”

“seeing them constantly paying attention to you… you're not bothered by it, but i am.”

“bởi vì cái cách mà em chú tâm hoàn toàn vào một việc gì đó… nó quyến rũ vô cùng.”

because the way you completely focus on something… is truly mesmerising.

you blink, feeling a momentary flush of confusion and surprise at the words slipping from his mouth. did he just—? but before you can fully process it, he continues.

“vậy nên tôi cũng không thể trách họ khi họ muốn nhìn em gần và lâu hơn được.”

so i don’t blame them when they want to look at you closer and longer.

his words linger in the air, a moment passes before it clicks —he doesn’t think you understand. that’s why he’s speaking so… freely; letting slip things he’d never say outright in a language you both speak fluently.

“nhưng mà… chắc không ai trong số bọn họ có thể sánh ngang với tôi, em nhỉ?”

but… none of them can compare to me, right?

your chest tightens as a surge of warmth courses through you.

his detached attitude only fuels your irritation. but there’s also a certain satisfaction in knowing something he doesn’t: you’ve understood every single word he’s said.

feigning ignorance, you raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with what you hope is a neutral expression. "what are you going on about?" you ask.

his expression remains as stoic as ever, not a single crack in his mask. he simply shrugs, eyes still on you, "just telling you to focus more.”

your grip on the pen tightens, there's a part of you that wants to wipe that smug look off his face, to show him you're not as clueless as he assumes. but not yet —you’re curious to see just how far he’s willing to push.

"right," you mutter under your breath, tapping the pen against your notebook. "focus. got it."

he leans down slightly, one arm resting on the back of your chair while the other presses against the table, effectively caging you in.

"you're wasting time, finals are coming up." he takes a brief pause before continuing, "i wish you the best of luck, you’ll need it.”

your eyes snap up to him in a glare, “don’t you have somewhere to be?" you bite back.

alhaitham straightens, giving you a final glance before turning towards the door. “naturally, i have studying to do.”

“bởi vì tôi sẽ chứng minh cho em thấy rằng chỉ có tôi mới xứng tầm làm đối thủ học thuật của em, không một ai khác.”

because i will prove to you that only i am worthy of being your rival, no one else.

why did he frame it as if it’s a privilege only he can claim? or is he trying to… flatter you?!

you shake your head, no way, that’s ridiculous. finals are coming up, there’s no time to dwell on whatever mind games he’s playing. though if the almighty alhaitham wants a rival, then you’ll show him exactly what it means to stand at the pinnacle.

ACT III: IN MY DREAMS, I SCORED HIGHER THAN YOU.

you’re tired, the kind of tired that seeps deep into your bones. every blink stretches longer than the last and you find it increasingly difficult to focus on the words in front of you. stifling a yawn, you feel the pull of sleep tugging at you, whispering sweet promises of rest.

there’s still time till your next class.

maybe you'll take a moment to close your eyes, just for a few seconds…

did you not get enough sleep last night, or did you stay up late studying again? alhaitham watches silently from across the room, his eyes narrowing as your head droops lower, your exhaustion becoming painfully obvious with each passing second. his gaze lingers on the way your pen pauses mid-sentence, the line on your notebook trailing off as your hand grows heavy.

he pushes himself up from his seat, and approaches your desk; he notices the sunlight streaming through the window, harsh and unrelenting, hitting right over the table where you’re sitting. he looks at you —eyes closed, with the faintest crease of discomfort on your brow.

without a word, he reaches out and slips the pen from your grip, the slight shift causing your fingers to twitch, but you don’t wake.

for a fleeting second, he considers waking you. but then, as you shift again, settling more comfortably into your chair, he decides against it. what good would that do, anyway? you’d probably just brush him off and keep going until you collapse from sheer fatigue. typical.

instead, he adjusts his stance slightly, positioning himself just right to make sure the sunlight is fully blocked from your face, casting you in a cool shadow.

you mumble something incoherent, and he can’t help but roll his eyes at your state. did you really think burning yourself out like this would help you focus?

“stubborn,” he mutters under his breath.

you're always like this, pushing yourself past your limits, and while part of him respects your determination to outdo him, he won’t allow it to come at the expense of your health.

you stir from your slumber, lifting your head, your gaze lands on a familiar figure standing to the side of your table. his back turned, facing the sunlight that streams in from the window.

alhaitham.

he’s close, so close that his broad shoulders completely block out the sunlight from the window. the sight sends a rush of confusion through your already sleep-addled mind. did he… stand there the whole time? why?

you shift slightly in your seat, your movement catching his attention. without turning, he speaks in that low, steady tone of his, “you’re awake.”

“alhaitham?” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

he glances over his shoulder, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the calm expression on his face. “you’ve been out for a while,” he comments, a hint of amusement in his voice. “i was starting to think you’d sleep through your next class.”

you rub the sleep from your eyes, “why didn’t you wake me up then?”

his shoulders shift slightly as he shrugs, still facing away from you. “you looked like you needed the rest. besides, it’s more entertaining to see how long you’d stay asleep.”

a flicker of annoyance courses through you as you roll your eyes, “oh, so you mean you care?”

he turns slightly, and you can see a hint of a smirk on his lips. “don’t read too much into it. i just prefer my competition functioning at their best.”

you wish you could roll your eyes harder because this man has an uncanny talent for grating on your nerves while somehow being insufferably charming at the same time.

“ah yes —because you need me to keep up with you,” you remark sarcastically.

“exactly.” you let out an exasperated sigh as you lean back in your chair. “you really think so highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“mushiro, kimi no koto o hijō ni takaku hyōka shiteiru yo.”

if anything, i think highly of you.

your brows knit together in surprise, and you can’t help but scoff. “what was that? i didn't catch it.”

“i said i won’t go easy on you.” oh, the audacity. he’s lying again, and he knows it.

the corners of your mouth twitch in disbelief as you scrutinise his expression. there’s that familiar glimmer in his eyes, a spark of mischief that tells you he’s enjoying this too much.

“whatever,” you retort, crossing your arms defiantly. “not like i want you to anyway.”

despite your words, you can't deny that his actions earlier were surprisingly endearing. you wonder how long he intends to keep this up. perhaps it’s time you let him know.

“ii ne, kimi ga iraira shite iru toki wa kawaiikara.”

good, because you’re cute when you’re all riled up.

you feel a blush creep into your cheeks at his words, okay maybe you shouldn’t let him know. you instinctively look away, as if avoiding his gaze can help you regain your composure.

cute? what does he mean “cute”?! he thinks he can get away with calling you cute —well… well, there’s not much you can do about it, you’re not ready to confront him about this either.

the mere thought of asking him directly makes your stomach twist with a year’s worth of embarrassment. yet, as you try to refocus on the book in front of you, you find yourself biting your lip, struggling to suppress a smile that threatens to break free.

ACT IV: I WOKE UP TODAY, AND A DREAM CAME TRUE.

the hallway buzzes with excitement as students gather around the large announcement board, eager to see the results of their theses. you push through the crowd, heart pounding, the low hum of chatter filling your ears.

when you reach the front, you quickly scan the list; the moment your eyes land on your name, your breath catches in your throat.

there it is, in bold red ink at the top of the board —a score higher than you’d ever hoped for, higher than his. and your name, on top of his.

alhaitham.

you glance over and spot him approaching the board, approaching you. his expression is, as always, unreadable. but you know him well enough by now to catch the slight pause in his movements, the brief moment where his eyes linger just a second too long on the board.

you try not to think too much about it as you collect your thesis, with alhaitham following closely behind, his fingers nearly grazing yours as you both sift through the stack of papers on the table.

you take in the glowing praise from your professor, each word making you feel like every all-nighter was worth it. you clutch the paper, resisting the urge to grin like an idiot.

glancing sideways, you wait for him to say something, maybe some backhanded comment, but he remains silent. your eyes meet, and there’s a shift in his gaze as the usual sharpness in his eyes dulls ever so slightly, your smile lingering like the first light of dawn breaking through the night's embrace.

it’s subtle —just a flicker —but you catch how his gaze falters, softening, if only for a heartbeat. the edges of his stare blur, drawn to the warmth of your expression as though it’s something he hadn’t meant to witness, yet can’t look away from.

at this moment,

"looks like i finally beat you," you say, not bothering to suppress the grin spreading across your face now.

he feels like

there’s no scowl, no sign of frustration —just the slightest raise of an eyebrow. “hmm. by a point.” he pauses, studying you for a second longer than necessary before returning his gaze to his paper. “enjoy it while it lasts.”

he's in heaven.

it’s as if he’s not bothered by the outcome at all. in fact, if anything, he seems... satisfied?

"hindi dapat ganito kalala ang epekto ng ngiti mo sa akin."

your smile shouldn't affect me this badly.

“—huh?” your mouth drops slightly open at his words; out of everything, you didn’t expect him to say that. it catches you off guard, making your heart race just a little faster. if you peer closely enough, you might catch a glimpse of the gentle arch of his lips, a ghost of a smile.

the silence stretches on for a beat too long before he clears his throat and shifts his gaze away from you. “ang iyong ngiti ang pinakamagandang tanawin ng aking araw.”

your smile is the most beautiful sight of my day.

“what?” the word slips from your lips, barely a breath, a soft gasp that hangs in the air. it feels almost surreal and you wonder if you’ve misheard him.

each heartbeat thunders in your ears, a rhythm that matches the erratic flutter in your chest. why is he saying these things, what for in a different language…? there’s no way that he—

"—tulad mo na ang hinangad ko na ligawan, ngunit sa bawat ngiti mo, halip ay mas lalo akong nahulog para sayo."

—like you, who i wish to court, but with every smile, i instead found myself falling for you.

your breath hitches as your heart stumbles, the implications of his words washing over you like a wave. a rush of heat floods your cheeks, “what… did you say?”

his shoulders stiffen, and there’s a subtle tension in the way his fingers curl against the paper he’s holding. “see you tomorrow, [name],” he mutters, his voice low but hurried, and before you know it, he’s already walking away.

two strange things happened today:

1. you finally beat your sworn enemy!

2. said enemy… complimented you?

huh, it’s as if the words slipped out before he could catch them, as if he’s been holding them in for far too long, as if… you notice the way his neck reddens, even as he turns away.

behind the door, alhaitham lets out a quiet breath.

“gago… nagkamali ba ako?”

stupid… did i make a mistake?

to his dismay, an annoyingly familiar voice cuts through the silence. kaveh, who had been waiting just down the hall, notices him standing there, a little too still.

“oh, what do we have here?" there's a slight pause, followed by a raised eyebrow. "is that—no way, your face is red!” kaveh teases, amusement dancing in his eyes. “what happened there?" he leans in, clearly enjoying himself. "come on, spill the tea..!”

"not a chance," alhaitham retorts, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms defensively.

just then, kaveh spots cyno and tighnari; grinning, he waves them over. “what’s going on? did alhaitham finally crack under pressure?”

alhaitham would rather reorganise the entire library than listen to kaveh recount what happened.

“i’m leaving.”

"no, i'm afraid you're not getting out of this one.” cyno steps forward, blocking alhaitham’s path; and tighnari, who has been quietly observing till now, chimes in, “don’t leave us hanging.”

“you’re outnumbered.”

alhaitham sighs and shakes his head. he hadn’t even thought it was physically possible for him, of all people, to do something as ridiculous as blushing —until today.

(on the other side of the door, their banter echoes through, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself at alhaitham’s misery.)

ACT V: PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY, YOU SAY? BUT EVERYONE CALLS IT FLIRTING.

“i think alhaitham likes [name].”

the whole table falls silent before kaveh dramatically slams his glass down on the table, causing a splash of alcohol to spill over the edge. “oh finally, it’s so obvious! have you all seen the way he looks at them?”

across the table, tighnari taps his fingers absentmindedly on his notebook, his attention only half on kaveh’s (incoming) rant but clearly invested enough, as shown by the slight twitching of his ears, to be listening.

cyno snickers, “you’re telling me the man who can dissect any philosophical argument can’t handle a little crush? that’s rich.”

kaveh waves a hand dismissively. “come on! remember that time they were partnered up for a project? he was so... uncharacteristically patient! i’d almost say it’s cute if it weren’t alhaitham we’re talking about!”

right, it’d be almost endearing —if it weren’t coming from the most stoic, intimidatingly aloof guy in the entire school. it’d be adorable —if it weren’t alhaitham, who instinctively covers the corner of your table with his hand when you drop your pencil, ensuring you won’t hit your head as you bend down to retrieve it.

oh, you don’t notice (of course not). but your friend dehya, sitting nearby, catches the whole scene out of the corner of her eye. she raises an eyebrow, nudging the girl beside her.

(“candace, do you see that shit.” / “yeah.”)

“a soft spot for [name], you say? well, i’ve got a story of my own, too.” cyno glances around, ensuring no one else is within earshot, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. “have you noticed? he doesn’t wear his earphones when he’s around them.”

kaveh pipes up, nodding eagerly.

“he’s got those earphones practically glued to his head, he doesn’t hear anything he doesn’t want to, and he certainly doesn’t talk unless he’s forced to. but around them?” cyno pauses, pretending to think for a while. “not once. he’ll put them away entirely, like he’s actually willing to be… present.”

sure it’s small, subtle, the kind of habit no one would pick up on unless they were looking closely. but to anyone who knew alhaitham well, it tells them more than words ever could.

for him, actions speak louder than words, even if he often doesn’t realise the meaning behind his own gestures.

his earphones slide down, resting forgotten around his neck, all so he can be close enough to catch the delightful lilt of your laughter. his chair inches a fraction closer, seemingly by accident. a subtle upward twitch at the corner of his mouth, so fleeting and often passing so quickly if one weren’t paying attention.

for him, it’s a language without words.

dehya laughs softly. "for someone who supposedly ‘doesn’t like being bothered,’ he sure seems invested in whatever [name] has to say."

and what sealed their suspicions?

definitely the time when kaveh complimented nilou’s new bracelet. he glanced over at the man beside him, nudging him lightly. “what do you think?”

alhaitham gave the bracelet a cursory glance, before replying, “it’s nice.” though his gaze flickered back; and almost absently, he added after a pause, “[name] has the same one too.”

oh… oh? well that was oddly specific. kaveh’s eyebrow quirked as he fought to suppress a grin.

alhaitham had noticed a detail seemingly insignificant about [name] —the kind of thing he never cared to show the slightest interest in when it came to anyone else.

the glint in nilou’s eyes seemed to mirror kaveh’s unspoken thoughts, silently agreeing with his suspicions.

now they’re certain —100% sure, in fact —that alhaitham has a crush on you.

“well, speak of the devil… lovely seeing you here, alhaitham,” kaveh quips. tighnari, ever observant, gives him a pointed look. “your jacket’s missing.”

“someone took it,” alhaitham replies, his tone as composed as always, giving nothing away.

—nothing until you walked past. draped over your shoulders, unmistakable, is alhaitham’s jacket. you don’t notice the way every pair of eyes follows you, or the way kaveh barely stifles a triumphant laugh.

...make that 110%.

(translation: he means he borrowed his jacket because [name] was cold.)

ACT VI: IT’S YOU, WHO COMES TO MY RESCUE.

the quiet night hangs heavy, the road empty and bathed in the dim glow of distant streetlights. you weave through the streets, but no matter how many twists and turns you take, that weirdo just won’t leave you alone.

he’s been trailing behind you for blocks now, his persistence grating on your nerves, cornering you with endless “compliments” and invasive questions. you’ve tried to shake him off, but his determination far exceeds your patience.

"come on, just give me a chance," he insists, stepping closer, a little too close for comfort. you take a step back. the smell of alcohol reeks from his breath, and his grin is making your skin crawl.

"i told you, i’m not interested," you say firmly, keeping your voice steady, but the panic was starting to creep in. you glance at the empty bottle in his hand —he’s definitely drunk out his mind.

“you sure?" he completely ignores your clear discomfort. "how about you just give me your number, yeah?" he slurs out.

"no, i have a boyfriend." you lie through your teeth, hoping that would be enough to make him back off.

unfortunately, he’s as insufferable as he is persistent.

he snorts dismissively, "yeah, right. a boyfriend? you’re just playing hard to get."

you sigh, you aren’t in the mood for this, not here, not now, and especially not with someone like him. "i already told you, i have a boyfriend," your voice now tinged with frustration. "so please, just leave me alone.”

"oh, don't be like that," he steps in front of you, blocking your way. "prove it. call your boyfriend. show me you’re not lying."

your heart races as the man reaches out for you, dodging his hand, you take the chance to look behind him for an escape. just then, you see an all-too-familiar figure in the distance.

alhaitham.

you barely manage to suppress a relieved sigh as you wave frantically in his direction. he spots you almost immediately and without hesitation, he rushes over.

"what, this your boyfriend?" the guy sneers with derision, still sounding a little too cocky for someone who was about to get a reality check.

alhaitham steps beside you, you can feel his eyes on you for just a brief moment, the faintest flicker of worry flashing across his face. it’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you catch it—and it makes your chest tighten.

his voice is low, unmistakably carrying a warning, "yes, i’m their boyfriend. and if you don’t want things to escalate, i suggest you leave."

the man’s face twists as anger flares in his bloodshot eyes. he takes a step forward, his grip tightening around the neck of the bottle, the glass slightly cracking. "you think you can tell me what to do?" he slurs, gaze wild and unfocused. “y-you think you’re some kind of saviour? *hic* a-and you! how… how dare you reject me?!”

alhaitham doesn’t move, his expression cold and unbothered, and that only seems to make the man angrier. his frustration boils over, and with a snarl, he clumsily swings the bottle in his hand, aggressively lurching towards your direction.

the world seems to slow for a moment. though before you can even react, alhaitham pulls you firmly behind him with one swift motion, his other arm instinctively rising to shield the both of you from the blow. the sound of glass meeting his forearm is sharp and jarring —you can hear the high-pitched tinkle of glass scattering, the jagged shards bouncing off the pavement, and some skittering across the ground.

but he doesn’t even flinch, his stance unwavering as the man stumbles back, glass crunching underfoot. you’re still frozen from shock, your heart racing in your chest as you watch the scene unfold.

“big mistake,” he starts, and the man visibly falters. “harassment, assault —keep this up, and you’ll regret every choice that brought you here tonight.”

the man shifts around, clearly disoriented. his eyes dart between you and alhaitham, but it’s clear that the fight’s already left him. “you— you can’t do this!” the man stammers, trying to regain some semblance of courage; unfortunately for him, the tremor in his voice is unmistakable.

“do you really want to find out?” alhaitham asks, to which the man shakes his head vigorously. “get lost,” he mutters. the man, looking more pathetic than threatening now, quickly stumbles away, mumbling incoherent curses under his breath.

you’re breathless, still clutching the edge of his jacket, fingers trembling slightly as the adrenaline courses through you.

"are you alright?"

you nod, forcing a small, unconvincing smile."yeah... i’m fine. thanks to you."

alhaitham’s eyes narrow slightly, scanning you for any sign of injury. you follow his gaze instinctively, glancing down at yourself. that’s when you notice it —not on you, but on him.

streaks of red stain his forearm, where jagged shards of glass must have cut him during the confrontation. the gash bleeds steadily, a dark line of blood seeping through the fabric of his jacket.

"wait," you breathe, your heart sinking. "you're bleeding."

your stomach twists with guilt.

"why didn’t you say anything?" you exclaim.

he shakes his head, a dismissive gesture that does nothing to ease the knot forming in your stomach. "it’s nothing," he says, but the slight furrow in his brow and the tension in his jaw betray his words.

"nothing?" you fix him with a hard glare. "idiot… you just blocked a glass bottle with your arm, don’t try to downplay this."

you grab his sleeve, tugging it gently but firmly, the fabric sliding beneath your fingers as you pull it up. “—and unless you think an infection is ‘nothing’, you’ll let me take care of this."

"hold still," you murmur as you settle beside him on the couch, your supplies spread across the coffee table in front of you.

the scent of antiseptic fills the air as you take a disinfectant wipe and gently dab it against the gash. the sting of the alcohol makes him flinch slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. you mutter a soft apology, your movements slow and deliberate as you try to be as gentle as you can.

you open a tube of ointment, squeezing a small amount onto your finger before smoothing it carefully along the edges of the cut. the cool gel glides over his skin, and you can feel the tension in his arm ease ever so slightly under your touch.

“nǐ zhème guān xīn wǒ, huì ràng wǒ wù huì de.”

if you care so much about me, i might misunderstand you.

your fingers pause briefly, the words catching you off guard. you glance up at him, but he only averts his gaze, his eyes remaining fixed on a distant spot beyond the room.

misunderstand? misunderstand what, exactly?

the bandage wraps securely around his arm as you smooth it into place. as you tuck the end of the bandage, his voice comes again, just as soft, but no less clear.

“—wù huì nǐ duì wǒ yǒu gǎn jué.”

"—misunderstand that you have feelings for me."

your brain short-circuits, and in your shock, your hands jerk. in turn, the bandage tightens way too much, causing him to wince and tense up. before you can apologise, he lets out a light chuckle.

“suǒ yǐ nǐ dān xīn wǒ… nǐ shì bù shì gù yì ràng rén xīn dòng de?”

“so you're worried about me… are you purposely trying to make my heart race?”

his words only make you more flustered, and you find yourself fumbling to fix the bandage. “i’m sorry! i didn’t mean to—”

his chuckle only grows softer, and you catch the glint of amusement in his eyes. “it’s fine.”

you quickly finish adjusting the bandage, trying to focus on anything other than how your heart is now racing. (ironically)

“you seem flustered,” he comments casually, as if he isn’t the one who just made your head spin. “did i say something wrong?”

you shake your head quickly, hoping to hide the flush creeping up your neck. "no, not at all.”

his lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smirk.

"nǐ bù bì yǎn shì, wǒ xǐ huān nǐ hài xiū de yàng zǐ, tǐng kě ài de.”

“you don’t have to hide it. i like seeing your flustered expression, it’s quite cute.”

(oh this bastard!!!!)

you try to speak, but the words get stuck in your throat. what do you say when someone’s teasing you so openly —and they think you don’t even realise it?

after a long moment, he stands, “it’s getting late, i should get going.” alhaitham gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment —and there it was, that trace of softness reserved only for you.

he heads toward the door, you watch him, feeling a strange sense of emptiness when he turns away.

“i’ll see you,” he pauses. "...and thank you for tending to me."

you watch him leave, the door clicking softly behind him, and the silence settles back into the room.

you blink, taking a deep breath. what a rollercoaster of a day. yawning, you turn to start tidying up, but your eyes land on something on the couch.

it’s his jacket, draped over the armrest. you notice a tear on the sleeve, just where his injured forearm had been. what truly catches your attention, however, is a folded piece of paper slipping out of the pocket.

intrigued, you unfold it, revealing his neat, precise handwriting.

ACT VII: THE SECRET I’VE ALWAYS KNOWN.

To [Name], I once believed you to be little more than a nuisance. A bright, well-meaning nuisance, no doubt, but a nuisance nonetheless. One who seemed intent only on striving for perfection, always seeking to best me at every turn, not out of malice but out of some earnest desire to prove your worth. In my arrogance, I mistook your relentless pursuit for a need for recognition, as if you sought my attention in some petty rivalry. Though very quickly, you made me think otherwise. You saw the world differently, you also saw me differently. You didn’t treat me with the reverence others seemed to, nor did you shy away from challenging me. You refused to be seen as anything other than yourself; and that, in itself, was what made me admire you —what made me long to understand you more. Now, I find that I am standing with half a heart and an emptiness I never knew I could feel, because you showed me what it truly means to crave something more, something I never thought I deserved. You may think I’m a coward for not expressing my feelings more directly, perhaps you are right. I am a coward for fearing to lay bare the vulnerability of my heart. But even in my cowardice, know that my thoughts have always been of you. If you have seen through my silence and hesitation, if you understand my actions when my words fail me, then perhaps you have already known this truth. I care for you, more deeply than I can fully express. Though I may never be able to say these things as openly as I wish, I’d like you to know that my actions have always been my confession. Even now, I’m still a coward for you. So please, if you decide to give me a chance, I’ll be waiting at nightfall. Helplessly, Alhaitham.

you absentmindedly trace the edges of the letter with your fingers while your eyes skim over his writing for the nth time, the ink seeming to blur together with your thoughts as you try to process everything. your fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket, a foolish smile creeping onto your face.

tomorrow’s nightfall feels impossibly far away, yet you can’t wait for it.

alhaitham lays on his bed, his arm aches slightly from the injury, but it’s nothing he can’t ignore. plus, the bandage you had carefully wrapped around his arm is enough to keep the discomfort at bay.

(originally, he had only planned to meet you, slip you the note, and be on his way. things didn’t go exactly to plan, but either way, he hopes you’ve read it by now.)

of all the possibilities, he’s never accounted for the one he’d be at mercy of his own emotions; he had always prided himself on his rationality, his restraint. but now? he’s reckless, absurd, foolish even —he can admit that to himself. but he finds he doesn’t care in the slightest.

for as much as he is a coward in your presence, he is just as much a fool in your absence.

ACT VIII: UNDER THE RAIN, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

“alhaitham isn’t really an expressive person, so don’t worry if he comes off as distant or uninterested. it’s not that he doesn’t care, he just… shows it differently.”

ah well, ‘differently’ indeed.

“—most importantly, alhaitham doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t care about, so you must mean a lot to him.”

maybe you didn’t mind how your heart raced when you heard that.

“don’t fuss over it [name], you’ll know when he’s in love.”

how so?

if he was in love, what would it look like? would you be able to tell, or would it be just another one of those things you had to catch on to?

you wrapped the his jacket tighter around yourself, a faint smile tugging at your lips. it wasn’t the answers to those questions that mattered, but asking them in the first place —that was what made you realize you already knew all along.

the evening air is cool against your skin; a gentle breeze stirs the trees, their leaves rustling quietly, and your heart beats louder than ever, urging you forward.

in the distance, you spot him, standing still in the dim light. and without a second thought, you quicken your pace.

“haitham.”

the sound of your voice catches his attention as he turns to face you; you can’t help but notice how his gaze flickers down for just a moment, his eyes taking in on how his jacket looks on you, before meeting yours.

his posture is unnervingly perfect, rigid almost to the point of stiffness …is he nervous?

“hey,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “there’s something i need to tell you… though you’ve probably already figured it out. you’ve always been sharp.”

“i… ” he falters, and it’s the first time you see him hesitate. “i’m not sure how to put it… since i’m not exactly great at this.”

you tilt your head, subtly urging him to continue.

“but you’ve managed to make me care about things i never thought i would. and now i can’t seem to stop thinking about it —about you.” his voice lowers, softer now, but there’s a rawness there that’s unmistakable.

“i’m telling you this now, because not saying it... doesn’t feel right anymore."

suddenly, you feel a soft mist that barely kisses your skin, a slight chill against your cheeks, then a few tiny drops, until they start to gather in your hair, the beads of water slipping down the back of your neck, but you don't move. neither does he.

his hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, droplets trailing down his temple. his clothes cling to his frame, soaked by the rain, yet his attention remains solely on you.

“[name], i am irrevocably in love with you.”

you stand there, the rain falling relentlessly around you, the pitter-patter mirroring the frantic beat of your heart. the water trails down his face, but it’s hard to tell if it’s just the rain, or something else.

his lips part, as though he wants to say more, but the words seem caught in the storm, swallowed up by the downpour. the rain is cold, but his gaze? his gaze feels impossibly warm.

it’s only when you feel the dampness of his jacket beneath your fingers, that the words finally come. “you don’t need to convince me of that.”

you take a step closer, and for a moment, the world outside seems to disappear.

“i’ve known,” you add. “but hearing you say it,” you pause, allowing yourself a small smile, “makes all the difference.”

reaching up, your fingers graze his damp skin as you gently push a wet strand of hair from his forehead, the warmth of your touch lingering against his cool skin.

“'uhibuk aydan, alhaitham.”

i love you too, alhaitham.

a single droplet slides down his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw before falling to the soaked fabric of his collar. another follows. and then another. his breath catches in his throat, and a shaky exhale leaves his mouth.

you wrap your arms around him, and he sinks into your embrace, his hair tickling your cheeks, as his chest rises and falls against yours.

“you’re gonna make me cry too, idiot,” you murmur, burying your face in his chest, your eyes glassy. “you really are a fool,” you tease softly, a slight smile playing on your lips. “but only for me.”

slowly, his hands rise, trembling slightly, until they cup your cheeks, gently stroking it.

“la yujad 'ahad akhar 'urid 'an 'akun 'ahmaq min 'ajlihi.”

there’s no one else i’d ever want to be a fool for.

his palms are surprisingly warm despite the weather. his thumb grazes your cheekbone as he leans in, and the world falls away —nothing but the warmth of his presence and the soft press of his lips against yours.

“this is my first time in ten years seeing this guy cry! can you believe it?!” kaveh whisper-shouts, peeking out from behind the shrub.

nodding along, cyno agrees, poking his head out just right below the blond’s. “[name] is truly exceptional. though i must say, seeing alhaitham cry is quite tear-rifying.”

kaveh rolls his eyes in exasperation. “ugh, you and your puns.” he mutters under his breath while zooming in on his phone, which is currently recording the whole scene.

“quiet down, you two!” a voice hisses from behind them —tighnari, face flushed with panic. “they’re literally right there, and you’re making more noise than a herd of goats.”

“relax, we’re out of their line of sight anyway!” kaveh raises his phone higher, almost giddily, eyes glued to the screen. “and damn this is a good angle.”

tighnari exhales sharply, “you’re incorrigible.”

“look who’s talking,” cyno raises an eyebrow at tighnari… who’s also peeking out from behind the bush. (what a hypocrite)

…

“they kissed oh my g—” kaveh’s voice rises in disbelief, but cyno quickly covers his mouth with a swift hand. the three of them scramble to duck behind the bush just as you turn to glance in their direction.

(“is that… senior kaveh?” you squint your eyes, “cyno, and tighnari?”

alhaitham clears his throat before glancing over at his friends with a deadpan expression. “yes and unfortunately, they’re very invested in my personal life. so please don’t mind them."

you laugh, finding the whole situation a bit too amusing. “not in the slightest, but i’m sure they’ll never let you hear the end of it.”)

EPILOGUE: IN EVERY LANGUAGE, I HEAR LOVE YOU.

“how long?”

you blink, feigning confusion. “how long what?”

alhaitham’s eyes narrow slightly, an expression you know well. “how long have you understood everything i’ve been saying?”

you bite back a smile and offer a small shrug, “...ever since you started?”

his lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you can’t tell if he’s upset or impressed. then, he sighs, almost amused. “and you let me embarrass myself all this time?”

“you were being honest,” you shrug, a smirk forming. “plus i knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “may ideya ka ba kung ano ginawa mo?"

do you have any idea what you’ve done?

"mas lalong umibig sakin?"

made you fall in love with me even more?

you tease, but there’s a tenderness in your voice that softens the edge of your words.

“yes, and you really are insufferable,” he mutters with no malice. his tone is different now. softer. warmer, even.

you lean in slightly, a playful glint in your eyes. “that’s not what i heard you say before.” your fingers graze the skin of his cheek before you tenderly pinch it, giggling softly at the reaction you provoked.

in one smooth motion, he catches your hand before you can pull away and tugs you towards him, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. you tilt your head back to meet alhaitham’s gaze.

you’ve often thought he’s the most-perfect boyfriend, undeniably handsome in every way —but there’s really just one flaw: his height.

“ugh, you’re too tall," you grumble, rubbing the back of your neck. "i’m having a neck sore just looking at you."

he quirks an eyebrow at your sudden words. “you could use a stepstool.”

"or," you counter, "you could get on your knees and save me the trouble.”

he slowly lets out a breath, his lips curling ever so slightly.

“'akida, 'antaziri hataa 'ashtari alkhatama.”

sure, just wait till i buy the ring.

"wh—"

he crosses his arms, "what’s wrong? isn’t that what people expect when someone gets on their knees?"

you roll your eyes, half-smiling. "fine, then i’ll eagerly wait for that day.”

his gaze softens as his hand reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face; his eyes drop to your lips for a moment, and you know what’s coming even before he speaks.

this fic was not sponsored by duolingo, but with the help of my beloved friends!! wouldn't have been possible w/o em please give them a round of applause xx

vietnamese — @https-sourlimes

tagalog / filipino — @vxnuslogy

arabic — @ughscara

chinese, japanese — me!

ty @mitsvriii for proofreading, love u all <3

and thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated ^^

pspspss check out the cool fanart / comic based on this fic here by @rei-plswork 🤍

MASTERLIST.

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spockasmr · 1 year ago

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bl3 was bad writing but i still like to play it. it's fun and loud enough to occupy me. wonderlands and new tales kinda feel like an insult to my intelligence which might be deserved considering i bought them thinking they wouldn't be That Bad. not Worse, surely? but worse they were.

#and i got guilt tripped at the end of each one into thinking i was being unfair #wonderlands isn't even FUN bc the combat is actually so boring. the enemies don't spawn in at the right intervals and are too spread out in #these elaborate maps with too many corners to make it feel like anything is happening #one credit where it is due. really enjoyable character creator to Me. i spent the majority of my time in there unlocking cosmetics #drastically changing my character.#story for both was beyond childish and meaningless LOL im so mad im SO infuriated at how much time i wasted #quote from man who wanted to see stapleface **** anu #*liveblogging #i was going to really get into the narratives here but genuinely? too stupid for me to even bother

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uwooyoungs · 1 year ago

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#trying to talk w/ my parents about palestine is so infuriating bc theyre boomers and theyre all like #well if u look at it politically since the us has been allied w/ israel for so long #they want to keep that alliance #and im just. i dont give a FUCK about global alliances the fact that the us saw israel committing genocide and just continued/s doing #absolutely nothing is insane #and totally unjustifiable international relations or no #like how they can possibly look at everything and not be utterly horrified by the us' complicity #and support of netanyahu is Beyond me

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bueckets · 3 months ago

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Office Hours

Pairing: student-athlete!Paige x tutor!reader

Genre: enemies to flirting to losing your mind, paige is a little shit, slow burn but not really, tension so thick it’s basically a third character, paige is failing bio and somehow it’s your problem, cocky athlete x academically unhinged girl, tutoring sessions turned emotional warfare, dirty shirley temples, smut incoming

Description: Paige Bueckers is failing biology, and you're the unlucky tutor assigned to drag her out of academic disaster. What should be a simple arrangement becomes anything but, thanks to her complete lack of focus, relentless flirtation, and the infuriating way she manages to get under your skin—and into your head.

Between chaotic study sessions, surprise bar encounters, and more sexual tension than should legally exist between two people trying to discuss mitochondria, it’s clear that the real test isn’t the midterm. It’s whether you can make it through the semester without either making out with her—or killing her.

One thing’s for sure: Paige isn’t the only one getting schooled.

WC: 9.6k (and growing)

Notes: im back?

The library is way too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own breathing sound deafening, where every shuffle of paper or tap of a pen echoes like a gunshot. It’s the kind of silence that should be perfect for studying. Should be.

Except Paige Bueckers is sitting across from you, and Paige Bueckers doesn’t give a single shit about studying.

Instead, she’s leaned back in her chair like she’s lounging courtside instead of being one bad test score away from academic probation. She’s got her long legs stretched out beneath the table, sneakers tapping lazily against the floor. Her hoodie—way too oversized for someone whose entire existence is dedicated to agility and precision—is slouching off one shoulder, and she’s twirling a pen between her fingers like she’s dribbling down the court with a shot clock winding down. The sleeves are bunched up just enough to show her forearms, strong and lined with faint muscle from years of training, but the only thing working right now is her mouth.

Grinning. Smirking. Teasing. Doing everything but reading the goddamn textbook in front of her.

“Alright, Paige,” you sigh, pushing your notes toward her for what has to be the third time. “We need to focus. You will fail this class if you don’t start studying.”

Paige doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t move an inch beyond a lazy stretch that makes her hoodie ride up just slightly, flashing the waistband of her shorts. Her smirk deepens like she can feel you noticing.

“Yeah,” she drawls, tilting her head, “but then I’d have to take it again next semester. Which means more quality time with my favorite tutor.”

You stare at her. She stares back. The kind of look that feels like a staredown before tip-off except way less athletic and way more are you seriously this insufferable?

She holds the eye contact, easy as anything, while you struggle to remind yourself that she is only your student, not a professional flirt sent to ruin your life. Her eyes gleam in the dim library lighting, playful and sharp at the same time. Her lashes are unfairly long, brushing against her cheeks when she finally blinks.

Your heart rate picks up. Not from that. From the academic crisis happening right now. Obviously.

“You’re not failing on purpose, right?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

Paige tilts her head, pretending to ponder, lips pursing slightly. “Hmm. No, but if I did, would that be kinda cute?”

You groan dramatically, dragging a hand down your face. “I am this close to committing academic misconduct and just taking the test for you.”

Paige gasps. Actually gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in faux offense. “Wow. I knew med school was intense, but I didn’t realize you were out here ready to commit federal crimes for me.”

“That’s it,” you announce, pushing back from the table. “I’m done. I quit. Find someone else to teach you about mitochondria.”

You barely make it an inch before Paige reaches across the table and hooks two fingers around your wrist, tugging you back down like you weigh nothing. Her grip is firm, all strength and control—like she’s grabbing a rebound, like she’s got her hands on the game ball in overtime. Your pulse jumps again, this time definitely because of that.

Her fingers linger for a second longer than necessary before she releases you. But she’s still watching you, expression softening just slightly around the edges. “C’mon, stay,” she says, voice lower now, like a secret. “I promise I’ll actually pay attention this time.”

You cross your arms. “Oh? And what changed?”

She leans forward this time, elbows on the table, chin propped on one hand. The lighting catches the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw. She’s smiling, but it’s something different now—something slower.

“Figured out that if I fail,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “I won’t have an excuse to see you anymore.”

Your brain does a full system reboot. Error. What the fuck did she just say?

“Wh—Paige.”

She just winks, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip for half a second before her grin spreads, slow and satisfied. “What? That was cute, right?”

You grab your pen and point it at her accusingly. “You are so goddamn lucky you’re good at basketball, because if you had to rely on your brain—”

“I’d still get by,” she interrupts smoothly, shooting finger guns at you. “People tend to go easy on the charming ones.”

Your mouth actually falls open. Not on purpose—just an involuntary reaction to the sheer, unbelievable audacity of this girl. She’s failing biology, hasn’t written down a single note, and still has the goddamn nerve of a mathlete coasting through an easy A.

You snap your jaw shut, you refuse to let her see how flustered you are. You refuse. “Okay, charming one, then explain the process of cellular respiration.”

Paige squints, lips pressing together as she sucks in a breath through her teeth, nose scrunching like she’s really trying to make something shake in that head of hers. “Uh… it’s when cells… respire?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly through your teeth. “We are so, so fucking doomed.”

She just laughs, kicking her feet out beneath the table, accidentally knocking her knee against yours. “Relax,” she says, her grin widening. “You love tutoring me.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” she nods, completely sure of herself. “You totally have a little crush on me.”

You let out a dry, incredulous laugh—one of those sharp, breathy ones, all eyebrows raised and head bobbing. “Yeah, sure.”

She shrugs, tapping a finger against the open page of her biology textbook like she might actually start paying attention. Then, without looking up—

“Nah, I know.”

You blink. Paige blinks back.

The air between you tightens like a taut shoelace, pulling, pulling—dangerously close to snapping. You could be the bigger person here. You could roll your eyes, let it go, return to the noble pursuit of keeping Paige Bueckers from academically imploding.

But something about the way she’s looking at you—too smug, too sure—strikes a competitive nerve in you. And you’re not about to lose anything to her. Not a game, not a staredown, and sure as hell not a battle of wits.

So you shift in your chair, tilting your head, letting your lips curl just slightly. “Oh, you know?”

Paige leans back again, arms crossed, shoulders loose. She’s cocky, sure, but there’s something anticipatory in her gaze—like she knows you’re about to challenge her and she’s thrilled about it.

“Mhm.” She nods, casual as ever. “Crystal clear.”

You hum, feigning thoughtfulness, tapping a finger against the open textbook. “Wow. Must be nice. I thought you struggled with retention, but here you are, remembering things that have literally never been said.”

She gasps. “Rude.”

“You’ll get over it,” you deadpan.

Paige, of course, does not let it go. She tips her chin up, meeting your gaze with something wicked and playful tangled in the blue of her eyes. “Okay, fine. You don’t have a little crush on me.”

You exhale, relieved.

“But you definitely think about me when I’m not around.”

Your breath catches. Paige sees it. Her grin stretches wider, knowing, smug.

Oh, you are not letting her have this.

You scoff, shifting back in your chair, fighting the warmth creeping up your spine. “Paige, you are in my life solely because you can’t pass basic biology. I think about you in the same way people think about a fire alarm that won’t stop beeping.”

“Ah, so constantly?”

You scowl. She beams.

“That’s fair,” Paige shrugs, stretching her arms over her head, and the movement makes her hoodie ride up again, flashing a sliver of tanned stomach. “I am pretty unforgettable. Even when I’m annoying.”

“Especially when you’re annoying,” you mutter.

Paige smirks, but then, as if sensing your growing frustration, she sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes and dragging her textbook closer. “Alright, fine. I’ll study.”

You narrow your eyes. “For real?”

She winks. “Scout’s honor.”

“Paige, you were never a scout.”

“Prove it.”

You sigh but relent, watching as she flips open the book and actually—miraculously—starts reading the page in front of her. You take a sip of your now-cold coffee, reveling in the small victory.

For a blissful forty-five seconds, Paige is silent. Then—

“So, like,” she starts, “mitochondria. That’s the powerhouse of the cell, right?”

You pause. Blink. Lower your coffee. “Yes?”

Paige throws her hands in the air. “Let’s gooo. I’m a genius.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Paige, you have three weeks until your exam. We need to cover way more than that.”

“Okay, okay,” she soothes, putting her hands up in surrender. “Next question.”

You flip to another page, glancing up briefly to make sure she’s paying attention.

She’s not. She’s looking at you.

You pause, caught off guard by the way she’s watching you—not with teasing amusement or lazy smugness, but with something softer. Warmer. Curious.

“Paige,” you warn, shifting uncomfortably.

She blinks, then grins again, but there’s something slightly less sharp about it now. “Nothing, nothing,” she mutters, shaking her head, flipping a page in her book. “Just thinking.”

You hesitate, unsure if you want to ask, what about? But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, turning your attention back to the book. “Okay. Explain the process of osmosis.”

Paige tilts her head dramatically. “Is that, like, when you just chill through life and things come to you naturally?”

“Oh my god, no,” you deadpan.

She grins. “Damn. Thought I was onto something.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “We are so fucked.”

Paige just laughs, bright and easy. “Nah. You’d never let me fail.”

She says it like it’s a fact. Like she knows, without a doubt, that you’d never let hers fall behind. And the worst part is she’s most definitely right.

She twirls her pen between her fingers, spinning it effortlessly like a basketball rolling off the tips of her hands. It’s hypnotizing, actually—the smooth rotations, the lazy way her fingers flick with just enough control to keep it from dropping. She’s been doing this for the last ten minutes, and not once has she even pretended to read the page in front of her.

Meanwhile, you’re hunched over your notes, taking deep, steadying breaths. You tell yourself you won’t let her test your patience today. You won’t get dragged into her game. You won’t—

“Paige,” you say, voice strained.

“Hm?” she replies, still flipping her pen effortlessly.

“Please read.”

Paige hums noncommittally. Turns a page without reading it. You inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. “Paige.”

She finally looks up, resting her chin on her palm, eyes bright with amusement. “What? I’m absorbing information. Through osmosis.”

You close your eyes, count to three. Consider what your life would be like if you had literally any other tutoring assignment.

“You are so lucky you’re athletic,” you mutter, flipping the page back to where she was actually supposed to start reading. “C’mon. Photosynthesis. What do you know?”

Paige stretches her arms behind her head, her hoodie riding up slightly—distractingly—before she drops back down with a smirk, looking at you like she’s about to deliver the most groundbreaking scientific revelation of all time.

“Plants… make food?”

Your eyelid twitches.

“Correct,” you deadpan. “And they do that through—”

“The power of love,” Paige interrupts, placing a hand over her chest. “And sunlight.”

You grip the edge of the table. Consider flipping it over. “Yes. Because that’s what biology is. Disney magic and good vibes.”

Paige grins. “Exactly.”

You open your mouth—probably to unleash a scathing lecture about the sanctity of science—when a shadow hovers at the edge of the table. You glance up—because you always have to glance up when people stop by your study sessions with Paige—and find a girl, probably a freshman, clutching her phone like it’s a sacred artifact.

She shifts on her feet, looking like she’s debating whether she should even speak to Paige. You can already see where this is going.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” the girl says, eyes darting between you and Paige, before ultimately landing—unsurprisingly—on Paige. “Could I, um, get a picture? If that’s okay?”

Paige doesn’t miss a beat. She shifts effortlessly from Slacker Paige to Cool Superstar Paige, flashing an easy grin as she leans back in her chair like she expected this. Like this is as common as someone asking her to pass the salt at dinner.

“Of course,” she says, voice warm, inviting, polished. She stands smoothly, rolling her shoulders back, exuding that same relaxed confidence she has right before sinking a step-back three.

You, meanwhile, remain seated, taking a slow sip of your coffee, already resigned to your fate as Paige Bueckers’ unofficial designated library bodyguard.

It’s routine at this point. The public adoration, the excited stammering, the sheepish thank you so much before they rush off like they just met royalty. And then Paige slides back into her chair, knocking her knee against yours like she doesn’t have an entire fan club scattered across campus.

“Where were we?” she asks casually, flipping her pen again.

You don’t even blink. “You were pretending to study, and I was contemplating my life choices.”

Paige snorts. But before she can respond, another person approaches. You glance up again, already prepared, already so tired. This time, it’s a guy—tall, student-athlete vibes, definitely not looking at you.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly nervous despite the fact that Paige is already smiling at him like they’re old friends. “Could I get a picture real quick?”

Paige grins. “Yeah, of course.”

You take another sip of your coffee. Stare blankly into the abyss. Same process. Paige stands, poses, flashes her million-dollar smile. The guy stammers out a thanks and hurries off.

You exhale. Set your coffee down. “You done?”

Paige barely has time to smirk before two more people shuffle up, practically vibrating with excitement. She notices your unimpressed expression and loses it, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Okay, now it’s funny,” she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Now it’s funny?” you echo flatly.

She grins. “Yeah. You look miserable.”

You scowl. Paige beams. Another five minutes pass before the final wave of admirers disperse, and Paige—finally—sinks back into her chair, looking far too pleased with herself.

“I should start charging,” she jokes.

You arch a brow. “Should I start charging? I’m the one sitting here like an unpaid security detail.”

Paige grins, drumming her fingers against the table. “You could be my manager, you know. We’d be an iconic duo.”

You scoff. “We’re not even an iconic study group.”

“Yet,” she corrects.

You roll your eyes but, reluctantly, glance at the time. The session should go another thirty minutes, but between Paige’s inability to focus and her impromptu meet-and-greet, you’re pretty much out of patience.

“Fine,” you sigh, shutting your book. “We’ll pick this up next time.”

Paige fist-pumps like she just nailed a game-winner. “Let’s go.”

You raise a hand. “But—”

Paige groans.

“You actually have to study next time,” you warn, pointing a finger at her like a parent scolding a child. “No excuses. No distractions. No impromptu fan club meetings.”

Paige nods solemnly. “Of course. One hundred percent. Fully locked in.”

You squint at her. “You’re lying to my face.”

She grins. “Yeah. But I did it really well.”

You let out a slow breath, collecting your things, already knowing that next time will be just as chaotic. But, somehow, you don’t hate the idea.

You barely make it two steps out of the library before Paige falls into step beside you, hands tucked into the front pocket of her hoodie, head tilted toward you like she’s waiting for something. You don’t say anything. Neither does she. But she’s still there, walking at your exact pace, still spinning that damn pen between her fingers like she’s making it her personal mission to erode the last of your patience.

After half a block of this nonsense, you finally huff. “Why are you still here?”

Paige smirks, eyes twinkling. “Wow. I thought we were friends, and you hit me with why are you still here? I think I need to sit down. That was devastating.”

You resist the urge to shove her into a trash can. “You should sit down. With a biology textbook.”

“That,” she sighs dramatically, “sounds like a you problem.”

You groan, but the corners of your lips twitch—just slightly. She glances at you again, side-eyeing, like she’s waiting for you to say something else. You don’t. So, instead, she nudges your arm with her elbow. “You heading back to your dorm?”

“Yep,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Where some people go to actually study.”

Paige grins. “Fun. I was gonna hit the gym.”

You pretend to be shocked. “No way. The gym? You? Unheard of.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. Crazy concept. Gotta keep these knees in top shape so I can keep playing dumb for you in the library.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips do twitch again. When you reach the intersection where you usually part ways, Paige hesitates—just slightly. Her foot taps against the pavement, and she glances at you, like there’s something she wants to say but doesn’t.

But then the crosswalk light changes, and she just flashes her usual grin. “Alright, I’ll see you next time. Can’t wait to waste more of your valuable time.”

You shake your head, already walking away. “You are a waste of my valuable time.”

Paige calls after you, voice dripping with smug amusement. “Admit it! You’d be bored as hell without me!” You don’t respond. Maybe, just maybe, she has a point.

You barely manage to kick the door shut behind you before dropping your bag to the floor, the weight of the entire goddamn week peeling off your shoulders like an old sticker. Your body feels wrecked—like you just played all four quarters of a game you weren’t even supposed to be in. Midterms, tutoring, the endless cycle of pretending you have your shit together when in reality, you’re two missed assignments away from a full-on breakdown.

Your roommate’s bed is empty, the perfectly made sheets an immediate giveaway that she’s already at her boyfriend’s place for the night. Which means the dorm is yours. Finally. A rare and precious occurrence, like a solar eclipse or a professor canceling class with a two-minute email. You grab your laptop from the desk, already knowing exactly how you’re gonna spend the next five hours: Desperate Housewives. Your guilty pleasure. Your lifeline. Your emotional support chaotic suburban drama. You settle onto your bed, wrapping yourself in a blanket cocoon, cracking your knuckles in preparation for an evening of zero responsibilities—when your phone rings.

You groan dramatically, not even bothering to check the screen before answering. “No.”

There’s a pause, then Jordan’s voice comes through, unimpressed. “Bitch, you don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes, I do,” you sigh, rolling onto your back. “And the answer is no.”

“You’re being difficult,” she complains. “Come out with me.”

“No.”

“C’mon. It’s Friday night. You have no excuses.”

“I have the best excuse. I’m too fucking tired.”

Jordan makes an exaggerated scoffing noise. “Tired from what? Sitting across from your little basketball girlfriend and watching her pretend she doesn’t know how to read?”

You freeze. “She’s not my—”

“Uh-huh.”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Jordan.”

“[Redacted],” she mimics in a deep, mocking tone. “Come out. I’ll buy your first drink.”

“You say that like you’re doing me a favor. It’s literally one drink.”

“Okay, and? You’re broke.”

She’s got you there.

“I have plans,” you try again.

“What plans? Watching white women commit crimes in wedge heels?”

You frown. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Because I know you.”

You press your lips together, because yeah. She does.

Jordan senses weakness and pounces. “You never go out anymore,” she whines. “It’s tragic. I’m watching my best friend turn into a sad little academic goblin. When’s the last time you flirted with someone for fun?”

“I—” You pause. And that’s enough for Jordan.

“Oh my god.”

“I don’t need to flirt with random people, Jordan,” you argue.

“Okay, then come to keep me company. Emily’s bringing her crypto bro boyfriend and I need a buffer. You owe me.”

“For what?”

“For being my best friend, dumbass.”

You let out a long, slow exhale. Your bed is so soft. Your show is right there. Your roommate isn’t gonna be back till morning, which means you could fall asleep watching hot moms commit felony-level fraud and no one would judge you. But Jordan is relentless. And also, maybe, just maybe, she’s right.

“Ugh, okay, fine, one drink,” you say finally.

She screeches. “I’LL BE THERE IN TWENTY.”

“Wait, what the— twenty?!”

“You don’t get time to back out, babe. Love you! Bye!”

The call disconnects. You stare at your ceiling for a long moment before groaning into your pillow. Guess you’re going out. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your closet like it personally wronged you.

Twenty minutes. Less than that now. Jordan is on time when it comes to dragging you out of your self-imposed hibernation, so you don’t have the luxury of procrastinating. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you debate your options.

Jeans? Safe. A dress? Too much effort. Skirt? Trying too hard.

You pull open a drawer, fingers brushing over the usual suspects: black tank, oversized tee, hoodie. The same exact shit you wear every day. You tug at the hem of your pajama shirt instead, already debating if you could get away with staying in. Jordan would literally break into your dorm if she had to.

You settle on something in the middle—black jeans that just hug your waist enough to be flattering without suffocating you, a tight long-sleeve that makes your arms look good, and sneakers. Cute but low effort.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror above your desk, and your mind does that thing. That thing where you start thinking in spirals, words layering on top of each other like a too-thick coat of paint. Jordan always looks good when you go out. The hot friend, effortlessly wanted. Guys slip her their numbers, girls compliment her makeup, and you? You’re there. Background noise. The best friend, the safe choice, the one people never approach first.

Your hands move on autopilot, pulling your hair into something presentable, smoothing out wrinkles in your shirt. Your brain moves just as fast, thoughts piling up. When’s the last time someone wanted you? Really, genuinely wanted you?

Not for help on an assignment. Not for a favor. Not as a buffer against some awkward third wheel situation. Your fingers tighten around the mascara wand as you swipe it over your lashes, the thought hitting heavier than it should.

And then there’s her. Paige. Paige, who everyone wants. Paige, whose name alone makes people light up, whose smile makes the world lean in closer. Paige, who has the kind of effortless pull that shouldn’t be real, the kind that isn’t real, except it is—because it’s her.

You imagine what it must be like. To be wanted by everyone. To have people go out of their way just to see you. To be loved by an entire fucking world that doesn’t even know you. To have that kind of pull. You shake your head, dabbing concealer under your eyes, fixing nothing. Paige doesn’t have to think about this. About being ignored. About whether or not someone is really interested or if they just need her for something else. Paige is easy to love.

Your hands are steady as you apply lip gloss, but your thoughts aren’t. Because you know what’s worse? Worse than not being wanted? Feeling like you could be—if only you were someone else. A sharp knock-knock-knock at your door makes you jump, snapping you out of whatever existential spiral you were just sinking into.

You check the time. 7:59. Jordan, always on time when it comes to dragging your ass out of the house.

“Bitch, open up,” she calls through the door, impatience already seeping through her voice. “I know you’re in there, don’t make me break in.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your phone off the bed before opening the door. Jordan doesn’t even wait for an invitation. She just steps in like she owns the place, eyes immediately scanning you up and down.

“Oh, thank god,” she exhales dramatically, throwing herself onto your bed like she just finished a marathon. “For a second, I was scared you were gonna pull some bullshit and answer in sweats.”

“I was considering it.”

“And I would’ve dragged you outside as is.”

She props herself up on her elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You look good, though. Like, sexy but nonchalant. Very ‘I don’t try but I still eat men alive.’”

You snort, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull your sneakers on. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

Jordan flips onto her back, legs kicking lazily. “Hot girl vibes activated. I’m proud.”

You ignore the way that your brain still insists on running her words through some dumb internal filter. Hot but? Sexy but? There’s always a but. Still, you appreciate the compliment.

Jordan rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “Okay, so what’s our game plan?”

You raise a brow. “Game plan?”

She grins. “Are we flirting for fun tonight? Making out with strangers? Taking free drinks and saying thanks but no thanks?”

You scoff, standing to grab your jacket. “You’re doing all of that. I’m drinking one drink, pretending I enjoy being in public, and then leaving.”

Jordan makes a dramatic gagging noise. “You’re so lame, it physically hurts me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You throw on your jacket, checking yourself one last time in the mirror before turning back to her. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Jordan squints. “You know, for someone who never goes out, you could at least try to fake some excitement.”

You sigh, grabbing your phone. “Fine.” You flash her your most half-assed smile. “Yay. Alcohol.”

Jordan stares at you for a long beat. Then she cackles.

“I hate you,” she wheezes, hopping off the bed and slinging an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, grumpy girl. Let’s get you drunk.”

You let her steer you out the door, already bracing for whatever the night has in store.

The bar hums with low conversation, the steady pulse of bass from the speakers vibrating against your ribs. The air is thick—spilled beer, cheap whiskey, the faintest trace of cologne as someone brushes past you. It’s crowded, bodies pressing in too close, the kind of warmth that clings to your skin, dampens the edges of your sleeves.

You plant your elbows on the bar, exhaling slow. Jordan’s already disappeared into the crowd, her voice lilting somewhere behind you, laughing too loud at something she probably doesn’t even find funny. You don’t bother looking back. You just need a drink, something cold in your hand, something to make this whole night feel less like a mistake.

The bartender moves in front of you, nodding once in acknowledgment, and you order—automatic, easy, something you don’t have to think about. While you wait, you glance around, taking in the room.

It’s packed, but that’s expected. The usual Friday night chaos—people gathered in clusters, leaning into one another to be heard over the music. A group near the dartboard erupts in laughter, a guy raises his arms in exaggerated victory, another flips him off good-naturedly. At the other end of the bar, a girl tugs her friend closer, whispering something into her ear, their giggles swallowed by the noise.

And then— a flash of blue. You don’t think anything of it at first. Just a hoodie, nothing more. But then there’s another. And another. A guy walks past, a UConn logo stretched across his chest, the lettering cracked and faded from too many washes. At a nearby table, someone’s peeling the label off their beer bottle, the cuff of their UConn crewneck pushed up to their elbows. A girl at the bar turns her head, revealing the unmistakable emblem stitched into the side of her cap.

Your drink lands in front of you with a soft clink. You reach for it, fingers curling around the condensation-slicked glass, but your eyes are still moving, scanning. Near the pool table, someone slams a cue stick down, shaking their head. “Bro, that was insane.”

“I told you,” another guy laughs, taking a swig of his beer. “They were fucking unstoppable.”

A bartender walks by carrying a tray of shots, and someone calls out, voice sharp with excitement—

“To the Huskies!”

A cheer rises, loud and immediate, glasses raised, grins splitting across faces. Your fingers tighten around your drink. Another voice cuts through—closer, rough around the edges like it’s been shouting for hours. “Bueckers was on fire.”

Your stomach tenses. A television flickers in your periphery, mounted above the bar, the broadcast running highlights on a loop. A flash of white jerseys, a blur of movement, the unmistakable arc of a three-pointer sinking clean through the net.

Your gaze catches on the name emblazoned across the back.

BUECKERS. 5.

Your drink sits untouched in your hand. A hand lands on your shoulder, nails cool against your skin. Jordan’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation, bright, energized.

“There you are,” she says, leaning in so you can hear her. Her breath is warm against your ear, smelling faintly of whatever sugary drink she got roped into first. “Why do you always ditch me the second we get here?”

You lift your glass, taking a slow sip before responding. “I didn’t ditch you. You ran off.”

Jordan grins, squeezing your shoulder before letting go. “Details.”

She slides onto the stool beside you, propping her elbows on the bar, the sheer confidence in her posture making it clear that she’s already in her element. You can tell from the way her shoulders are loose, from the easy way she scans the room—she’s here to enjoy herself. She tugs at the collar of her cropped tank, a calculated movement, and you don’t miss the way a pair of eyes flicker toward her from across the bar.

Of course. It never takes long. The girl is pretty—high cheekbones, sharp jaw, hair spilling in soft waves over her shoulders. She’s nursing a drink in one hand, the other tracing idle patterns into the wood of the bar. She’s been looking, you realize. Long enough for it to mean something. Long enough for it to be deliberate.

And Jordan? She notices. She always notices. You watch as she tilts her head slightly, lips curling at the edges, all slow-building amusement. Not an invitation. Not yet. Just an acknowledgment. I see you seeing me. And just like that, the girl moves.

She slides closer, just one seat between her and Jordan now, her presence a hum of subtle perfume and confidence. You feel the shift immediately, the way the space around them tightens, charged with something unspoken. You take another sip of your drink, eyes flicking between them. Jordan doesn’t look over right away. She lets it build, that delicious tension she thrives on, makes the girl wait for it. And when she finally turns her head—slow, purposeful—it’s a hook.

“Hey,” the girl says, voice smooth, honeyed.

Jordan’s lips part slightly, amused. “Hey yourself.”

There it is. The shift, the moment the conversation has already decided what it’s going to be. The girl twirls the stem of her glass between two fingers, considering. “You’re a little hard to miss.”

Jordan lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

The girl nods, a smile playing at her lips. “Saw you the second I walked in.”

You huff a quiet laugh into your drink. Jordan flicks you a glance, but she doesn’t look away for long. She’s locked in now, her full attention settling on the girl beside her.

“That so?” she murmurs.

The girl leans forward slightly, just enough that Jordan can smell whatever floral-citrus perfume she’s wearing. “Mhm.”

Jordan takes her time responding, letting the moment stretch, her fingers tapping lazily against the bar. “And what’d you think?”

The girl laughs, low and knowing. “I think I liked it.”

Jesus. You shake your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. This is Jordan’s playground, and she’s barely even started. Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts in.

“There you are, finally.”

Emily. And, by default, her crypto bro. You turn just in time to see her sliding in beside you, her expression teetering between fond exasperation and mild relief, like she was worried you wouldn’t actually show. Her boyfriend—god, what’s his name again?—is hovering a step behind her, already half into whatever overpriced IPA he’s nursing.

“Thought you were gonna bail,” Emily says, bumping your arm.

You shake your head. “Almost did.”

She laughs. “Would’ve sent Jordan to physically drag you out of bed.”

“She already threatened to.”

Jordan, not even looking at you, raises a hand and flicks her wrist. “And I would’ve done it with love.”

Emily grins before turning to Jordan, about to say something else—until she sees the girl. And immediately, her expression shifts.

“Oh,” she says, blinking once. Then, lips curving slightly, she leans in, dropping her voice just enough for you to hear. “She’s hot.”

Jordan doesn’t turn her head, but her smirk deepens. “I know.”

The girl doesn’t flinch, unfazed by the blatant cockiness, the sheer Jordan-ness of it all. If anything, she looks more intrigued.

“God, you’re unbearable,” Emily mutters, sipping her drink.

Jordan, at this point, is fully ignoring all of you. She’s gone, deep in the slow back-and-forth of a conversation that’s teetering right on the edge of something. You watch, mildly entertained, as the girl tucks her hair behind her ear, as Jordan lets her gaze flick lower, just for a moment, before meeting her eyes again.

Classic. You’re about to tune them out entirely, return your focus to the drink in your hand, when—

The door swings open.

And just like that, the energy shifts. You don’t see them at first. You feel them. A ripple through the crowd, a flicker of awareness in the way people turn their heads, in the subtle glances exchanged between strangers. The volume dips for half a second—not silence, just a shift, a momentary lapse before everything surges back up again.

Your eyes track toward the entrance—toward the new arrivals pushing through the threshold, stepping into the bar with the ease of people who know they’ll be noticed. White sneakers. Loose sweatpants. Jackets slung over shoulders. And that unmistakable color.

UConn blue.

Jordan is still locked in, her conversation with the pretty girl unfolding in the slow, deliberate way that only happens when both people know exactly what they’re doing. It’s all prolonged eye contact, subtle shifts in body language, the kind of flirting that exists in the pauses as much as in the words. Emily is barely paying attention, absorbed in some argument with her boyfriend about blockchain or whatever the hell it is he does. You’ve stopped listening.

Which means you’re just… there. Third-wheeling at a bar, drink half-finished, barely contributing to the conversation. The worst part is, no one even notices. Jordan, obviously, is in her own world, and Emily is too preoccupied with rolling her eyes at her boyfriend to remember you exist. You take another sip of your drink, letting your eyes wander.

The UConn girls have spread through the bar now, weaving into the crowd like they belong there. You recognize a few faces—players you’ve seen on highlight reels, names you don’t know but should. There’s a looseness to them, an ease, the kind of relaxation that only comes after a win.

You wonder, absently, if Paige is here. Not that it matters. The thought makes you shift slightly, pushing down something vague and uncomfortable. You finish off the last sip of your drink and set the glass down a little too hard, the soft clink barely audible over the noise.

“I need to piss,” you mutter, mostly to no one.

Jordan doesn’t react, too busy letting the girl touch her arm in that slow, lingering way that means she’s definitely coming home with her later. Emily gives a halfhearted wave, her focus still locked on her boyfriend, who is currently explaining something with way too much hand movement.

You slip into the crowd, navigating the maze of bodies with the kind of single-minded determination usually reserved for final exams and finding your phone when it’s on silent. The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floor, thrumming up through your sneakers, settling somewhere in your chest. Every step feels like walking through molasses—people shifting, swaying, arms brushing against yours in that careless way that comes with alcohol and too many bodies packed into one space.

You make it to the hallway leading to the bathrooms and nearly sigh in relief. It’s quieter here—not quiet, but enough that you can hear yourself think. The walls are still pulsing faintly with the music, the distant echo of a chorus threading through the air, but it’s a reprieve from the chaos of the main bar.

And then you see the door. Locked.

Holy fuck, you’re about to piss yourself. You try the handle anyway because maybe the universe will be kind, but no—solid, unmoving. Leaning against the opposite wall, you exhale sharply, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. Fine. You’ll wait. Not a big deal.

Except time starts dragging. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, tapping your fingers against your thigh. One minute passes. Two. You check your phone, even though you just checked your phone.

Okay. You can handle this.

Except—five minutes in, it’s not just uncomfortable. It’s annoying. Who the fuck is in there? Writing a novel? Performing a one-act play? Curing a disease?

You knock once, firm but not aggressive. Just enough to remind whoever is inside that there’s a whole world out here.

No response. Another minute passes. You cross your arms, shifting again, foot tapping against the floor. Seven minutes.

You knock again. Harder this time. “Yo.”

Nothing. Oh, come on. You glance toward the men’s bathroom. It’s right there. Completely open. No line. Just an empty doorway leading to salvation. Wouldn’t be the first time. But before you can talk yourself into it, you knock again. Hard. Impatient. At this point, you’re not even polite about it—you just hit the door. “Hurry up, Jesus Christ.”

The lock clicks. A second later, the door swings open, and out stumbles a couple—disheveled, flushed, and absolutely not here to use the bathroom for its intended purpose. The girl giggles into her boyfriend’s neck, her lipstick half-smeared, while his hands are still gripping her hips like they’re considering going back in for round two.

You don’t even react. You just shove past them, slam the door shut, and finally—finally—relieve yourself. Blessed silence, aside from the muffled bass still thumping through the walls. You take a moment to breathe, running your hands through your hair, shaking off the weird tension that’s been clinging to you all night. You’re fine. It’s fine.

When you step back out, the hallway’s busier—more people filing in, laughing too loud, waiting their turn. You navigate through them, dodging the wobbly, half-drunk girl clinging to her friend’s arm, sidestepping the guy trying way too hard to look casual against the wall. You’re almost back to the main floor when—

A hand catches your wrist. Firm, deliberate. Enough pressure to stop you, but not enough to hurt. Your breath stutters—not from fear, not exactly, but from the sheer certainty in that grip. Like whoever’s holding you already knew they would.

You turn your head. And there she is.

Paige fucking Bueckers.

Loose hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing the lean muscle in her forearms. A chain glinting under the dim bar lights, catching for half a second on the sharp line of her collarbone before disappearing beneath fabric. Her hair is a little messier than usual, like she’s run a hand through it one too many times. And her expression?

Smug. Smug as hell.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, her grip on your wrist still firm, thumb brushing once over your pulse before she finally—leisurely—lets go. “Fancy seeing you here, tutor.”

Her voice is low, teasing. The kind of tone that makes you want to roll your eyes and press your thighs together at the same damn time.

You exhale sharply. “Oh, fuck me.”

Her grin widens instantly, wolfish. “I mean, if you insist—”

You smack her arm, and she laughs. Not just a chuckle, but a full-bodied, head-tilted-back, entirely too pleased with herself kind of laugh. It’s obnoxious. It’s attractive. It’s exactly why you need to get out of this conversation immediately.

But Paige has other plans. She steps closer—just enough that you feel the heat of her body, just enough that the crowd shifts around you, forcing you to stay exactly where you are. Her gaze drops, just for a second, flickering down your outfit before dragging back up, slow, deliberate.

“You clean up nice,” she muses. “Didn’t know you owned anything other than oversized sweatshirts.”

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t know you left the gym.”

She hums, tapping her chin like she’s considering. “True. But, you know, when you drop thirty-six points in a game, you kinda have to celebrate.”

Of course she dropped thirty-six.

“And yet,” you deadpan, “here you are. Bothering me.”

Paige grins, shifting on her feet so she’s even closer, close enough that you can smell her cologne—something crisp, clean, expensive. Unfair.

“C’mon, don’t act so surprised,” she murmurs. “You knew we’d run into each other eventually.”

You raise a brow. “Did I?”

She tilts her head, amused. “Yeah. ‘Cause you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

Your pulse skips. “I have not—”

“Oh, you definitely have,” Paige interrupts, smirking. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you switching up your usual schedule. Skipping our tutoring session on Tuesday.” She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Tragic. Really had me wondering if I did something to offend you.”

God, she’s insufferable. And yet—

“Like you care,” you shoot back.

Her eyes glint, sharp, knowing. “Oh, I do.”

Something thickens in the air between you. Something tangible, humming just beneath the surface of her cocky smirk, her unwavering stare. Her fingers twitch at her side, like she’s considering reaching for you again. You see it happen, the micro-movement, the shift of her weight like she’s deliberating. And then, just as quickly, she exhales, straightening to her full height.

“Well,” she says, her voice dipping into something smoother, softer, “if you’re not avoiding me, then I guess you wouldn’t mind grabbing a drink with me, huh?”

You blink. “What.”

She jerks her chin toward the bar. “Drink. You. Me.”

You hesitate. That same pressure returns, that feeling of everyone wants her, but somehow, right now, she’s locked onto you. Paige watches you, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “What’s wrong, tutor? Afraid you might enjoy my company?”

Your jaw tightens. “I tolerate your company.”

She smirks. “Then come tolerate me at the bar.”

Your mistake wasn’t stopping when she grabbed your wrist. Your mistake was letting her talk. Because now Paige fucking Bueckers is smirking at you like she’s already won something, head tilted, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie like she’s lounging through this entire interaction. You can already feel yourself being pulled into her orbit, and she knows it.

“A drink?” you echo, squinting at her. “You? Drinking?”

Her smirk grows. “Shocking, I know.”

“Lemme guess,” you deadpan. “Protein powder with a splash of vodka? Maybe a nice gatorade-infused tequila?”

Paige gasps—actually gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like you just accused her of a heinous crime. “Wow. You think so little of me.”

“I think exactly the right amount of you.”

She exhales dramatically, shaking her head. “Tragic. Here I am, just a small-town basketball star trying to enjoy a simple, wholesome night out, and my own tutor is out here slandering my good name.”

You raise a brow. “Your good name?”

She nods solemnly. “That’s right. I am, at heart, a simple girl with simple pleasures.” Then, as if to punctuate the absolute bullshit she just said, she throws an arm around your shoulder, leaning in until her lips are a breath away from your ear. “Like dirty Shirley Temples.”

You choke. On nothing. Paige pulls back, just enough to see your reaction, the sharp glint of amusement in her gaze practically sparkling.

“No fucking way,” you manage. “You drink dirty Shirley Temples?”

She grins. “Religiously.”

“That’s—” You blink, at a complete fucking loss. “That’s the most unserious drink you could have possibly chosen.”

Paige winks. “And yet? It goes down smooth.”

“Oh, I bet it does.”

She laughs, full and warm, tilting her head like she’s considering something. “Y’know,” she muses, “I like this side of you.”

You narrow your eyes. “What side?”

Paige drops her voice, lowers it into something silkier, something that slides down your spine in a way that should be illegal. “The one that flirts with me back.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb now,” she murmurs, fingers tapping lazily against the side of your arm like she’s keeping count of your heartbeat. “You’re usually so good at keeping up.”

You hate that she’s right. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to regain some composure. “You are so full of shit.”

Paige hums. “Maybe. But you seem to love it.” And then she winks. A full, obnoxious, Paige Bueckers-grade wink.

Oh, you are not going out like this. You lean in, just barely, watching the way her smirk twitches, the way her fingers still on your arm. “Tell you what,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual, like you’re not insanely aware of how close she is. “I’ll let you buy me a drink—”

Paige perks up. “Yeah?”

“If,” you continue, “you admit that I’ve been absolutely kicking your ass in our tutoring sessions.”

Her lips part. “Oh, hell no.”

You grin. “What’s wrong? Afraid of the truth?”

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head like she’s personally offended. “No fucking way. That’s extortion.”

“That’s accountability.”

She squints at you. “You are so lucky you’re hot.”

Your breath catches. For a split second, you completely malfunction, and Paige fucking sees it.

She grins—huge, like she just sank a game-winner at the buzzer. “Ohhh, that got you, huh?”

You snap back immediately. “Did not.”

“Uh-huh.” She crosses her arms, rocking back on her heels. “You were fully thrown off just now.”

You roll your eyes, trying to pretend like you didn’t just combust internally. “You gonna buy me that drink or what?”

Paige sighs like you’ve personally exhausted her. “Fine,” she relents. “But I’m getting you my favorite.”

You smirk. “A dirty Shirley?”

She grins. “Exactly.”

And with that, she grabs your hand—just for a second, just to tug you toward the bar, just long enough to make your pulse spike before she lets go.

The bar is packed. Bodies pressed together, voices overlapping, the occasional burst of laughter breaking through the thumping bass. Paige moves through it like she owns the place—shoulders loose, hoodie slouched just right, that damn chain flashing under the dim lights. You follow, pretending your eyes aren’t tracking the way her sweatpants sit just low enough on her hips to be distracting.

She leans against the bar, elbow propped up, and tilts her head at you like she’s studying something.

You squint. “What.”

Her lips twitch. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you out.”

“You’ve had months to do that.”

“Yeah, but you keep surprising me.” She drums her fingers against the counter, slow and rhythmic. “Like, for example, I knew you had some bite to you, but tonight? You’re really showing your teeth.”

You cross your arms. “Maybe I’m just extra annoyed by you today.”

Paige hums, tilting her head like she’s considering. Then, before you can react, she leans in—close, warm, too close—and brushes her lips just against the shell of your ear.

“Nah,” she murmurs, voice dipping low. “You like it.”

A slow, rolling shiver spreads down your spine.

Paige pulls back, just far enough to meet your eyes, her smirk lazy and so fucking smug. She knows exactly what she just did. You hate that she’s right. Before you can retaliate, the bartender appears. Paige turns, all casual ease, and grins.

“Two dirty Shirleys,” she says.

The bartender raises a brow but nods, moving to make the drinks. You stare at Paige. She shrugs. “Hey, a deal’s a deal.”

“You actually meant it?”

“Duh,” she says. “What, you think I just flirt for fun?”

Your lips part, because yes, obviously, that’s exactly what you think. Paige sees the way your expression shifts, and her grin deepens. “Aw, babe, don’t tell me you thought I was playing with you.”

You blink. “I—”

She tuts, shaking her head. “See, now I really need you to drink this, ‘cause you need to loosen up.”

The bartender slides the drinks over. Paige pushes one toward you, watching expectantly. You hesitate. Paige lifts hers and clinks the rim of her glass against yours. “C’mon, tutor. Don’t be scared.”

Scared? Oh, that does it. You grab the glass and take a sip, the sweet bite of grenadine and vodka coating your tongue. Paige watches the way your throat moves when you swallow, her lips parting just slightly.

Just like that, the game shifts. You lower the glass, eyes locking with hers.

“Not bad,” you murmur. Then, mirroring her move from earlier, you step in just enough to make her breath hitch, tilting your head slightly like you’re about to say something important—something deep, something meaningful.

And then— you drag your tongue slowly over your bottom lip and the blonde’s eyes darken. You almost laugh, but her hand suddenly brushes against your waist, just a whisper of contact, the heat of her palm radiating through your thin shirt. It’s brief—so brief you could almost pretend it didn’t happen—but the way your skin burns says otherwise.

“Shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, just for you to hear.

You smirk. “Something wrong?”

Her jaw tightens. “Not at all.”

She takes a sip of her own drink, eyes never leaving yours, throat bobbing as she swallows. The moment stretches. Then—Paige exhales sharply, like she’s shaking something off, and grins. “Alright, alright, you win this round,” she admits, nudging your arm with hers. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You tilt your head. “Guess you’ll just have to keep figuring me out.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “God, you’re fun.”

Then, so casually, she hooks a finger into your belt loop and tugs. It’s playful. It’s barely anything. But it’s also everything. Because she doesn’t let go. You swallow. Hard.

Her voice is softer now, but the teasing edge is still there. “I like this side of you.”

You clear your throat, trying desperately to focus on something other than the warmth of her touch. “You said that already.”

Paige smirks. “Yeah. But I really like it.”

Paige is cocky. Too cocky. The kind of cocky that drips off her like it’s stitched into her damn DNA, like she was born knowing how to get under people’s skin, into their heads. And right now, she’s looking at you like she’s already inside yours, like she’s set up shop in the most dangerous corners of your mind and made herself comfortable. She still has her finger hooked in your belt loop. Just resting there, like she belongs there.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, sipping her drink, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of grenadine before it can slide past her lip.

Your jaw clenches. You look down at her grip on your jeans, then back up. Blatantly.

She smirks. “What, this?” She tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make the fabric of your jeans pull against your hip, just enough to remind you she’s right there.

You don’t move. “Let go.”

She hums, tilting her head. “Nah.”

Your fingers twitch around your glass. “Paige.”

She exhales, all mock exasperation, finally—finally—releasing her hold. But before you can celebrate your very minor victory, she leans in, voice dropping to something dangerously smooth. “Relax. You can touch me if you want.”

Your breath catches.

She laughs, tipping her drink toward you in mock salute. “You’re so fun to mess with.”

You narrow your eyes, pulse still skittering from the low, teasing way she said touch me. “You’re insufferable.”

Paige hums. “Maybe, you like it.”

And there it is. The line. The one she’s been waiting to say, the one she’s been circling since the second she grabbed your wrist.

You roll your shoulders, schooling your expression into something neutral. “You’re alright.”

Her brows lift. “‘Alright’? Wow.”

You sip your drink, unfazed. “I mean, you are failing bio.”

Paige scoffs. “Unnecessary.”

“Just saying. I don’t think geniuses need tutors.”

Paige smirks. “Nah, but they do need entertainment. And you, babe—” she tips her chin toward you, eyes gleaming, “—are so fucking entertaining.”

The casual babe nearly stops your brain completely.

You grip your glass tighter. “I should charge you extra.”

“For what? Intellectual stimulation?”

“For being exhausting.”

Paige’s grin widens. “Yet, here you are. Still talking to me.” She takes another slow sip of her drink, eyes locked onto yours over the rim of her glass. Watching you. Like she’s waiting for something.

You shift your weight, feeling entirely too seen, entirely too open under that gaze. Paige notices. Of course she does. Her lips part, her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek like she’s considering something.

Then—before you can react—she leans in.

Your body locks up.

She gets close. Not teasingly close, not almost close—actual close. The kind of close that makes your heart trip over itself, the kind of close that makes your breath catch in the back of your throat.

Her lips hover right there, her breath warm against your jaw. Then, quietly, smugly—obnoxiously:

“Wanna make out?”

You freeze.

She grins. “What? You look like I just asked you to solve a physics problem.”

“Are you serious?”

Paige tilts her head. “Nah, I just like watching you panic.”

She’s so fucking unbearable. You set your glass down with a sharp clink. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I’m funny.”

“You’re a menace.”

She beams. “You don’t seem to mind it.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heat of the bar, or the way Paige is looking at you like she wants something—like she’s daring you—but suddenly, your patience snaps.

You grip the front of her hoodie and pull. She barely has a second to react before your lips crash into hers. Paige groans. A low, gravelly sound that vibrates against your mouth, sending heat shooting straight to your stomach. And fuck, she kisses back.

All cocky, eager pressure, her hands already gripping your waist, her fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your shirt like she wants to feel more.

The bar melts away. The noise, the people, everything—all of it fades because Paige is right here, kissing you like she’s been waiting for you to do this since day one.

You tilt your head, chasing the taste of vodka and cherry on her tongue, and Paige makes this obscene little noise before she presses in, deeper, her teeth grazing just enough to make your knees buckle. You gasp, and she smirks into the kiss, like she knows, like she’s already winning again.

Asshole.

You yank at the waistband of her sweatpants, a little revenge, a little fuck you, and Paige laughs—low, breathless—before biting gently at your bottom lip, sending a full-body shiver down your spine. Your grip on her tightens.

She hums, pleased. “Knew you wanted me.”

You pull back, just barely, panting. “Shut the fuck up.”

Paige grins, lips swollen, eyes gleaming. “Make me.”

2K notes · View notes

joemama-2 · 6 months ago

Text

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 10.4k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation a/n: eek series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

i mean, im not that surprised he’s sexy as hell

that’s actually crazy

imagine hiding your son for five years 😶😶 how can you be ashamed of that

doesn’t he literally have a girlfriend?? himari nakamura??

↳ yep for almost two years now

↳ wonder how she’s holding up i’d be pissed, unless she knew

rich people are always shady as fuck

You don’t even know how many comments you’ve read. Staying up practically the entire night, busying yourself with the endless scrolling of people who have not a single clue of how your life actually is. Meddling in your business and acting like the shit they’re spouting on the internet is okay.

They ranged from positive (sort of) to extremely personal and negative.

i bet she just did it for the child support

i wonder if he’s actually the dad, women like that lie and lie just cuz the dad is rich as fuck

i feel so bad for that boy

Bad? Why would they feel bad for him? You’ve given everything you can and then some to ensure Koji’s safety and innocence. You’ve never put him in harm’s way, difficult situations, hit him, nothing. Of course you’ve raised your voice, but every parent does. Why are these reasons suddenly acting like they know a fucking thing or two? This is insane.

The only positive ones you see are praising your son for how cute he is, how much he looks like Satoru, and how he’ll probably get everything he wants. That’s not true, you’re not going to spoil your kid and you’re sure as hell not letting Satoru do it either; he’s humble, that’s how you want him to be. Still, you do feel uneasy at strangers on the internet for talking about your baby like this, in reference to a photo none of you knew was taken.

And you still don’t know who took it.

That’s what infuriates you the most. Because who in their right mind would do that? Who thinks they’re that fucking entitled to chime in on your personal business—your family.

When you find them, you swear on everything you’re punching them.

Your head hangs low, the hood of your sweatshirt pulled tight, shielding your face as you step into the café. You keep your gaze down, avoiding the eyes of the baristas and patrons scattered around. The familiar hum of the espresso machine feels deafening today.

Maybe no one will notice. Maybe no one cares.

But you know better.

That damn image, plastered across every TV screen and newsfeed yesterday, is still burned into your mind. Why do people even care this much? You’re beyond pissed off. Who in their right mind thinks they have the right to invade your personal life like that? To turn your family into fodder for the public?

Maybe no one will say anything. Who even watched the news anyway?

More people than you think, actually. You keep moving, but Hana has other plans.

“Y/N!” Her voice cuts through the noise like a whip, and before you can react, she grabs your forearm, dragging you into the storage room in the back.

“Hey, what the—” you start to protest, wincing as her grip tightens, but she doesn’t care. She whirls around to face you, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief.

“What the hell is going on?!” she demands, gesturing wildly with her hands. “You were on the news yesterday!”

Your stomach churns at the reminder, and your jaw clenches tightly. You pull your hood down, resigning yourself to the conversation you were hoping to avoid. “I know that already,” you snap, folding your arms across your chest.

“Koji’s father is multi-billionaire Satoru Gojo?!” Her voice rises in pitch, and she looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Is that for real? You’ve been hiding this?!”

You take a deep breath, counting to three in your head. “Yes, Hana. It’s real. Koji’s father is Satoru Gojo. Can we not do this right now?”

But Hana doesn’t back down, her wide eyes searching your face for answers. “Are you kidding me? Of course we’re doing this right now! You’ve been sitting on this—” she throws her hands up, “—while the rest of us thought you were just, like, a regular single mom? What the hell, Y/N?”

“Because it’s none of anyone’s business!” you hiss, your voice rising then lowering, not wanting anyone else to overhear. “Do you think I wanted this to come out? Do you think I wanted his world to invade mine?”

Hana softens slightly, her eyebrows knitting together in concern. “Okay, fair. But you should’ve told me, at least. I mean, I’m your friend.”

“I didn’t tell anyone for a reason and I don’t owe anyone anything,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “And now it’s everywhere. Do you know how terrifying that is? For me? For Koji?”

Hana sighs, leaning back against the wall. “Okay, okay. I get it. This whole thing’s a mess. But what are you going to do now? I mean, the story’s out. People are gonna talk, Y/N. A lot. Especially if it involves a man like him.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling heavily on your shoulders. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly, your voice trembling. “I just want to protect my son.”

Hana nods, her expression softening further. “We’ll figure it out. But you’re gonna need a plan. And.”

“Hana, I—“ you’re really trying not to snap at her, really. But she’s pushing every button you have right now and your patience is running extremely low. Don’t snap, she’s just worried. “I know what to do, thank you. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t meddle in my business too. We’re friends, yes, but understand right now that I’m going through a lot of shit and don’t need to be told what to do and when to do it. So get off my back.”

Hana blinks, a little caught off guard by your sudden announcement. Her mouth slightly agape, clearly not having expected your outburst. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, her expression shifting between hurt and something close to understanding. She straightens, her arms falling from where they’d been crossed over her chest. “Y/N, I wasn’t trying to—” she begins, her voice softer now, but you cut her off.

“I know,” you say, your voice quieter but still firm. “I know you’re trying to help, Hana. And I’m grateful, I am. But right now, I need to handle this on my own. I need space. Can you give me that?”

She nods slowly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Okay,” she says after a moment. “I get it. I’ll back off. Just—if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here. You know that, right?”

You exhale, some of the tension easing from your shoulders. “Yeah. I know.”

Hana offers you a small, tentative smile before stepping aside, giving you the room you so desperately need. As she moves to leave, she hesitates at the curtains, glancing back at you. “For what it’s worth, Y/N…I think you’re handling this a lot better than you think you are.”

You don’t respond, just nod in acknowledgment, and she disappears back into the front of the café. Alone in the small back room, you lean against the wall, closing your eyes for a moment to gather your thoughts.

Better than I think, huh? You shake your head, rubbing at your temples. It doesn’t feel that way.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said this probably won’t be that bad; not a big deal. But hell, it was huge. You hate unnecessary attention, especially attention from hundreds, if not thousands of random strangers. You’re recalling the incident from earlier when you dropped Koji off at school. Mr. Ito stopping you once more and confessing his surprise to you. In his words, “I didn’t know Koji had such an…esteemed father.”

You held back a slew of insults, keeping it classy, as always. But as the days go on and the more shit that seems to be happening to you, you’re getting this close to breaking that. It’s the way he, everyone else, and even Hana seems so…shocked. The lingering glances from other parents at drop-off, the whispers in the hallways. It’s the way their surprise feels so…palpable. You get it, in a way. Satoru Gojo is larger than life—powerful, wealthy, and untouchable in a way most people only dream of. But still, the shock in their eyes stings more than it should. Did they think you weren’t of caliber to bag a man like Satoru? Did they think a man like that wouldn’t even dream of having a child with a woman like you? It feels a tad bit insulting. Actually, scratch that—it feels like a slap in the face.

The implications gnaw at you, poking at insecurities you’d rather not acknowledge. This is exactly why you hate social media. You’re already growing too conscious of the comments people are making—caring too much and it was just revealed. And the worst part? You can’t even fully blame them. Satoru’s world is one you’ve never truly belonged to. You’re not the glossy, magazine-cover type, and you don’t have the pedigree or connections his circle would expect. But that doesn’t mean you’re less than, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean Koji is any less precious because of it.

You sigh, rubbing at your temples. If only these people could see you for who you truly are—if they could see the strength it takes to raise a child on your own, to hold your head high even when the world tries to tear you down. But no, all they see is the scandal and the drama, their curiosity morphing into judgment. Sure, you made mistakes—big and bad ones. But you’re doing all this in order to make up for those mistakes. And sure, Satoru doesn’t 100% forgive you—you’re not sure he ever will—but you don’t think he would agree with these kinds of comments being made. Right?

You huff. Let them talk, you think bitterly, though the tightness in your chest betrays the confidence you’re trying to muster. Let them all talk, they know nothing.

The minutes feel like hours. Unsure of how long you’ve exactly been here. Equally nervous about looking at your phone to check.

“Oh my god, look. It’s her.”

“Shhh! She’ll hear you.”

“I wonder if she’ll give us pointers.”

“You’re insane.”

The conversation doesn’t fly over your head. t’s like they want you to hear, voices loud enough to penetrate the usual clatter of the café. You swear, they’re practically aiming their words right at you. Your grip tightens around the rag in your hand, knuckles going white as you scrub the already spotless table. The motion is a little too aggressive, the poor table bearing the brunt of your simmering frustration. Your jaw clenches, brows knitting together as you try—desperately—to keep your temper in check. Jaw clenching and brows knitting together, you’re counting down to ten and back.

One…two…three… you recite in your head, attempting to steady your breath. It’s an old habit—one you learned a while back from you’re therapist, one you’ve relied on in situations like this, but today it feels like it’s barely working. Four…five…six.

You glance up, just for a second, and immediately regret it. The group of girls sits near the window, leaning into each other as they giggle, their eyes darting your way. They’re not even trying to hide it anymore. One of them, a blonde with an annoyingly perfect smile, nudges her friend and whispers something, sending the others into another fit of laughter. Your fingers flex around the rag, itching to throw it across the room. Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe. They’re not worth it. But it’s hard to ignore the knot tightening in your chest, the sting of humiliation creeping in despite your best efforts. Because you know exactly what they’re laughing about, what they’re whispering about. It’s not just idle curiosity—it’s judgment, plain and simple. And maybe, just maybe, if this were any other day, you’d let it roll off your back. But today? After everything that’s happened? After seeing your son’s face plastered on screens and hearing people dissect your life like it’s a soap opera? You toss the rag onto the table, standing up straighter as you look their way. They immediately quiet down, eyes widening like they’ve been caught red-handed.

“Can I help you?” you ask, voice calm but carrying just enough edge to make them squirm.

The blonde fidgets, her confidence faltering under your gaze. “Oh, um, no, we were just…”

“Enjoying your coffee?” you finish for her, forcing a tight smile. “Good. Let me know if you need anything else.” Without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel and walk behind the counter, the satisfaction of their stunned silence doing little to ease the weight in your chest. Nine…ten… You exhale slowly, trying to let it go, but the anger simmers just beneath the surface.

It’s going to be a long day.

—-

The walk back home with Koji feels like you never want to use your senses again. It feels like a marathon you never signed up for, every step heavier than the last. The pounding in your head has escalated into a full-blown migraine, the sharp pain clawing at the edges of your skull. You clench your teeth, trying to hold it together, willing the tears pricking at your eyes to stay put. Koji chatters beside you, his small hand in yours, his voice a muffled hum against the overwhelming throb in your head.

So much has changed within just the span of a week and none of it feels good. You like change, but not like this. Not the kind of change that’s so spontaneous and out of nowhere that it makes you dread the littlest things. The kind of change where you feel like every way you turn, it’s a dead end. Every thought spiraling into another reminder of how much you’ve lost control, or of how much you never had it to begin with. The kind of change that you never fucking asked for in the first place. The kind of change where you feel like a ticking timebomb. A simple walk home feels like an obstacle course. The sound of Koji’s innocent laughter, once a balm to your soul, now feels like a weight pressing down on you, a reminder of how fragile your balance is.

This change doesn’t come with warnings or instructions. It doesn’t let you adjust, and doesn’t give you the chance to prepare. It just dumps its baggage on your doorstep and forces you to deal with it, whether you’re ready or not. And right now, you’re not.

The last thing you want to do is blow up on someone who doesn’t deserve it, especially your son. You glance down at him, his bright eyes scanning the world around him with that endless curiosity only a child can have. His tiny fingers grip yours with a trust that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand the storm brewing inside you. And he shouldn’t have to.

“Mommy, are you okay?” Koji’s voice is soft, his head tilted as he looks up at you with concern.

You force a smile, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” you manage, squeezing his hand gently. “Just tired.” He nods, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and resumes his animated recount of the day’s events. You let him talk, his voice a small distraction from the noise in your head. One step at a time, you tell yourself. One breath at a time. For him, if not for yourself.

You wonder to yourself how many more times you can continue repeating that phrase to yourself, like a broken record spinning endlessly in your mind. Shouldn’t you be allowed to do some things on your own? Something that isn’t tied to the constant grind of making sure Koji has everything he needs, of shielding him from a world that feels more hostile every day? Everything you do is for him—every decision, every sacrifice, every moment of biting your tongue when you want to scream. It’s all for him.

But what about you?

The thought is bitter, curling in your chest like smoke. It feels selfish even to entertain it, but the exhaustion is suffocating. How long has it been since you’ve done something just because you wanted to? Since you’ve allowed yourself the luxury of thinking about what you need, instead of what everyone else expects of you? Is it selfish? Is this not how a good mother thinks?

The doubt gnaws at you, persistent and sharp.

Not like you’d know the answer to that question. Your mother—a woman you rarely ever want to think about—never gave you the guidance for situations like this. You have no inspiration, nothing. You’re doing everything free-handed. She didn’t leave you with blueprints for moments like these, no voice in your head to tell you what’s right, what’s wrong, or even what’s okay. She was a void, an absence, and that absence shaped you more than you’d like to admit.

And now here you are, trying to be everything for your son that she wasn’t for you. But it feels like you’re fumbling in the dark, building something fragile with trembling hands. There’s no instruction manual for this, no map to follow. You’re doing everything on the first try, improvising as you go. Every decision feels like a gamble. Did you do enough today? Did you do too much? Did you make the right call, or are you setting him up for something you can’t even see coming? The uncertainty is exhausting.

You glance at Koji, his small hand still tucked safely in yours, his voice cutting through the haze of your thoughts. He’s so blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging inside you, and that’s how it should be. He deserves that innocence, that security. But the weight of always being the strong one, the reliable one, is starting to crush you. How much longer can I keep this up? The question whispers in your mind, and you hate it. You hate that you’re even asking it, hate that it makes you feel weak. But the truth is, you’re tired.

And you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that you’re not.

You focus on Koji again, his small frame silhouetted against the afternoon light of the day. He trusts you implicitly, and looks at you like you’re the answer to everything. And the weight of that trust makes you want to cry and scream in equal measure. How can I possibly live up to that?

They never said motherhood was easy. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. Maybe this is what being a mother really is—second-guessing everything, carrying the weight of your own past, and still showing up every day, trying your best.

You don’t know if that’s enough. But it’s all you have.

It seems like you’re in for a surprise every second of the day.

Satoru, much to your own dismay and confusion, is perched against your apartment door; waiting for you again. Like a magnet, Koji runs into his lower half, hugging his father with all the strength his five-year-old body will allow.

“Hey, little man. I’m happy to see you.” Satoru smiles wholeheartedly, patting Koji’s back with gentle ease.

“Hi, Papa! I missed you.” His voice is muffled by Satoru’s clothing.

The older man laughs, relishing in the moment for another second, before opening his light azures. His eyes look like they’re darting all around you, as if making sure you’re okay. Standing up, he shuffles his hands in his pockets.

“What are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you mutter, walking up closer. Arms crossing.

He nods. “I know, I–I should’ve told you. But this was urgent and I knew you were busy at work.”

A hum is all you offer, unlocking your apartment door and stepping in. The semi-warmth envelops you like a worn blanket. Finally, in the comfort of my own home. Even if it is just for a little bit before you’re off again.

“Call off his babysitter.”

You look back, watching him close your door and lock it. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m here.”

Koji runs off to his room, presumably to play with his toy collection. Leaving the two adults alone. Biting your lip, attempting to come up with something to say—or what to say first. Luckily, he beats you to it. “I want you two to spend the night at mine, don’t go to work. I’ll pay you whatever you miss out on. I know you saw the leak and I’m working on figuring out who the hell did it. But until then, I’m a little concerned for your guys’ safety, so stay at mine until we figure things out long-term.”

You stare at him, caught off guard by the resolute earnestness in his voice. The Satoru you know isn’t usually this serious, this concerned. It’s disarming—attractive, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. “This is my home, Satoru,” you finally say, your voice quiet but firm. “I can’t just up and leave because of a leak. And I can’t run every time something like this happens. That’s not a long-term solution either.”

“I get that,” he says, stepping closer. “But this isn’t just about you. It’s about Koji. Someone took that photo, and I don’t know who, or how, or what their intentions are. Until I do, I can’t take chances.”

“And I get that, but I can’t just—sleep at your place.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s just…weird.”

“Fuck, Y/N,” he exhales out. “You think something’ll happen? It won’t. I'm doing this for Koji and you because I care. Not because reviving something that’s long-ended is my priority.”

“It’s not about that,” you snap, your voice rising before you catch yourself. You close your eyes for a second, exhaling sharply, trying to rein in your frustration. “It’s just... complicated, Satoru. You showing up like this, offering to fix things with money, with solutions I didn’t ask for, for problems I never wanted—it’s overwhelming.”

He takes another step closer, his presence filling the small entryway. “You think I don’t understand that?” His voice softens but carries an edge of urgency. “Y/N, I’m not trying to make this harder for you. I know this is all... messy. But I can’t sit around and pretend I’m okay with you and Koji being here while someone out there is bold enough to invade your privacy like that. I’m trying to protect you. You can’t keep pushing me away like this, you said you wanted to make things better.”

“I know, but—”

“Then stop it. Stop arguing, complaining, whatever. You’re not going to keep me out of Koji’s life any longer, or yours. They already posted another damn picture of you today at work.”

What? You blink your eyes, widening them. You don’t even want to see the photo evidence, gulping down the weird lump that forms in your throat. What the fuck is going on with my life right now? You hesitate, biting your lip. His words chip away at your defenses, but the walls you’ve built don’t crumble that easily. “And what happens if we go to your place? What’s next? You swoop in, play hero, and then leave us when this blows over?”

His jaw tightens, the faint hurt flashing in his eyes almost imperceptible. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?” you counter, arms crossing tightly over your chest, a weak attempt to shield yourself from the weight of the conversation. “That’s what you always do, Satoru. You show up when it’s convenient for you, and when it’s not, you disappear.”

The words hang heavy in the air, stinging both of you. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m not leaving you this time,” he says quietly, lifting his eyes back to yours. “Not until I know you two are safe. I’m not running, Y/N. Not from this. But you have to stop trying to keep me at arm's length, I’m trying my best to help.” His eyes lock onto yours, pleading yet determined. You hate how convincing he can be when he’s like this. How he makes you question your own resolve. “Please,” he adds, his voice dropping. “Just for a little while.”

The conviction in his voice is startling, and it makes something inside you waver. You’re tired, too tired to keep arguing, too tired to keep carrying everything on your shoulders. It’s true, you’re feeling yourself pushback on him. He deserves this—time with Koji, protecting him, and more. It’s just so hard breaking from the fragile bubble you built for your son and you. Satoru’s presence is like a sharp knife, waiting to just poke through it with ease, to get to his family.“Fine,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “But just for tonight. Koji and I will come to your place for tonight.”

Relief washes over his features, but he doesn’t smile. He nods, stepping back to give you space. “That’s all I’m asking.”

As you turn away to gather what you need for the night, you catch a glimpse of Koji peeking out from his room, his eyes wide with curiosity. You put on a smile for his sake, but deep down, you can’t shake the unease settling in your chest. This isn’t just about staying at Satoru’s place. It’s about what this means—what it could mean—and the part of you that still isn’t sure you’re ready to face it.

The inside of Satoru’s Mercedes is spacious, but asphyxiating. Koji in his car seat in the back, watching something on his tablet. This is the first time you’ve been in the car with Satoru since way long ago. It’s nostalgia, but sickening at the same time. You remember how he would place his hand on your thigh, squeezing it lightly. Or how he likes to rest his hand on the gearstick, or his elbow on the middle console.

Your skin prickles with goosebumps when he brushes against your arm as he reaches for the temperature controls, adjusting the heat. It’s a small, thoughtless gesture, but it sends an involuntary jolt through you. You glance out the window, pretending to admire the blurred city lights instead of acknowledging the memories flooding back. The hum of the car engine fills the silence, an uncomfortable contrast to the weight of everything left unsaid. Koji giggles at something on his tablet in the backseat, his innocence a stark reminder of why you’re here and why you can’t let your emotions take over.

“You okay?” Satoru’s voice breaks the quiet, calm yet cautious.

“Fine,” you reply quickly, too quickly. You keep your eyes glued to the window, your arms crossed as if to shield yourself from the proximity.

He stops at a red light, leaning back in his sight. He’s a pro at side-eyeing you as you’re faced away. Seeing the way your hands ball into small fists. Nervous. Your foot is tapping on the floor. Thinking. And if he looks closer at your chest, he’ll notice how it’s rising up and down a little more quickly than normal.

Oh.

He clears his throat, looking forward as the light turns green. Focus on driving, focus on driving. He doesn’t push, but you can feel his gaze flickering toward you now and then, like he’s reading every shift in your posture, every flicker of hesitation. It’s infuriating how well he knows you, even now. You glance at Koji briefly before turning your gaze back to the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks as the car moves. The nostalgia you felt earlier morphs into a bitter taste in your mouth. You hate how easily Satoru slips into the role of a doting father, as if the years of his absence never happened.

You need to get a better hold of your jealousy.

“You’re quiet,” Satoru says, breaking the silence.

“Just tired,” you reply curtly, not bothering to look at him.

He hums, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. “Long day, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “You could say that.”

His gaze flicks to you briefly before returning to the road. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal. But I’m glad you’re coming with me. It’s the right thing to do.”

You let out a dry laugh, finally turning to face him. “The right thing to do? Since when have you ever cared about the right thing, Satoru?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then he exhales deeply, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “I care now. Now that you’ve granted me that option,” he says quietly.

You want to scoff, to throw his words back at him, but there’s something in his tone that makes you pause. Something raw, unguarded. The way he gets out those snark remarks angers you, but only further solidifies the weight of your actions, and the fact that things will never be the same.

The rest of the drive is spent in silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts. When the car finally pulls into the underground garage of his penthouse building, Koji’s excitement is palpable.

“Wow! This place is huge!” Koji exclaims, his eyes wide as he looks around.

Satoru chuckles, stepping out of the car and opening the back door to unbuckle Koji. “Wait till you see the view, buddy.”

You follow them, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. As you step into the elevator, you can’t help but feel like you’re being pulled back into a world you thought you’d left behind—one of complications and heartbreak. Satoru presses the button for his floor, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Relax, Y/N. It’s just for one night.”

You don’t respond, staring straight ahead as the elevator begins its ascent. But deep down, you know it’s never just one night with Satoru.

“No running.”

“Sorry, Mama.”

You place Koji and your bags on one of the chairs in the kitchen, watching your son rush to his father’s living room. Satoru follows him, hands on his hips. “Hey buddy, bought some toys for you. Do you want to play with them? You like Spiderman, right?”

If possible, Koji’s eyes light up even more with excitement. Gasping and squealing, nodding his head furiously. “I love Spiderman! Mama threw me a Spiderman birthday last time.”

Satoru hums. “Wish I coulda seen that.”

You freeze at Satoru's words, your hand halfway to unpacking one of Koji’s bags. His tone is light, almost wistful, but it feels like a loaded statement—one that stings more than you’d like to admit. You glance over at him and Koji, your son practically bouncing on his toes as Satoru kneels to pull out a neatly wrapped box from a hidden cabinet. “Here you go,” Satoru says, handing it to Koji. “I think you’ll like what’s inside.”

Koji tears into the wrapping with glee, revealing a Spiderman action figure set. He gasps, clutching the box to his chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “Thank you, Papa! This is so cool!”

Your heart twists at how easily Koji has taken to calling him that. It’s like Satoru’s sudden presence is a gift he didn’t realize he’d been missing. And yet, for you, it’s a reminder of the years of absence—of the birthdays and milestones Satoru missed. “Please, don’t spoil him too much,” you mutter, finally unpacking Koji’s things and setting them on the counter.

Satoru looks over his shoulder, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “What’s wrong with a little spoiling? He deserves it.”

You exhale sharply, not bothering to mask your irritation. “What he deserves is consistency.”

His smirk falters, standing back up to his full height and coming over to you. Keeping his voice level calm, in case Koji decides to listen in. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head.

Satoru narrows his eyes slightly, his expression unreadable as he watches you busy yourself with Koji’s things. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

You let out a humorless laugh, refusing to meet his gaze. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. Don’t read into it.”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t push further—not yet. Instead, he leans against the counter, folding his arms as he observes you. “Y/N, you can’t be the angry one in this situation. I thought you understood that.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m just—” you let out a big breath, looking up at him once more. “I’m tired. Forgive me if I’m not overly happy right now.

Satoru’s gaze softens, his posture relaxing slightly, though the tension in the room lingers like a heavy fog. “I’m not trying to add onto that, I’m just trying to be here for my son.”

I know that. I don’t know why I’m snapping. All you can offer is a nod, reaching into your bag, and grabbing a change of clothes. “I…I’m gonna go shower, watch him please.”

Satoru nods, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before shifting to the living room where Koji is engrossed in his toys. “Of course. Take your time.”

You offer a small, tight-lipped smile before retreating down the hall, clutching the clothes in your hands like a lifeline. Once you’re inside the bathroom, the door clicks shut behind you, and the weight of everything crashes down. Leaning against the counter, you grip the edge tightly, your knuckles turning white as you take slow, measured breaths. The mirror reflects a version of yourself you hardly recognize—tired, frazzled, and barely holding it together. The faint hum of Koji’s laughter echoes down the hall, grounding you for a moment. At least he’s happy. That’s what matters.

The shower is a welcome escape. The hot water cascades over your skin, washing away the grime of the day and the lingering tension from your conversation with Satoru. You let your head fall forward, droplets sliding down your face, mingling with the tears you didn’t realize had started to fall. You didn’t mean to snap at him. He’s trying, you know that. But the past doesn’t let go so easily, and the overwhelming mix of emotions—anger, fear, hope—leaves you feeling unsteady. And you feel angry at yourself for letting your emotions slip through, getting the best of you. You’re surprised Satoru hasn’t been more outwardly rude to you, short, or even snappy. It seems like he’s taking this all better than you are, and once again, that bitter jealousy of yours is shining through. How he can just handle things so smoothly—at least that’s what it seems like. But he’s used to all this: the spotlight, public eye, attention. You just wish things could’ve been handled…differently.

Everything feels like a domino effect, starting all with that dreaded day at the grocery store. How so much has changed.

By the time you step out, you feel a fraction lighter, though the knot in your chest remains. You towel off, change into your clean clothes, and take a moment to steel yourself before heading back into the fray.

When you return to the living room, you find Satoru sitting cross-legged on the floor with Koji, holding up a miniature Spiderman figure. Koji is giggling, animatedly explaining an intricate story about how Spiderman saves the day. Satoru glances up as you walk in, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Hey. We’re just working on a top-secret mission over here. No big deal.”

Koji looks up too, beaming. “Mama! Papa’s playing Spiderman with me! He’s really good at the voices.”

You can’t help the small smile that forms, even as your heart aches a little at the sight. “Sounds like you two are having fun.”

Satoru nods, his expression soft. “We’re a good team.”

You stand there for a moment, watching them, the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders once more. Maybe this is what Koji needs. Maybe this is what you need. But trusting him again…that’s the hardest part.

That night, eating dinner at Satoru’s long dining table, the same one where you faced his parents, it all feels strange, to say the least. The clinking of cutlery against porcelain plates echoes faintly in the vast dining room, filling the silence between the three of you. Koji hums to himself as he picks at his plate, occasionally glancing at his father to tell him some small details about his day or ask about the toys he’d gotten earlier. Satoru engages him with ease, his tone light and playful, but you can see the flickers of something deeper behind his smiles—guilt, maybe, or a desperate need to make up for lost time.

And then there’s you, sitting stiffly at the other end of the table, your appetite wavering as your mind keeps drifting back to the last time you sat here. That memory is sharp and vivid, like an old wound that hasn’t quite healed.

But Koji’s laughter brings you back down to Earth. Looking up from your plate of food to the sight before you. Father and son, son and father, family. They look so alike, you don’t think you can ever get over the blatant resemblance. Satoru’s genes are just very strong. You wish Koji could’ve inherited a few more things from you. You place a hand on your lower stomach, as if a physical touch will make the strange abundance of butterflies flying around in there to go away.

It’s strange, this setup. Domestic in a way you never thought you’d experience with him again. But it’s also…nice.

It feels whole, like this is how things should be. Would’ve been had you not held your tongue for so long. And you’re starting to think to yourself how much you like this sight. How it’s making you feel at home.

But this isn’t your home. However, you think you can pretend for just one night.

“You’re not eating much,” Satoru says, pulling you out of your thoughts. His voice is casual, but there’s an undertone of concern.

Your eyes widen at him, realizing you’ve been caught staring and quickly looking back down. “I’m fine,” you say, forcing a small smile. “Just sleepy, I guess.”

“I bet,” he says, and while his tone is conversational, his gaze lingers on you, searching for something beneath your calm facade.

“Yeah,” you reply shortly, stabbing at a piece of vegetable on your plate. You don’t want to talk about your day or your worries or the mounting anxiety sitting heavy in your chest. Not here, not now.

Koji interrupts before Satoru can press further, his voice bright and full of excitement. “Papa, can we watch a movie after dinner? Mama too!”

Satoru grins, lightly pinching his cheekbone. “Of course, buddy. What movie are we watching?”

Koji claps his hands together, listing off a couple of titles before settling on one of his favorites. You manage another smile, this one a little more genuine, as you watch the way Satoru effortlessly makes Koji light up. For a moment, the tension eases, and you let yourself focus on Koji’s joy. Maybe this is enough for now. Maybe that’s all you need to get through the evening.

But as you glance at Satoru across the table, his eyes catching yours for a brief second, you’re reminded of how fragile this truce feels. Of how much history lies between you, threatening to resurface at any moment.

Koji picks Spiderman, of course. You’ve watched this movie at least a hundred times now, maybe more. You can practically recite the lines perfectly. The movie plays on, the familiar dialogue flowing like background noise to your swirling thoughts. You’ve seen this scene so many times—the hero’s triumphant swing through the city, the bad guy’s dramatic monologue, the moments of comic relief Koji always laughs at—but tonight, it feels different. There’s an added layer of tension sitting heavy between you and Satoru.

The living room feels unusually cozy, the dimmed lighting casting a warm glow over the space. Koji wiggles in his spot, clutching a Spiderman plush as he stares at the screen with unblinking eyes, thoroughly engrossed. You, on the other hand, are trying not to let your exhaustion bubble over. Koji sits between you two, Satoru’s arm over his little shoulders. Satoru’s arm rests casually behind Koji, but every so often, as he adjusts his position, his fingers graze your shoulder—a light, fleeting touch that feels far too deliberate to be accidental. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, but he seems entirely focused on the movie, his face relaxed, a small smirk tugging at his lips during one of Koji’s excited reactions. So, you ignore it. But you do shift slightly, creating just enough distance to break the contact. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

Koji laughs out loud at a particularly funny scene, leaning against Satoru’s side. “That’s so cool, Papa! I wanna do that someday!”

Satoru chuckles, ruffling Koji’s hair. “Maybe we’ll get you a Spiderman costume, and you can be the hero of the city.”

Koji beams at him, his excitement is contagious. For a brief moment, you allow yourself to appreciate this dynamic, the way Satoru fits so naturally into Koji’s world. You hate to admit it, but this is what Koji’s been missing—what you’ve been missing, too, in some small, buried way. Satoru’s hand once again brushes your shoulder during his next adjustment, that buried part of you is quickly overshadowed by the reminder of why this dynamic fell apart in the first place.

Luckily, Koji is already showered and dressed for bed in his matching red set. So as the movie progresses, nearing its end, so does his sleepiness. You along with him. Koji’s head begins to droop as the credits start to roll, his little body leaning further into Satoru’s side. His eyelids flutter with each blink, his earlier excitement now replaced by the slow pull of sleep. Satoru’s about to make a remark, before looking over at you and seeing your body slumped over on the other side.

The scene feels peaceful in a way he hadn’t anticipated—a rare moment of quiet amidst the chaos that’s been your guys’ lives lately. Koji’s soft breathing grows steadier, his small body completely leaning into Satoru’s side now, one hand clutching his Spiderman plush while the other hangs limply at his side. Satoru glances down at his son with a faint smile, brushing Koji’s hair out of his face with a tenderness that makes his chest ache. He looks over to you next, ready your head resting on your hand. Your expression is soft, lips parted slightly as you drift into the kind of sleep that only exhaustion can bring. Satoru looks at the clock; 9:00pm.

For a moment, he just watches you both. Koji, who looks so much like him it’s almost uncanny, and you, the woman who’s somehow always managed to throw him off balance without even trying. He sighs softly, shaking his head at the scene before him. For a split second, he feels a shadow—a ghost from the past appears beside Koji. A baby girl who would’ve been seven by now.The baby girl who never got the chance to grow up. In that fleeting, haunting moment, he imagines her sitting there too, nestled beside her brother, giggling at Spiderman’s antics. He can imagine her features. She would’ve looked so much like you, it’s painful.

His chest tightens, and he has to look away, focusing on a random corner of the room as he fights to steady his breathing. It’s not fair—to her, to Koji, or to you. And yet, here he is, caught in the what-ifs and the might-have-beens, unable to let go of a past that feels like it happened both a lifetime ago and just yesterday. The glimpse is gone as soon as it comes, to which he’s thankful for because he is not crying right now. With a small grunt, he stands up and carefully moves Koji into his arms. Adjusting the boy and making sure he’s not waking up, he walks him over to the spare bedroom.

Satoru moves quietly, his footsteps soft against the floor as he cradles Koji in his arms. The boy’s head rests comfortably on his shoulder, his small body relaxed and completely unaware of the careful handling. The weight of his son in his arms, the warmth of Koji’s tiny form, is a stark reminder of everything he’s been missing. He pushes the door to the spare bedroom open gently, trying not to disturb the silence of the house. The moonlight filters through the curtains, casting a calm glow across the room. Satoru places Koji carefully on the bed, tucking him in with the same gentle movements he’s always used. He watches for a moment as the boy shifts slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips before settling back into a peaceful sleep.

For a second, Satoru just stands there, hands lingering at Koji’s side as if unsure of when to leave. It’s as if the past week—no, the past years—are catching up to him in this very moment. He never thought he'd be here, standing in a room like this, watching his son sleep under a roof that used to feel so distant. His chest tightens, but he refuses to let himself feel the weight of it. Not yet. Not with Koji so close. With one last look, he slowly pulls away, stepping back into the hallway and quietly closing the door behind him. The house feels colder as he moves through it, but this time, it’s not because of the empty spaces or the lingering tension. It’s because, for the first time in years, he’s truly trying to figure out where he fits in all of this.

And it’s a lot harder than he ever expected.

He walks back to the living room, your body now completely lying on your side. His lips purse as he stands before you, unsure if he should wake you or move you himself. Would that be okay? Is he crossing some boundary of yours if he touches you fully and intentionally?

Satoru stands there for a moment, studying you as you sleep. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your body curls slightly into the pillow, creates a sense of peace in the room, but also a sense of tension in him. The pull to reach out, to make sure you’re comfortable, is strong. But he hesitates, his mind racing with thoughts about boundaries, and the last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable, especially when everything already feels so fragile between the two of you. He watches for a few more seconds, the quiet of the room making everything feel so... still. He doesn’t know how he got here, standing in the middle of the room, feeling so torn. Part of him wants to just go ahead and make sure you’re properly tucked in, like he did with Koji. But that other part of him continues to wonderf if that’s overstepping, if his presence, even now, feels intrusive. Satoru exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. Finally, he decides to attempt to recreate his actions for Koji; it’s the least he can do.

He bends his knees slightly, hands reaching out. But just as his fingertips graze your bare arms, you’re jolting up and awake. Head swiveling around, eyes barely open and bleary. “What’s happening? Where’s Koji?”

Satoru freezes, his fingers hovering in the air as your voice cuts through the stillness. His eyes flick to you, wide and disoriented from the abruptness of your awakening. "Y/N?" He murmurs, his voice low and hesitant, almost as if he's unsure whether you’re fully awake. "Koji’s in the other room, he’s asleep."

You sit up, rubbing your eyes, still trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. Your thoughts are jumbled, disoriented from the deep slumber you’d just woken from. “I— I didn’t hear him... when did he go to bed?”

Satoru, still crouched by your bedside, lets out a soft sigh, his expression softening. "I put him down a few minutes ago. He was out before the movie ended." He pauses for a second, watching you carefully, his hand still lingering awkwardly in the air as if unsure whether to touch you or not. "You were really tired, so I thought I'd handle it."

You blink, the fog in your mind barely beginning to clear. Slowly, you nod, still trying to process everything in the haze of your exhaustion. “Thank you.” The words come out quieter than you expect, but there’s something in your voice that surprises both of you.

Satoru’s gaze lingers for a moment, a mix of concern and relief flashing in his eyes. He stands up, backing away from the bed slowly. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he says softly, hands running through his hair as he takes a step toward the door. “But you should go to bed. You can sleep with Koji or um—in my bed if you want.”

You stare at his figure, the weight of the situation still pressing down on you. There’s so much

happening, so much you didn’t expect, and yet… for some reason, having him here, like this, almost feels normal. You rub your temples, trying to stave off the headache forming.

“I’ll sleep out here, of course,” he quickly adds on, realizing the small, but accidental hinting.

You raise an eyebrow at his quick backpedaling, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your lips. It's been a long time since you shared any sort of space with him—especially under these circumstances. But the way he’s stumbling over his words, trying so hard to make things comfortable, it makes you wonder if maybe he’s not as composed as he likes to act. “Thanks,” you murmur, rubbing your temples again. The migraine's intensity is growing, and it's all you can do to keep your emotions in check. You hadn’t expected this—any of it. Satoru’s presence here, offering you comfort in his own odd way, only complicates everything more. You never asked for this kind of help, but you can't deny the relief it brings. “I’ll sleep with Koji.”

Satoru’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer, his expression softening as if he’s weighing his words carefully, trying not to overstep. He knows you’re not the type to ask for help. Hell, you hardly ever accept it when it’s offered. But tonight is different. Tonight is full of a thousand unspoken things. The lingering tension, the awkwardness of it all, and the confusing emotions between you two. It’s all too much, too quickly, and yet you feel the pull of something familiar—a bond you haven’t felt in years. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Almost like he’s waiting for you to give him some kind of permission or reassurance, something that lets him know you’re okay. His presence, his concern for Koji, it’s all so overwhelming in its own way.

You hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens just having him this close, even if it is just in the same house. “I’ll be fine,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended. The last thing you want to do is drag him back into your life fully. But he’s already here, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you're too tired to argue. "You don’t have to stay out here." The words hang in the air for a beat.

You take this moment to rise from the couch, wiping your eyes once more. “Where is he?”

“Spare room,” he points.

You nod, more to yourself than to him, and retreat to the spare room. The migraine pounds in the background of your mind. Mind still riddled with sleep, you accidentally bump your shoulder into the wall, footsteps faltering. He moves faster than you anticipated—expected, his hands finally making contact with your upper arms; stablizing you. His touch itself feels reminiscent.

His grip on your arms is steady, firm—just like it used to be. You catch your breath for a moment, not expecting the familiarity of his touch to feel so grounding. For a split second, you’re taken back to moments from the past, the memories of simpler days when his touch brought comfort instead of tension. You want to pull away, to remind yourself that things aren’t the same anymore. But you’re too tired, too worn out, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into the stability he’s offering without question.

"Careful," Satoru’s voice is quiet, but there's a soft edge to it, like he’s genuinely concerned. His hands stay on your arms, not pulling away immediately, as if waiting for you to give him a signal that you’re okay.

You blink, the haze of sleep making everything feel just a little more surreal. "I’m fine," you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper, but it lacks conviction. Your body feels heavier than it should, and your mind seems to be swimming in fog.

He doesn’t let go right away. Instead, his fingers give a slight squeeze, a small, unspoken reassurance. "You sure? You look like you’re about to fall over."

"I’m just... tired," you say, the words slipping from your lips before you even realize. You wince internally, but it’s too late to take them back now. There’s no point.

Satoru nods, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the hallway, but the way his eyes linger on you makes something in your chest tighten. It’s like he’s still trying to figure you out, still trying to read you after all these years. He always was good at that. Without saying much more, he gently guides you to the door of the spare room, a hand hovering above the small of your back; his touch still light but firm. He’s not pushing you, just there, a quiet presence in the storm. "Get some rest. I’ll be nearby, just in case."

You nod, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and frustration well up inside you. "Thanks," you murmur, finally able to pull away from his grip and step into the room.

Before you close the door, you glance over at him, standing there in the hallway, his figure outlined by the soft glow from the living room. "Good night," you add, your voice a little softer than you meant it to be.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that you can’t quite place. After a beat, he says quietly, "Good night, Y/N."

And then, with one last look, he walks away, leaving you alone in the quiet darkness of the room. The door clicks softly behind you, and for the first time in days, you feel a small sense of peace—fragile, uncertain, but there all the same.

Satoru has taken the liberty of getting Koji dressed and ready for school. Shushing his son with quiet murmurs so you won’t wake up. He’s a little surprised, but you must be that tired. Satoru usually wakes up earlier than most, having went to go check on you two, but getting shocked to see his son using the bathroom instead and saying something about how “Mama’s still sleeping, I have school.”

He’s a smart kid—a very smart kid. He guided Satoru the entire ride, remembering the name of his school and which streets to use. You raised him well. He parks his car in the lot, it stands out like a sore thumb among the civics, corollas, and trucks.

Carrying Koji in his arms towards the boys classroom. “Excited, buddy?”

“Mhm!”

Satoru smiles and kisses his cheek. “I’ll pick you up, okay?”

“Okay, Papa. Thank you.” Koji gratefully responds.

“No need to thank me, Koji. It’s my job.”

Satoru can feel the lingering stares and hushed whispers as he walks down the hallway to his son’s class. Ignoring it like a pro and focusing on one thing and one thing only. As they approach his room, Mr. Ito is standing outside like usual. As soon as the man sees the two, his eyes visibly widen before playing it off with a cough of his throat. “Good morning, Koji. Gojo.”

Satoru remembers the guy as the one from the cafe. That one. He nods in understanding, setting Koji down and crouching with him. “Have a fun day, I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Papa.” Koji kisses his cheek and rushes inside happily.

"Morning," Satoru replies coolly, standing tall as he watches Koji run off to join his classmates. "I trust Koji’s been good?"

"Of course, of course," Mr. Ito replies quickly, his smile tight, the words coming out a little too fast. "He’s been a delight to have here. Very bright."

Satoru nods, but his eyes never leave Mr. Ito’s. "Glad to hear it."

There’s an awkward silence that stretches between them, but Satoru isn’t in the mood for small talk. He could read the teacher’s discomfort, and he’s not about to play into it. After all, it’s not like they’re friends, or even acquaintances. Mr. Ito shifts on his feet, and Satoru can tell he’s trying to think of something to say, something that will smooth over whatever awkwardness hangs in the air. “So, where’s Ms. Y/N today?”

Satoru’s brows tick, arms crossing. “At home.”

Mr. Ito nods, clearly trying to gauge whether there’s more to the story, but Satoru doesn’t give him any openings. He’s not in the mood to entertain questions about you, not now, not here, especially not from someone like him. "Ah, I see," Mr. Ito mumbles, his voice trailing off as he shuffles his feet again. "I just thought... well, with everything that’s been going on, I expected to see her here, too."

Satoru’s eyes narrow, though his expression remains calm, just a hint of warning in his tone. "She’s handling things on her own. We’re both doing fine. You don’t need to worry about it. You have a class full of children to teach."

The other man hides his displeasure behind a stiff nod. “Right, right. Just wondering, that’s all.”

“Don’t have to, she already has a man for that.”

Satoru wonders why he’s being do damn weird right now. Possesive almost. You two aren’t together, but the way this guy is asking about you, it’s slightly setting him off. Who does he think he is worrying about you?

Mr. Ito falters, his smile fading as Satoru’s words hang heavy in the air. "Right, of course," he mumbles, clearly taken aback. He shifts on his feet, his eyes darting to the ground before locking back onto Satoru. "Just asking, I mean… it's just a lot going on, you know?"

Satoru’s gaze hardens, the protective instinct that rises within him catching him off guard. He takes a slight step closer to Mr. Ito, his tone deliberately neutral but carrying an edge. "You don’t need to worry about her. She’s got it covered."

There’s a flicker of something in Mr. Ito’s eyes—something that hints he’s about to say something else, but he swallows it down, nodding stiffly instead. "Yeah, of course." He quickly looks away, clearing his throat. "Well, I guess I’ll… I’ll get back to the class."

Satoru stands still for a moment, his posture rigid, a sharp edge in his expression as he watches Mr. Ito retreat. He doesn't know why it bothered him so much. The guy wasn’t even doing anything wrong, not really. But the way he was asking about you—like he had any right to—made something inside Satoru twist uncomfortably. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this man didn’t belong in your world, that he had no place prying into your life.

Satoru finally exhales, shaking his head. Whatever. It was just a teacher.

With one last glance at the classroom door, he turns and heads back to the school doors. There's no reason to overthink this. It’s just… odd. He can’t let it get to him.

You wake up that day to a lone bed. Groaning to yourself as the sunbeams spray across your face and momentarily blind you. Hand reaching out for the space next to you. Instead, you see a note saying: dropped koji off, i’ll be back around noon to grab some lunch. sleep up

Instantly, your eyes widen, springing up out of bed. Reaching for your phone, the time reads 11:30pm. “Shit!” you curse to yourself, rushing out the door and to your bag still on the chair from last night. You dig in for your work clothes, changing right there and then and praying to the gods that Satoru doesn’t walk through this door. Brushing your teeth, hair, washing your face, putting some moustirzer and sunscreen on, all of it takes way too long. By the time you’re done and messily putting your shoes on, it’s twelve. Four hours after you were supposed to be at work. Hana’s going to kill me.

Grabbing your bag with rough and rushed movements, you’re sprinting to the door at this point. Out of breath and already conjuring up a sorry apology for Hana. you reach the doorhandle, flinging it open. But as soon as you do, you come to an abrupt stop.

Because standing before you is a woman, a woman you’ve seen before on Satoru’s lock screen. The same woman who kissed the lips that you used to. Arms crossed and a nasty scowl forming on her face as she eyes you up and down in a criticizing way.

Finally, she scoffs out.

“Do you know who I am?”

a/n: they so cute

taglist is now closed

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huellitaa · 1 year ago

Text

𓏲˳˚⊹ 🧸 become obsessed with yourself.

you are stupid. i said it. there. you are stupid.

let me get this straight. you are out here listening to these people who make you insecure. you are listening and actually giving a shit about people who put you down, make you feel unworthy, inferior, less of the absolute goddess that you are. you people please, you go above and beyond to help people & change yourself for people who would never do the same and for what. for people to like you? honey nobodys gonna like you. you dont even like yourself.

listen ml you need to get your priorities straight. sit down for a sec. like. just sit and genuinely ask yourself "what do i get out of this? how does this serve me?". go on, ask yourself. all these people who constantly think theyre better than you, that they can walk all over you, the ones that dont care a bit for you with their actions even if their words say otherwise, all these habits that only make you feel more low, more insecure, and dont align with where you wanna go in any way, shape or form. honey how in the hell does any of this serve you ???😭😭

i am sick to death of seeing the word selfish everywhere the moment somebody steps up and is brave enough to try and better themselves. the amount of times ive gotten "youre so selfish" or "youve changed" or "you werent like this before" jst because i got out of the most severe depression of my life where i came close to being unalive so many times is riDICULOUS and just shows how normalised insecurity and people pleasing is nowadays.

you see, people are always trying to follow the trend, follow the leader, follow everyone else nowadays. nobody actually honours what they want & that is a reflection of their own insecurity and traumas and emotions they are too scared to face. do you really want that for yourself? youve got such big dreams, such big potential, but what on earth do you do to fulfill them?

i dont think you realise just how limitless you actually are. you can do anything. we are all born the same. its only those with the courage to get up and try who will reach what they want and achieve greater things.

GET OBSESSED WITH YOURSELF. i am so DRAINED and TIRED of caring about what people think. i like something? im gonna do it. i dont care. fuck people pleasing. what are they gonna do when youre rich and famous and successful and thriving? YOU ARE THE ONLY VALIDATION YOU NEED. life is so much easier when you genuinely could not care less, like you just dont give a single shit. you are the only person who knows you inside out and will be there with you 24/7 365. it infuriates me how self hatred is so normalised nowadays. like what the actual fuck, why would you wanna spend your entire life hating the only person whos gonna be with you every second without fail, when you are perfectly capable of reversing that???? its ridiculous.

get up. get obsessed with yourself. the only validation you should be chasing is your own. pull yourself together girl. this is ridiculous. you are so much more than this. start acting like it. be ur own biggest fan. be ur own bestest friend. everything you need is already within you. u got this. 💕

all my love 💓✨💗💘🎀💖

#girlblogging #wonyoungism #it girl #pink pilates princess #self love #self concept #law of assumption #manifestation #that girl #loassumption #loa blog #dream girl #it girlism ୨𖹭୧

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silkscream · 2 months ago

Text

creation myth

ੈ✩ caleb (xia yizhou) x reader

ੈ✩ tags: based on caleb's myth and set a little after they escape the lab, lads spoilers? i guess?, afab gender neutral reader, unprotected sex, virginity loss, fingering, oral sex, handjobs, they are icky gooey romantic, religious imagery duh

ੈ✩ wc: 3.2k

ੈ✩ a/n: xia yizhou im sooooo drunk. xia yizhouuuuuuuuuu

divider by omi-resources

When Eve was born, she was close to Adam’s heart. Under the aorta, surrounded by pumping blood. Cut out of his rib – a part of him.

Similarly, you are a part of Caleb. Sometimes, it feels like you only exist within his context.

Seeing him again had evoked the memory of soft grass and violet skies, the juices of summer fruit dripping down your chin. You say his name in your head and think of it. It feels like your first memory. The first thing beyond clinical white walls and the harsh rubble of a battlefield.

When Caleb saves you and teaches you what it means to lie with another human being, you drown yourself in all of it. All the affection, all the dopamine. You feel the sun on your skin and it feels like being kissed a thousand times over.

Caleb teaches you about affection very slowly. There’s hand-holding, his thumb caressing your palm. Forehead kisses.

For people who share a close bond, a kiss on any part of their body can be seen as a sign of affection.

It takes him almost two months to kiss you on the mouth. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it. He dreamt of your mouth often, but that was something he kept to himself. It’d be humiliating to tell you how much he thought about the image of you biting into a ripe fruit. The pink pout of your mouth. How much that vision would haunt him even before the two of you had escaped the lab.

You’re so eager about kissing him that it genuinely disorients him. Your small hands always grip some part of him – his shirt, his hair. Your kisses over the past few months have gotten longer.

Your touch is the only thing that reminds him he’s not a cold, mechanical weapon. Blood flows through his veins, hard. It feels so good with you. Too good.

He can’t help the rush of blood that floods downward when he thinks about you. Can’t help the feeling when you linger a little too long near his neck. He’s had to scold you for biting the skin next to his jugular, your hands pawing too eagerly at his body like an overexcited puppy.

Caleb likes to calm you down with other indulgences. Swimming is one of them, but you insist on being naked. Cutting pieces of fruit has been good, as long as he doesn’t watch the way your mouth moves as you eat it.

You learn easily. You’re too observant in a way that infuriates him. It’s been months and you’ve memorized all the reactions he has to your touch. You know that the two of you share a close bond because of what he lets you get away with. Kisses on the mouth have gotten to be so much that he has to hold himself back. You notice this. So you play with him.

You’ve been camping out at your current cabin for over a month. It’s the longest you and Caleb have stayed somewhere. Both of you have come to the unspoken conclusion that you might stay there long term, considering it was an open cabin and there hadn’t been any threats to you both since you first found it.

It’s summer again. Not like it was when you had first remembered it. You and Caleb have traveled far since your escape, far enough that the climate has changed to something more barren. Dryer. Gone are the nights with fireflies and long grass. The two of you are lucky that the cabin you found is near a river. Despite this, the environment isn’t the same.

It’s fucking hot. Which is why you wear less clothing, opting for nakedness around the house if there’s not much to do. Caleb doesn’t protest, even though he knows damn well that the sight of you has his blood pumping harder towards his dick. The look in your eyes is too innocent. You don’t know any better, he presumes, and he can live with that. Anything to make you feel comfortable in the first year of your life outside of the labs.

It’s an afternoon in July and you’ve gone for a swim. Caleb hates to leave you alone but decides to do it that morning after you stubbornly refuse to wake up early.

Going into town for some supplies. Be good.

And you are. You prepare some food for later and go for a swim in the river. You’re draped in linens by the time he comes back.

When he sits up on the bed you share, you settle in his lap without asking. He stiffens, but his hands still automatically go to your waist, circling your sides softly.

You lean in to give him a wet kiss, more passionate and practiced than before. You’ve gotten better – you were much shyer, more naive a few months ago. Now, you’re more deliberate with your affection. Kisses on the mouth for reassurance. Teeth on his neck when you want something.

When you nip him, he huffs.

“What is it? Are you still angry that I didn't take you with me?” He raises a brow.

You shrug, mumble something unintelligible.

“Can’t I just kiss you? I’m showing affection. Because I like you.”

“I know you like me,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to keep doing it.”

You frown slightly. “But it feels like —”

He raises a brow. “Feels like what?”

“Like you’re not… getting it,” you mutter petulantly. “Like something’s missing.”

It’s Caleb’s turn to frown this time. He caresses your cheek softly with callused fingertips.

“What do you mean? I kiss you back. Love kissing you back.”

But I want more, you want to scream. You don’t know what more is, though. There are times you get too caught up together, when his tongue prods between the seam of your lips. You always remember the faint flame that seems to ignite whenever things go a little too far. It’s tantalizing warmth, wetness in between your legs.

Your yearning turns to desperation. Your eyes are big and wide as you plead with him silently, unable to form words.

“Caleb…”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Call me something else.”

“Like what? Your name?”

“No. Like in the pictures we watch.”

The movies. Caleb smiles softly. He supposes he spoils you too much by taking you to see them once a week, but he can’t help it. Each time, he loves to see your face from the side, the way your eyes glow in awe at the lives of humans on screen. They’re ancient fairy tales to the both of you. Despite his cynicism, he can’t take that away from you.

“What? Like baby?”

“Y-Yeah,” you mumble.

“You want me to call you that?”

“It sounds nice,” you huff. “But if it’s weird, you don’t have to –”

“Okay,” he sighs. “Okay, baby.”

He rubs his thumb over your jaw and you preen to his touch immediately, like an eager cat.

“Kiss,” you mumble.

You’ve been saying this a lot lately. Less as a question, more of a demand. Caleb can never deny you.

He slots his mouth with yours and you respond in kind. It’s soft, like the waves kissing the tide, until it’s not. He feels your tongue tease his mouth with an unexpected aggression and he jolts in surprise.

Where the hell did you learn that?

“Baby–” he mumbles, but he cuts himself off with a strangled noise. Your tongue is in his mouth again. Naively, bravely. Full of intent.

He can’t help but groan. He can feel blood rushing to his cock already.

He should stop you. He really should. But he doesn’t. It’s not like he’s felt this kind of affection with anyone else, either. He’d been less sheltered than you, for sure, but he doesn’t have the experience to withdraw. He’s too selfish. He’s been waiting for you for so fucking long.

So, he mirrors your intensity. Pulls lightly at your clothes out of eagerness. You tug your sleeves off until your robe drapes halfway down your back. His eyes widen as he pulls back to see the curve of your breasts.

Desire consumes the both of you. While he’s frozen, you attempt to take matters in your own hands by grinding against his clothed cock.

“H-Hey –”

“That feels good, right?” you breathe. “F-Feels good for me…”

“Baby,” he pants, “we should probably – hah – stop…”

“Why?” you pout. Your mouth glistens with sweat. Or is it spit? “Want to feel good. Want you to feel… good…”

Caleb groans. He can’t push you away, not when you’re in his lap like this. He attempts to satiate you by kissing the corner of your mouth. You whine when he pulls away.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, I just —”

“Don’t wanna kiss me anymore?” You look up at him with wide, wet eyes. Seeing the curve of your mouth makes his skin burn hot.

“Of.. of course I do. But–”

“You said kissing is a sign of affection,” you mumble. “Anywhere, if \we’re close. And we’re super close, I think, soooo…”

His breath hitches when your hand grazes his clothed cock. Your eyes lower as you bite your bottom lip. Almost instinctively, you palm him with a little more pressure. Enough to make him gasp.

He whispers your name shakily and you take it as encouragement. You free his cock from his shorts and lick the tip, kissing it down to his shaft gently as you revel in the way he shudders.

“Fuck,” he gasps, “you gotta stop–”

You whimper. Your breath on his bare cock makes him shiver. You want to kiss him all over.

The way he responds makes heat rise in your body. It’s unfamiliar but it feels good. You want more of it. When you sit up to look at him, he captures your mouth in a feverish kiss. You can’t help but fall forward, bracing yourself with your hands on his shoulders while your core is slotted right above his aching cock.

You rub against him and he moans. It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard from him before.

“That feel good?” you whisper.

“Y-Yeah– oh, shit,” he gasps.

You mewl, grinding against him as you kiss him once more. Every touch point with Caleb feels electric. He bites down on your bottom lip and you make a small noise of surprise. He finally pulls away to look down at you, pupils swollen at his eyes settle on your chest.

His mouth descends to lick around your nipples, making you gasp and moan like he’s never heard before. The air around you feels so hot that you could melt into a puddle.

“Nnn – Caleb,” you whine. “More…”

“Mm, more what, honey?”

“Dunno,” you huff, your eyes wet. “More… it hurts…”

You’re referring to the throbbing in between your legs. He knows this. When his fingers brush over your swollen clit, you hiss.

“Hah–”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “Feels nice, hm? Right here?”

He continues his ministrations on your bud. Watches you moan until you let out a choked gasp from his fingers prodding the inside of your pussy. You’re flooded by fullness, all around you.

“Oh, Caleb,” you gasp, “that’s –”

“Too much?”

“Nnn – feels good –”

You blush at the sound of squelching from below you. You’re so wet – wetter than when you’ve ever prodded yourself late at night out of curiosity while he sleeps beside you.

“Hey,” his voice snaps you out of your fever dream desires, “Lay back for me, sweetheart.”

You obey, whining when he pulls his fingers out of you. He pries your legs apart and nips at your supple thighs. When he lowers his head to lick at your slit, your kitten-soft mewl has his cock throbbing against the mattress.

He fills you with his digits again, groaning as your walls welcome him easily. You’re silky and wet inside, smooth like a river bed. The way he eats your pussy is fucking obscene. You grasp the locks of his dark hair to stay grounded to Earth.

“Caleb,” you whimper, pulling his hair. His violet eyes flicker with something darker, something you’ve only seen when he’s competitive. His expression as he sucks on your clit is something else entirely, a version of him slowly unfurling with precedent desire. Something new blooms in your core. Pink-slippered, kissed by the paradise of his mouth.

The sensation in combination with his fingers pumping inside of you is so much that you don’t even register the build up. Your orgasm hits you like an exploding star. It feels as destructive as it is beautiful. You feel rebirthed, almost.

Your hips are still stuttering as he slides up to caress your jaw and kiss you all over your face. Without thinking, your hand extends to brush over the bulge in his slacks, making him groan in surprise.

“What are you doing?” he husks.

“Does it feel good? Your face is warm like mine…”

“Y-Yeah..” His breathing picks up rapidly as he watches you shyly unzip him. His cock is heavy in your hands. You thumb over his leaking tip and your breath hitches when he involuntarily bucks into your hand.

You’re mesmerized by his reactions. You’ve never seen him want so much in the time you’ve been with him. Your stomach churns knowing that all of it is directed at you.

His hand helps your smaller one pump his shaft. When he feels you grind against his thigh, he moans.

“Please,” you whine pathetically. You could cry from how much you ache for him, your cunt fluttering around nothing. “Need –”

“Need me to fuck you?” he mumbles. He thinks of covering your eyes when you watch movies together. How he taught you how to kiss properly.

Caleb has thought about this exact moment ever since. He’s afraid to take from you when everything else has been taken from you, too. But your eyes are wet and wide, begging for him. As touch-starved as both of you were since childhood, perhaps you both deserve this.

He rolls you over and undresses himself entirely, slotting in between your legs. He bites back a groan when his cock presses against your wet heat. Ever since he took you with him, he’s wanted to be good and selfless. Didn’t want to ruin you just because he wanted you for himself.

This is the first time he decides to be selfish.

He eyes you warily as if to ask permission. You nod, legs tightening around his waist.

When he pushes into you, his mind goes blank. He’s never felt anything so warm in his life. It feels like sinking into the unknown – bliss flooding his insides once he bottoms out.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“I’m –” you gasp, overwhelmed, “Do I feel good?”

He chuckles. Kisses both your cheeks, then your forehead. “Yeah. Amazing. You’re so tight.”

His voice makes you blush even more. Your core stings with an unfamiliar sensation but it’s a pain you don’t entirely mind. Like pressing down a bruise. He cradles you in his arms as he moves slowly and the pain turns to pleasure.

Caleb can’t help but fuck you in earnest. There are tears in your eyes but your moans are turning him on even more. Fuck, he really can’t help it. You’re all he’s ever wanted.

He gets rougher as he kisses you, tongue heavy in your mouth. Biting at your lower lip hungrily. His forbidden fruit. Your body welcomes him like a flower opening up to the sun.

“Caleb,” you moan. The first name you’ve ever known, even before your own. “Caleb –”

He mumbles into your shoulder in between thrusts. Pants your name and I love you in different breaths like a mantra.

Your back arches as he reaches somewhere deep inside you that you’ve never touched yourself. Your thighs are shaking and it almost alarms him until he lifts his head from the crook of your neck.

He wishes he could take a picture of your face right now.

“Keep doing that, mmnn –” you breathe. “Feels good… I…”

“You like it?” he rasps.

“Yes, yes –”

“Tell me, baby.”

“Love it,” you moan, “Love you. Love you so much –”

God, he could cum right now. His cock twitches as you clench around him.

“You’re perfect, shit. It’s you and me. Always, okay?”

“You and me –”

You cum so hard that the world around saturates with vibrance. Your eyes are screwed shut, phosphenes like shooting stars in your lids. Flung into space with his wings enveloping you with love.

“Oh, God, you look –” he pants, his eyes blown wide. “I love you, fuck!”

You feel his warmth flood your insides like syrup. You sigh into each other’s mouths. Unspoken love letters.

Caleb collapses beside you, chest heaving, one arm draped protectively across your middle. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin as your breathing gradually slows. The afternoon light filters through threadbare curtains, casting golden stripes across your intertwined bodies.

"You okay?" he whispers, pressing his lips to your temple.

You nod, unable to form words yet. Everything feels different now—your body, the air between you, the very cabin itself. The universe has shifted on its axis.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" His voice carries a hint of worry.

You turn to face him, your nose brushing against his. "No. It was... perfect." The word feels inadequate for what just happened, but language fails you.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, violet eyes searching yours. "You're perfect," he murmurs. His thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip, and you can't help but catch it gently between your teeth.

"Careful," he warns playfully, but his eyes darken again.

“We should do it again.”

He laughs, the sound warm against your skin. “Already? You’re insatiable.”

“Maybe.”

"Give me a minute to recover, honey."

You hum contentedly, stretching like a cat in sunlight. Every nerve ending in your body feels alive, sensitized. The places where his hands touched you still tingle with phantom sensation.

"I didn't know it could be like that," you whisper, tracing the line of his collarbone with your finger. "All this time, I felt something was missing. I mean, it was you. Obviously. But this feels like… more."

Caleb's fingers trace the notches of your spine, counting each vertebra like precious stones. You shiver under his touch, still sensitive from before.

"I used to dream about your skin," he confesses, voice barely above a whisper. "Back in the lab. What it’d be like to touch you. How it felt to touch you the one time I held your hand in the field when we escaped the first time.”

“And now you have me.”

“Mhm.”

“Took you so long to kiss me though. I’m sure Caleb from a year ago would have a heart attack if he saw us now.”

Caleb's expression softens, vulnerability painting his features in a way you've rarely seen. "I wanted to give you time. Let you discover the world first."

"You are my world," you say simply. It’s so easy for you to say that it pains him. It sounds naive. He’d warn you of it if he didn’t feel the exact same.

“So are you. This is our little galaxy.”

“Our little galaxy," you repeat, rolling the words over your tongue like a prayer.

You nestle against him, fitting perfectly in the curve of his body. The cabin creaks around you, a protective shell against the barren landscape outside. In here, you've created something lush and verdant—an Eden of your own making.

#caleb x reader #xia yizhou x reader #caleb smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #ree.writing

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