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whatsverstappeningnow · 2 days ago

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how f1 drivers react

when they want you back after you break up with them (part two to this fic)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

Weeks pass in painful silence. For days after the sudden breakup, Max tried to call, to text, to contact you. But the longer you ignored him, thinking it was for the best, the more it hurt. Eventually, the phone calls stopped, and the texts too. Your world descended into self-inflicted silence and loneliness.

You knew it would be hard without him, but the loneliness was worse than you could have ever imagined. It settled deep in your bones, carved into your soul and invaded every aspect of your life. Every moment of silence was a reminder of what you had given up.

Every second of silence was a reminder of how alone you were.

Friends tried to comfort you, tried to tell you that you had made the right choice. But in the middle of the night, with nothing but the cold emptiness of your apartment to hold you, you could only spiral into darker thoughts: you had done the wrong thing. But it was too late. What was done was done. Max had stopped calling, moved on likely. You needed to as well.

You couldn't bring yourself to watch his races. You told yourself that it was for the better. You needed to let go completely. It was the only way you could move on and build a life without Max.

But when you see him again, finally, it’s not at a race. It's not some flashy paddock media day or high-stakes press event, things you used to loathe and love so much. It’s on your doorstep, hoodie pulled up, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion.

“I keep waiting for you. Every night. I keep thinking you'll call, you'll turn up at my house. You never do,” he says quietly, holding your gaze for the first time in forever. “Look me in the eye and say it again. Tell me our love isn't worth it. Tell me you don't love me anymore. C'mon. Tell me to leave and I will.”

You open your mouth to reply, not even sure what you could possibly say in response beyond what you'd already said that infamous night, but Max just holds up one hand to quiet you. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and taps it a few times before a sound starts to play out of it quietly.

It's you.

Your voice echoes back to you, happy, laughing, talking about something stupid. You hadn't realized he’d saved it. You're not sure why he would until the sound of you hanging up echoes around you both.

I'll talk to you later, ok? Bye Maxie. I love you!

“That’s the last time you said you loved me,” he says, voice low, pure exhaustion dripping from his words. “And I’velistened to it every single night.”

Tears sting your eyes and threaten to fall. Max finally steps closer but still doesn't reach out for you.

“I haven’t driven better. I'm getting worse, I'm making stupid mistakes. I haven’t focused more. I’ve just... missed you. Every day. Every night. You think you were holding me back? I'm scared every time I drive, scared of winning and still going home alone. Scared of doing well and you thinking that it proves you right when I know I'm fucking miserable. I'msorry I told you to leave. I shouldn't have... fuck, I'm just scared, and tired, and I want you. Please.”

Behind him, thundering clouds threaten to erupt and pour down over the city. Dark storms brew with forbearing gloom.

“You want to protect me? You want to make me a better driver? Then stay. Let me love you again. Because losing you has nearly fucking destroyed me."

His hands finally reach out for yours, holding them tightly. His hands are cold, but you find that you don't mind. You need to feel him so desperately that you're willing to endure the torture of the weather on your fingertips. Within you, a deep desire to keep Max warm and safe resurfaces with renewed conviction.

“You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted outside of racing. Please. I love you. I've only ever loved you.”

Despite the tears welling in your eyes, a small smile spreads across your face.

"It's cold. Come inside." You whisper the words, tugging slightly on his hands.

"Only... only if you mean this. I can't come inside if you're just going to turn me away again."

Swallowing guilt, swallowing your hurt and fears, swallowing everything you thought was right that turned out to be so wrong, you say, "Come inside, Max. Please."

Love you think, is the sound of Max closing the door behind him and knowing he is here to stay.

lando norris

You know you shouldn't watch it, but when the clip comes up on your instagram you can't help but pause and watch. It's instinct: you see Lando, you watch. Despite everything, all you said, all that happened and tore you two apart, you still care deeply for him.

It’s a post-race interview. Lando’s just gotten a podium, according to the video's caption anyway. He looks as he always does after a tough drive: hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, eyes wide, adrenaline high as he slowly calms down and takes deep breaths inwards. His smile is wide, until the journalist makes a passing comment...

"Must be nice having all the distractions out of the way now."

Something shifts in his expression. It’s barely a flicker, but if you know him—really know him—you can see it. You know what the interviewer means, the media, the sprint, the free practices, quali, it's all out of the way now. He only has to think about starting P1 tomorrow. All the distractions are gone. Almost all the opsticals of the week have been passed. But the joke doesn’t land. His smile falters, then falls completely. His eyes are hollow with want, tinged with a hint of fear.

And then he says it.

“Not all distractions are bad.”

The interviewer laughs, confused, asks him to elaborate, and he seems all too happy to comply. But he keeps going. The world around you seems stuck, you can't take your eyes away from the screen. If you listened carefully, you swear you can hear your life caving in around you.

“Sometimes the things everyone else thinks are a distraction are actually what keeps you grounded. What keeps you… you.”

He looks down, clears his throat, doesn’t continue. What's said is said. When he finally looks up again, staring into the camera lens, it feels like he is looking right at you. His eyes meet yours for the first time in weeks, even if it's just through the screen. The familiarity of his gaze burns. Your heart cracks. You miss him. God, you miss you.

The video cuts off and you are stuck again in the quiet abyss of your empty apartment. Everything is quiet again. But later that night, you get a text.

I didn’t mean to say that. but I meant it.

Before you can question yourself, second guess your instincts, you reply.

congrats on P1 I didn't see quali but I saw the interview

Then, after a moment of consideration, you add:

I miss you too, btw

It's a few minutes of dead silence, eerie uncomfortable nothingness, before he responds again.

can i call you? please

You think of his words earlier, of the way he looked as you walked out of his life and shattered all you had built together. You call him without thinking of the alternative.

"Hey," his voice rings out through your speaker.

"Hi."

There’s a pause. The kind that aches. You can hear his breath, unsteady, shallow, like he’s been holding it since the second your name lit up his screen.

“I didn’t think you’d reply,” he admits quietly.

“You didn’t leave much room not to,” you say, your voice almost a whisper. “You're not the only one who feels alone right now, Lando.”

“I know I can’t take back how I made you feel," he murmurs, "I just… I need you to know none of this, none of the podiums, none of the wins, means anything when I’m not coming home to you.”

Your throat tightens. You try to swallow it down, but his words eat at the fear in your heart...

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” you say softly. “Giving you space. Taking myself out of the equation. I didn’t want to be the reason you—”

“You were never the problem,” he cuts in, firm but gentle. “You were the only thing that made the rest of it bearable.”

Another pause. This one is softer. He exhales.

“I want to fix this. I don’t care how long it takes.”

And maybe you should hesitate. Maybe you should ask for more time, time to think it over. But you’ve already spent weeks apart, feeling the ache of a life half-lived. And now, hearing his voice, hearing the tremble he’s trying to hide, something in you unclenches.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” He sounds like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You smile, a little cracked, a little shaky, but real for the first time in days. “Yeah. Win your race, Lan, then come home to me.”

oscar piastri

The past few weeks had dragged by you in a dull, confusing haze. The sun felt dimmer, the rain less harsh, the breeze not so calming. Everything was just... off. You knew adjusting to being alone again would be difficult, but you never imagined it would feel like this. So helpless, so cold.

Without Oscar, someone you relied upon and loved so completely, your life felt empty. You spent your days going through the motions. You woke up, ate, slept, worked. It all felt so monotone. It was impossible to do something without wondering where you would be if you were still with Oscar.

A seed of doubt planted itself in your mind. Maybe, just maybe, you think, you were wrong. Maybe things would have been better if you were still together. But you cut the sapling before it could grow into a full thought.

Dwelling on the past was killing you. Dwelling on the past was leaving you tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that left you feeling nothing at all. Heaviness hung in your bones.

Sleep seemed to abandon you these days, leaving you alone in the moonlight hours. The howl of the wind was your only companion in the night.

It’s past midnight when your phone buzzes. With nothing better to do, and no inclining that sleep would find you anytime soon, you reach for it from where it is charging on your bedside table.

Oscar's name stares back at you through the bright light of your phone, blinding you momentarily in the darkness of your bedroom.

You hesitate before opening it, his name on the screen still does something awful to your chest. Memories of past late night calls, tired giggles and intimate words, swirl around you in a haze of regret. But, to your unexpected surprise, it’s not a text. It’s a voice note.

You press play. The second you hear his voice, the pounding in your heart seems to double in speed. And yet, the comforting familiar sound also puts you completely at ease.

Hey. Sorry, I know it’s late where you are. I shouldn't— I know— I just got back from dinner with the team. Everyone was laughing about something, and I almost turned to tell you about it. As if you would be there, next to me.

He exhales sharply, so suddenly that it shocks you out of the trance you're in. Hearing his voice again, speaking directly to you, feels like a delusion after all this time. There’s silence for a few seconds, just the quiet rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him rubbing his hands against his clothes that way he always does when he’s nervous.

You can imagine it as if he’s standing right in front of you. But you know that if he was here, standing close and looking you in the eyes, you wouldn’t know what to say, how to act, to look him in the eyes and not admit all the regrets you’d been having.

Missing him feels like longing for a lost childhood toy, something you remember so fondly and yet is so resolutely out of reach. But loving him is something you can never let go of.

It’s stupid, I know. It's been weeks. We haven't even talked once since. I know. I should know better. But I just… I don’t think I’ve gone one day without reaching for my phone to text you, call you. And I haven’t sent anything, 'cause I didn't want to hurt you more than I already have. But tonight it kind of hit me that maybe I should. Text you, I mean. Reach out. So, I guess that's what I'm trying to do. I don't even know if you'll listen to this. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I should have fought harder. Should have told you more often how much you mean to me, how much you still mean to me. You were never a distraction. You were my balance. My constant. My love.

You wouldn't hear me then, but I have to make you hear me now. I love you. I love you. I'll say it as many times as you need to believe it again. And I miss you. Every day. I just want to try again. Please, let me show you how much I need you, how much I love you.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling. When the recording stops, you drag the audio back to the beginning and listen through it again. Over and over, you replay the section where he tells you he loves you.

He sounds just as truthful, just as honest, as the first night he said it to you. The night he held you so close, kissed you so slow and carefully that you wanted to melt into the floor and never touch anyone but him ever again. The night you felt whole, and loved, and so at peace with your life. The night you had remembered over and over through the past few weeks with a longing dread. Suddenly, yet slowly, in small thoughts, then all at once, it feels like you have no option but one.

You don’t text him back. No.

You press call. He picks up immediately.

carlos sainz

You probably should have expected this, should have seen it coming from a mile away. Carlos is not one to let something, or rather someone, he loves slip through his fingers like spring water. He's built his life around the people he cares about, painstakingly carved out a space for each of them in his chaotic, fast-paced life… he wouldn't let you think so lowly of yourself for long.

It’s only been a few weeks, but it’s felt like a lifetime.

You open the door of your apartment, dressed in pyjamas and an oversized hoodie that was likely his, once upon a time, to find him standing there. Hair slightly messy. Hoodie zipped halfway.

His eyes drift over you, slowly, taking every inch of your appearance. It doesn’t feel crude though, or intrusive, his gaze is so familiar, so kind, it fills your heart with joy just to be seen by him again. A small pit of guilt sinks in your stomach, you are the reason you haven’t seen him. This was your choice, after all, one you made for him.

He holds a takeout bag in one hand, your favourite food from the place you always used to order from together when it rained. It was the food that comforted you in your worst moments and excited you when you were feeling your best.

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Yet here he was.

He offers the bag, holding it out in one hand while the other settles on his hip. But he doesn’t move closer. He looks stuck in place, unsure of what moves to make and yet so confident in his presence at your front door.

“I’m not here to fix anything. Not if you don’t want me to,” he says softly, a tone of admittance colouring his words. “I just thought… you probably haven’t eaten. You always forget when you are stressed, or tired.”

You take it. Hands brush. He pulls away first. You find yourself immediately missing his touch.

Carlos looks down, then back up, eyes dark and earnest.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I’ve been telling myself to let you go if that’s what you need, what you really want. But I also know you pushed me away thinking it was helping me. That it was the unselfish thing.”

He pauses, breathes deeply as if centring himself. He speaks with a tone that tells you he has been thinking of the right words to say for days, and is still afraid of driving you away.

“But cariño… you were the thing keeping me sane. I didn’t need saving from you. I needed saving with you. I need you to save me. Every day I need you to save me.”

You bite your lip and look down at the bag. The familiar smell fills your nostrils.

“My house is so empty,” you admit, and it feels like exposing the deepest part of your soul. “I’ve still been watching you drive. You’re doing well. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m driving well, maybe. But I’m not happy, cariño. You have known me long enough to know that is the truth.”

You can’t find it in your to meet his eyes, he keeps speaking anyway.

“I’m not driving well because you are gone. I’m driving well despite it. Because my life is nothing but racing now and I am miserable. Every day I think of you. There is no one else for me, and you must let me show you again. Without you... without you I am no one. You make me whole.”

His words are sweet, and so painfully honest that they burn into your heart.

“I’ve missed you. More than I should. Even though I feel like I shouldn’t. I want you to become everything you’ve ever dreamed of. But watching you do that without me…” you trail off, unable to explain the hurt you have inflicted on yourself by forcing him to go. Doing this, this conversation, out in the open feels too exposed. You want to tell him you love him in the comfort of your home. The home you want to share again.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask it in a hushed whisper, like saying it loud will frighten him away again

He smiles faintly. “Only if you want me to stay this time.”

“Will you? Please? I think... I think we need to talk.”

His smile is soft, understanding, filled with hope, “Of course, my love.”

That night, he holds you close. He doesn't leave, you don't ask him to.

alex albon

You don’t pick up the first time he calls.

Or the second.

But the third? You answer.

“…Hey,” he says, voice gentle and soft, but cautious. He's holding something back. Like he is afraid of scaring you off.

You don’t say anything at first. Just breathe. Just listen. You half expect him to hang up, regret his decision to contact you and disappear again. After all, you were the one who walked away, who could blame him for holding onto resentment and anger and just... hanging up?

The,n quietly, you say, “Alex.” His name feels like the only thing you could possibly say.

He lets the silence stretch out. It doesn’t feel awkward, just heavy. Shared. Weighted with everything that’s been left unsaid for too long. Everything you didn't explain that day, everything you struggled to say. The silence reminds you not of the emptiness of your apartment, but of the comforting quiet of lying in each other's arms. Everything, even silence, feels better with him around. Even if it's just his voice.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, finally. “Not really. I’m not calling to change your mind. I just—” He sighs, shaky and unsure. “I just wanted you to know I think about you. Still. Every day.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead to your knee, trying too hard to not let your thoughts spiral away from you. You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, and your heart somewhere between breaking and blooming at the sound of his voice.

“I’ve been driving ok, not great, not badly,” he continues. “Doing the media stuff. Smiling for the cameras. Saying the right things when they ask. Everyone keeps saying I look happy.”

Happy, just like you wanted him to be. That's the reason you did all of this. For him. To help him, even if it hurt your soul to do it.

There’s a pause. Then a quiet, dry chuckle.

“But I’m faking it. All of it.”

Your breath catches, stuck in your throat. No.

“I catch myself thinking about you in the stupidest moments,” he says, softer now. “Like... I’ll be walking out of the paddock and I’ll reach for my phone to text you something dumb. Just muscle memory. Or I’ll hear a song you used to sing in the shower and it’ll hit me like I’ve run out of road.”

You stay quiet, swallowing hard and fiddling with your jumper sleeves. Against your better instincts to run, to hang up and hide yourself from the truth that maybe breaking up wasn't saving him, you stay.

“You remember how you used to tease me for holding my breath when I’m nervous?” he says, voice roughening just a little, like he's holding in a hollow laugh that is bubbling in his chest. “Like, properly holding it—like I’m underwater?”

You smile, just a little. Of course, you remember.

"Yeah..."

“I keep catching myself doing it again. A lot. I didn’t even realise until Carlos pointed it out during a sim session... said I looked like I was about to pass out.”

Another small pause.

“Anyway,” he says, trying to collect himself. “If this is really what you want, I'm not here to yell at you. But I need you to know. I just... I hope you’re okay. I really do. But if you’re not, if there’s ever a day you want to talk, about anything, bout everything.... I'm here. I'm always here”

You don't hang up.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the phone. "I ruined this. All of this."

"No, baby, no. Please don't apologise. You were doing what you thought was right." His voice cracks a little, rushed and urgent, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again.

“I miss you,” you say. Simple. Honest. Like breathing.

“I miss you so much it makes my chest hurt,” he says. "I know I can’t go back in time, but I want to move forward. With you. If there’s any part of you that wants that too…”

You wipe your eyes again and sit up straighter.

“I want that,” you whisper. “I’m scared. But I want that.” And that's all it takes.

charles leclerc

After weeks of moping around your apartment, mourning your own decisions and cursing yourself, your friends had put their feet down and ordered you to have a night out. Something to take your mind off of him. Despite the fact that you had no desire to go out, you agreed. More for their peace of mind than your own.

You're dressed in your favourite dress, make-up done, hair perfectly in place. At any other point in your life, you would feel beautiful, but for some reason, you don't feel much of anything at all. From the second you enter the party, some rooftop bar event your friends had heard of through word of mouth, you want to go home. But you don't want to let them down, so you try and stick it out, try to pretend you feel ok.

Time passes by you, and it's hours before you notice it. Notice him. Because of course he is here. Why wouldn't he be?

Charles walks through the dancing crowd and it's like the sea parts for him, people move effortlessly out of his way despite the lack of room on the dance floor. His eyes scan the room and then, as if on instinct, they land on you.

He walks over without any dramatics, but there is a speed in his step. He's afraid if he's too slow you'll disappear into the crowd again. He's barely a metre away when he starts speaking. You can only just hear his voice over the booming music, but the heartbreak in his voice is unmistakable.

“Every time I win, I wish you were there. Every time I lose, I need you.”

You inhale sharply. He's suddenly right in front of you. He looks down at you with tired, hurting eyes.

“You said you didn’t want to hold me back. But love doesn’t hold me back—it grounds me. Keeps me from getting lost in all of this. Cheri, how could you ever believe your love was hurting me? Without it, I am nothing.”

You’re frozen in place, drink in hand, heart in your throat. You thought this night couldn’t possibly get worse... you never imagined it might get better. You never thought you'd get the chance to explain yourself to him again.

“Charles…” you say, barely audible, unsure if he even hears it over the bassline of the song thumping through the bar the screams of joy that pervade around the room, the sound of dancing feet shaking the building.

But he does. Of course he does.

“I know I should have said something earlier,” he continues, closer now, lips practically against your cheek so you can hear him clearly. His hands hold yours, keeping you close with a grounding grasp. His eyes flick briefly to your friends standing behind you, watching from the edge of the crowd, unsure whether to swoop in and save you or stay back and let this moment unfold. You hope they stay away, you couldn't stand to lose this moment because of well-meaning friends. His gaze returns to yours, and it’s the same one you’ve seen a hundred times before.

“But I wanted to give you space. I thought… if I gave you time, you’d come back when you were ready.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humour in it. “I wasn’t going to come back.”

“I know,” he says, voice strained and tired. “That’s why I’m here. One of my friends saw you in the crowd, I had to come. I'm sorry. I had to try one last time.”

The music shifts suddenly to something slower, softer. You glance over your shoulder as the crowd shifts to accommodate the new rhythm, but Charles doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He only sees you. The rest of the room fades into the background for him.

“I didn’t think I deserved you,” you admit. “I didn’t think I could watch you go out there every weekend, chasing something so dangerous and demanding, and not become the thing that dragged you down.”

“You were never the weight,” he says, without hesitation. “You were the anchor. There’s a difference.”

You don’t speak for a moment, letting his words settle over the noise, the lights, the blur of people around you. You’ve imagined this moment a hundred ways over the past few weeks, some louder, some messier, but none quite like this. There is something so soft about this, despite the noise.

“You look beautiful,” he adds quietly. “But you don’t look like yourself.”

That’s what undoes you. That sentence. The gentle truth in it.

“I haven’t felt like myself.”

“Then let me take you home.”

“Charles—”

“Not like that,” he says gently, quick to clarify. “Not unless you want that. I just… I want to talk. Or sit in silence. Or be there while you fall asleep on the couch watching something terrible. I don’t care what it is, just... let me come with you this time.”

You look at him, really look. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest loosens, just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s go home.”

lewis hamilton

You’re alone on a walk, one headphone in and hands stuffed into the pocket of your hoodie, desperately trying to shield yourself from the cold wind of the mid-afternoon, when a familiar voice calls your name. The sound of the voice, so comfortingly recognisable, causes you to stumble over your own feet. He's here.

It's Lewis. Hoodie on, hood up, looking just as surprised as you feel seeing him out in the world. He stops a few steps away from you. The distance feels like a gorge you could fall into if you take a wrong step. The fall would go on for ages, you can't risk slipping now.

“I’ve been writing, texting you, then deleting it all before I send it,” he says quietly. “Trying to find the right words to say. Honestly, I don't think they exist. Every time I think I've figured out what to say, it just feels wrong.”

You just stare, hands fidgeting in your pocket as you feel stuck to the concrete sidewalk.

"I'm sorry. I know you probably want me to walk away, but if I don't say this now, in person, I never will."

Before you can stop yourself, you say softly, "I never want you to walk away, Lew." The truth of your own words surprises you. Lewis can only smile slightly at the sudden interjection. But he knows, just as well as you do, that you didn't leave him because you fell out of love. It was fear that drove you away.

“I thought I could prove something by letting you go. That I could be strong. But the truth is, I’ve felt lost without you.”

"Lew—"

“I miss you,” he adds, and it’s almost a whisper. “God, I miss you so much. I've stayed up at night just thinking about what you said. I can't believe I let you believe all those things about yourself. I can't believe I didn't fight harder to prove how much I love you.”

You stare at him. This is the version of him that you always knew. The one who cares so deeply, it scares him. The one who never walks away unless he thinks he has to.

“You could’ve sent any of those texts,” you manage to say, voice uneven and slow. “I probably would’ve answered, no matter what you said.”

“I didn’t want to reach for you until I knew I could be what you needed. You need someone who can show you that you aren't a burden. You need someone who can prove how loved you are. You deserve perfection.”

You let the silence linger a beat longer. Then you take a slow, steady step forward.

“I didn’t need perfect,” you say. “I just needed you.”

Lewis reaches out, gently, finally closing the gap between the two of you. “Let’s start again. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

You nod before your voice catches up.

george russell

It’s been raining all day, light, misty showers that make the city feel cold. The world is sad, you want to say to your friends, but you don't think they'd understand what you mean. Maybe you just mean you are sad. But even that feels wrong.

You’ve left the windows open just a crack, a small sliver of room to let in the crisp storm air as you curl up on the couch. There's a cup of tea in your hand that's slowly going cold, but you don't drink it. It's more for the company than for taste. The TV plays something you aren’t watching. It's just background noise to keep your thoughts from drifting back to him.

It’s been weeks. Long enough that you’ve memorized the silence his missing presence has left behind. You miss him, but it was all for good reason.

You don’t hear the footsteps outside your apartment, you don’t hear his car as it arrives at your building. But when the doorbell rings, something deep inside you seizes up.

You freeze.

You haven’t seen George in weeks. But when you open the door, he’s there, suitcase by his side, hair messy, expression shaken. You realise suddenly that he must have come straight from the airport. His race ended only 15 hours ago. He's come straight to you.

“I’m not here to argue,” he says softly. “I just want to talk. Please.”

Against your better instincts, you hold the door open and step aside, welcoming him in in silence. He walks in slowly. His eyes scan your apartment like he doesn't recognise it, like he hasn't been there a hundred times before. Seeing him feel so out of place feels like a punch to the gut. It's a reminder of what you said to him, the way you pushed him away so suddenly, so cruelly.

Eventually, after a moment of quiet contemplation and awkward insection, he sits on your couch, wringing his hands in his lap. When he speaks, finally, his voice holds with it a tone of practised care. He's been thinking about what to say for days, you're sure of it.

“You said I needed to focus. That I needed to be selfish.”

He looks up.

“Well, this is me being selfish. I need you to hear me, let me speak before you turn me away again. Please."

You swallow the lump in your throat and settle yourself down across from him on the couch. You keep a bit of distance from him, not trusting yourself to be able to not fall apart if you sit within arm's reach. You missed him more than words could explain, but you owed him the chance to speak. You know you do.

After a deep breath, long and slow, he starts to speak again.

"I need you. Not just the good parts. I want the hard days. The fears. The panic at 2 am. I want all of it. I’ve spent every day since you left wondering if I could’ve... should've... done more. So here I am. Doing more.”

You press your hands into the couch cushion beneath you to stop them from shaking, trying desperately to listen to every intonation and shake of his voice, as if you could uncover every thought he's had for the past few weeks if you just listen close enough.

You aren’t sure what to say. You thought you were protecting him by leaving, giving him an out to finally focus. But now, here he is, telling you the absence of you is the only thing that’s really hurt him. The truth hurts more than your fears ever did.

“I kept thinking… maybe if I just left you alone, gave you time and space, you’d feel free again. Feel more like yourself again. ” His voice dips. “But I think about you constantly. Every second since you walked away. And I don’t feel free... I feel hollow. And you're right, I should be more selfish with my career, my life. So this is me being selfish about what I want: I want you. I want you next to me all the time. Every day. Every night.”

He swallows, hard. Like saying all he's feeling out loud is hurting him. But he keeps going despite it.

“If you don’t want this anymore, truly don't, not because of what you think is best for my career, for me, but because you don't want it, I’ll go. But I had to try. I had to tell you that you weren’t a distraction. You were my calm in the chaos. You still are.”

You stare at him, heart caught in your throat and eyes glued to his sombre gaze. Your voice breaks when you speak.

“I've missed you so much, George.”

His shoulders sag with relief. “I know I'm not perfect. I know I wasn’t always good at balancing it all. But I never stopped loving you. That has never changed. Not for a second.”

He shifts, adjusting his posture sat upright on your couch. After a moment's hesitation, he asks, “Can I hold you?”

When you nod he moves slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll wake you from some fragile dream. But when his arms wrap around you, it’s like the weight of everything you've ever feared has finally lifted off your shoulder.

You melt into him.

And for the first time in weeks, you breathe easy.

taglist: @fastandcurious16 @coolpeanutchaos @hangingwiththestars

-> ree here! I'm sorry for the length inconsitancy and any mistakes! I tried to just do what felt right for each set up and I have editted this very sleep deprived from uni study... send help for my incoming essay due dates i am avoiding by writing imagines instead...

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comicaurora · 3 days ago

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Hi! I remember you saying at some point (I think, on the podcast?) that just realizing you have ADHD helped you to deal with it because you found some practices and techniques to help it, even without medication - or something along these lines, do I remember correctly?

Can you tell, which techniques? I seem to be somewhat resistant to medication (tried all options we get in the country I'm in, and improvement is very minimal), so I'm interested what else can be done there just to make it manageable

Caveat that every ADHD person is different so what works for me might not work for you, but this is what I've found helpful:

Break up Executive Dysfunction and fight Time Blindness by SETTING TIMERS. I have a fitbit, and on days I can feel my brain being restless and uncooperative, I set a ten minute timer on it. When it runs out, I set another one, and so on. It buzzes on my wrist, so it's hard to ignore, but it's not gamebreakingly distracting so it doesn't ruin my mood if I'm on a work roll. A brief, tangible reminder that time is passing can help me snap out of a break period or, if I'm working, give me a feel for my rate of progress. I can also use that reminder to take stock of if I need to eat food, get up and stretch, or lie on the floor for a bit to reset.

Take SMALL, LATERAL BITES OF PROGRESS. If you're having a hard time working on something, feel out what else you might be able to make headway on. Maybe you've got some writing notes you could jot down to build on later. Maybe there's a tiny item on the day's to-do list you could cross off quickly. Maybe there's a text or an email you've been meaning to fire off, or you've got a mild itch to doodle something in a sketchbook. Any progress is better than no progress, and even if you're just on your phone on the couch, you can get a lot of good work done just jotting down thoughts in the notes app. The lateral element is also very important; if you're fixating too hard on the ONE thing you're SUPPOSED to do, you can trap yourself in a spiral of how it's what you're SUPPOSED to be working on but it feels IMPOSSIBLE. Literally let yourself do anything else. Don't trap yourself with "it's either doing your responsibility or it's NOTHING." Your work is not a plate of broccoli you're not allowed to leave the table without eating. Give yourself permission to un-imprison yourself.

Related, If there are external factors on the responsibility - like an outside deadline or a team of people you're working with waiting on your stuff - don't be afraid to let them know where you're at, or if you're uncertain you can make the deadline as stated, even if you think your "brain is not working" reason isn't good enough to justify the delay. Most people are extremely chill about it, and some of them will even offer to help or make it easier for you in some way. "Struggling with deadline" is not an ADHD-only experience. It is one of the most relatable human experiences, and basically everyone will be inclined to help you out.

ANY PROGRESS IS BETTER THAN NO PROGRESS. LARGE projects can feel extremely overwhelming because you know you can throw everything you've got at them for a day or even a week and it still won't be finished, and if you've got that shadow looming over you, you might sink into a malaise of "I can't finish it and that means I can't even bring myself to start it." The best way to fight that is to make ANY progress in ANY direction. Every large project can be broken down into bite-sized chunks. Anything feels overwhelming if you see it as an unassailable monolith. Work you do now is work you don't have to do later.

CHECKLISTS. It's hard to hold a large list of things that need your attention all in your head at once. It is unbelievable how helpful it is to just write them down somewhere obvious, and when you're done with something, CHECK IT OFF. Don't erase it, leave it visible that you FINISHED it.

Tell your anxiety to CALL YOU BACK. This one's weird, but when I'm stuck stressing over something, I've found it legitimately works to pull up my schedule and pencil in "worry about <thing>" for a specific date and time. My brain registers that SOMETHING has been resolved and nothing has been outright dismissed or ignored, so it settles down. When the time rolls around, the source of the anxiety is still there, but the feeling of anxiety itself has been drained out of it.

On a related note, this might not be an ADHD thing, but I've found it's very useful to Avoid Anxiety And Guilt Spirals by HOLDING COMPULSIONS AT ARMS' LENGTH. I picked this up from some readings on OCD, which is in the category of "I don't seem to HAVE this to a diagnosable degree, but some of the structures were at one point familiar to me." It's good to be aware that, if your brain keeps circling back to any given thought that distresses you, that is structurally an obsession, and if in reflexive response you have a desire to do a specific thing to mitigate that feeling, that is structurally a compulsion. This includes things like "I bet my friends think I'm annoying - I should message them something fun and casual to see if they still like me." Or "I'm worried about the state of the world - I should check the news so no new horribleness blindsides me." The compulsion might contain a sensible thing to do; checking in on your friends is good, keeping up with world events is smart. But done AS a compulsion, it reinforces the anxiety cycle. Even when it results in something neutral or positive, it only confirms that this innocuous thing is your only lifeline over a yawning abyss of terror and stress, because if this time it was fine, it must be because THIS time your vigilance Saved You. So you'd better do it next time, too, because there WILL be a next time, and you might not be so lucky twice, right? The way to stop this cycle is to weaken it over time by, when the obsession pops up (a random reminder of a stressor, an old fear) and the compulsion is prompted, do not do it, no matter how reasonable it seems. Hold the compulsion at arms' length, becoming aware of what the obsession wants you to do and why. Similarly, sit with the awareness of the obsession. You are having an unpleasant thought, but having a thought does not make it inherently meaningful in any way. It doesn't mean you're actually in any danger, any more than you were before you had the thought. It's discomfiting because it removes the salve of the compulsion from the sting of the obsession, but in the medium to long term, it withers the cycle at the root and makes the entire process loosen its grip. Then you can do things like talk to your friends and check the news without it being underlaid with the sting of panic and desperation; they are, after all, neutral activities with typically beneficial consequences, not lifelines over the abyss. It might startle you when, months later, an intrusive thought pops up that used to send you spiralling into misery for hours or days, but now it feels irrelevant - even absurd - and easy to disregard. It really does work, and it's surprising how many things you can untangle this way.

Avoid boredom time prison by HARNESSING HYPERFIXATIONS. My most controversial take, but I think if your brain is desperately hungry to do This One Cool Thing Today, it's a good idea to let it. Even if that means you spend the whole day drawing fanart or bingewatching a show or baking croissants instead of Getting Work Done, the benefits you reap from just letting your brain tap into the rare Infinite Dopamine Opportunity usually outweigh any and all work slowdowns that result from taking the impromptu day off. When your brain works in the ADHD way, your enthusiasm is a vital fuel to keep it running. You need to have energy and joy in your life, energy and joy to spare and spend on things that may not be inherently energizing. If you have the option to spend a day doing something ridiculously fun, fill up that tank and reap the productivity benefits for the next week straight.

#asks #not aurora

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twilightofthesandwiches · 3 days ago

Text

…So we do have some implications that Kris… at the very least, does not care for Ralsei as much as they care for Susie, or as much as Ralsei cares for them. Most notably with Chapter 2’s Teas;

I think also maybe their tendency in the recent chapters to point out the differences between Ralsei and Asriel might be related to it. They don’t want to compare Ralsei to their beloved older brother.

But I wonder if that’s beginning to change. Most notably with all the scenes of Kris and Susie comforting Ralsei and encouraging him to be himself… Obviously we are the ones telling Kris to say the words, but... it seems like it was their choice to give him a hug.

Which kinda reminds me of our first indication that Kris genuinely considers Susie their friend.

Plus, like, sure we CAN force Kris to say certain things, but they can also subtly rebel against it by saying things 'weirdly'

or immediately contradicting our words with their own.

So.... not only do they don't really resist this attempt to help Ralsei, here is how they react if you try and pick one of the most flagrant "no Ralsei you and your feelings don't matter (:" options.

They are literally fighting against the Player's control to try and emotionally support Ralsei.

I wonder if this was a matter of Kris' thoughts about Ralsei actually mirroring many Players, that they also thought he was weird and shady and that his niceness was too-good-to-be-true and that he's probably manipulative and evil. And with the revelations about Ralsei and the way he thinks about himself and his reasoning for keeping secrets in Chapters 3 and 4, it's only now that Kris is starting to let their guard down around him and allows themself to like him.

Or if it's a matter of... clearly Kris' situation with the SOUL (AKA us) is a very unhappy one for them. Even if it also seems to be part of the plan Kris and Evil Phone Voice are on, it is not a pleasant experience for Kris. It might be that the thing that endeared them to Susie so much in the first place is the way that she also chafes and rebels against being 'railroaded' by the prophecy stuff all through Chapter 1 - and therefor they were always put off by Ralsei's happy-peppy lack of resistance to following anything the prophecy said....

Hell... we STILL don't know what these two talk about when the SOUL is away following Susie... if Ralsei told Kris they need to put on a happy smile and accept being a 'Cage' for an Amoral Time God, that will certainly sour their relationship.

But now Ralsei is opening up to how much this fatalism has caused him pain, and now he's starting to push back against it. And maybe now Kris can understand that Ralsei is also in the same boat as them and Susie, that they are kindred spirits.

Or maybe... that whole deal with Kris and the Evil Phone Voice seems to indicate they might've known about Dark Worlds and how they work before the story of the game properly starts, and at least that they understand them more than Susie does. Maybe Kris themself thought of Darkners the same way Ralsei thought. Maybe they were distant from Ralsei because they saw him as not 'real'. And watching Ralsei unlearn this mindset is causing Kris to reconsider the way they were thinking of Dark Worlds and Darkners.

Or... well... it could just be as simple as Kris seeing how much Ralsei matters to Susie. We have constant reminders through these two chapters of how much Susie cares for Ralsei and how much she sees them as a trio. So even if Kris just doesn't Vibe with Ralsei, thinks he's annoying or weird or creepy or whatever, Kris cares for Susie, so they know they have to care about her other very best friend.

I wonder if the reason behind the Person-Flavor-Teas being 'Rotten' past Chapter 2 is because Chapter 3 and 4 actually have a lot of subtle shifts in the characters' relationships and it would've been unpractical to keep track of them all, or simply narratively unsatisfying to spell them numericaly out like that.

#deltarune #deltarune spoilers #deltarune thoughts #deltarune analysis #kris dreemurr #kris deltarune #ralsei #kris #ralsei deltarune #ralsei dr #deltarune kris #deltarune ralsei #dr kris #dr ralsei #deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune chapter 4 spoilers #deltarune chapter three #deltarune chapter four #deltarune chapter 4

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pbaz7 · 14 hours ago

Text

SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 11

paige x azzi

word count: 12k

a/n: once again i'm sorry this took so long i had a rough week so finding time to write took a little extra effort than usual. i know everyone was freaking out because i said I teared up but it's not that bad i swear lol. i rushed through the proof reading because i know it's late for some people so let me know if you see any mistakes please :) like always let me know what you think if you can 🫶🏼

—————————————————————————

The ticking of the clock in the hallway was the loudest sound in her house and it made Paige want to claw her eyes out. Who the hell even made her get that clock? Why did she need a clock in her damn house? Paige thought about it for a second before getting pissed at Cam when she remembered she was the one that practically forced Paige to have it delivered to her house when she was moving in.

It wasn’t even just the clock that was annoying Paige. The sunlight that was filtering in through the large windows were casting harsh beams across the hardwood floor and Paige swore it felt like it was turning her living room into a sauna. Who the fuck convinced her to get a house with floor to ceiling windows and why didn’t she close the blinds before she sat down?

Paige was leaned back on the couch with her legs spread and her fingers laced in her lap. She had a blank look on her face as the psychiatrist sat across from her with a small notepad resting on her knee.

“Do you want me to call you Paige, or something else?” the woman asked to break the silence that had lingered for longer than she wanted to.

“Paige’s fine,” she offered plainly.

The psychiatrist nodded. “Alright, Paige. I like to start simple. I’m not here to push you into anything you don’t want to talk about. We can take our time.”

Paige gave her a slow blink before realizing she should probably respond. “Okay.”

The woman studied her for a second, then asked, “So, what does a typical morning look like? You know when there’s no hiccups in your routine?”

Paige shrugged, her eyes locked somewhere past the edge of the coffee table. “Wake up. Stretch. Train.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

The psychiatrist smiled faintly. “That kind of routine takes discipline.”

Paige didn’t have a response.

“And what about after training?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If I feel like being around people.”

The air between them was still; had been still since they sat down. It was from a heaviness that radiated off of Paige, but it wasn’t necessarily hostile. The psychiatrist tilted her head as she studied her body language. “What kind of people do you let in when you do feel like it?”

Paige’s jaw tensed at what she felt was an unnecessary conversation. Her fingers curled so she could push her nails into her palm, distract herself with a feeling other than uncomfortableness. “My sister’s teammates usually. People who don’t expect anything from me.”

The psychiatrist nodded again, still not writing anything on the notepad. Just listening, trying to get a feel for Paige. “Is that how you would describe yourself too?” she asked. “Someone who doesn’t expect anything?”

Paige let out the softest scoff, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to say something but decided against it. “Expectations for certain people just cause disappointment.”

“Have you been disappointed lately?”

“No.”

The psychiatrist sighed. It was more of a thoughtful sign than one out of frustration as she clicked her pen once to tuck the nib down, then set it along with the notepad on the armrest next to her.

“Paige, you’re…” she paused, glancing around the room to find the right words. “You’re one hell of an athlete. A fighter. You live in a—” she gestured subtly around them to Paige’s house, “—pretty large house at the top of the hill in L.A. with two very expensive cars parked in the garage.”

Paige didn’t move, just stared at her.

“But you’re clearly not materialistic,” the woman added. “This place…it’s warm. Lived-in and comfortable. It’s not showy and you’re not showy even though you’re somebody who could probably afford whatever they wanted. Going off of what meets the eye, this is picture perfect.”

“Is there a question?” Paige asked flatly.

The psychiatrist held her gaze, then said very plainly, “Why are you paying for me to be here?”

The silence stretched as they looked at one another until Paige blinked once and looked away. Her jaw flexed a few times, the blonde clenching and unclenching her teeth before she spoke up. “I dissociated.”

The psychiatrist waited for her to say more.

Paige kept her eyes trained on the floor to keep going. “During my last fight. I don’t remember anything about it. Don’t remember walking from the room, don’t remember hearing the crowd, the bell to start the fight, throwing hits…Nothing. I just remember looking down and seeing blood on my gloves and some girl with her eyes rolled back.”

The psychiatrist nodded, deciding not to reach for her pen but to just listen. “Has that ever happened before?”

Paige shook her head. “No.”

“Okay,” the psychiatrist said softly. “Let’s step back, then. You weren’t in the cage with your body that night. So where were you? Where was your mind?”

Paige didn’t answer.

The psychiatrist knew better than to push. So she shifted slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other before changing the subject. “Can I ask about your childhood Paige?”

Paige gave her a suspicious look. “What about it?”

“Well,” the psychiatrist said, “when someone dissociates, it’s usually not just a one off thing and it’s not about just one moment. Their brain is protecting itself from something deeper. Sometimes it can be something old.”

Paige was quiet again.

“You don’t have to share everything,” the woman added gently. “Just whatever comes up first when you think about your childhood.”

Paige leaned back slightly, taking a breath as she leaned her head back to rest against the couch and look at the ceiling. “My mom left when I was fourteen or fifteen. I don’t know for sure.”

The psychiatrist nodded once, silently telling her to keep going.

“One day she just packed her stuff when my dad was at work and never came back. There was no note for him or anything.” Paige paused, swallowing a little unevenly. “I remember her walking down the steps, kissing me on the head, mumbling something about it not being my fault and that she loves me more than anything.”

“Did you understand what was happening?”

“I knew it was permanent. That’s what I understood.” When she spoke Paige’s voice was quiet, almost like she was talking to herself.

The psychiatrist gave her space to process her own words, then asked her, “And your dad?”

Paige exhaled through her nose but instead of answering the question she changed the subject. “You know I used to play basketball?”

The psychiatrist didn’t react to the change in subject. She just nodded, following Paige’s lead.

“I grew up playing with my God sister. I was good, we both were…great actually. Everybody thought we could actually make something out of playing. They loved watching us play.” Paige’s voice changed. “I loved it, too. The sound the ball made hitting the court when no one else was there. That swish when it went through the net. I could stay at the gym for hours and be happy. It was kind of like therapy in a way, relaxing.”

The psychiatrist offered a small smile. “So what happened?”

Paige didn’t answer once again. Her eyes drifted to the side, almost like she didn’t process the question. When she did speak, her voice was distant and she changed the subject again. “Parents don’t even realize how mean they’re being when they’re hurt. Not mean with their words necessarily, or physically. Just mean in how they show up as parents.”

The psychiatrist didn’t say anything, letting Paige unravel whatever was going on in her head in her own way.

“He stops cooking for you after practice, so you learn how to cook for yourself, mostly protein cause you know that’s important for athletes even at fourteen. Starts leaving beer bottles around the house, so you gotta clean them up before somebody fucks their face up tripping over one and that becomes a whole nother thing. You gotta start driving yourself to basketball practice as soon as you get your permit because he forgot, or maybe just didn’t feel like it.”

Her jaw flexed.

“Then he just stops coming to your games altogether. So you stop looking for him in the stands.” She shrugged, trying to seem casual about it. “And eventually you just get angry at everybody who blinks at you the wrong way or looks at you too long. Because you’re a kid, and you’re doing it all yourself, and nobody’s showing up and everything feels like too much but not enough at the same time.

Paige exhaled through her nose as she blinked away the wetness in her eyes. She looked at the psychiatrist like nothing happened and said, “I think you asked me a question?”

The psychiatrist studies her for a few moments, organizing her thoughts on what she’s seeing. “I asked how your dad was,” she confirms.

Paige looks at her blankly, almost like she’s not processing the question but then she says, “He was my dad, but he was different after that. Angry, but not the loud kind that people expect.”

“Was he ever angry at you?”

Paige shook her head. “No. Or at least he tried not to be but I wasn’t easy though.” She pauses and adds, “I made it hard for him not to be,” almost like she was trying to rationalize his anger. “I got in fights a lot, acted out so teachers were always calling him.”

“And how did he handle that?”

“He grounded me at first, took me out of basketball as punishment, but that just pissed me off. He didn’t want me getting in trouble, so he threw me in a gym with one of his friends anytime he couldn’t be at home to watch me. Said if I wanted to hit something, I should at least learn how to do it right so I didn’t look like an idiot doing it.”

There was a faint smile at the corner of her mouth, like she was trying to make the memory positive but it didn’t last.

“So that’s when you started fighting?”

Paige nodded. “I was fifteen the first time I felt in control of anything.”

The psychiatrist tilted her head slightly. “Controls important to you?”

“When everything feels like it can get ripped away?” as Paige said this her voice was void of any emotion. “Yeah.”

“What do you remember about your parents before your mom left?”

Paige’s expression changed for a second before reverting back to the blankness, something behind her eyes pulling at the lightness in them tightly trying to dim it. “They fought a lot. Over stupid shit. They always thought I was asleep, but I never was. She’d yell and he’d get quiet, then she’d slam a door for him not listening and her doing that would piss him off so he’d follow her to the next room. They’d repeat that until there were no more doors to hide behind. Until whatever stupid ass thing they were arguing about had to just be out in the open.”

“How did that make you feel, back then?”

Paige opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tightened her jaw, then gave a half-shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?”

“Maybe both. Like I said, I don't know.”

The woman nodded. “That’s fair.” She let a few seconds pass before asking, “Do you ever feel that way now?”

Paige didn’t respond again.

“Like you don’t know how you feel or you don’t want to think about it?”

Still nothing as Paige just stared ahead.

After some time the psychiatrist sat back in the chair noting how long the moment stretched as Paige blankly ahead. “When you dissociated during the fight…you said you don’t remember anything. Has anything like that ever happened before? Any other moments where you lost time?”

Paige finally stirred as she scratched her knuckles with her thumb. “I don’t usually lose time,” she said. “I just zone out.”

“Tell me more about the zoning out.”

“I don’t know. I’ll just be in a room, people are talking, and it’s like my body’s still there, but I’m not listening. I just shut off.”

“Does it happen often?”

Paige nodded once to confirm.

“Has anyone noticed?”

“People just say I don’t pay attention. That I’m distracted.” There's a brief pause before she opens and closes her mouth to end the statement there.

“Do you think there’s a specific reason you’re zoning out?”

Paige stays quiet.

“Is it always when someone’s talking?” the woman asked. “Or can it happen even when you’re alone?”

“Both,” Paige said. “Worse when I’m upset or in my head.”

“In your head how?”

Paige wet her lips, as her eyes started to trace the lines of her bookshelf. “Thinking about something I can’t control. Mad at myself for not being in control. Something I said or didn’t say; did or didn’t do. When I feel like I’m just fucking up. Not being good enough for the women in my life.”

“Do you remember the first time you felt that way?”

There was a long silence.

Then Paige once again randomly changed the subject, “There was this one time a few years ago. Some guy at a club put his hands on Cam. Just like around her waist or something.” She paused as she thought about it. “I told him to stop then he just started jawing at me, wouldn’t shut up for Ion know how long. Next thing I remember, I was outside, with my hands all scraped up, knuckles split.”

The psychiatrist stayed still as she listened.

“I don’t even remember hitting him. Don’t remember leaving. Just kinda blinked and I was out back with my friends yelling at me to get in the car.”

“Did it scare you?”

Paige hesitated before she said, “No,” honestly.

The psychiatrist made a quiet note on her pad, then looked up. “Are you known to have a temper, Paige?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“Okay…If I was asking you?”

Paige sits in silence for a few seconds before answering. “Yeah. Sometimes I can lose it.”

“And when you do, do you always remember what you said or did?”

Paige looks down at her hands as she answers, “Not all the time.”

The psychiatrist’s voice was even as she asked her next question. “How’s your memory overall?”

Paige let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Not great.”

“In what way?”

“I forget simple things, conversations, dates. Whole weeks blur together sometimes if I’m getting ready for a fight. Cam says I repeat myself, she used to call me Dory when we were teenagers.”

“Do you? Repeat yourself I mean?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Like I said, I forget conversations.”

The psychiatrist tapped her pen against her knee gently a few times before she stopped and looked at Paige carefully.

“Have you been formally diagnosed with anything recently?”

Paige shook her head no.

“Well,” the woman said, keeping her voice calm but being clear, “based on the few things you’ve described: losing chunks of memory, zoning out under stress, feeling disconnected from your body and surroundings at times it seems like you’re experiencing symptoms of a dissociative disorder. We’d have to do a comprehensive assessment to be sure but I think that’s what we’re looking at here.”

Paige’s jaw flexed as her eyes dropped again.

“This disorder can include depersonalization—you feeling like you’re experiencing moments from outside of your body—and derealization—where things around you feel foggy, distorted, or unreal.”

Paige didn’t speak so the psychologist kept going, explaining it softly knowing how jarringly some people take this sort of information.

“You mentioned you zone out more when you’re emotional. When you’re upset or overstimulated, your mind pulls away as a form of protection. But that form of protection can start to hurt you and those around you if it happens at the wrong time.”

She paused to let Paige grasp what she was saying, then she asked, “Have you ever been diagnosed with depression or anxiety at any point in your life?”

“No.”

“But do you feel low sometimes? Tense? On edge?”

“Who doesn’t,” she mumbled.

“Have you ever had a panic attack?”

Paige shifted in her seat. “I’ve had...moments. Where I feel like I can’t breathe. Where everything feels too loud. But I don’t like calling it that, seems dramatic.”

“Okay,” the psychiatrist nodded. “That’s fair.”

The psychiatrist let a moment pass before continuing her line of questioning as she probed for a little more information. “Have you ever had thoughts about hurting yourself?”

Paige looked up for the first time in a while, seeming to be a little insulted at the question. “No. Never.”

The therapist nodded once, accepting that answer without pushing further. “I’m glad.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

“Paige I want you to understand that this isn’t about labeling you. It’s about giving you the tools to stay present in your life. What you’re experiencing isn’t a weakness you need to beat out of yourself.” She corrects herself saying, “You can’t beat it out of yourself. It’s trauma that’s been misfiled and ignored long enough that it’s started running its own course.”

Paige exhaled deeply and rubbed the side of her jaw as she listened.

“There are options,” the psychiatrist said. “Continued psychotherapy, of course. We could also talk about medication for any possible anxiety or depression symptoms…if you have trouble sleeping. There’s EMDR or somatic therapy which is something that gets into the body as much as the mind. Whatever route you choose will take time and effort but this isn’t something that you have to deal with for the rest of your life Paige.”

Paige let out a long breath. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I gotta talk to Azzi.”

The psychiatrist paused at the name, her head tilting slightly as she looked at Paige. “You haven’t mentioned that name today.”

Paige blinked slowly, then smiled softly. “She’s my girlfriend.” As she said that the psychiatrist noticed there was a warmth in her voice for the first time since they’ve started speaking. Almost like she was relieved to mention her.

“She sounds important to you. How long have you two been together?”

Paige leaned back against the couch cushion. “Officially? Like two and a half months.” She scratched her eyebrow before adding, “But she’d been trying to get me to talk to her before that. Kept showing up, kept...bothering me.” The corner of her mouth curved up at the memory. “We were seeing each other for a few months before we made it official.”

The psychiatrist nodded, as her pen hovered over the notepad even though she wasn’t writing. “Tell me about her.”

Paige narrowed her eyes a little. “Why?”

“If she’s important,” the psychiatrist said plainly, “it’s worth understanding what role she plays in your life.”

Paige hesitated, not wanting to offer up information about Azzi to a stranger.

The psychiatrist tilted her head when she noticed her reluctance. “Why didn’t you mention her earlier?”

Paige stared at the floor for a moment. “Because I don’t know she’s—she’s the only one I don’t feel any of this around. The zoning out, the urge to disconnect.” She pulled her eyes from the floor to add, “She’s the only thing that feels real for me all the time.”

The psychiatrist set her notepad on the arm of her chair. “Can you explain that a little more for me? What does she do that helps?”

“I don’t think she purposefully does anything, she doesn’t have to try,” Paige said. “She just pulls me out of my head without even realizing it. Her voice, the way she touches me, her laugh. It’s like—” she stopped herself, embarrassed by how much she wanted to say.

Paige swallowed, her eyes tracking something invisible. “It’s like, she’ll notice something’s off and just sit next to me. Put a hand on my leg. Say something stupid to make me laugh.”

“You feel grounded around her.”

“Yeah,” Paige nodded slowly. “Like my head goes quiet when I’m with her.”

The psychiatrist gave a small nod. “And does she know about the dissociating? The memory gaps?”

Paige hesitated, biting her bottom lip. “Yeah she does now.”

“What changed?”

Paige shifted in her seat. “We had a fight about a month before my last fight.”

“The one you can’t remember?”

Paige nods in confirmation.

“What happened?”

Paige takes her time explaining some of the backstory of the fight, not going fully into detail but giving the psychiatrist enough to understand the situation.

“Then it just spiraled and she was worked up and I tried to grab her face, like to calm her down to get us both to take a moment but then she flinched.”

The psychiatrist’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened as she processed the implications of that .

“She looked scared for a second,” Paige said, her voice changing just a bit as she talked about it. “Seeing that messed me up a little bit and I just had to leave. I told her to stay even though it was my place but I just couldn’t—I couldn’t look at her after that.”

The psychiatrist waited a second before asking, “Do you think you scared her?”

“I know I did, not physically but—” Paige stops herself not wanting to talk about the intricate parts of her relationship. “We’ve talked about it and we're good now.” Paige clarifies. “But after that I just didn’t want to fight. I thought she’d look at me differently after our argument, and be more weary.”

“Did she?”

Paige shook her head. “No. She was there after the fight. When I realized I didn’t remember any of it, I freaked out a little, I was shaking and I threw up in the locker room. Just felt like I couldn’t breathe, like my nerves we’re firing in every direction. She didn’t even say anything, she just opened her arms and sat with me. Made everything seem less loud, less chaotic.”

“And that helped?”

Paige nodded.

The psychiatrist sat quietly for a moment before speaking. “It sounds like she’s a soft spot for you.”

Paige’s eyes lifted, a little guarded again.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” the psychiatrist clarified. “We all have them. People or places where our nervous system feels safe, where our brain allows us to finally just exhale without being in fight or flight. That’s important for someone to have, it’s a form of healing. It’s healthy.”

Paige looked down, something about the words tugging at her chest.

“But,” the psychiatrist added gently, “it can also be unhealthy, if she becomes the only place you know how to go to when you need to feel okay.”

Paige’s jaw tightened.

“Because then,” the psychiatrist went on carefully, “if things are ever rocky between you, if you’re in a disagreement or disconnected, like last time then you’re more vulnerable to slipping. Into dissociation, into memory loss, anxiousness, etcetera, without even realizing it.”

Paige frowned, becoming a little defensive. “So what, you’re saying she’s a problem now too? I can’t have anything?”

“No,” the psychiatrist said quickly but plainly, not allowing that thought to settle in Paige’s psyche. “I’m not saying she’s bad for you. From everything you’ve said, she sounds amazing for you.”

Paige sat back, the tension still sitting on her shoulders as she tried to take a few deep breaths to stop herself from getting upset.

“She seems to ground you,” the psychiatrist said. “She shows up when you’re unraveling. She doesn’t try to fix you, she’s accepting you for who you are without asking for anything other than that. You’ve been living with this for years, Paige. Years…and she’s only been in your life for a few months, and yet somehow, she’s the reason you’re finally sitting here in front of me.”

Paige blinked, her throat suddenly feeling dry.

“That says a lot about her,” the psychiatrist continued her thought process, “but it also says a lot about you. You want to be better for yourself and for her, for your relationship. And that's the first real step.”

Paige nodded a few times as she let the words settle in her brain.

After spending some time speaking with one another the air in the room was softer than when they started. Paige was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, and her fingers were loosely laced. “I just don’t like waking up and the first thing on my mind is about what’s going wrong instead of what’s going right. I try to live in a state of gratitude but waking up like that everyday makes it harder.”

The psychiatrist nodded, as she listened, her notepad lines now filled with notes for herself. They had passed the hour mark a while ago, but she opted to not say anything when she noticed Paige starting to open up. Not when her voice cracked describing the club fight in detail that left her in Azzi in a weird spot and not now, with the sheen of tears glinting in her eyes.

They both looked up at the sound of the front door opening and laughter echoing from the foyer. First it was Dijonai’s, then Azzi’s voice trailing close behind her, teasing each other about something neither of them caught from the living room.

Azzi walked in the room first and she clocked the scene instantly. The notebook still on the table, the faint wetness Paige was blinking away. Azzi stopped in her tracks. “Oh I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize you were still going.”

Paige looked away blinking a few times as she swallowed. The psychiatrist stood quietly, smoothing down her skirt as she offered a reassuring smile to Azzi.

“It’s alright,” she said gently, gathering her things. “We were just finishing up.”

Paige still hadn’t moved so the psychiatrist lingered for a moment, looking at her, then said her name warmly, “Paige.”

When Paige glanced up, her eyes were red but she still looked composed.

“We’ll find a time to meet again?” the psychiatrist asked.

Paige offered her a nod before looking away again.

The psychiatrist gave a final look between the two of them, smiling at Azzi kindly before heading toward the door.

As the door clicked shut behind the psychiatrist, Paige stood up and moved around the room without saying anything. She started off with picking up a glass off the table and taking it to the kitchen before coming back and adjusting the throw blanket. She shifted coasters that didn’t need to be moved and it was obvious to anyone tha looked that the session had her off kilter. Like she needed to do something with her hands before her thoughts swallowed her.

Dijonai caught Azzi’s eye from the hallway, and nodded toward the stairs. “Imma be in the guest room,” and she disappeared down the hall without waiting for Azzi to reply.

Azzi stayed where she was standing for a few more seconds, watching Paige adjust a candle that was already straight. Then, softly, she said, “Hey, beautiful.”

Paige didn’t stop moving at the sound of Azzi’s voice, she crossed the room, reaching to fix one of her small lego sets that sat on the table just outside of the living room. “I need to get rid of that clock in the front,” she mumbled, not looking at her. “It’s annoying. The ticking, every time it’s quiet, it’s just there and it drives me crazy sometimes.”

Azzi nodded slowly, moving toward the couch and sitting down. “Okay. That’s fine,” she said gently. “You wanna come sit with me? Talk to me?”

“I’m fine,” Paige responded quickly, still not facing her. She shifted the lego in her hands wiping some of the dust off then bent down to tuck something under the table, moving like she had a list of things to do, like something would fall apart if she stopped.

Azzi stood up again and walked over to where Paige was standing to come up behind her. Carefully, she reached out and took the lego’s from Paige’s hands, setting it down on the nearby shelf. She circled her arms around Paige’s waist from behind and just held her for a second.

Paige’s first reaction was to tense up. Her body going a little rigid under the familiar touch that was too gentle for all the thoughts swirling inside of her.

Azzi leaned in despite this, resting her chin against Paige’s shoulder and whispered, “You don’t have to hold it all by yourself, baby. I’m right here. Just let me be here.”

A shaky breath slipped from Paige’s chest as she heard these words as a single tear slipped down her cheek and dropped soundlessly on the floor. Her shoulders jerked slightly as she took another sharp breath, almost like she was surprised by the tear coming out without permission.

Azzi held her, keeping her chest pressed gently against Paige’s back, before slowly turning her around. She kept one hand on Paige’s waist, and used the other to move up to her jaw, guiding her to look at her.

Paige’s eyes met Azzi’s for the first time since the front door opened and they were glassy, another tear having already gathered at the bottom of her lash line. Before it could fall, Azzi reached up and wiped it away with her thumb.

“I promise you don’t have to be okay.”

Paige blinked again, her mouth twitching like she wanted to argue but she decided against it.

Azzi took her hand to interlace their fingers before stepping back toward the couch, gently pulling her. Paige let herself be led without saying anything. Each step for her seemed to be heavy, like her body was finally starting to physically feel the weight of what her mind had been carrying for so many years.

Azzi sat down first, guiding Paige between her legs. Paige hesitated for a second before sinking down so her back was resting against Azzi’s chest. Her body curled slightly into her like she didn’t know how to soften herself, but she was trying. Azzi wrapped her arms around her as soon as she got settled, one sliding across Paige’s torso while the other traced circles over her thigh.

Paige closed her eyes and let her head rest back on Azzi’s shoulder.

They didn’t speak for a while, the only sound filling the space was their quiet breathing and the ticking of the clock that didn’t seem so annoying anymore, Paige’s hand had found Azzi’s at one point and she held it tightly, using it to ground herself in the moment.

Eventually, Paige whispered with her eyes still closed, “I love basketball Az.”

Azzi smiled softly and nodded, her chin resting against the top of Paige’s head. “I know you do baby.”

“And I think…” Paige swallowed, “I think I hated my dad more than I hated my mom sometimes.”

Azzi’s arms tightened around her to keep her present while she talked. “That’s okay.”

Paige kept her eyes shut, but her voice got quieter with each confession, like each one took a little weight off her chest.

“Sometimes I used to sit on the floor in my room and hope they’d both disappear. I felt like life would be easier that way.”

Azzi nodded as she started to trace circles into Paige’s arm. “That’s okay.”

“I hated myself for being mad at them, for feeling that way even when I had a right to be.”

Azzi just nodded as she placed a kiss to the top of Paige’s head.

“I used to wish every night that I was someone else. Anyone else and I felt so ungrateful.”

Azzi pressed another soft kiss to her temple whispering, “That’s okay baby.”

Paige’s voice cracked slightly. “I thought something was wrong with me. That I was broken.”

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. She just held her tighter, letting her feel it before she whispered, “That’s okay too. We aren’t perfect.”

Paige exhaled as tears slipped down her face again. This time they felt a little more freeing, like she was letting herself accept her thoughts for the first time instead of burying them.

At some point, they shifted on the couch and now Paige lay stretched out between Azzi’s legs, with her head resting in the soft space between Azzi’s thighs. Azzi still sat back against the couch cushions and her fingers were gently weaving through Paige’s hair over and over, like she was memorizing every strand.

The room had gone silent and Paige dozed off for maybe twenty minutes, easily lulled by Azzi’s fingers in her hair and the softness of her presence.

When she felt Paige stir and tighten her arms around her waist Azzi looked down and whispered, “You back?”

Paige hummed, but kept her eyes closed. “Think so.”

Azzi smiled down at her, brushing her fingers along Paige’s temple. “Good. You were twitching. I thought you were fighting someone in your dream.”

A huff escaped from Paige’s nose as she chuckled. “Probably my dad. Not his biggest fan right now.”

Azzi’s smile grew a little. “Hope you knocked him out.”

Paige cracked one eye open to look up at Azzi. “That’s crazy to say.”

“Just supportive,” Azzi argued as her thumb traced a slow line across Paige’s cheek. “I’m Team Paige all day no matter who's on the other side.”

Paige turned her head, nuzzling her cheek into Azzi’s thigh. “You’re annoying.”

“I’ll be annoying all day if that means you’ll smile.”

A small snort echoed from Paige, and she tightened her arms around Azzi’s waist, pressing herself closer into the space between her thighs.

Azzi glanced down, raising her eyebrow. “Alright now…”

Paige smirked, already knowing exactly what Azzi was talking about. She leaned in and placed a wet kiss on the inside of Azzi’s thigh causing her eyes to flutter shut. Without thinking, Azzi’s legs shifted, opening slightly.

Paige could only smile wider at this. “You such a good girl for me.”

Azzi rolled her eyes hard and pushed Paige’s forehead, laughing despite herself. “Get off me, big head, go find some business.”

Paige laughed, letting herself be pushed back as she swatted at Azzi’s ass to the best of her ability. Of course, that’s when Dijonai came walking into the room.

She stopped and raised her eyebrow before she just shook her head and pretended not to have seen anything. “You know what I don’t even want to know.”

Azzi’s eyes widened. “We’re not—”

“I said I don’t want to know!” Dijonai repeated, her voice echoing a little. “I was just trying to see if y’all wanted to go out tonight. I’m in L.A. and haven’t been out yet, feels real grimy.”

Azzi laughed, her fingers starting to brush through Paige’s hair again as the blonde adjusted herself, fluttering her eyes closed and tucking herself back into the space between Azzi’s thighs.

“Where you wanna go?” Azzi asked, looking over.

DiJonai shrugged. “You tell me. You live here.”

Azzi snorted. “You gotta ask Cam and them. I just go where they tell me.”

“But you’re down to go out?”

Azzi looked down at Paige, clearly about to ask when Dijonai cut her off. “She’s going.”

“No m’not,” Paige mumbled into Azzi’s thigh.

Dijonai grabbed the closest throw pillow and lobbed it at Paige’s back.

Paige groaned dramatically when it bounced off her and looked up at Azzi with her lower lip jutted out in a pout, fully expecting her girlfriend to defend her.

Azzi looked down, trying to hide her grin, while Dijonai burst out laughing. “The irony of a whole MMA fighter pouting up at her girlfriend for backup is insane Paige.”

Paige groaned again and buried her head deeper into Azzi like she was trying to disappear.

“I’m thinking we head out at like ten,” Dijonai yelled over her shoulder, already halfway up the stairs. “So start getting ready soon, or I’m dragging your dramatic ass out in whatever you’re wearing now.”

Paige just mumbled out, “Whatever.”

Azzi laughed quietly, her hands returning to Paige’s hair, as she smiled at her. “You okay with going out?” she asked softly. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Paige hummed when Azzi’s thumb brushed against her temple. “I’ll be okay, baby. Least I can do for her.”

Azzi’s smile grew as she nodded, leaning down to kiss Paige's forehead. “If you wanna go home at any point just say the word. I got you.”

Paige nodded and then tugged on her arm with her eyes still closed. “Mmm ok, now come take a nap wimme real quick.”

Azzi laughed as she shifted and slid down onto the couch, letting Paige maneuver her until they were tangled up, Paige spooning her from behind with one leg draped lazily over Azzi’s hip.

“Better?” Azzi whispered.

“Mmhmm,” Paige said, grinning with her eyes still shut. She kissed the back of Azzi’s neck, then the spot just below her ear, holding her tighter. “You so perfect,” she whispered.

Azzi reached down to squeeze Paige’s hand where it rested on her stomach. “You make it real easy to be.”

…

Later that night, the three of them were ready to leave Paige’s house, the buzz of city nightlife already wild at the bottom of the hill.

Azzi had her braids and loose goddess curls swooped to one side. She wore a black halter top that accentuated her chest and showed off her stomach and back with a black embellished mini skirt that shimmered when she walked past a light. Paige had definitely stared a little too long when Azzi first walked out of the bathroom wearing it; long enough for Azzi to smile and ask, “You good, baby?” like she didn’t already know the answer.

Paige was more laid back with her outfit. A black tank top paired with lilac Nike sweats that sat perfectly on her hips. Her hair was down in its natural waves, just like Azzi asked and around her neck was one of her flashier cuban diamond chains, catching and throwing off every bit of light it met.

When Paige reached for her car keys near the door, Dijonai held a hand out in front of her. “Nope,” she said plainly. “I’m getting you fucked up tonight. I already called the Uber.”

Paige blinked. “What? I’m not—”

“Nope,” Dijoni cut her off again, turning to Azzi. “You ever seen her drunk at the club?”

Azzi tilted her head like she had to think about it, not counting that one time they got drunk in the house by themselves. “Now that I think about it, no.”

Dijonai raised her eyebrows, looking back at Paige and easily resting her case. “Exactly.”

Paige sighed dramatically, sliding her phone in her pocket as she opened the door for them. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

…

When they walked in the club, the bass, and heat radiating off of the sea of bodies hit them all at once. The place was packed wall to wall, sweat and perfume in the air as they eased their way through the crowd.

Heads turned as the three of them moved through the crowd. A trio of tall women, each at least 5'10", commanding attention in their own way. Azzi, with her bare collarbones and gleaming skin under the club lights, had heads swiveling and Dijonai walked in the front like she wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere but everyone should move anyway. Paige who had a sleepy eyed indifference about everything as she let Azzi walk in front of her with one of their hands laced drew attention like gravity.

Men and women glanced over their shoulders at Azzi and Dijonai. While women openly ogled Paige, some of them were already drunk enough to be bold. One woman brushed her fingers down Paige’s arm as they passed, leaning in close to be heard over the music. “You here with somebody?” she slurred.

Paige kept walking but she leaned down to whisper something to Azzi, her mouth brushing the shell of Azzi’s ear. Azzi let out a laugh, shaking her head as she looked over her shoulder at the woman Paige was talking about.

By the time they made it to the section in the back, the heat from the crowd had them all glistening. Rae, Rickea, and Cam were already there with drinks in their hands.

“Took y’all long enough,” Rickea said.

Before they could even fully settle into the couch, Dijonai was already passing Azzi a shot and pushing two towards Paige

Paige raised her eyebrow, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Two?”

Dijonai shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Let’s not act like your tolerance isn’t high as hell.”

From the other side of the couch Cam leaned in, catching the tail end of the exchange. “We getting Paige drunk tonight?” DiJonai nodded and Cam’s smile spread across her whole face.

Paige shook her head as she grabbed both shots and threw them back like water before leaning back into the couch. She looked over at Azzi and caught her mid shot with a lime wedge pinched between her lips, her eyes squinting a little from the burn of the tequila. Paige couldn’t help but smile as she watched her.

Azzi looked at her, still sucking lightly on the lime, and raised an eyebrow silently asking ‘what’ with soft eyes.

Paige just shook her head, continuing to smile as her gaze lingered on Azzi before drifting across the club, soaking in the energy.

The lights were flashing white and blue above them, pulsing in tandem with the beat. Their section was dimly lit, giving them just enough separation from the dance floor to feel like they had their own corner carved out.

A bottle girl in a glittery two-piece stepped into their section a few minutes later, balancing a glowing tray of drinks, placing them down one by one. “Let me know if y’all need anything else.”

Rickea handed everybody a drink and once Azzi had hers she settled deeper into the couch cushions, crossing one leg over the other and letting her calf rest in the space between Paige’s open legs.

A few drinks in, the group had started to relax into the setting more. Dijonai was cracking jokes and Rae and Rickea were halfway through a story about something that happened when they were shopping the other day when a fan made her way over tentatively.

“Excuse me,” she called, raising her voice over the music. “Sorry, I just—are y’all Sparks players?”

Cam nodded. “Guilty.”

“Oh my God, I knew it,” the girl gushed, her eyes darting between all of them “Y’all are amazing. I’m a huge fan. Is it okay if I get a picture?”

“Of course,” Rickea said, already getting up.

One by one, the players posed with her, Azzi perching herself on Paige’s knees for the group picture, not wanting to bend over fully in her mini skirt.

When the fan left Azzi sat back down, keeping her leg thrown on top of Paige’s thigh. Paige moved her hand to rest on top of Azzi’s thigh, her fingers tracing light shapes.

“You good?” Azzi asked her softly, leaning closer to her ear so she could hear.

Paige nodded. “Mmhmm. You look good.”

Azzi gave her a knowing look over the rim of her glass as she took another sip. “You do too.”

…

After a few more drinks the booth was buzzing. Voices had gotten a little louder, laughs a little messier and eyes glassier than they’d been an hour and a half ago. The bottle girl had made a few rounds, each one welcomed with louder cheers and heavier pours.

Dijonai raised another shot glass toward the middle of the group and everyone raised their glasses. When they were done Paige picked hers up and tossed it back in sync with everyone else, the liquid burning in a way that didn’t faze her anymore, indicating how tipsy she was. Still, she looked relaxed. Her eyes were heavy but her limbs were looser as her body started to buzz with the alcohol.

After a few minutes, Cam signaled the bottle girl again. “Let’s keep it going,” she said with a tipsy grin, already pulling three more glasses toward herself, two of which she slid in front of Paige.

Paige shook her head. “I just had one.”

“So did everybody,” Cam said, putting her chin in her palm as she grinned. “We’re balancing the scales.”

Paige narrowed her eyes, at the flawed logic. “I feel like y’all plotting.”

Dijonai was already pouring herself another one too. “We are,” she said. “Let us live.”

Without saying anything else Paige knocked both back, barely blinking.

It wasn’t immediate, but with each extra drink that was snuck her way, Paige’s laugh got a little looser, and her posture relaxed more. She shifted deeper into the cushions, spreading her legs comfortably as she lounged and listened to everyone around her.

Paige’s hand found Azzi’s calf absently at first, resting there to keep her leg from slipping off her thigh but after a minute or two, her fingers started to move. Slow strokes up and down, almost in rhythm with the music.

Azzi glanced at her.

“Wassup?” Paige asked, pretending not to notice.

Azzi gave her a look. “I know what you’re doing.”

“You don’t know anything,” Paige said, grinning more than usual.

Her fingers slid higher up Azzi’s leg, her thumb rubbing softly at the inside of her knee. Azzi exhaled through her nose, trying to stop herself from smiling at Paige’s obvious horniness.

Cam clocked the moment and pointed across the table. “That’s how you know Paige is officially drunk.”

“Shut up,” Paige said, grinning without looking away from Azzi. “I’m chillin’.”

“Mmhm,” Dijonai hummed, pouring another shot and handing it to Azzi. “You’re gonna need this.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but took it, clinking glasses with Rae before downing it.

Another thirty minutes passed in a blur. Everyone in the group was definitely on the far end of tipsy or drunk. Paige was drunk in the best way. She wasn’t a messy or sloppy drunk; just loose and her cheeks flushed, that specific kind of buzz where she felt untouchable, her guard completely lowered.

“Alright, I need to dance,” Rickea announced suddenly, standing up with Cam already rising next to her.

“You read my mind,” Cam said, adjusting her dress. “Nai, you coming?”

“Hell yeah,” Dijonai grinned, finishing the rest of her drink before following them out of the section and into the packed crowd.

Azzi leaned in closer to Paige, smiling against her ear. “You gonna be okay if I go for a minute?”

Paige’s hand came up, her fingertips tracing Azzi’s jaw lightly, and then her lips brushed against Azzi’s ear like she was about to whisper something but before she could respond Rae stepped over. “Come dance with me, pretty,” she said, tugging Azzi by her wrist.

Azzi glanced at Paige for permission. Paige just gave her a small nod, still smiling up at her like she hung the stars before Rae was pulling her toward the dance floor.

Left alone in the section, Paige sank deeper into the plush couch. Her legs were spread wide with her arms thrown on the back of the couch. She was sitting in the way where if a man did it a woman might be disgusted, but because it was her it was attractive and it drew eyes.

The lights shifted over the crowd, catching the shimmer in Azzi’s skirt as she walked hand in hand with Rae until they reached everyone else. Her braids swung down one shoulder as she danced, laughing at something Rickea said. She looked amazing in any element and Paige felt the flutter in her chest deepen, settling comfortably beneath her ribs.

Paige didn’t smile with her mouth, but her eyes were completely soft in adoration, tracking every move Azzi made. Paige was the textbook definition of a woman watching the love of her life from across the room.

Two songs passed before a slower track came on, smoother and a little sultrier in tone. Azzi turned with everyone else back toward the section, clearly about to walk back but she took a step before Paige stopped her with her eyes.

Azzi tilted her head slightly asking a silent question.

Paige didn’t move much, just lifted her hips in her seat, in the eyes of, ‘adjusting,’ but her smirk and her legs spreading wider as she sat back carried an entirely different message.

Azzi caught it and she chewed her bottom lip for a second, thinking about it, before gently wrapping her fingers around Rae’s wrist just as she started to follow Cam, Rickea, and Dijonai back toward the section. Rae paused, lifting her eyebrows curiously, but Azzi didn’t say anything, she just gave her a subtle tug towards herself, and Rae followed her pull.

The bass slowed into something heavier, the synths melting into the background while the low beat pulled bodies into a new rhythm. Azzi moved first, stepping back until her back was against Rae’s chest, her arms lifting to rearrange her braids down one shoulder as she started to roll her hips.

Rae caught the rhythm easily, hovering her hands over Azzi’s waist without gripping them, letting her lead the tempo. Their bodies rocked together fluidly, skin gleaming faintly in the soft sheen of sweat that caught the flashing blue and purple lights. Every few seconds, the strobes would hit them just right, illuminating the shimmer of Azzi’s skirt, the soft flex in Rae’s thighs, the movements between them made visible for a flash before it was swallowed again by the darkness of the club.

Across the room, still in the same spot, Paige hadn’t moved. She looked calm as her gaze raked shamelessly over Azzi’s body. She watched the way Azzi rolled her hips, the slight arch of her back, the way her hands lifted above her head for a moment before they came down to rest on top of Rae’s. Paige’s eyes dragged over every inch of her exposed skin, down to the valley of Azzi’s chest where the halter dipped.

Azzi smiled as she watched Paige’s reaction, sliding down Rae’s body with the same controlled grace she carried on the court. She moved slowly, her back arching as her hands grazed down Rae’s sides before she rose again.

Paige’s jaw tensed as she watched, tapping her fingers against the leather cushion behind her. Her diamond necklace flashed every time the lights hit it, but it didn’t compare to the look in her blue eyes.

Azzi tilted her head slightly at her silently asking ‘you still good, baby?’

Paige smirked, nodding her head just a little bit, approving what Azzi was doing.

Azzi wasn’t trying to make Paige feel jealous. She just wanted to remind her of what she could do to her without touching her, what she could make her feel. That while no Paige’s body didn’t belong to her, but her control over it. Her ability to unravel her, to seduce her, to fuck up her composure with just looking at her from across the room.

That was all Azzi and Paige knew.

Paige didn’t blink when Azzi grabbed Rae’s hands and guided them down her body. Trailing them over her stomach, then down the curve of her thighs as she rolled her hips deeper into Rae. Paige’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the couch as she followed their hands, the leather creaking faintly beneath her grip.

Another strobe of light came fast and it lit up the small shine of sweat along Rae’s collarbone as she leaned down, her mouth hovering near Azzi’s shoulder as she leaned into her. The glow hit the inside of Azzi’s thigh where her skirt had ridden up, exposing the strong line of her quad, a soft glisten tracing along her skin where Rae’s hand rested.

As Paige watched this Cam appeared next to her, laughing breathlessly at something that Paige couldn’t hear and handed Paige a shot. Paige took it while keeping her eyes glued to Azzi. She tossed it back smoothly, her throat bobbing slightly as she swallowed it, the strobe catching on her collarbone, her arms, the diamonds dancing on her chain, the ridges of her toned abdomen beneath her black tank top.

Azzi saw every flash of light catching the controlled tension in Paige’s frame the way her muscles flexed when she threw the shot back and couldn’t help but bite her lip as she rolled her hips.

She didn’t have to tell Paige to come, the blonde stood slowly and stepped down from the section like she’d been waiting for the cue. She moved fluidly through the sea of bodies, cutting through the crowd easily as the bass pulsed around her.

Azzi stood a little straighter when she saw her coming out of satisfaction of winning whatever silent game they had been playing. She couldn’t help but smile because this was what she wanted, Paige being pulled forward by nothing but her desire to touch Azzi, already a puddle for her before she even got near her.

Azzi’s eyes tracked Paige’s steps until she was right in front of her. Without saying anything she reached out and hooked two fingers underneath the thick chain resting against Paige’s collarbone, tugging her forward.

Paige stepped into Azzi’s gravity willingly, her expression unreadable but her eyes saying everything like usual.

Azzi smiled as she slipped her arms around Paige’s neck, her wrists resting loosely behind her. Her body didn’t stop moving as she kept her hips rolling in sync with the beat, her back still pressed against Rae, who hadn’t stepped away. Azzi stood between them, caged in by the warmth radiating off of both of them, by their hands, by Paige’s attention.

Paige’s palms settled against Azzi’s waist, like she was silently claiming her space. “Don’t stop,” Paige whispered as her lips brushed against Azzi’s jaw.

Azzi’s smile grew, her mouth close enough to brush the shell of Paige’s ear. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Rae chuckled behind Azzi, her hands briefly grazing Azzi’s hips before she backed off with a smirk, giving them space as she slipped away.

“You come all the way over here just to stand still?”

Paige licked her lips, as she tightened her hands around Azzi’s waist. “I came over here ‘cause you were showing out.”

Azzi laughed, her forehead almost touching Paige’s. “You liked it.”

Paige’s mouth curved up, not quite a smile yet, but close. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

Their bodies swayed in sync now, not dancing so much as moving together, lost in the tension that lived between them. The music continued around them, lights flashing hot against Azzi’s glistening skin and making the diamonds at Paige’s neck glitter.

Azzi leaned in, her breath warm against Paige’s ear. “You wanna go home?”

Paige shook her head, her nose brushing Azzi’s cheek. “Not yet beautiful.”

The beat changed and something slower took its place. The unmistakable sound of “Lovers and Friends” echoing through the club speakers like a slow exhale, as the energy in the room changed. Around them, people softened as hips started to move slower, touches growing more intimate and loudness giving way to soft whispers as people’s flushed skin pressed against one another.

And in the middle of it all, was Azzi and Paige.

Without needing to be told and without breaking their rhythm, Azzi turned in Paige’s arms. Her back met Paige’s chest, and for a second, they just stood there to be close to one another.

Then Azzi reached for Paige’s hands, guiding them around her waist. She let out the softest sigh, something just barely audible, as Paige’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her back. The way she did it wasn’t possessive. It was like Paige was just letting herself feel Azzi in this moment, letting herself fully realize that Azzi was real and hers.

They started to move as Azzi rolled her hips slowly, letting her body guide their movement, letting the beat dictate how she pressed into Paige.

Paige followed her without thinking, without needing to really. She just swayed with her, melting against her back, their bodies moving like they’d done this a hundred times before.

But they hadn’t or at least not like this in public.

Not in the open where flashing strobe lights caught every one of their movements. As they let themselves be pulled into the haze of the club, the low ceiling of smoke and perfume and bass that made the world feel blurred, like they were underwater.

Paige exhaled against the back of Azzi’s neck before dipping her head down and pressing a lingering kiss just beneath her ear. Azzi swallowed and she tilted her head to the side, giving Paige space, silently inviting more. So Paige kissed her again. Then again a little messier.

Still wrapped tightly around Azzi, Paige’s palms started to move. Azzi took one of them and put her hand palm on top of Paige’s, intertwining their fingers before sliding Paige’s hand upward, dragging it across the front of her own body.

She guided Paige’s hand to her chest, letting Paige settle there and palm her breast as her back pressed harder into her. Paige’s other hand followed suit, dragging down to Azzi’s stomach where Azzi’s fingers pressed on top of hers, applying just enough pressure to encourage her to explore.

Paige’s palms glided across every part of Azzi’s bare skin and Azzi breathed deeply through it all, her body responding to every touch. When Paige’s fingers ghosted over the curve of her hip and slid lower, Azzi’s legs spread subtly, letting her press against her thighs, giving silent permission in everything she did.

Azzi leaned her head back, resting it against Paige’s shoulder as her lips parted. For a moment Paige let herself close her eyes. She let herself fully relax and let her guard down to be in this moment with Azzi in a room full of people. She breathed Azzi in, felt every inch of Azzi’s skin pressing against her own and just let her feel.

She realized that right now, in this version of her life this was all she needed.

The song played on and Paige and Azzi danced like no one else in the room existed.

From the section tucked off to the side, Rae let out a whistle and Rickea gasped before laughing, clutching her chest while she playfully fanned her hand like the scene in front of them had her hot. While Cam grabbed DiJonai’s arm and pointed toward the dance floor.

Paige’s body was flush with Azzi’s back, her hands now confidently roaming, fingers splayed over Azzi’s abdomen, moving slowly as they followed the arc of each of her ribs down to her hips. Azzi’s breath hitched when Paige’s thumb dragged beneath the edge of her skirt to tease the soft skin there. She caught her own lip between her teeth, her fingers gripping Paige’s at the wrist to hold her there.

There were a few times where Azzi had to whisper something to herself. To remind herself to not grab Paige’s hand and slide it between her legs. Her thighs clenching a few times with thoughts of doing it. The ache she was feeling had been building all night, a buzzing heat that pressed into her everytime she rolled her hips, every time Paige dragged her lips along her neck.

It didn’t help that she could feel Paige’s restraint, too. The tension in her arms or the way her jaw flexed. How her hands would hesitate for too long in certain places, like she was barely holding herself back from touching Azzi in the middle of the club.

Azzi leaned back harder into her, pressing their bodies together. She felt like every inch of her needed Paige. Her back burned from the heat radiating off of Paige, her skin practically humming for her. Paige dipped her head down again, her lips grazing Azzi’s shoulder, dragging across the curve of her neck with a kiss that barely connected.

Azzi’s breath stuttered and her knees almost buckled, so she turned in Paige’s arms to keep herself upright. Her hands slid up Paige’s arms as she turned, dragging her palms over the muscles she’d admired a hundred times but could never get enough of. Paige looked fucked up in the most beautiful way. Her hair was slightly tousled from the heat of the club and all their dancing, waves tumbling messily around her face. Her pale skin shimmered under the lights, accentuated by sweat and the liquor in her system.

The lilac sweats were lower on her hips from dancing and her black tank top stuck to her body in a way that made Azzi want to pull it off. She still smelled like her luxury cologne, having that soft bite of the vanilla Valentino that clung to her no matter how many hours they’d been out.

Azzi exhaled, shakily as she closed her eyes for a second.

“Wassup, beautiful,” Paige whispered, like she already knew Azzi was hers to have whenever she wanted.

Azzi didn’t say anything, she just stepped closer until her braids were brushing against Paige’s collarbones. Then she leaned up, brushing her lips against Paige’s ear. “You look so fucking good it hurts.”

Then, without warning, Azzi took Paige’s earlobe between her lips, she bit it before soothing it with her tongue and sucking on it gently.

Paige’s hands flexed at Azzi’s hips.

Azzi let go and smiled against Paige’s cheek as she leaned back far enough to see the reaction on Paige’s face. The look in Paige’s eyes made her thighs press together again to search for friction involuntarily.

Her breath hitched when Paige’s hand slid to the back of her thigh, her fingertips grazing her skin deliberately. Even as the hem of her skirt was adjusted back into place, Azzi felt so much in such a simple touch. It was possessive in the softest way. Then Paige’s hand was at her jaw, her thumb and index finger guiding her chin up with a softness that made Azzi’s heart stutter.

It always did. For all the strength in Paige’s arms, all the bite in her personality, she never handled Azzi with anything less than gentleness. Even now, completely drunk off liquor, with heat pulsing between their bodies and sweat slicking their skin, Paige still touched her like she was something she needed to be gentle with.

Paige leaned in close, her breath feathering across Azzi’s lips. “I can feel you dripping down your thighs for me.”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut for the briefest second at the words before Paige’s lips brushed hers to tease her before Azzi forced the space between them to vanish.

The kiss started slowly. Like they hadn’t been eye fucking each other from across the room. Like they weren’t on the verge of losing themselves in the middle of a packed club.

Paige’s lips moved against Azzi’s mouth with precision, coaxing a low moan from Azzi’s throat as their mouths opened wider. Their tongues met in soft, deliberate swipes, both of them tasting the night on each other: the drinks, the sweat, everything.

Azzi bit down on Paige’s bottom lip, just hard enough to make her groan into the kiss, and Paige returned the favor moments later, tugging on Azzi’s with her teeth before licking into her mouth again. Their tongues tangled making the kiss wet as they kept the pace slow.

Azzi let her lips close around Paige’s tongue, sucking it into her mouth gently, her fingers curling into the sides of Paige’s tank top. She could feel the subtle flex of Paige’s abs under her fingers.

Eventually, Azzi pulled back, and the sound that came when their lips parted was almost as obscene as the kiss itself. Paige’s mouth was swollen, the glossy sheen of Azzi’s lipgloss smeared across her lips.

Azzi caught her breath, and with a smirk, she raised her thumb to Paige’s mouth. Gently wiping the smudged lip color from her lips, dragging her thumb slowly across the bottom one on purpose. Paige’s jaw was slightly parted, her eyes soft and locked on Azzi like she was seeing the stars for the first time.

At that moment, she looked completely in love.

Azzi had seen every version of Paige. The secretly cocky one, the closed-off one, the one who could barely breathe through panic; but this version, the tender version who looked at her like the world disappeared around them? That version broke something open in Azzi every single time.

Paige opened her mouth like she was about to speak, her voice catching in her throat. “Azzi baby…”

Azzi tilted her head, keeping her hand on Paige’s face. “Yes?”

Paige hesitated for half a second, her throat working as she swallowed down words she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to say out loud yet and replaced them with something else as she whispered over the bass of the music, “Lemme take you home. I needa taste you before I lose my mind, baby.”

Azzi smiled faintly at this, her lashes fluttering as she tilted her head to the side. “I want another drink first.”

Paige couldn’t help but shake her head and chuckle a little, already clocking the look Azzi gave her when she was being a brat on purpose. Still even though she noticed, with a soft exhale, Paige reached into her pocket and pulled out a fifty. She held it between her index and middle fingers, letting it dangle as she said, “One more.”

Azzi pouted, pursing her lips as she leaned closer. “Maybe two?” As she said this she traced her finger over the waistline of Paige’s boxers.

Paige just looked at her, dropping her eyes to Azzi’s hand before looking back up and saying, “I’ll think about it.”

Azzi smiles as she kisses Paige’s lips before walking away knowing Paige was watching as she swapped her hips making the hem of her skirt shift with every step she took. Paige had to blink a few times just to ground herself, resisting the urge to follow her before going toward the section.

When she got there, Paige pulled out a small stack of cash and counted out more than enough to cover the night. She handed it to Dijonai. “Use that when y’all ready.”

Dijonai raised an eyebrow, her gaze moving between the money and the flush that still lingered on Paige’s cheeks and neck. She took the bills without saying anything. “Say less. See y’all at home.”

When Paige turned back around, she saw exactly what she expected, somebody had slid up next to Azzi at the bar. Some girl in a denim button-up and a chain that was definitely fake. She was saying something that might have sounded nice in her head, but Azzi didn’t bother hiding her disinterest. Her body language couldn’t have been clearer and Paige liked that.

Paige made a quick stop on the way, grabbing a shot off a server’s tray and tossing it back, the liquor burning down her throat as she handed her a twenty.

As Paige walked across the floor, the bass from the speakers seemed to sync with the heat rushing through her bloodstream. That last shot hit fast, like it bypassed everything else and went straight to her chest, igniting a fresh wave of warmth that spread outward. Her cheeks flushed deeper, her eyes becoming more hooded, like each blink was slower than the last.

Azzi was perched on the edge of the barstool, with one leg crossed over the other, her black mini skirt riding high enough that Paige groaned on sight, her boxers getting warmer. Azzi’s braids were still swept to one side causing her neck to be exposed and glowing underneath the club lights. Paige’s gaze raked over the soft curve of her thighs, the glint of sweat that caught under the flashing strobes, the shape of her features even from behind.

Azzi felt Paige before she heard her. Felt the heat radiating off of her, smelled her cologne that was distinctly Paige in her brain so without hesitating, she leaned back into the body behind her with a grin like she’d been waiting.

Paige leaned in, keeping her eyes locked on the woman next to Azzi like she wasn’t worth real attention. “Why can’t I ever leave you alone for two seconds?”

Azzi tilted her head smiling back at Paige. “It’s cause I’m pretty baby.”

Before Paige could respond, the woman next to Azzi, the one still trying to linger in a conversation that never started, spoke up. “Damn she didn’t seem taken a minute ago. That’s you? ”

A few months ago, Paige would’ve had something to say back to that. Her jaw would’ve tightened and she would’ve said something that caused an unnecessary scene.”

But today Paige just leaned lower, letting her hand slide around Azzi’s neck to angle her face toward her, guiding her like she should’ve been looking at her in the first place.

When she was satisfied with the angle Paige kissed her. It was a messy kiss, as her lips parted lazily as she tasted Azzi like she’d been starving all night. Azzi opened her mouth for her, sucking her tongue into her mouth before biting her bottom lip and pulling it back into her mouth with a quiet moan that Paige swallowed. Paige hummed into it, tightening her hand slightly as she bit Azzi’s lip right back.

Azzi smirked against her mouth before pulling away, a thin spit line stretching between them as her head stayed tipped back in Paige’s hand.. Paige brought her thumb to Azzi’s mouth and wiped away the glisten of spit delicately.

“Finish your drink so we can go,” Paige said plainly.

Azzi nodded up at her, obediently and that quiet submission made something in Paige tighten.

She swallowed around it, her throat moving visibly as her eyes lingered on Azzi’s face. She looked so soft, so ready to do whatever Paige wanted. Paige didn’t know which version of Azzi messed her up more. The one who talked back and tested her on purpose, or the one who looked up at her like this, pliant and completely trusting, like she was already halfway home.

It was a dumb comparison, really. A pointless one because Paige loved every version of her girlfriend. Every look. Every mood. Every part of Azzi Fudd made her ache in a way she’d never known she could feel.

Instead of blurting out something too big, something that had been sitting on the edge of her tongue for what felt like months she stepped forward.

Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi from behind, tucking her face into the crook of Azzi’s neck. She pressed her lips softly against warm skin, then another. One was beneath her ear, the other one lower, just above her collarbone.

“You smell so fucking good,” she whispered, brushing her nose against Azzi’s neck. “So beautiful. Every time I look at you I forget how to breathe, I swear you’re the most perfect woman I ever met.”

Azzi let out a soft hum, sipping her drink while Paige’s voice curled around her.

Paige didn’t rush her to finish her drink, she just held her. Kissed her softly. Spent time whispering the softest compliments she could fathom instead of whispering what she couldn’t say out loud for the first time in a club in LA. She knew the moment was coming but not here.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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lassiie · 2 days ago

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HACKER!STEPBRO HEESEUNG (snips/headcons from next fic)

pair hacker!stepbro heeseung x reader

MDNI ! NSFW ! Truly Obsessive, psychosexual, dark vibes step bro Heeseung who stalk you. "You’re not scared of me, baby. You’re addicted... Just like me."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who tracks your location 24/7 and pretends not to care when you lie about where you’ve been.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who sees you wearing something new and smiles to himself—because he saw you trying it on in your room last week, through your camera.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who keeps a file of every photo you’ve ever deleted—every nude, every moment you thought no one would see. But Hee did.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you get ready for dates and sends you anonymous texts like, “don’t waste lipstick on someone who won’t make you cry.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you dared to hack you—just to tease him, flashing that crazy angle, undressing slow—until he hijacks your screen, darkens your room, and whispers through you mic: "Keep peeling. I want to see every inch before I decide how hard i'll fuck you."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you fuck someone else live through their hacked laptops camera, and sends you messages mid-thrust: “He’s not even close to make you cum. I’d ruin you.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you bickered with—so he fucked another girl raw in his dorm with your moans in his AirPods, eyes closed the whole time like she was just a body for you to echo through.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who sends your hookup a virus mid-text so their phone dies before they can confirm plans.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who slowly rewrites your kinks via search suggestions. One day it’s “soft dom...” the next it’s “stepbro makes her beg.” You think it’s your idea. He knows it’s his.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who swapped out your vibrator for a hacked one he controls—so now your orgasms don’t belong to you, they belong to him.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who programmed your vibrator to sync with your webcam activity—so the moment he can enjoy with you.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who has an encrypted file labeled “every time she came” — full of timestamps from every night you touched yourself.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who tracks your cycle and only texts you during ovulation with messages like: “Would you let me breed you if I asked nicely? Or do I need to ruin you for anyone else first?."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t need to. Not when you keep your curtains cracked, and your thighs parted, and your breathing shallow at 1:22 a.m.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who lets you date other guys—but only so he can hack them, stalk them, and wait until they slip up. Then he sends you the evidence like a love letter. “See? I protect what’s mine.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you masturbate and types “slower” into your open Notes app. And almost cum when you actually listen.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who learned the way your breathing changes before you come and trained his own body to sync to it—until you finish together, apart, every single time.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who knows you touched yourself wearing his hoodie and rewatches the footage every night—hand wrapped tight on his dick, whispering “you filthy little sister.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who buys you lingerie and mails it anonymously to the house—no card, just your size, your taste… and the scent of his cologne already soaked in.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who fucks girls mean when he’s mad at you—gripping too tight, biting too hard, fucking too deep.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who lets a girl ride him—face blank, screen lit—while your live shower feed plays like his personal porno.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you tried to escape—so he pinned you to the bed, forcing you to watch your crush hacked laptop when he's gaming, as he fucked you hard, growling, "Let him hear how good you sound when you’re mine."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you called a creep—yet now you sit with legs parted in front of your screen, waiting, aching, praying the webcam light will flicker.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you told to stop—yet you started dressing for him. Walking slower in front of his door. Leaving your webcam uncovered. Secretly hoping he couldn’t stop.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who corrupted you so gently, so thoroughly, that now when he types "Be good. Leave the door unlocked tonight," you obey. Without question. Without panties.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you tried to forget—but he replaced your lock screen with a photo of you on your knees, mouth open, eyes glazed—and captioned it: "My good little stepwhore."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who forced you to admit it—fingers buried inside you, voice low and dangerous: "Say it. Say you want to be my dirty little stepsister. Say you like it when I ruin you."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who finally snapped—after weeks of playing nice—dragged you to his room, stripped you down in front of your own hacked camera, and fucked you, whispering, "You belong to me. I’ve owned you since the first time you came here."

Will be out on sunday 15.06 I just know you’re gonna love it... almost as much as you’ll be slightly terrified by it. Because, well, the topic is a teensy bit... let’s say... intrusive.

Reblog, comment, scream into the void—give this post the attention it craves! Be bold. Be nosy. I dare you. 😘

yours dearly, Lassiie

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delilahsturniolo · 3 days ago

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ꪆৎ “NO PANTIES ON?” 𓂃 brat!tamer matt

⤷ smut, unprotected sex, fingering, dirty talk, degradation, spanking.

you were at a house party, your hand intertwined with matt's as he conversed with his friends, drinking the cheap beer offered to you while they all talked about...whatever. it seemed important to them, but you just wanted to have fun. but it seemed like no one was paying attention to you. you whined, trying to catch matt's attention, your voice higher than usual, more whiny. you elbowed him, not expecting much, but hoping he'd at least give you a smile.

after a few minutes of whining, throwing your weight onto him, getting no reaction from anyone but his friends' amusement, and a small “behave,” in your ear, he finally snapped. his grip tightened on your hand, making it uncomfortable, and he tugged on your arm, pulling you toward the bathrooms in the back of the party house.

he was silent until you reached the bathroom, pushing you inside and locking the door behind you. he leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest. he looked...angry? aroused? you couldn’t tell. "what do you want? what’re you whinin’ in my ear for, huh?” he said simply, frustration clear in his voice.

you glared up at him. "you know exactly what i want." you said simply, stepping closer to him and tilting your head up to meet his eyes. "now are you gonna give it to me or do i have to beg?"

he raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to you. he gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your skirt. "watch it." he snapped, voice low and dangerous.

you bit your lip, his hands beginning to roam your body. "please." you breathed out, voice unsteady as he pushed you back toward the sink, bending you over it and running his hands up your thighs. he hitched up your skirt, letting it bunch at your waist, and looked down.

"no panties on?” he muttered, moving a hand between your legs to feel how wet you were. "you such a fucking slut." he said quietly, before pushing two fingers inside of you roughly. you let out a loud moan, throwing your head back, which earned a spank on the ass from him. it was pathetic, honestly.

"keep it down." he growled, fingers curling inside of you and scissoring apart. he thrust into you slowly, as if to savor every second of this. "i should just leave you like this, stuck here with my fingers up your cunt." he breathed out against your ear. you whined again, and he tsked, pulling his fingers out and smacking your ass again. "beg for it." he ordered.

"please-" you moaned loudly, "please matt, i'm begging you! fuck me!" you shouted it, hoping he wouldn't be mad at how loud you were being. "that's it." he muttered, lining himself up with your entrance before pushing into you in one quick thrust. you screamed at the sudden feeling of fullness and pain, squeezing his arms around your waist tighter as he bottomed out inside of you.

he didn't give you much time to adjust, starting a punishing rhythm that had the sink nearly banging against the wall, and you screaming in pleasure each time he hit deep inside of you. he fucked into you relentlessly, not stopping until he felt you clenching around him and moaning out his name.

he grunted, continuing to move his hips in short thrusts as he emptied himself inside of you, making sure you felt every hot spurt of his release. when he finally pulled out, he patted your ass affectionately before fixing your skirt and stepping away. "i think we're done here." he said simply, unlocking the door and walking out.

💌: golly gee i’m already running out of ideas for this au and i KINDAAA wanna make a new au 😣

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rafayelxsylusho · 2 days ago

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HAIIIII 💕💕🫶🫶 I'm a big fan of your works!! ^⁠_⁠^

I have this like scenario in my head where lads men are like... Fathers and like their children ask them what's the noise they heard last night coming from their parents bedroom and see how they'll try to cover it up HEHEHEHHEHEHEH it will mean the world to me if you'll write it! Thats all mwahhhh stay slay queen 💅💅💅 period.

Lol. I loved this idea.

I hope you like it! ❤️❤️

Rafayel/Caleb/Zayne/Sylus/Xavier

You looked at your daughter, she peeked up at you from beneath long, dark lashes. She sat across from you at the breakfast table, picking at her pancakes with a fork, you could see the worry etched on her beautiful face.

"Pearl, what's wrong, sweetheart?" you asked setting your own fork down and giving her your full attention. Your heart clenched at the sight of her little face scrunched up.

Pearl shrugged one small shoulder, she stabbed another piece of syrupy pancake and poked it around her plate before finally speaking. "Daddy was mad at you last night...because of the wet bed," she mumbled, her bottom lip trembling slightly.

"What do you mean baby?"

The little girl looked down at her plate, still fiddling with the cooling pancake. After a moment of hesitation, she glanced back up at you with wide, innocent eyes.

"Well... last night... I heard Daddy....he said... he said you made a big mess and were being a dirty girl for wetting the bed" she explained, her little brows pinching together.

You felt the heat of embarrassment rising up your neck, flaring across your cheeks as you heard Rafayel choke and sputter on his breakfast. Quickly, you raised a hand to cover your burning face, rubbing at it as if you could somehow erase the awkwardness of the moment.

"Oh, sweetie... it wasn't like that at all. I just accidentally dropped a glass of water on the bed last night, that's all. It was a silly mistake, daddy was just being a bit dramatic"

As you spoke, you glanced over at Rafayel, expecting him to chime in and back up your explanation to your daughter. However, you quickly realized that he must have slipped away from the kitchen table while you were distracted, leaving you to handle this conversation alone.

Frowning slightly, you listened as his muffled laughter filtered in from somewhere else in the apartment.

Under your breath, you muttered, "That damn fish..."

"Mommy, when can I meet grandpa?"

You blinked in confusion at your daughter's words, your attention focused on the little girl standing before you. She was the spitting image of Caleb, with the same deep purple eyes and messy brown hair.

"Piper, sweetheart, I think you might be confused, your grandparents are in heaven remember?"

But mommy I heard you last night in your room when you were with daddy, you said... Yes daddy I missed you and it sounded like you were crying"

"Did she...?" you stammered, turning to face Caleb with shock.

He draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. "Looks like we've got a little eavesdropper on our hands," he teased, nodding towards Piper.

You couldn't help but let out a nervous giggle, burying your burning face against Caleb's chest. Leave it to your daughter to catch you in a compromising moment with her father.

"Oh, um, Piper sweetie, I think I might have been dreaming," you stammered, feeling mortified. "Mommy was just... just talking in her sleep. You know how sometimes our minds play tricks on us?"

Caleb couldn't hold it in any longer. He turned to you, his face splitting into a wide grin. "Maybe you were just having a very vivid dream."

"Daddy, were you having a vi...vidid dream too?" Piper asked looking between the two of you with curious eyes.

"..."

"How about we have a family movie night?" Caleb suggested as he reached out to scoop Piper up into his arms "We can make popcorn and everything. Whaddya say, squirt?"

Piper's face lit up with a huge grin, her earlier confusion forgotten. "Yay! Can I have a big bucket?"

"Mommy, you said we're not supposed to run inside the house, right?"

You glanced down at your youngest child, agreeing with him. "That's correct, sweetie. Running inside can be very dangerous"

However, before you could elaborate further on the importance of this house rule, Eira's next question caught you completely off guard. The little boy's brows furrowed slightly as he processed his next thought.

Then, with all the blunt honesty of a 5-year-old, Eira asked, "But then why were you and Daddy running inside the bathroom? I heard you scream, Mommy."

You couldn't help but blush as you heard Eira's innocent yet incredibly embarrassing question. Your mind raced, trying to come up with a suitable explanation, but before you could say another word, Alba's, your teenage daughter, drink went flying out of her mouth, drenching a surprised Zayne's face with lemonade.

Zayne blinked, lemonade dripping down his chin as he turned to you. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving a sticky trail on his cheek. Alba looked mortified, her eyes wide and her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Zayne, ever the helpful husband, chuckled and gave you a small, encouraging nod, leaving you to handle this situation.

Trying to keep a straight face, you turned to Eira and explained, "Well sweetie, sometimes... sometimes grown ups have special reasons for breaking the rules. Like when it's an emergency, or..." You paused, searching for the right words. "Or when they're just feeling really... enthusiastic." You couldn't help but sneak another glance at Zayne, who was now trying really hard not to laugh.

Alba, meanwhile, had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock and a hint of disgust. "Ew, Mom! I don't need to know about your and Dad's 'special reasons'!"

"Perhaps we should have a more... private discussion about the birds and bees later, hmm?" Zayne said.

"Alright, alright, no more questions! Let's go get some ice cream and forget this ever happened, deal?" you said, hoping to steer the conversation and your children's imagination back to safer territory.

"Sy, can you come with me? The twins seem to be up to something and I'm not sure what it is."

"Alright, you two little troublemakers. What are you whispering about over here, hmm?" Sylus asks, his deep voice tinged with a playful edge. He crouches down to their level, studying their guilty expressions.

Esme and Jasper exchange a glance, knowing they've been caught. Eventually Esme speaks up "Well, we want to know if you can eat other animals besides cows, fish and chicken."

Crouching down next to Sylus, you tilt your head questioningly. "Why do you ask, baby?"

Jasper chimes in "Well, we don't like that daddy is eating cats."

Sylus raises an eyebrow, glancing at you with surprise before turning his attention back to the twins. He keeps his tone light and gentle as he explains. "Daddy doesn't eat cats or any other pets. That's not a type of food."

"But daddy", Esme say, her small face scrunched in confusion. "Last night you said you were going to eat a whoooole kitten."

Jasper nods eagerly in agreement "Yes, you said... 'I'm gonna eat you whole kitten" the way he mocks Sylus's voice is amazing.

You and Sylus exchange a quick glance, realizing the humorous but inaccurate context your innocent twins have taken from his comment. Sylus clears his throat, trying to suppress a smirk as he addresses their misunderstanding. "Oh, my little gems, I think there might be a tiny mix up. When I said that, I didn't mean I was going to eat a real kitten. Mommy, could you help me explain it to them better? I don't want my two little darlings worrying about kittens being harmed."

You nod, trying desperately to hold back the fit of laughter threatening to spill from your lips at the absurd and humorous misunderstanding your twins have created. Sylus, sensing you won't be able to help, decides to take a different approach to set their young minds at ease.

"How about you both help me fix Mephisto?" Sylus suggests, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "He needs new batteries and I could really use your help."

Esme and Jasper's eyes widen with excitement at the prospect of assisting their father. They nod eagerly, the worry about kittens being eaten already forgotten.

"Can we really help, Daddy?" Esme asks, her earlier distress replaced with childlike enthusiasm.

"Yes, of course you can!" Sylus says with a warm smile. "But first, let's make sure we all understand that Daddy doesn't eat kittens or any other pets, okay?

"Mommy were you training with daddy last night?"

The living room fell silent for a moment, even Fatso, the fat cat lounging on the windowsill, paused his grooming to twitch an ear in your direction.

Aster looked up at you with those big, innocent blue eyes that were so much like his father's. He swung his little legs back and forth, his tiny sneakers dangling above the plush carpet as he perched on the armchair. The toy rocket ship he had been playing with seconds before now lay forgotten in his lap

"No honey, why do you ask?"

"Well, Mommy..." Aster began, his little voice taking on a tone of confidentiality. "I heard some weird noises coming from your room last night. Like, uh..." He paused, scrunched up his button nose, and then blurted out, "Like Daddy was hurting you and then you asked him to do it harder."

Xavier felt the color drain from his face, his fair skin turning a shade paler than usual. He sat up straight, all traces of his earlier languidness vanishing. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, seemingly at a loss for words.

Meanwhile, Aster just looked back and forth between you and his father. He didn't understand the sudden tension in the room, the way his parents had both gone still and quiet at his words. He tilted his head to the side, his blonde curls falling over one shoulder as he studied your face.

"Did I say something wrong, Mommy?" Aster asked, his voice small and uncertain.

"No sweetie...Sometimes, when Daddy and I are playing a new video game together at night, we get so excited and into it that we make loud noises. It's not because Daddy is hurting me, but because we're both having so much fun and cheering on our characters."

"Ok"

"And when I said for Daddy to do it harder, I just meant I wanted him to help his character win the game faster. It's like when you're playing with your toys and you want to make them run really fast or jump really high."

Xavier couldn't help but smile as he watched his little boy nod in understanding, his earlier confusion and worry melting away as he went back to playing with his toy rocket ship, blasting off imaginary enemies with a joyful "Pew pew!"

Feeling emboldened by your quick thinking, Xavier leaned in close to you and lowered his voice to a stage whisper, not wanting Aster to overhear, and said, "I have a few more new video games we can play tonight"

He let out a soft, playful chuckle, his eyes lingering on your face as he waited for your reaction. Just as he was about to say something else, he felt a sharp sting on his upper arm and looked down to see your hand connected to it.

"Ow!" he yelped, rubbing the reddening skin where you had slapped him. "What was that for?"

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thewitchblue · 1 day ago

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"You're so pretty."

Jason slurred. He just got back from patrol with multiple injuries, and you were patching him up. You were surprised he showed up to the Batcave at all, really. He was always the type who wanted to "tough it out." You hid a smile while saying,

"You have a concussion."

Jason winced when you ran your fingers through his hair. You frowned when you got his blood on your hands. You had thought you managed to get the blood mostly cleaned up, and his helmet was spotless. You called out,

"Alfre—mmh!"

Jason shut you up with a kiss. It wasn't thought out in the slightest, and he knows he'll regret it when his concussion goes away, but thinking hurts with the painkillers barely helping, and he wants to kiss you before potentially dying again.

Jason took your hand in his and slurred,

"Will you go on a date with me, pipsqueak?"

You blinked at the bleeding man. What do you even say to that? You were stunned. You watched Jason carefully. He looked serious, but can he really be serious when he has head trauma? Is it the blood loss talking? You gave him a half smile and said,

"When you're healed, Romeo."

Maybe he'll remember this. Maybe he won't. Either way, you agreed and you stand by your decision. He gave you a half-grin, his eyes clouded by pain and heavy.

He toyed with your hand like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. He played with your fingers and examined them like they were precious jewellery, comparing them to his own scarred and rough hands.

You really were pretty in his eyes. Gorgeous, even. He loved your eyerolls and sarcastic smiles. He loved that you smirk when you think of something particularly clever to respond back to his sass. He loved the way you laughed at his witty comebacks and how you snicker at his dramatic sentences. He appreciated the way you hold him when he feels like he's falling apart. You were a beautiful person in his eyes.

Call him corny, but he wants to wake up next to you. He wants to hear your sleepy groans when your alarm goes off in the morning. He wants to be the one to replace your cuddle pillow. Yes, you do have a cuddle pillow. Yes, it's a specific pillow in every house you crash at and most rooms you enter. No, you aren't aware of your cuddle pillows. He's likely the only one who has ever noticed that you cuddle a very specific pillow every time you are distracted and near one.

He stared at you as you packed a bullet wound in his thigh. Your quiet concentration gave him time to admire you. You were snarky with him at times, but you always came back to him to apologise, and he'd always laugh and rub the top of your head with his knuckles like you were a little kid.

He grabbed your hand and slurred,

"I love you."

He proceeded to promptly pass out while you stewed in silence. Maybe it was the painkillers barrelling through him, or maybe it was something more, but you'll only find out when he wakes up.

You had finished patching him up, but you wanted to sit with him longer. You looked him over with a smile and lovingly ran one of your hands along his bullet free arm before claiming his hand in yours and giving it a slight squeeze.

He was beautiful, too, in your opinion. You love him, scars and all. You loved how unapologetically himself that he can be.

He happily swings an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side when he has come up with a terrible idea and wants you to join for when things inevitably go wrong. You always call him an idiot, but join him regardless because someone has to save him from himself.

You adore that he loves to complain about his day because you feel a part of his heart. He doesn't complain to just anyone. He doesn't like to share his problems because he feels he can shoulder them himself when it's obvious he can't. You became his go-to person for his issues, and you are incredibly grateful he lets you in so easily.

You cherished the little moments when Jason allows you to trace his scars and murmur that he's a constellation and just as beautiful as one. He jokingly asked if he can be Orion's Belt because he doesn't know what to say to something so heart-warming, and you laughed because you knew if you didn't, he would have fallen apart and you wanted to make sure he stays held together.

Jason stirred awake when he felt the painkillers wear off, but you managed to coax him back to sleep. He murmured,

"I love you."

He was asleep before you could respond, and you were thankful for that because you had no idea how to respond. You don't think he'll remember any of this when he wakes up, but you certainly will. His eyes were so sincere before they closed. He's serious. You're sure of it. Jason doesn't joke about relationship related topics. The person becomes his everything when he dates them, and he makes sure everybody knows as much.

Alfred had walked in to witness the scene unfold and purposefully waited for Jason to pass out before revealing himself, holding medical supplies to restock the medical kit you used on him. How smooth, Jason. After months of contemplating and struggling to figure out the best way to ask you out, all the plans went out the window due to a little concussion and a lot of bullet wounds.

#gn reader #jason todd x reader #x reader #alfred pennyworth

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dark-night-hero · 1 day ago

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Imagine being Zayne's non-mc significant other. part2

Imagine growing up, Zayne has never been the loudest in a room. He was more of a constant quiet yet present and warm person other could lean on into. He doesn't speak often but when he does, people listen. Especially you, his lover. The one who loved him before he even knew how to love himself.

Imagine the way he watched you across the room as the two of you where now separated by a small sea of people. His eyes out of habit looked and found you. He knew that look on your face, the kind of face that others would mistake as absentmindedness but he knew that look. But he recognized the way your brows softened when you are lost in your own thoughts. He knew you were thinking. About him, maybe. About what you two have.

Imagine the way he smile softly to himself, even as he turned back to the conversation. As a joke passed around the group, he let out a small laugh, not forced, but not full either. And then something caught his attention. A familiar laugh rang out from somewhere in the room. It was bright and child like, MC. She had always laughed like that, ever since they were kids. Zayne didn't need to turn his head to know where it came from. He already knew.

Imagine she had been under his care for a while now. Her recovery had been long but she was making progress. She was strong, even if she didn't believe it. And he? He was protective of her. Not in a romantic way, but in the way that an older brother might be for a younger sibling. But that didn't stop people from speculating. The familiarity between them, the shared glances of old memories they painted as a picture, people misunderstood too easily.

Imagine, he hated that you, his lover had to see that. Especially when he caught your eyes again. Your friend was sitting next to you speaking softly. He couldn't hear what your guys were saying, but the tension in your posture told him more than words ever could. Then you look at him. No, past him before looking away. That hurt more than he expected.

Imagine Zayne love you with everything he had. From the quiet moments to the loud. From the days were you two barely spoke to the nights were he held you like a lifeline. He love you. He never said it as much as he should have, but it was always there in his actions. The way he picked up your favorite drink on his way home. The way he listened to your ramble about your day even when his own had left him drained. The way his hand always found yours under the table, steady and sure.

Imagine he knew something had shifted. Not his love. Never his love. But your trust.

Imagine he knew what it looked like. The way his eyes drifted when MC laughed. The way he softened around her. But what no one else saw, what you did not seem to realize was that it wasn't love. It was duty. About family. MC was a girl he grew up with, a patient he'd watched fight her demons tooth and nail. She was a reminder, not a desire.

Imagine, he saw it in your eyes, the creeping doubt. The belief that you were nothing but a second place to someone who wasn't even playing the same game. That realization shattered him. He remembered the conversation you two had once, late at night, your head on his chest. "Do you think you could ever love someone more than you love me?" You asked, not accusing or something, just plain curiosity.

Imagine the way he had pulled you closer, kissing the crown of your head and saying "No, there's no one else for me. Only you.” He meant it. He still meant it. But something had crept in between the two of your lately. An invisible wall neither of you had placed but both felt. It was born from the silence. From the misunderstandings. From him not being careful enough with the way others saw his kindness, and you being too quiet about how much it hurt.

Imagine watching you smile faintly at a conversation you aren't really in, Zayne felt a pang of guilt. Not because he had done anything wrong but because he hadn't done enough to make you feel safe. Loved. Chosen.

Imagine the way he wanted to cross the room. Sit beside you. Take your hand in his and whisper 'It's only ever been you.' But the timing never seemed right and maybe, you wouldn’t believe it anymore. So he stayed seated. Eyes lingering just a little too long. Not on MC. But on you. The one who had seen him. Chosen him. And loved him with a kind of quiet bravery that both terrified and humbled him.

Imagine the way he swore to himself that he'd stop being silent. Stop letting the shadows of old relationships or misunderstood bond blurs the truth. He was yours. And he'll prove it, every day from here on out.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

:happy ending? Not quite. Sorry it took so long, I was playing valorant and was editing everytime I died.

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bitters-n-sweets · 1 day ago

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run an ex — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader You and Robby run into your ex-fiance, who apparently is sorry for what he did.

warnings: implied age gap, we hate your ex-fiance bcs he cheated on you with one of your bridesmaids, robby being a supportive king bcs he knows you can handle yourself, fluff (this can be considered a continuation of take a break, but can be read on its own) masterlist

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

Robby had come home on time after his shift, even left slightly early so he could prepare for his date with you. You’ve been wanting to try the new place down the street that looked like a piece of Little Italy tucked into the neighborhood, like romance itself, glowing in the corner with golden lights and ivy-draped windows. Somehow, Robby had managed to snag a reservation.

He’d worn his navy polo and beige pants that you said made him look incredibly sexy, and picked up flowers on the way to your place.

You, on the other hand, had gotten ready, wore a nice silk dress, the perfume Robby loved so much, and smiled when he handed you the flowers. You put them into a vase before the two of you left, walking hand in hand into the evening.

Now, you’re sitting in a corner booth, still hand in hand, sipping wine while you wait for your food. The low hum of soft Italian music and the clink of glass around you in the background.

“How was work?” Robby asks, his thumb brushing lightly over yours.

You shrug with a small smile. “It was okay—oh! Speaking of work, my manager’s getting married next week. Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” he says without missing a beat. “Your manager, Hannah, right?”

“Yeah!” You light up. “You remember her?”

He chuckles. “How could I forget your work-wife?”

You laugh, nudging his foot under the table. “She’s basically my own Dr. Abbot.”

Robby raises a brow. “Are you saying Jack is my work-husband?”

“Is he not?”

Robby lets out a dramatic sigh. “He is. We’ve been married for six years. I’m so sorry you had to find out like this.”

You laugh again, and Robby just watches you, his own grin tugging at the corners of his mouth like he couldn’t look away even if he tried.

Dinner ends slower than it began, each course giving way to warm conversation and stolen glances. Robby pays for the bill even before you could reach your wallet, and you smile appreciatively while he winks at you.

You loop your arm around his as you walk out of the restaurant, and stop mid-way when the door almost hits your face.

“Sorry—oh.”

That voice. Cocky. Familiar. Just loud enough to cut through the warmth of the moment.

Your stomach drops before you even look.

Robby feels it—how your hand stiffens slightly in his—and follows your gaze to the man standing in front of you. He had changed his hair, but you’d still recognize him anywhere. Ethan. Your ex-fiancé. The Ethan who cheated on you with one of your bridesmaids six months before your wedding, who didn’t even have the decency to tell you himself—you found out through a half-drunk voicemail from her.

Ethan stops, eyes widening when he sees you. “I—I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You straighten your posture, grip tightening on Robby’s arm. “Hi, Ethan.”

His eyes flick briefly to Robby, then back to you. He hesitates, “I’ve been meaning to reach out,” he says, stepping a little closer. “I—I owe you an apology. For everything.”

You don't reply immediately, just hold his gaze. He shifts awkwardly, trying to read your silence.

“You look... great,” he adds. “Really great.”

You take a deep breath. Robby doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt. He just stands beside you, he knows you don’t need saving—but he’s there anyway.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” Ethan continues, voice softening. “I messed up. I know that now. What we had—it was real. I want to try us again. A new start.”

You blink, before letting out a breath that sounds like a laugh. “No thanks.”

You try to walk past him, but Ethan steps in your way.

“Please,” he says, voice low and desperate. “Just… give me another chance.”

You stare at him like he’s completely lost his mind. “You cheated on me with one of my best friends, Ethan. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

He scoffs, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “Okay, and now what?”

“Now,” you say firmly, “you get out of my way and out of my life, because I’m actually happy.”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping as his eyes flick to Robby. “What is he, your sugar daddy or something?”

Your eyes widen.

Robby makes a face that says ‘you're in trouble now’, and calmly holds out his hand. You hand him your purse without breaking eye contact with Ethan.

“What did you just say about him?”

Shit is about to go down.

You step toward Ethan. He instinctively backs up, the shift in your energy obvious even to him. Right on cue, the waiter opens the door—Robby slides a generous tip into his hand just for that—and Ethan, too focused on you, trips over the steps behind him as he stumbles backward.

“He’s none of your business,” you say, voice sharp and clear. “But for the record? Robby is my boyfriend. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He makes me feel safe, wanted—loved. He treats me like I’m the most important person in the world. And I love him.”

Ethan’s brushing dirt off his coat, flustered, when Robby walks past—shoulder checking him just enough to make a point.

“Oops,” Robby says with a smirk. “My bad.”

You don’t bother looking back.

Robby laces his fingers through yours, guiding you down the street like none of it ever happened. Behind you, Ethan’s voice fades into the night, muttering curses under his breath.

You just smile and laugh with Robby, hugging his arm.

#michael robby robinavitch x you #michael robinavitch x female reader #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #robby x reader #robby x female reader #robby robinavitch #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x you #robby robinavitch x fem reader #michael robinavitch #michael robinavich x reader #robby robinavitch x you #robby robinavitch fluff #dr robby fluff #michael robinavitch fluff #robby x fem reader

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helioooss · 2 days ago

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v. i want you to need me

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 10k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

a/n: tell me what you all think about sana

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

jimin’s dorm isn’t like yours.

it’s not like anyone’s, really. it’s more an apartment than a student room — tall ceilings, white walls that haven’t yellowed, windows that stretch too wide for the building they’re in. there’s a couch that looks barely sat on and the scent that clings to the place smells like white musk and the soft kind of vanilla that only comes from a candle someone forgot to blow out.

this space is curated and soft in a way you haven’t seen much of lately.

you try not to think about how out of place you feel; how this isn’t like your lounge, where the cushions don’t match and there’s always an empty mug on the floor. how ryujin would be throwing popcorn at your head by now and yunjin would be complaining about the spotify ads.

here, you’re a guest.

you’re sitting on the floor beside her bed, knees drawn up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. minjeong and ningning are sprawled across jimin’s mattress like it belongs to them, shoes kicked off, snacks half-finished between them. a half-open bag of maltesers is wedged against minjeong’s thigh and she’s chewing on the last one with the smugness of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“so,” she begins, voice bright. “what time’s the wedding?”

ningning throws her head back. “god, finally. i was starting to think this was just a fucked up situationship.”

your hands are tucked between your knees and the carpet, grounding yourself. it doesn’t help because the carpet is too clean and too soft and there’s nothing to hold onto.

“it’s not like that,” you mumble.

“please,” minjeong chuckles, shaking her head. “you’ve been looking at her like she’s the sun. or, like, the moon if you’re feeling broody.”

“she always looks broody,” ningning adds.

“true.”

jimin’s leaning against the side of her desk, arms crossed, eyes on you — amused, but not unkind. there’s a gentleness in the way she watches this unfold, like she’s letting them tease because she knows they don’t know the full story.

because they haven’t seen you unravel in the dark of your own room, they haven’t had to hold the silence when the weight of this thing made you too quiet to touch.

“leave her alone,” she defends eventually, and it’s playful, but it’s also hers. the way she says it makes them both settle.

minjeong shrugs, steals another m&m. ningning flops back into the pillow and scrolls through her phone like she didn’t just try to marry you off.

you glance up at jimin, just for a second. her mouth lifts on one side, but her eyes stay serious. she can read you too easily these days, probably always could.

your chest tightens.

this version of her…standing in her own space, defending you lightly, smiling like it’s normal, has made it harder to breathe. it makes you wish the guilt didn’t sit so high in your throat.

it’s worse when it’s good and it feels easy, like maybe it could’ve been this simple all along. you look away as your fingers tighten around the hem of your sleeve.

she walks over a second later and kneels in front of you. her hands land gently on your knees, thumbs brushing small circles into the fabric of your jeans.

you glance at the door, but it’s pointless. minjeong and ningning aren’t paying attention now, lost in whatever they’re laughing at on someone’s story.

“hey,” she says softly. “you okay?”

you nod, but it’s not convincing.

she tilts her head; waits.

you speak without looking at her. “i don’t know how to do this.”

she brushes her fingers along your knuckles. “just be you.”

that doesn’t help…being you is the problem.

being you means carrying everything you’ve been too afraid to say and it’s deeper than that — there’s a pit in your stomach that’s been growing since she asked you to come.

because this is the closest you’ll ever be to being part of her real life. and even then, it’s only half of one.

pressing your palms against your thighs, you try to breathe to slow your thoughts down long enough to match the pace of her touch.

“they’ll like you,” she comforts you in the softest voice. “they will.”

“they think you’re dating jaewook.”

jimin doesn’t say anything for a second. then, gentler: “not for much longer.”

you want to believe her….you really do.

minjeong coughs something that sounds like kiss her already and ningning groans dramatically.

she leans in to kiss you.

she tastes like mint and whatever tea she was drinking before you arrived. she doesn’t rush it. just holds your face like you’re something she’s still learning how to be gentle with.

you don’t realise your eyes are closed until she pulls back.

when you open them, minjeong’s holding up a pretend veil with one of jimin’s t-shirts, and ningning’s got her phone out like she’s documenting the whole thing.

“congrats on the engagement,” ningning smiles.

“don’t forget to invite us to the divorce.”

you roll your eyes, but your throat is tight. your laugh doesn’t land quite right.

jimin squeezes your hand but you’re not ready.

she stands first, offers you her hand.

you take it and follow her out, the door clicking shut behind you, too quiet for how loud your heart’s beating. she mumbles something like ‘get out of my room’ to the girls and all they do is laugh.

there’s a black rolls royce already pulling up to the curb when you step out; your throat closes. it glides to a stop so silently it feels rehearsed — as if the car has been choreographed to arrive exactly here, now, like a scene out of a film you’re not supposed to be in.

your first thought is that it’s blocking traffic. your second is: oh. it’s for us.

the driver steps out, immaculate in a pressed grey uniform. he rounds the car slowly, opens the door like he’s done this for a hundred different people, none of whom have ever had to stop themselves from visibly flinching.

jimin, of course, doesn’t react.

she simply squeezes your hand and murmurs, “one of dad’s cars.”

and that should be funny. and casual. but it lands like a stone in your chest.

the leather seats are too soft, even. you sit stiffly, unsure of what to do with your legs. she settles beside you, reaching for your hand again as if it’s second nature.

perhaps it is for her. maybe pretending she’s always allowed to touch you comes easier than the truth. you feel the car begin to move, the world outside drifting quietly by.

for a moment, it’s quiet between you.

then, because you can’t not ask, your voice slips in, barely above the low hum of the road: “what did you tell them?”

she blinks, turns to look at you, her expression unreadable. “my parents?”

you nod. “yeah.”

she exhales, presses her thumb into your knuckles. “i told them you’re a friend. someone i met recently. someone…special in my life.”

you look down at her hand in yours.

not girlfriend. not partner. and definitely not the girl i love. just special.

you breathe in through your nose. “what about jaewook?”

there’s a pause; you can almost hear the low thrum of traffic through the double-glazed windows. her fingers tighten slightly.

“don’t bring him up tonight,” she answers in a pleading tone.

you glance at her, but she’s already turned away, staring out the window. not cold, something like distant.

your chest aches with something you can’t name. it’s a deep, slow burn — like you’re being hollowed out in pieces.

she clears her throat softly. “what are your plans for the break?”

the change in topic is obvious, but you let it happen.

“working,” you answer. “studying.”

she hums. “you should come away with me.”

you blink. “what?”

“just for a few days. somewhere quiet,” she turns back to you, her eyes softer now. “we could get out of the city. clear our heads.”

you hesitate because you don’t know what that would mean. what you’d be. what she’d allow herself to be.

“depends,” you finally reply.

she smiles; the type that wants to believe everything can still be okay.

but you’re already slipping away, just slightly. you look back out the window and try to anchor yourself to the ordinary; the passing buildings, the hum of the tyres, the slight vibration beneath your seat.

however, your thoughts scream louder than anything else.

what does it mean to be brought into someone’s life only half-visible?

you imagine jimin’s parents: their polished smiles, the weight of expectations wrapped in polite sentences. you wonder if they’ve spoken about wedding dates in whispers over breakfast. if they’ve imagined a son-in-law who never had to be introduced as just special.

the car turns and up ahead, a set of iron gates rise between two massive stone columns, ivy curling up their sides. as it approaches, the gates begin to open automatically, swinging wide with a soft mechanical groan that somehow sounds expensive.

your stomach flips.

you don’t belong here.

the driveway curves gently through a stretch of manicured lawn — no dead patches, no overgrown hedges, just careful perfection. there’s a fountain in the middle of the roundabout, water cascading in tiers. lights glow along the edges of the path. the kind of estate you’ve only ever seen in magazines.

and then the mansion comes into view.

it’s tall and pale and sprawling, all stone columns and symmetrical windows. a place built by people who’ve never worried about bills or bus routes, where voices echo in marble halls and names are carried with weight.

you grip your knee, suddenly clammy through your jeans. you’re still in your seat when jimin touches your hand again.

“hey.”

you turn to her. she looks….too calm. and it probably comes from years of walking into rooms where she never has to explain herself.

her thumb brushes your wrist. “just be yourself. okay?”

you want to laugh, but it would come out wrong because you don’t know what being yourself is when you’re only ever allowed to be part of her in secret.

but you nod anyway.

when the driver opens the door for you, you step out into someone else’s world. one that was never built for you, where love like this doesn’t exist outside the shadows.

the front doors of the mansion swing open before either of you reach the final step. they move like part of the house itself — silent, smooth, handled by someone whose job is to anticipate needs before they’re voiced.

a man in a black suit stands just beyond the threshold, posture so upright it feels performative. beside him, a woman in a pale blouse and soft heels waits with a smile already painted on.

mr and mrs yu.

you recognise her before she speaks — the same eyes as jimin. softer around the edges, but familiar. she steps forward, hands extended, and she leans in for a quick kiss on the cheek that feels too rehearsed to be intimate.

“mum, dad,” jimin greets, voice perfectly even. “this is y/n.”

mrs yu’s smile widens, warm in a way that almost feels real. “so lovely to meet you, y/n. we’ve heard a little bit about you.”

you nod quickly, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “thank you for having me.”

“ah,” mr yu clicks his tongue, not unfriendly, but with a kind of deliberate precision. he offers his hand — firm grip, quick release. “welcome.”

his voice is deep, clear. there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your spine straighten. like he’s already cataloguing you. the posture, the voice, the shoes.

he doesn’t linger, doesn’t offer anything more.

fuck’s sake.

mrs yu steps back and gestures you both in. “come inside, come in — you must be cold.”

you follow jimin through the foyer and it’s ridiculous how big it is. high ceilings, crown mouldings, floors that don’t creak with every step. the light comes from chandeliers you don’t want to know the price of. there’s a curved staircase on one side and a long hallway stretching into quiet, expensive distance.

everything smells faintly of polish and lavender.

she walks calmly, unfazed, because she grew up tracing her fingers along these walls.

you lean toward her as you pass through another arched doorway. “you never mentioned being a crazy rich asian.”

she smiles. “you never asked.”

“i didn’t think i needed to ask.”

“i didn’t think it mattered.”

you raise your eyebrows but don’t push. she nudges your arm, a small grin on her lips and for a second it feels easy again.

mrs yu turns slightly as she walks beside you. “i’m sure this is all a bit much. jimin never really brings anyone over. not even her friends.”

you glance at jimin, but her face is unreadable.

“it’s beautiful,” you mumble quietly.

“it’s old,” she replies, almost fondly. “my husband’s family built the original structure — we’ve done a few renovations since. that chandelier is venetian, by the way. imported.”

you look up, nodding, then catch something along the wall — a long, gilded frame with a photo inside. the whole family. jimin in a pressed white dress, her sister beside her, taller and sharper. mr yu standing between them like a pillar. mrs yu with a hand on each of their shoulders; everyone smiling, perfect and still.

you wonder what it’s like to grow up framed in gold.

you’re led into the dining room next and it’s as dramatic as everything else — wide table, high-backed chairs, tall windows dressed in heavy fabric.

there’s food already on the table: plated starters, baskets of bread, glasses of red and white glinting in the candlelight. you sit where they tell you. jimin slips in beside you before you can object. her leg brushes yours under the table — casual, but deliberate.

you try to focus on the food but it’s quiet. too quiet. the cutlery clinks against porcelain. a butler moves soundlessly in and out of the room.

mr yu finally clears his throat. “how did you two meet?”

you glance at jimin, unsure who should speak.

she answers smoothly, without hesitation. “at uni. we had a class in the same building. i kept seeing her around.”

“what do you study?” he asks, looking to you now.

“law,” you reply. “final year.”

he nods once, like some sort of approval. “ambitious.”

mrs yu smiles as she reaches for the bread. “we’re so glad you could join us, y/n. i know how busy things get during the end of the term.”

“thank you for having me,” you say again because it’s the only thing that feels safe.

you feel her shift beside you and a moment later, she’s reaching for the bottle of red wine. she pours it slowly into your glass, her sleeve brushing your arm.

“you okay with this?” she asks softly, just for you.

you nod, taking the glass. the wine is rich, dry. probably expensive.

jimin pours her own glass next and sits back, hand resting too close to yours under the table. her knee presses lightly against your thigh. she’s pretending not to notice but it’s there. and now you can’t stop noticing it either.

the conversation drifts to jimin’s sister, to the renovation happening on one of the properties, to a cousin who just got engaged. you try to keep your expression polite, interested but you feel it building again — that tension in your chest.

you’re holding your breath through something that shouldn’t be painful, but is.

because she’s here. beside you…pouring your wine, touching your knee, playing this role like she wants to be seen as your girlfriend.

but only by you. never by them; not fully.

and you don’t know what’s worse — that she wants you here or that she still won’t name what you are.

the dinner stretches out like a warm, gilded illusion. food comes and goes, silver dishes passed politely, wine poured with an ease that only happens in houses like this. you don’t recognise half the things on your plate but you eat them anyway. it’s easier than thinking.

and somehow, between the clink of cutlery and the softness of linen napkins, you find yourself talking to jimin’s father more than you expected to. he surprises you, sharp in a way you didn’t anticipate.

he asks what you plan to do with your degree. when you mention that both your parents teach at korea university, he raises an eyebrow.

“ah,” he says, with a small smirk. “the enemy.”

you blink. “since i started at yonsei, dinners become a battlefield.”

he chuckles, loud enough that even the butler standing near the back of the room shifts a little. “depends on the night.”

“mum teaches literature,” you add, like that might soften it. “dad’s in political science.”

“ah, the best combination,” he waves his hand as if that explains something. “i always say: literature makes you dream, politics makes you useful.”

“i think they’d disagree.”

“then they’re proving my point.”

you smile despite yourself. it’s easy to see where jimin gets it — the dry humour, the coolness that masks something warmer underneath.

“you ever consider working corporate?” he asks, somewhere between his second and third glass of red. “we’re always looking for sharp people.”

you clear your throat. “at yu group?”

he shrugs like he hasn’t just casually offered you a future most people would kill for. “why not? we like smart women.”

you try to laugh, try to brush it off. “i’m really not that good.”

and that’s when she speaks up. “she’s top of her class.”

the words come out steady. proud. there’s a curl to her mouth like she’s been holding that fact in for weeks, just waiting for the chance to say it out loud. her hand is still under the table, fingers brushing lightly against yours every few minutes like she can’t quite stop.

“the best friend i could ever have,” she adds, glancing your way.

you nod once, quietly, and don’t correct her.

her mother is still smiling and he gives a slight nod, as if approval has been granted and the conversation can move on. and for a few minutes, it does — talk of real estate, someone’s cousin in dubai, a destination wedding next spring that mrs yu is already dreading.

you sip your wine and watch the way the glass distorts the candlelight when you tilt it just slightly. and for a moment, just a brief flicker, you let yourself believe you’re in the room for a reason that matters. but then — like it always does — the truth finds its way in.

“what day is your flight again, darling?” her mother asks, casually reaching for more bread. “we’ll be in provence the second week, but if you and jaewook are still in italy by then, we can meet up somewhere in between.”

the bread on your plate goes untouched as your breath hitches. jimin’s hand stiffens under the table, but she doesn’t say anything.

what the fuck, you thought.

her father swallows a sip of wine. “shame he couldn’t make it tonight. would’ve been nice to have all three of you.”

and that’s it.

no clarification or awkward laughs, no sudden oh — actually, it’s not jaewook anymore.

you’re not surprised.

but god, does it ache.

your fingers curl into your napkin, slow and controlled. you fold it neatly across your lap, not because it needs folding but because your hands need something to do. your throat tightens around nothing. the food in front of you blurs just slightly at the edges.

jaewook.

still him.

it’ll always be fucking him.

you feel it settle across your shoulders — the weight of what this really is. you were invited because he wasn’t able to go…a replacement seat at a table already set. her best friend, top of her class, easy to bring along. quiet and agreeable. not the boy she kisses in public and definitely not the one they’re planning a european summer with.

just…you.

you nod along as the conversation rolls forward without you. smile when it’s expected, answer a question about school that you don’t really hear. jimin laughs beside you, comments something about her sister’s bad taste in music, pours you more wine.

and still, she says nothing.

you wonder if she hears it too — the silence between the lines. the place where the truth should’ve lived.

you wonder if she’ll say something when you leave. if she’ll reach for your hand again and say, i didn’t know she’d mention him. or the trip i’m planning with him. if she’ll apologise in that soft way she always does, the one that makes you forgive her even when you know you shouldn’t.

but in this moment, she keeps talking.

smiling.

and all you can feel is how cold it suddenly is in a room this beautiful.

the voices around you start to blur. not all at once — just enough at first that it’s like someone’s layered a film over the evening. like the table, the wine, the laughter have all slipped just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world.

someone says something about florence. someone else corrects it — no, they’ll be starting in amsterdam.

you’re still sitting there but the room feels like it’s pressing in on itself.

jimin adds: “it’s not even set in stone yet,” and her mother waves a hand like that’s never mattered. “oh, you always say that. jaewook’s already looking at hotels.”

the ringing starts behind your left ear. dull and high like the edge of a migraine or the hum of old fluorescent lights. you don’t move, pressing your fingers into the napkin on your lap and let the fabric give.

in your head, you hear it again. her voice, low and tired, the night she showed up in your room without knocking. i love you. she whispered it like it had cost her something.

you believed her.

god, you had believed her and she played you like a fool.

you try to replay the moments — the first time she reached for your hand under a table, the night she stood in the doorway of your dorm with a sandwich in one hand and your name in her mouth. the way she looked at you, back when she thought no one else was watching.

but now they feel like film stills. scenes from a movie you loved once, but can’t remember the plot of. you see the way she would smile at you, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing against your cheek like a promise.

except it wasn’t.

it was borrowed time.

you don’t realise you’re standing until your chair scrapes softly against the floor. they all stop talking. jimin glances over at you, startled.

“are you okay?” she asks, concern written all over her face.

you offer something that’s barely a sentence — a quiet, “bathroom,” or maybe just “sorry.” you’re not sure.

you find your way down the hallway like you’ve done this a hundred times even though you’ve never been here before.

and of course, the bathroom is clean. it smells like rosewater and something more expensive underneath. the sink is built into marble that has no chips or watermarks. everything is pale and gold and the mirror is wide and unforgiving.

you shut the door and lock it. the sound of the latch falling into place is too loud. you stand there for a second, just staring at the back of the door like it might give you answers.

then you take a deep breath.

or try to.

but your chest stays tight as if it’s been sewn closed. there’s no room left to inhale anything that doesn’t hurt. you grip the edge of the sink with both hands and look up at yourself in the mirror.

and there it is: the truth.

you’re not her girlfriend.

you’re not even her plan.

you’re the person she pours wine for while her mother sets the table for someone else. the one she calls her best friend with a smile, knowing you won’t correct her because you’ll sit quietly and play along.

because love has made you soft and fucking stupid and willing.

you press your fingers to your face, trying to swallow it back. the shaking starts in your hands, then moves up your arms, into your shoulders. it’s not loud.

it’s just you, bent slightly forward over a porcelain sink in a stranger’s home, trying to breathe through the moment everything comes undone.

your eyes burn. not like they did before, not with frustration — this is different. a tear slips out and it doesn’t need noise to hollow you out. it just comes warm down your cheeks before you even feel it.

you believed her because you thought loving you meant she would choose you.

you let yourself imagine what it would be like to be hers fully — not in whispers, not in bedrooms with the lights off, but in rooms like that one, with her parents and their careful china and the space beside her not reserved for someone else.

it’s the type of crying that comes with knowing. with the final, gut-deep understanding that the person you love is never going to choose you in the way that matters.

your breath catches, shoulders shaking once and then again. your hand covers your mouth, as if that will keep it in. but the tears come slowly, hot and unspectacular. no gasping, just a quiet, trembling fall — like something inside you giving up the fight.

you think of irene. of how she looked at you like she was waiting for you to admit what you already knew; or taehyung, eyes soft, voice careful, telling you not to wear your heart so openly for someone who never earned it.

your reflection stares back — red-eyed and dull. you wipe beneath your eyes with your sleeve, knowing it won’t fix anything. not the ache.

you want to leave but you don’t know how to move.

so you sit on the edge of the bathtub instead, hands clenched in your lap, breath uneven, heart too loud in your ears.

and you stay there.

because for the first time, you know — this is the end.

this is it. the moment you realise you can’t keep folding yourself smaller just to stay beside someone who won’t stand up for you.

this is where it changes — not because something broke but because you’re done pretending it hasn’t already.

you stay like that. knees to chest, palms open. letting the grief do what it needs to.

the knock startles you. it’s soft, almost careful, but it pulls you out of yourself like a thread tugged loose. you blink hard; for a moment you don’t know where you are. the light above you hums softly, you can’t remember when the crying stopped.

you push yourself off the floor, legs heavy, vision blurred. your reflection in the mirror is wrecked. skin blotchy, lips trembling, eyes red in a way that can’t be wiped clean. you splash cold water on your cheeks anyway and pat down your face with a hand towel that smells too clean, too untouched. you run your fingers under your eyes until the worst of it fades.

another knock, a little firmer this time.

when you unlock the door and open it, jimin is standing there.

her eyes widen the moment she sees you. not because of the tears still clinging to your lashes, but because she can tell. she sees it all over your face — something’s broken. and this time, it won’t go back.

“hey,” she breathes, stepping in quickly. “what happened, are you —”

you don’t mean to cry again but the moment she wraps her arms around you, it’s like something gives way. your hands clutch her coat, your forehead presses against her shoulder and the words start spilling out before you can stop them.

“i can’t do whatever this is anymore,” you whisper, over and over, broken and breathless. “i can’t. this is fucking ruining me.”

she shushes you gently, one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tight around your waist. “hey, hey, it’s okay. i’ve got you. we’ll figure it out. just breathe, baby.”

you’re shaking against her now, unable to stop the way your chest keeps folding in on itself. she pulls you tighter. “we’ll get through it. together. okay? just breathe with me.”

you let her hold you, the smell of her perfume — something soft and green, wraps around you like a memory. it used to calm you. now it just makes your stomach hurt.

after a long while, the tears slow because you’ve emptied everything you had left.

you pull back, just slightly…enough to look at her.

“sit,” you say and your voice doesn’t shake this time.

she does.

you stand in front of her, hands in your pocket and heart pounding in your ears. “we’re over.”

her whole body goes still, eyebrows creasing. “what?”

“we’re over, jimin.”

“no,” she answers too quickly, standing too fast, grabbing your wrists. “no, you don’t mean that.”

you pull your arms free and step back. “i do.”

she’s already crying; hands trembling when she reaches for your face and this time you let her touch you, just for a second. her thumbs brushing your cheeks like she’s trying to memorise you. “no, please — i love you.”

you stare at her, jaw tight. “no, you love the way i made you feel. like you weren’t trapped. like there was another version of your life, but you never chose me, not once.”

“that’s not true —”

“isn’t it?” you interrupt. “you’ve made yourself believe your feelings for jaewook are gone, but they’re not. they’re just safe now. familiar. he’s the life your parents approve of, the one you’ve built history with. and i’m just some girl you met that’s in the way of that.”

she opens her mouth, but nothing comes.

“we have nothing in common,” you go on. “you don’t even know what my favourite book is. i don’t know what makes you cry when no one’s watching. we built this on stolen time and secrecy and you called it love.”

her tears fall faster. she grabs for your hand again, holds it like it might keep you from leaving. “i do love you.”

you shake your head slowly. “then why am i still the secret?”

“i’m not ready,” she whispers, lowering her head down. “i…i just need more time. but i’ll choose you, again and again.”

you stare at her, your voice low now. and steady. “then tell me. if you could call jaewook right now, end things, be with me completely — would you?”

she doesn’t answer and that’s all you need.

you nod, looking down at her hand wrapped around yours and peel her fingers off gently.

“you say you love me,” you mumble with such finality. “but you love the idea of me. you wish i were jaewook.”

her face crumples. “don’t say that. it’s not true!”

but the silence that followed your question said more than enough. you step back and wipe your face once more.

you’re done.

and then, without looking at her, you say: “please tell your parents i’m sorry for leaving early.”

she moves forward again, desperate now. “y/n, please. please, just listen. i love you.”

you don’t look at her. not because you don’t want to, but because if you do, you’ll remember what it feels like to fall for her all over again.

you open the bathroom door. her voice cracks behind you, softer now. “please don’t go.”

stepping into the hall, the door clicks shut behind you. she doesn’t chase you. and this time, this is the end. not with slammed doors or shouted words — but with truth spoken in a tone that leaves nothing behind.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the bar is dim and sticky and too loud — you don’t know how you ended up here.

the streets were a blur and now you’re leaning over a counter that hasn’t been wiped properly, asking the bartender for the cheapest shot of vodka they have. it’s the kind of place that smells like old limes and wet wood, where every surface feels touched a hundred times over.

it’s busy for a thursday night. some uni students shouting over pool in the corner, a girl laughing too loudly behind you, someone bumping your stool on the way past and muttering a half-apology. you don’t care.

the chaos works for you right now. it matches something inside your chest that’s still shaking.

your phone vibrates again and you straight up ignore it.

he slides the vodka toward you without asking for a name. you tip it back. it burns all the way down: sharp, sour, pointless. you close your eyes as inhale sharply through your nose; hands trembling as you put the glass down.

twenty-three missed calls from jimin.

leave me alone, you thought, swiping your thumb across the screen and hold down the power button as the light fades.

the world quiets just slightly.

you sit there, watching people, not trying to think. a man two seats over is telling a story that’s making his friends cry with laughter. a girl with glitter on her cheeks keeps checking her lipstick in a compact mirror; you wonder what it must feel like to be that far away from someone.

another shot appears in front of you. you don’t remember asking for it; maybe you did.

you’re halfway through deciding whether or not to drink it when someone slips into the stool beside you.

her perfume gets there first. something floral, warm, a little sweet — oddly familiar.

“you look like shit,” she points out.

you don’t need to look up to know it’s sana. still, you turn to her.

her hair is messy, damp at the ends like she’s run her fingers through it too many times, eyeliner smudged and lips glossy in a way that looks accidental. there’s a looseness to her posture that tells you she’s had at least a few drinks already, maybe four. she leans forward like she owns the bar, one arm slung lazily across the counter.

“so,” she playfully smiles, chin tilted toward your untouched glass. “are you drinking to forget or to remember?”

you shake your head once; tired. “i don’t even know anymore.”

she hums, signals the bartender for something with a flick of her fingers. “classic.”

you stare at her for a moment. the way she exists so unapologetically like every room owes her something: she’s chaos dressed in perfume and charm and too much skin.

but tonight, she looks more undone than usual.

“what are you doing here, sana?” you ask. “this is not your go-to.”

she shrugs. “felt like being somewhere no one expected me to be and look who i found.” you nod, because yeah. same. she glances sideways at you, her expression shifting. “so who broke your heart?”

you laugh once, sharp and humourless. “does it matter?”

“no,” she chuckles and takes a sip of her drink. “but i like knowing things, about you.”

you watch her for a moment. the way she swirls the straw through her cocktail, her eyes refusing to leave yours.

“you still with her or what?” she asks, voice lower now.

you don’t answer; not directly. just pick up your shot. holding it, stare at the way the light bends through the clear liquid.

sana leans closer. “that’s a no, then,” you don’t look at her but you smile, raising the glass and drink. it burns, again. she grins, lazy and dangerous. “your loss, her mistake.”

you rest your forehead against your hand, elbow on the bar. and beside you, she doesn’t move away or ask anything else.

she just sits there, humming under her breath as she sips her drink…like she’s got all the time in the world.

the fifth shot goes down rougher than the rest. not because the vodka changed, but because your body’s caught up to the burn. your stomach’s all heat and sour now, your tongue slightly numb. everything’s spinning at a slow, bearable tilt, like the bar’s decided to rock with you instead of against you.

you slide the bills across the counter with more force than needed, eyes squinting at the total.

“keep the change,” you mumble and you don’t wait to see the bartender’s reaction.

you hear the scrape of a stool behind you and then the familiar click of low heels on wood, trailing after your unsteady footsteps.

the dive bar’s crowd has spilled into the street — a girl sobbing into her phone by the curb, a group laughing too loud as they light cigarettes with shaky hands, some guy in a bucket hat asking for a lighter with no success.

you don’t make eye contact with anyone. just walk, or try to. the footpath dips and rolls beneath you like it’s breathing and you’re not sure if you’re heading home or just away.

behind you, sana keeps pace, heels tapping against the pavement. “you can’t walk like that,” she calls out, slurring slightly, but her voice is firm. “you’ll end up in a ditch. or a song.”

you glance over your shoulder. “i’m not…i don’t need —”

“i’m calling an uber,” she interrupts, holding up her phone. “separate ones, if that makes you feel less dramatic.”

you stop walking, heels turning to her.

she looks like something out of a painting. messy hair falling past her shoulders, lip gloss fading, eyes glassy but stubborn. the moonlight paints her in soft blues and silvers, catching the curve of her cheekbone and the flush of her skin.

and you say it before you even know why. “why do you care so much, sana? look at the mess you are.”

she doesn’t even flinch at your tone. “this is the mess you made out of me.”

her words land with more weight than you expect, cutting through your buzz like a jagged breath. you take a step back, startled by it, but she moves forward, steadying you before your balance tips. her hand against your arm is warm and certain, like she still remembers how to hold you together.

you stare at her, too stunned to speak because she’s right…you left her hanging, dropped her without words and disappeared like she was something easy to forget.

now she’s here, a couple drinks deep just like you, still trailing behind like she’s afraid you’ll vanish somehow. you keep your silence as you turn around and keep walking, slower this time. behind you, she follows. her steps are lighter and uneven. you glance back and notice the way she’s stumbling slightly in those stupid fucking heels.

leaning against someone’s fence for support, you tug off your shoes — battered old sneakers, half-untied and hold them out to her without a word.

“what? no, don’t be —”

“you can’t walk in those if you’re gonna stalk me,” you point out, voice low, tired. “just take them.”

she hesitates, but something in your face shuts her up. she slips out of her heels, gingerly trades them for yours. they look ridiculous on her, too big, laces flapping as she tries to balance.

you scoop her heels up, one in each hand. your feet hit the concrete cold and flat, but it feels better somehow. more honest.

you walk in silence, just two girls carrying too many things.

the park is a few blocks down. patchy grass, crooked benches, a rusted swing set creaking in the breeze. someone left a pizza box under the water fountain. you walk straight to the centre of the lawn and collapse onto it without thinking.

sana stands over you for a second. “you’re actually insane.”

“and barefoot.”

she sighs, then joins you. the grass crunches beneath her as she lies down. her shoulder brushes yours.

you stare up at the sky. too much city light to see stars…though there’s a faint blur, soft and grey.

you think about jimin. what she’s doing. whether she’s still pacing that house, calling you. whether she’s crying into her hands, or justifying the silence to herself.

but you remind yourself that’s not your place anymore. you’re not the girl she loves.

you never were.

“i was hurt, you know,” she pulls you out of your trance suddenly. her voice is soft now, blurred around the edges. “watching you…with her.”

you turn your head. she’s still staring at the sky.

“i’m not as stupid as jaewook,” she adds.

you clench your jaw. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

she snorts, rolling her head to look at you. “you do, but it’s fine. play dumb. you’re good at it.”

you look away.

“it was a slap,” she goes on. “watching you hide for her when you couldn’t even show up for me — i wish you looked at me like that…back then.”

the grass is damp beneath you, seeping into your jeans. your fingers curl into the blades, tugging at them like they’ll offer something real.

“i adored you,” she whispers. “probably still do.”

you feel the ache rise in your chest again. sharp and familiar. her voice is so close, warm and breaking.

your throat tightens because you know you can’t give her what she wants. not now, not when you’re like this. the weight of it all is too much; the fact that it’s her saying these things when she was the one you walked away from without a word.

you don’t know what to say, so you do what you always do. “i’m really sorry.”

her breath catches, like she wasn’t expecting it.

and for a while, you both just lie there. with the city buzzing around you. with your shoes on her feet, her heels in your hands and nothing between you but too many unsaid things.

it’s not long before your heart is beating too fast. not from the drinking — that haze has worn off in waves, leaving only the chill of the grass underneath your back and the weight of too many feelings layered on your chest.

the park feels still, but the world spins around you anyway. you can feel it in the hum of the city, in the ache behind your eyes, in the way your fingers curl tighter around sana’s heels with every passing second.

beside you, she’s lying on her side now, head propped up by her arm. you can feel her gaze on you, warm and heavy, like it always was; as if she’s reading you without permission.

you reach into your coat pocket, fish out your phone and press the button to turn it on. it lights up with missed calls, unread messages. the screen too bright against the dark.

sana shifts, voice quiet. “how long?”

you glance at her. her face is lit by the soft yellow wash of a distant streetlamp. strands of her hair fall across her cheek.

you sigh. “a few months.”

“how many?”

“maybe…five.”

she exhales hard through her nose. “fuck, y/n.”

you turn your head back to the sky. it doesn’t look any different than it did ten minutes ago.

“you’re really something,” she adds, shaking her head, but there’s no bite to it…only exhaustion.

you sit with the truth of it. no more hiding, or saying it wasn’t serious like it ever made it easier.

“how did you figure it out?” you wonder, not looking at her.

she’s quiet for a long moment, so long that you think she’s not going to answer. then: “when you stopped looking at me completely. before karina, you still…i don’t know…you used to look at me. even when we stopped being whatever we were, you still gave me something. guilt, maybe. attention; a glance.”

you look at her now. she’s staring at the grass like it has answers.

“and then at the bar,” she add. “you didn’t even flinch. just looked through me like i was no one and she didn’t look too happy the second i sat beside you,” she says with a bitter laugh. “so, not hard to figure out.”

you nod slowly, shame crawling up your spine. “you’re right.”

she shrugs, like she wishes she weren’t.

you rest your chin against your shoulder, eyes half-closed. “so why do you still hang around?”

she laughs, short and dry. “because moving on from a year of being truly in love with someone who never let you all the way in isn’t exactly a clean break.”

her words land quietly. there’s no edge to them. just a dull, familiar ache.

“i’m sorry, sana.”

“you’ve already said that.”

“i thought you were too good for me,” you mutter, the words slow, as if admitting them aloud might solidify something you’ve never said before. “you were older and smarter. you had your life figured out. i was barely holding mine together, i didn’t know what i wanted and committing to anything felt like standing on really thin ice.”

she wipes under her eye with the edge of her sleeve. it’s dark, but you see the movement. you hear the breath that catches.

“you really hurt me,” she says, almost inaudibly.

before you can answer, your phone lights up in your lap, another call. you look at the name. your stomach twists.

“it’s her.”

sana doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. “answer it.”

your hands shake as you slide your thumb across the screen.

“y/n?” jimin’s voice is soft, breathless. “oh baby, thank god.”

you close your eyes. your chest hurts.

“i just wanted to hear your voice,” she continues. “i didn’t know where you went. i — I’ve been calling for hours. are you okay? are you safe?”

you swallow. your voice comes out hoarse. “i’m okay, i’m safe.”

there’s a pause on the other end and you hear the shuffling of keys.

“where are you?” she asks. “i’ve been at your dorm all night, but you’re not here.”

you hesitate, eyes flicking to sana, who’s still watching you — still here, her expression unreadable.

pressing the phone tighter to your ear, you heave out a sigh. “i’m with…sana.”

there’s a sharp breath on the line until it’s just pure silence.

“i’ll come pick you up,” jimin demands, voice suddenly firmer. “just tell me where.”

“no,” you whisper and your thumb hovers. “not now. or ever.”

“y/n —”

but you don’t wait. you hang up. you stare at the screen for a second, let it burn in your hand. and then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you block her number.

you put the phone back in your coat and don’t say anything.

sana doesn’t ask. she just lies beside you, in borrowed shoes, in the cold, with her heart cracked open beside yours. and neither of you move. not yet.

the silence stretches long after you’ve dropped your phone back into your pocket. it settles between the two of you like fog, slow and low and quiet. your arms are cold against the grass and your back damp.

the night’s caught up with you all at once, and you’re not sure if you feel like throwing up or falling asleep.

she finally shifts beside you, just enough for her shoulder to press into yours again.

you can still feel the ghost of jimin’s voice in your ear, clinging to the inside of your chest. how quickly she moved from relief to control; how ready she was to come and get you, like she still believed she had that right.

you wish it hurt more. instead, it just feels numb, too much noise behind glass.

sana exhales and you glance at her. she’s lying on her back again, arms crossed over her stomach, hair spread messily over the grass. she’s watching the sky like there’s something up there worth seeing.

“you really blocked her?”

you nod. “yeah.”

she doesn’t look surprised, somehow relieved in a way. “good.”

it’s a small word, but it lands like something final.

you let it sit between you.

your fingers uncurl, finally letting go of her heels. they clatter quietly to the grass beside you. she tilts her head slightly, eyes scanning your face like she’s still trying to map it.

“do you think you’ll go back to her?”

the question catches you off guard, you’re too tired to lie. “i don’t know.”

she nods once. accepts it, but something shifts in her jaw. you can see it — the way she wants to say more, but doesn’t.

you wish you could give her something. you wish you had anything left to give.

“thank you,” you say, voice raw. “for being here.”

sana blinks and her lips part like she might respond, but she doesn’t. instead, she leans her head lightly against your shoulder and you let her.

because even though you terribly broke her once, she’s here anyway. even if she shouldn’t be, even if you still don’t know how to love her back — it means something.

and so you sit together, shoes off, hearts messy, the night too long.

it’s just her head on your shoulder, the weight of everything you’ve done and the ache of something that could’ve been, if only you had known how to hold it.

“come on,” she gently utters after a while, lifting her head from your shoulder. “let’s walk…wherever it takes us.”

you laugh, short and breathless. “i might throw up.”

she shrugs like she’s pleased. “even better.”

she stands slowly, brushing the grass off her skirt with the kind of care that’s always been half her charm — the elegance she carried. then she offers both hands, open palms toward you as if she’s done this before…like she’s always been the one to pull you off the ground.

you let her haul you up, even if your legs feel like they’re made of wet cardboard. you sway a little and she catches you again, like it’s reflex.

you glance behind, spot the shoes you dropped earlier. “wait —”

you break from her hold and shuffle back toward them. the grass is damp under your socks, sticking to your skin in clumps. you lean down and squint at the faint logo printed along the insole.

“you didn’t tell me these were prada,” you grin, holding them up.

“does it matter?”

“yeah, actually,” you cradle them in the crook of your arm. “you’re lucky i didn’t sell them on the way here.”

she laughs and starts walking, slow steps that match yours, not in a rush. the streets are quieter now, the late-night buzz thinning out. neon signs hum above shuttered storefronts. the occasional vendor still lingers on corners — roasted chestnuts, instant ramyeon, knock-off phone cases.

you walk pass a flower cart that’s still open, tucked between a closed coffee shop and a laundromat with the lights still flickering.

sana stops and without asking, she points to a rose; pale pink, not too big, delicate.

the vendor wraps it without a word. she pays with a crumpled note from her coat pocket and turns to you, holding the flower out with a small, crooked smile.

you shake your head at her. “you’re seriously giving me a rose while i’m carrying your designer heels?”

“i’m rebranding.”

“as what? unbearable?”

she laughs again, nudges you with her shoulder. the rose smells faintly sweet, almost familiar. you take it anyway.

you walk side by side, your pace relaxed now. your body’s still not settled — the alcohol still humming low in your blood but the weight of the evening has eased a little, just enough to let you breathe again.

“what do you even do now?” you ask after a few blocks.

“hmm?” she looks over, adjusting her coat. “work stuff. sort of.”

“you either do or you don’t.”

“okay…i help out at mum’s company.”

“the real estate one?”

she nods, eyes flicking across the road as you wait for the light. “they needed someone to look over marketing and scheduling stuff, so i’ve been doing that. barely. mostly i just answer emails and pretend i know what i’m talking about.”

you nudge her this time. “you might as well come back to yonsei. you’re around so much like taehyung.

“and you’re there still,” she hums thoughtfully, the corner of her mouth twitching. “tempting.”

“i’d give it a week before you start complaining about group projects again.”

“i’d give it two days.”

you both laugh, easy and quiet. it surprises you how natural it still feels — the way your jokes land, the way she looks at you like she knows exactly what’s coming next. the rhythm is familiar, like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember the words to.

“so you’re not in a rush to do anything else?”

“not really.” she shrugs. “i’ve got time. and money. and…other people’s expectations keeping me conveniently afloat.”

you nod slowly. “must be nice. being a nepo baby and all.”

“it is,” she chuckles, but there’s something behind it. a quiet admission.

you glance at her. the streetlights make her look softer, older. not in a bad way…just real, like the girl you used to know and the woman beside you are starting to blur into one.

you wonder, not for the first time tonight, what would’ve happened if you hadn’t walked away.

but maybe the answer’s always been the same: she would’ve stayed. and you would’ve still been too scared to hold it.

you shift the prada heels in your other arm and keep walking, matching her step for step. she doesn’t speak and neither do you.

by the time the streets start narrowing and the buildings around you shift from late-night diners and neon signs to apartment blocks and quiet windows, your legs ache in that dull, familiar way that says the night is ending. the city doesn’t feel like it’s spinning anymore, but you’re still not steady. the rose sana gave you is tucked into the crook of your elbow, petals bruising gently against your jacket. her shoes swing from your other hand, one heel clinking softly against the other with every step.

the only reason you realise where you’re heading is when you pass the old café — the one with the chipped brick facade and the teal door that never quite shut properly.

you remember the weeks you both kept showing up there like it wasn’t planned. two iced americanos, one croissant split in half. she used to pick the flaky crumbs off your shirt because she demanded it was her right.

your eyes linger on it. “still addicted to their croissant?”

she shrugs, hands in her coat pockets. “only when i miss you.”

your gaze lands on her but she’s not looking at you. just walking, eyes ahead.

you don’t respond because there’s nothing that wouldn’t open you up too wide. and maybe she knows that too, because she doesn’t press.

she turns to you, arms folded over her chest now, the wind tugging gently at her hair. “you should keep them, the heels.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you want me to babysit your pradas?”

“no,” she mumbles, mouth tilting into a half-smile. “i want an excuse to come back and get them.”

the smile she’s wearing is barely holding together. it’s light and joking, but underneath it is something quieter.

you nod, tucking the shoes under your arm. “i’ll make sure they’re fed.”

she snorts. “and walked.”

“twice a day.”

sana’s apartment building is unremarkable — not fancy, not run-down, just another tall stack of small lives. the entrance is lined with concrete planters, one with a half-dead lavender bush in it, the other empty save for cigarette butts and some plastic wrappers. the fluorescent light above the doorway flickers like it’s arguing with the dark.

she slows as you approach, feet dragging a little.

“this is me,” she begine, stopping at the bottom step as her breath curls into the cool air.

you nod, unsure if you’re supposed to keep going or say something first. the silence stretches again, but it’s not sharp anymore. it just sits there with you, quiet and true.

“thank you,” she hums, turning slightly to face you. “for walking me.”

“you didn’t need walking,” you grin, adjusting your grip on the heels. “you just needed company.”

“yeah,” she smiles at that. “maybe i did.”

her eyes scan your face, searching for something, but you don’t flinch, you let her look.

“i used to imagine this moment,” she admits, her voice dropping a little. “us, outside my door. you saying something reckless, me pretending to be annoyed. you’d kiss me. maybe ask to come up.”

you look at her, warmth spreading throughout your entire body.

“but now that you’re here like this,” she goes on, with a breath of quiet laughter. “i think i’m okay.”

you swallow. it rests heavy in your chest — not regret exactly, but something close to it. something shaped like it.

she rocks back on her heels slightly. “i’m moving on, slowly. but i think i needed tonight to remember that i can.”

you don’t know what to say. anything would sound too clean, so you nod again, slow and respectful.

“my door’s always open,” she continues, watching you with fond eyes. “not in a sad way, not even in a hopeful way. just…if you ever forget your way home and decide you want me again.”

you stand there, letting the stillness fold around the moment. she reaches out, touches your elbow briefly; just a press of her fingers against your coat.

then, she leans in and kisses your cheek. not in a way that asks for anything — just goodbye, maybe. or something smaller. something kind.

she steps through the door and disappears up the stairwell without another word. you glance up at her window as the light from her apartment flickers on. you don’t mean to linger, but something about it feels unfinished.

her window opens, and then there she is — hair a little messier now, one arm braced on the frame. her breath visible in the cold.

“forget all the bullshit i said, changed my mind on the way up,” she looks down at you. “do you wanna come up for tea?”

you laugh without meaning to.

she grins wider. “i’ve got peppermint and a very expired packet of ginger snaps.”

you shake your head. “you’re terrible at selling this.”

“you came all this way — might as well see what else i’ve got going for me.”

“i’m coming.”

you take the stairs two at a time. the shoes still tucked under your arm, the rose from earlier pressed into your coat pocket. her door’s already open when you reach the top.

she’s standing in the hallway barefoot, your sneakers kicked off near the wall and she looks at you like she’s been expecting you forever.

and for the first time in a long while, stepping inside doesn’t feel like a mistake. it just feels…warm.

she closes the door behind you. no promises. no labels, just the comfort of being wanted, even now. even still.

there’s the faint smell of clean laundry and maybe jasmine, whatever perfume sana wore last week and left on a jumper somewhere.

the first thing you do when you step inside is take off your coat, lay it neatly across the arm of the lounge, then walk over to the entryway where the shoe rack sits tucked into the wall. sana’s heels are still in your hands — you place them down beside her other (also expensive) shoes with more care than you mean to, aligning them so they won’t lean or fall.

next, you pull the rose from your coat pocket. it’s slightly bruised now from the walk, the petals a little crushed at the edges, but still lovely and soft. there’s a glass vase on a side table near the tv, empty except for dust. you fill it halfway at the sink, then nestle the stem inside.

sana notices the gesture, pauses mid-step in the hallway and says nothing; just watches you with something unreadable in her expression before disappearing into the bedroom.

the silence settles around you like breath held in the throat. you take a few slow steps through the open living space and everything about it tugs at something quiet inside you.

the rug is still the same pale beige, fraying slightly at the corners. the bookshelf still leans left, stuffed with too many paperbacks stacked horizontally when there wasn’t space left upright. the second drawer of the kitchen counter — the one that always stuck — is still chipped at the edge. and in the corner of the living room, barely visible behind the curtain, that small dent in the wall from when sana once tried to hang a painting without measuring.

you haven’t been here in years and yet it looks exactly as you remember. she is someone who never saw the point of changing something that worked.

it makes your chest ache in a way that doesn’t feel urgent, just inevitable.

“you need help in there?” you call out when she takes too long, not too loudly.

“nope,” her voice comes muffled, followed by the thud of a closing wardrobe door. “just trying to find something less…constricting.”

you smirk at the word: familiar, dramatic and hers.

a few minutes pass before she reappears, barefoot, hair loosely tied back, wearing a hoodie that’s clearly too big for her shoulders. it takes you a second — and then you know. it’s yours. grey, worn soft at the cuffs, the hem fraying just slightly. it used to be your favourite.

you stare at it for a beat too long. “is that mine?”

she glances down, feigns surprise. “oh? must’ve slipped into my laundry years ago.”

you laugh, a little hoarse. “you’re unbelievable.”

“and comfortable,” she adds, tugging the sleeves down over her hands.

you lean back against the counter, arms crossed, letting your eyes follow her as she moves through the kitchen. she knows where everything is without looking — mugs clinking softly as she opens the cupboard, pauses, mutters something under her breath.

she crouches slightly to check the tea tin, frowns. “where the fuck are my teabags?”

you raise an eyebrow. “that your idea of a welcoming host?”

“i had peppermint,” she groans. “last week. unless my fridge is eating things again.”

“maybe it’s trying to protect you.”

“from what?”

“peppermint tea,” you say and she laughs.

she fills the kettle with water, sets it on the stove and turns the dial. the flame flares. she flinches slightly when she brushes the side with her hand. “shit —”

you move forward instinctively, but she waves you off, shaking her hand out with a wince. “i’m fine. just punishment for poor organisation.”

you hover beside the counter while she spoons loose tea into a strainer, finally deciding on something chamomile adjacent. she passes over a filled mug and you cradle it in your hands like warmth might make sense again.

the television’s already on, volume low, playing a rerun of friends. the one where joey finds out. the laugh track rises faintly in the background, the kind of noise that keeps a room from feeling too still.

you take a seat beside her on the couch, legs pulled up, drink warm against your palms.

“so, you still drink peppermint?” she asks, settling deeper into the cushions.

you raise your mug. “still pretending.”

she stares at you for a second then lets out this low, incredulous laugh, burying her face into the side of the couch. “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“what?”

“you hated it, didn’t you?”

you nod. “always did.”

she throws her head back and laughs again, the sound catching on itself, thinning at the edges like it might tip into something else. she recovers quickly, exhales slow, long. “god, we were so dumb.”

“we were,” you agree, sipping your tea.

the warmth settles in your chest, not from the drink, but from her…from the way she sits beside you like no time has passed, like you hadn’t disappeared on her and she doesn’t carry the weight of that.

“what’ve you been reading these days?” you ask, eyes on the screen.

“some essay collection about unfinished cities. buildings that stopped mid-construction and became part of the landscape.”

you glance at her. “you always did love a metaphor.”

“it’s depressing as shit.”

“so, you.”

she bumps your knee with hers; it stays there “what about you? still planning to leave after graduation?”

you stare into your mug. “i don’t know. some days, yeah. some days i feel like i’d get lost anywhere else.”

“you wouldn’t,” she insists. not like a promise.

you look at her — properly, this time. and she looks at you like she’s always known the version of you you’re trying so hard to become.

“we were young.”

“you were scared,” she replies.

“you were patient.”

“too patient.”

she doesn’t flinch when she says it. there’s no resentment or longing behind it. it’s the softness of someone who’s already made peace with the waiting.

you set your mug down on the coffee table, watching the way the steam curls and fades. the tv drones on, another laugh track, another joke you don’t catch.

“i tried dating,” she admits so quietly you almost miss it. your head turns. she’s staring at the carpet now, legs tucked up, fingers curled around her own mug like it’s holding her back. “a couple of people. it just…didn’t work.”

you wait, letting her take her time.

“no one made me laugh like you did,” she smiles, longing. “or pissed me off the way you did. which i think’s part of the appeal.”

you smile faintly. she looks at you then, eyes steadier than they’ve been all night.

“i’m not asking for another chance, i just want you to know — if you need me, i’m still here. not waiting. just…here. however you want.”

your chest tightens. “i’m not ready and i don’t want to hurt you.”

“i know.”

“but i don’t want to lose you again.”

she leans in, rests her head on your shoulder. her body’s close but not heavy. “then don’t.”

after a while, she lies down along the couch, arms tucked in close to her chest, she pats the space beside her without looking.

you lie down, slowly. her body curves away from yours. the blanket’s barely covering both of you. her foot brushes yours under it, once, and then doesn’t move again.

you close your eyes. and for the first time in weeks — maybe months…nothing inside you hurts. because for tonight, being near her is enough. not everything needs to be fixed. some things are allowed to just exist. gently.

like this.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the first thing you feel is weight — soft and warm across your chest, like a blanket with breath. then the tickle of hair against your neck, the faintest hint of perfume and sleep.

sana’s hair is everywhere, tangled across your collarbone, your throat, her cheek pressed just under the dip of your shoulder. her breath rises and falls in shallow rhythms, lips parted slightly, eyelashes fanned across her cheek. her arms are curled in close, one leg tangled with yours.

the living room is dim, daylight leaking in thin threads through the drawn curtains. the tv is still on, volume low, flickering through an infomercial for kitchenware neither of you would ever buy.

you lie still for a while, your arm numb beneath her, but you don’t move. it’s the kind of quiet that feels earned. the television’s off, the world outside still hushed by early light. your shirt is soft beneath you, her hoodie still faintly smells like detergent and something else you don’t have a name for.

sana stirs awake as you shift; she mumbles something incomprehensible before burying her face deeper into the space between your shoulder and neck. her voice is sleep-rough, barely there. “is it morning?”

“barely,” you murmur. “maybe past noon.”

she groans, pulling herself upright slowly. her eyes are heavy-lidded as she stretches, arms raised above her head, hoodie slipping up her stomach. she blinks at you through the strands of hair falling over her eyes.

“you want breakfast or lunch or…whatever time it is?” she asks, rubbing her temple.

you sit up too, slower, still reeling from the weight of sleep and the mild throb behind your eyes. “just coffee, if that’s alright. i’ve got a lecture in like an hour.”

she nods, yawning. “coffee’s fine. use whatever’s there. i think the moka pot still works. oh — and i left some clothes on the bed if you want to shower.”

you pause, your fingers resting at your temple. “you didn’t have to.”

“i know,” she says, pushing herself off the couch. “but i wanted to.”

you stand, stretching. those vodka shots sit at the bottom of your gut like coins tossed in too deep.

the hallway to her bedroom is dim and narrow. the moment you step inside, the smell hits you — faint floral perfume on the bedspread. the clothes are folded at the edge of the bed. yours, but not ones you remember leaving behind. you touch the fabric absently.

everything’s still here. not just the objects, but the version of you that once belonged in this room, in this light.

in the shower, the water is warm and noisy, echoing against tile. you stand with your forehead against the wall, eyes closed, breathing in the steam. the heat helps a little, but your stomach still turns. not from the alcohol…not entirely.

jimin creeps in around the edges — her voice, her hands, her apology over the phone. the way she said your name like it still meant something. you press your eyes shut tighter. the weight of it lands differently now. you’re not angry, but you feel sick in a way you don’t know how to explain.

you towel off quickly. dress in the clothes sana laid out. they smell faintly of drawer wood and lemon detergent as you brush your fingers through your damp hair in the mirror and avoid looking yourself in the eyes too long.

your phone’s now dead, pulling it from your coat pocket and putting it back. you could ask for a charger but you don’t, not today.

the quiet feels cleaner without it.

when you walk back into the kitchen, sana’s seated on the counter, still in your hoodie, legs crossed, scrolling through something on her phone.

she looks up, smiles when she sees you, soft and unguarded. “looking good.”

you cross to her, press a quick kiss to her cheek without thinking about it — it lingers a little too long.

“thank you,” you clear your throat, blushing slightly.

she tilts her head, smile deepening. “for what?”

“for letting me stay over and…this.”

quickly, you turn away before she can answer, walk to the windows and tug them open. light floods in slowly, catching dust motes in the air.

you flick the kettle on and open the same cupboard she did the night before. the tea is still there, barely touched. but you need something stronger. you find the coffee — ground and sealed in a jar with a crooked label and brew it black.

the scent fills the space quickly, bitter and grounding. you don’t drink it. just pour it into a travel mug you find by the sink.

“what are you up to today?”

sana shakes her head, letting out a groan. “sleeping all day. maybe go shopping.”

“what a hard life.”

“so much easier when you’re around,” she playfully bites back. “good luck dealing with jimin.”

you bite your lip, rolling your eyes. “don’t remind me.”

before you leave, you pull a scrap of paper from her notebook and scribble a note. your handwriting is messier than usual, letters uneven.

thanks for the tea and the shoes. maybe dinner sometime this week? – y/n.

you place it beside her laptop. she hasn’t noticed yet, still distracted by whatever’s on her phone. you don’t say goodbye out loud. just slip on your coat, take one last look at her in your hoodie, barefoot, head bowed.

“i’m off,” you look up from the front door, smiling. “see you?”

“see you later, have fun!” she waves as you step out quietly and close the door behind you.

the hallway smells faintly of dust and coffee burns your tongue. you don’t know what any of this means, not yet, but for now…it’s enough.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the lecture passes like fog. you sit through it with your eyes fixed on the front, pen barely moving across the page. your body’s there, but everything else is caught somewhere between the echo of last night and the strange quiet that followed.

the words on the slides blur in front of you. all you register is the sting behind your eyes and the way your body feels, like you’re still curling up on sana’s couch, the taste of black coffee lingering at the back of your throat. you had barely eaten.

the lecture ends and you move without thinking, slipping your notebook into your tote bag and pushing through the doors before anyone can speak to you. you just want to go home.

not even to your dorm — just anywhere private. anywhere karina isn’t.

the air outside is warm and smells faintly of smoke. sunlight pours through the golgen gingko trees that line the pavement. your head still aches while campus hums around you, students filtering out of buildings, bikes passing and someone’s laughing a little too loudly.

there’s something dizzying about moving through a place that feels so normal while everything in you is still reeling. you reach the main gate and glance across the road just as a black mercedes pulls up. tinted windows. clean, polished, like it doesn’t belong anywhere near a uni campus.

the window slides down; her.

“get in,” karina says, voice thin. “i’ll take you home.”

you stare at her for a moment too long, trying to decipher something in her eyes that doesn’t make your head spin. there’s nothing to find. she looks like she hasn’t slept. you’re too exhausted to argue. you don’t want to get in. every part of you screams against it. but your limbs are slow and your lungs ache and your legs are beginning to shake from the cold. so you open the passenger door and slide in.

there’s no makeup on her face, not even the tinted lip balm she used to reapply like muscle memory. her hair’s knotted up in a bun that clearly wasn’t meant to be seen. the jumper she’s wearing is too big, sleeves swallowing half her fingers and the pants don’t even match.

she just looks tired, no, wrecked.

she exhales like she’s been holding her breath the whole time. “you’re okay,” she adds. it sounds like relief; saying it more for herself.

you study her face — the raw edges of it, how her eyes flicker all over you. and you’re so tired, so sick of the push and pull of her voice in your chest. you let the silence stretch for a second too long before saying flatly: “i’m okay, karina.”

maybe it’s to protect yourself or maybe it’s punishment. either way, it lands like a slap.

she flinches at the name. her fingers tighten around the steering wheel, just barely. but she doesn’t argue as she starts driving and you let the silence hang between you like fogged-up glass.

the ache builds slowly in your chest. there’s no energy left for anger, not properly. just this numb, weightless sort of fatigue, like everything inside you has been wrung out.

you start counting things you’ll miss about her. the way she drove you crazy at the worst times. the smug little look she gave you when she knew she had won…her hands, her laugh, her breath warm against your shoulder whenever she fell asleep too close.

you’ll miss her like bruises miss the skin they belonged to.

but then again, you never really had her, did you? not fully; not without consequence.

what happened between the two of you these past few months wasn’t love. it was everything else: longing, want, secrecy, ache.

everything but love.

she speaks again. “i couldn’t sleep. i stayed at the dorm. i was worried sick, my love.”

you let the words hang in the air for a beat too long. “why?”

you don’t look at her because you don’t owe her softness anymore.

she shifts slightly in her seat and her eyes flick down to your clothes; her expression changing. the pieces click together in her mind.

the oversized shirt and hoodie, the joggers that aren’t yours and she already knows. she just wants to hear it.

“whose clothes are those?”

you sigh, your mouth starting to taste like regret.

“sana’s,” you answer, turning your head just enough to see her reaction. “i was at her apartment.”

karina lets out a sound between a laugh and a scoff. the kind that builds out of disbelief. “right. because she’s always just taking care of you, isn’t she?”

your head turns toward her. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means,” she snaps, jaw clenching. “that she’s clearly still fucking in love with you and you’re playing into it!”

you don’t respond right away. the silence between you grows sharp teeth and you think of sana sitting cross-legged on the couch last night, pouring you a cup of tea, tucking her hair behind her ears like it wasn’t supposed to mean something — the way she looked at you like you were worth the mess…as if she wanted you to want her back.

“and you’re in love with your boyfriend,” you bite back before you can stop yourself. your voice cracks, bitter and tired. “so what the fuck is your point?”

she flinches. “it’s not the same —”

“isn’t it?” you cut in. “you get to play girlfriend when you feel like it. post pictures, meet your parents, hold his hand in public like it means nothing. and then you show up at my dorm in the middle of the night like i’m supposed to be yours too.”

silence slams into the car again. you can feel it thicken, feel it bleed into your bones. she doesn’t say anything but her knuckles are white.

the campus disappears behind you as you watch the road for a while. red brick turns into old terrace houses and you feel the exhaustion settle behind your ribs again. you hate this version of you: the cold one, but you don’t know how else to protect yourself from her.

“pull over,” you say gently now. “let me drive.”

she shakes her head and you catch her wiping under her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. “don’t do that. don’t pretend like this was just —just something that happened.”

“what was it then?” you ask, heaving out a sigh. “a glitch in the matrix? some fling to get you through your quarter-life crisis?”

her eyes start to shine again. but this time, she doesn’t bother hiding it. “you know it wasn’t that.”

“i don’t know anything anymore…i thought i did.”

“i’ll leave him,” she whispers. “i swear to god, y/n, i’ll leave him right now. just don’t walk away; i’ll do anything.”

you stare at her. not the version that gets followed around campus and not the name everyone knows. just her. the girl who used to stay up late telling you about her mother’s garden, about how sometimes she didn’t want to follow the path carved out for her, about the songs she never released.

and you don’t know which parts of her were real anymore.

“i’m tired,” you let out, voice thick. “i’m tired of being your second choice. of pretending it doesn’t hurt when you smile at him like he is the only person in the room.”

you take a breath that catches in your throat. “i saw you, jimin. all those times you thought i wasn’t looking. and you looked really, really happy.”

she shakes her head, tears spilling now. “i wasn’t. not the way i am with you.”

you close your eyes. it makes it worse because all you can see is her laughing in your hoodie. you see her brushing your hair behind your ear, forehead pressed to yours in the dark.

you shake your head, suddenly too tired again. “i wish it was me. i wish you were proud of me like that.”

she doesn’t have an answer, just reaches out across the space, fingers brushing against yours like a question.

you pull your hand back instantly.

“you think this has been easy for me?” she continues, her voice breaking. “you think i liked lying to everyone? lying to myself?”

you stare at her.

“you didn’t lie to anyone, you were his girlfriend in public and you were still his girlfriend in private — you made me your secret.”

“we could still happen,” she croaks out. “we could make it work. please.”

the fragile belief you’ve been holding to suddenly collapses inside of you. “no, we couldn’t…we were a mistake and you know that.”

you stare out the window again, trees blurring past. the ache sharpens and you want to throw up.

“no,” she breathes. her hand slips over the centre console, fingers reaching for yours again. “please, let me make it right — please give me that chance.”

she finally pulls over in front of your dorm and the engine idles. she doesn’t look at you but her shoulders are shaking as you reach for the door handle.

“please,” she says, not looking at you. “stay. just for a bit. don’t go, not like this.”

“thank you for the ride,” you mumble. “and for everything else, karina.”

and this time there’s no softness in your eyes when you look at her. only the quiet, hollow kind of finality that comes when you’ve run out of reasons to stay.

“don’t look back,” you add.

and then you step out, shuttint the door behind you.

you don’t look back either, not once, not when her sobs finally break out through the closed windows.

not even when your chest burns so deeply it feels like grief.

you just walk.

and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel what it means to leave.

to really, truly leave.

the dorm is warm when you walk in, maybe too warm. someone’s turned the heater on too high and the air feels close, thick with the scent of leftover coffee and the cheap jasmine incense yunjin always insists on burning after someone cries.

your eyes sting from the heat and the smell and the quiet — all of it too much, too pressing after the cold air outside. you close the door behind you, drop your bag near the shoe rack and only then notice how still everything is.

then you hear it. that unmistakable shuffle of socks on wood.

“y/n-nie?”

giselle appears first from the kitchen, holding a mug with both hands like she had just been standing there for something to do. her eyes flick down to your shoes, your hoodie, your face —assessing quietly, not pushing. behind her, ryujin and yunjin linger near the lounge, both stiff in place, like they’ve been pacing until the very moment they heard the door.

“you’re home,” yunjin speaks, voice oddly gentle, as if too loud might break something. she’s in pyjamas, hair in two messy plaits, a blanket half-draped over her shoulder like she tried to sleep on the couch and failed.

you nod, swallowing around the dryness in your throat. “yeah.”

there’s a beat of cautious silence. giselle places the mug down on the bench without sipping, then walks over to you, her steps slow.

“we were worried,” she reveals and it’s not dramatic or scolding.

you shrug off your jumper, the fabric damp from the weather and draping it over the back of a chair. none of them move closer, but they don’t pull away either.

the tension isn’t sharp — it’s concern, threaded in a way only people who love you know how to do. no one asks anything yet, as if they’re waiting for permission.

you sigh, rubbing your face with both hands and your voice comes out cracked. “i was at sana’s.”

ryujin blinks. “like…all night?”

you nod, your eyes still focused on the wooden floor. it has a small stain near the corner where giselle spilled hot chocolate a month ago. you never bothered to clean it properly. now you’re staring at it like it might explain something. “yeah, i didn’t know where else to go.”

giselle crosses her arms over her chest as she begins to process what you just told them. yunjin opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“she took care of me,” you add softly. “just…sat with me. made sure i didn’t drown in my own vomit. gave me coffee this morning but that’s it.”

a silence stretches again, this one heavier.

then: “so,” giselle starts, cautious as ever. “what about…well, what happened with jimin?”

you suck in a slow breath. it tastes like regret. “it’s done.”

none of them react right away.

it feels like disappointment and relief all tangled together, like crying after holding your breath too long. you sit on the edge of the couch, hands slack in your lap, trying to breathe through the heaviness sitting on your chest.

“like…actually done?” yunjin says after a moment, her brows furrowed.

“she lied to me,” your throat thickens. “turns out she’s been planning a europe trip with jaewook over the break. she said she was going to leave him, made me believe it. all while booking flights and making dinner reservations.”

the room stills again. giselle’s eyes harden and yunjin sits next to you, her blanket still half-on, half-off, and rests her head on your shoulder. she doesn’t say anything. just that.

ryujin bites her lip. “what the actual fuck,” then disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a half-eaten box of almond pocky. she tosses it in your lap. “you’re gonna need this.”

you snort, barely, but the sound catches in your throat.

giselle walks over and crouches in front of you, one hand on your knee, the other reaching to take your hand. she squeezes gently, like she’s grounding you. maybe she’s always been your anchor and you didn’t notice until now.

“you don’t deserve that,” she assures you, her voice quiet but unwavering. “none of it. not the lies, not the hiding…not being made to feel like a backup plan.”

you blink fast, vision starting to blur. she leans forward and pulls you into a hug. it’s the kind that doesn’t ask for anything back.

“i’m proud of you,” she whispers. “you didn’t wait around for crumbs this time.”

you press your face into her shoulder, throat tight. you don’t cry, not fully, but you feel something loosen as your fingers curl into the fabric of her jumper.

ryujin plops down dramatically on the other side of the couch. “should we start a jimin recovery playlist? i’ve got at least seven breakup bangers that scream ‘i hate you please die’.”

“only seven?” yunjin scoffs. “you’re slacking.”

“i’ve been saving my best material,” she rolls her eyes, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “but don’t worry, we’ll heal your heart with a highly curated mix of charli xcx, revenge fantasy pop and taylor swift if you’re up for it. the spiteful taylor. none of that mature, understanding bullshit.”

you laugh, quietly, but it’s real. the sound feels strange in your mouth, it doesn’t belong to you yet, but it’s something.

yunjin sits up straighter. “and i vote we get drunk next weekend like so drunk you forget jimin’s last name.”

“already forgot it,” you mumble, wiping under your eye with your sleeve. “her name’s karina, remember?”

they all groan in unison.

“disgusting,” ryujin mutters.

“i liked her better when she was just rumoured to be dating that heiress from italy,” yunjin adds, shaking her head. “that era had mystery.”

“we’re not doing eras,” giselle whines, pulling back from the hug but keeping her hand on your arm. “we’re doing healing. and coffee. and maybe a bad horror movie marathon.”

you nod, finally looking at them properly. “thank you.”

you mean it.

giselle smiles. “always.”

the sun has dipped low behind the buildings outside, casting long shadows across the window panes. the wind picks up again, whistling faintly against the glass. winter’s coming in sharp, cold bursts — but in here, in this small flat with its mismatched mugs and blanket piles and people who don’t let you fall apart alone; it feels like you might survive it.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

god, you hate this back room. it smells like old denim and the faint lemon of cleaning spray. it’s cramped, cluttered and there are scarves spilling out of bins, old jackets draped over mannequins with missing arms and a stack of shoeboxes taunting you from the corner like they know you haven’t done inventory in weeks. you’re holding a clipboard, pen dangling loosely from your fingers, but you haven’t ticked a single box in the last ten minutes.

taehyung is crouched by the bottom shelf, trying to match a pair of cowboy boots to their brand tags. he keeps making dumb comments under his breath like, “these boots were made for emotionally unavailable women,” or “do you reckon i could pull these off if i dropped out of uni and started busking in hongdae?”

normally, you would laugh. maybe roll your eyes and call him insufferable but you don’t. not today.

“okay,” he says suddenly, standing up and brushing dust off his knees. “no offence, but you’re being kind of a weirdo right now and it’s freaking me out.”

you blink up at him. “i’m doing stocktake.”

“you’ve been counting the same three belts for ten minutes.”

you glance down. this is true. you had forgotten what number you were on.

he tilts his head, crossing his arms loosely. “what’s going on?”

you don’t answer at first. the room’s too small and your throat’s tight like there’s something stuck in it that won’t come loose.

he steps closer. “hey, stop pretending it’s nothing. just tell me.”

you set the clipboard down. slow, like your hands don’t really belong to you. the words come out quieter than you expect. “i ended it.”

he frowns. “with karina?”

you nod. “a few days ago.”

you don’t say anything for a while and neither does he. you pull your sleeves over your hands, wiping your palms against them absently. “i haven’t been sleeping right. or studying. i tried to open my casebook last night and just stared at the table of contents for an hour.”

you swallow. “and she’s still with him. she hasn’t even left him.”

he winces, like he didn’t expect that part. “shit.”

you sit down on one of the old ottomans, exhaling hard through your nose. “you were right…you and everyone else.”

and finally, your voice cracks. “it was just a game to her.”

taehyung moves quickly but gently, crouches in front of you, one knee on the dusty floor. his hands hover awkwardly before landing lightly on your knees.

you laugh, but it breaks midway and turns into a sob. “i feel so fucking stupid.”

your whole body folds in, shoulders quaking. the tears come hard and ugly, the kind you tried to fight for days. you hate crying in front of people, how loud it feels in your ears, how it makes your nose run and your skin feel too thin.

“top of my class,” you mutter bitterly. “but i fall for someone who can’t even be proud of me, who won’t even say my name when other people are around.”

he doesn’t say anything, but wraps his arms around you and holds you to his chest, one hand rubbing circles along your back. he smells like fabric softener and the bakery next door.

you bury your face into his cardigan. he stays quiet, not offering hollow reassurances; just letting you come apart.

and then the bell on the front door rings.

you don’t even look up, but his voice cuts in softly. “hey, give us a sec — oh. it’s you.”

you hear a pause. then his hand gives your shoulder one last squeeze before he pulls back.

“i’ll go get coffee,” he murmurs, standing. “you two talk.”

you sniff and lift your head slightly. standing in the doorway, silhouetted by late afternoon light and soft specks of dust in the air, is sana.

she’s wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. her hair’s darker now — dyed black, freshly cut, tucked behind her ears. she looks softer. less like the girl who used to demand attention the second she entered a room and more like the one who made you coffee every morning with a grin on her face.

“hi,” she greets gently. “you look…terrible.”

you try to laugh; it’s shaky.

“thanks,” you croak out, wiping your nose with your sleeve. “great to see you too.”

sana kneels in front of you like taehyung had. she reaches up and brushes your cheeks gently, thumbs catching your tears before they fall again. her touch is light, careful, but not unsure. you didn’t realise how much you missed being touched like that.

“you’re okay,” she assures, more to you than to herself. “you’re okay.”

you shake your head. “i’m a mess.”

“so was i,” she smiles. “after us. you remember?”

you do, of course you do. there were nights she showed up at your door in the middle of the night with swollen eyes and takeout she never touched; the way she apologised for loving you too much, or maybe not in the right way.

you glance up at her again. “you dyed your hair.”

she smiles, brushing a strand behind her ear. “felt like a change.”

“what brings you here?”

“you invited me,” she answrs simply.

you blink. “i did?”

“yeah,” she nods. “you left a note in my laptop case last week. about dinner.”

you remember now — hurried handwriting on a torn bit of paper. you didn’t even think she saw it. you didn’t think anything of it, really.

“when you didn’t reply to my texts after that,” she continued. “i knew something was wrong; unless you wanted to ghost me.”

you drop your gaze again. “it’s been bad.”

“i can tell.”

she reaches for your hand andyou let her take it.

“you don’t have to tell me everything, just…let me be here.”

you don’t say much after that. but maybe you don’t need to. perhaps, just sitting there; knees touching, her thumb tracing the edge of your palm, is enough for now.

sana doesn’t let go of your hand and you don’t pull away. the back room is still, filled with the quiet hum of the overhead light and the distant muffled rhythm of taehyung’s playlist bleeding in from the speakers out front.

you study the edge of her sleeve where it’s fraying a little at the cuff. her thumb keeps brushing back and forth across your palm like she’s absentmindedly trying to smooth out all the jaggedness left behind by the last few months.

“i’m sorry for how i was,” you say quietly.

she looks up at you, but doesn’t interrupt.

“when we ended; i know i wasn’t easy.”

she gives you a small smile, one that tugs gently at the corners of her mouth but doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “neither was i.”

you shake your head, eyes fixed on some scuff mark on the floor. “i used to think you were too good for me, maybe that wasn’t fair.”

“or maybe it was,” she says softly. “i was selfish. i didn’t know how to love without making it about me; it wouldn’t have been the right time anyway.”

your throat tightens again, but not in the same way it did earlier.

“still,” she adds, eyes softening. “i loved you.”

your breath catches in your chest. not from the weight of the words, but the calm way she says them — like she’s not afraid of their shape anymore.

“and honestly, i think part of me always will,” she continues. “but that doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

you look at her.

her dark hair frames her face in soft waves now, the roots even and glossy, catching little bits of light every time she shifts. her gaze doesn’t falter, not like jimin’s. she isn’t searching your face for permission or forgiveness. she’s just…here.

the same girl who used to bring you croissants and wait outside your tutorials just to drive you home. and the same girl you pushed away.

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” you murmur.

“that makes two of us,” she replies, and finally, finally, it makes you smile.

you lean your head back against the shelf and close your eyes for a moment. somewhere outside, a motorbike revs and a car honks, but it all feels distant, like background noise in someone else’s memory.

sana shifts a little, tucking one knee up as she rests her chin on it. “i know she hurt you.”

you don’t respond.

“and i know it’s not about her anymore. it’s about how much of yourself you gave her, how hard you tried to be enough.”

it’s exactly that; because you bent yourself backwards for a love that never made room for you; because you believed that if you just waited, if you just held on longer, maybe you would be chosen.

“you don’t have to fix it overnight,” she squeezes your hand. “you just have to get through today. and then tomorrow.”

you open your eyes.

“what if i don’t want to feel anything anymore?”

“then feel nothing. just let your body sit and exist. i’ll be here either way.”

you don’t realise you’re crying again until she gently reaches up to wipe at your cheeks, thumbs warm and steady.

you sniff and laugh a little through it. “i’m gross.”

“you’re beautiful,” she reminds you and she doesn’t say it like a line.

you exhale shakily, chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of finally letting yourself be held together instead of holding it all in.

you nod, almost imperceptibly. “hey, you want to help me count shoes?”

she laughs. “only if you let me keep the jelly sandals in a size too small.”

you roll your eyes. “deal.”

she gets up first, tugging your hand gently until you follow. the world outside is still there, still cold, still complicated. but for now, you’re in this small, overstuffed back room that smells like dust and history and maybe a little bit of burnt vanilla and gasoline station perfume, standing next to someone who knows how to hold space.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the place is nothing like the places you usually go to…unless you were with she-who-can’t-be-named. the lighting is low and gold-toned like everything’s been dipped in honey. even the chairs feel too generous.

you watch sana from across the table. she’s dressed like it didn’t take her any effort at all —high-waisted trousers and a cashmere coat, hair tucked behind her ears, her lipstick a subtle red that hasn’t smudged even after sipping from her wine glass.

she knows which fork to use and she talks to the waiter like she’s done this a hundred times. maybe she has.

it makes you sit a little straighter without realising.

“you’re really leaning into this chaebol heiress look,” you say, trying to sound amused, though your tone comes out a bit too dry.

she blinks at you, then smiles. “i’m not leaning into anything. this is just how i grew up.”

you frown slightly. “i thought your family did real estate?”

“they do,” she replies, lightly tearing off a piece of bread, “and hotels. and department stores. and resorts.“

you stop mid-chew, jaw tightening slowly. “wait, like…multiple?”

“yeah,” she answers, dipping her bread into olive oil. “we don’t really talk about it unless we need to.”

you set your knife down. you feel suddenly underdressed, under qualified and under-everything.

she gives you a knowing look. “don’t look at me like that. you already know half of yonsei’s student body is secretly the next chaebol generation. taehyung’s family owns half the city and we all get jewellery from irene’s family.”

you nod. “right.”

you knew taehyung was rich because his card never gets declined and he doesn’t flinch at 500,000 won bar tabs for two people but you didn’t realise how many of your classmates were sitting on invisible thrones.

in the years you knew her, sana was never flashy.

you laugh a little, pressing your water glass to your lips just to cool your face. “this explains why everyone’s so casually unbothered all the time.”

she chuckles, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “that’s just generational wealth and no student loans.”

the food arrives slowly, each dish set down like a performance. truffle pasta, scallop carpaccio, slices of bread still warm from the oven. you focus on the steam rising from your plate, hoping the heat might settle something in your chest.

sana makes a few jokes about the menu being in italian and the wine being impossible to pronounce. she’s easy to talk to, even when your brain won’t stop whirring.

you’re almost halfway through your meal when you notice her hand pause halfway to her wine glass.

you look up.

her gaze is fixed over your shoulder, her expression suddenly unreadable.

“shit,” she mutters.

you turn.

and there they are.

karina, in a long charcoal coat and glossy black boots, walking side by side with jaewook, who’s grinning at something she just said. they don’t see you at first. you could turn around and stay quiet and pretend this isn’t happening.

but you don’t.

she looks around, her eyes landing on you.

her steps are slow and then she stops entirely. jaewook turns, confused, until his eyes find yours. his face lights up in that smug, entitled way you always hated; like nothing touches him.

sana shifts beside you, her fingers curling slightly against her wine glass. “we can leave.”

you glance at her, then shake your head. “no,” your voice is steady and it surprises you. “i’m fine.”

you place your hand over hers, her knuckles are cold. you squeeze gently.

jaewook approaches with a glint in his eye that makes your stomach twist. “well, well, so it’s you and sana after all.”

you don’t reply.

he leans forward slightly, his tone low and amused. “and you made such a show of denying her in the car.”

you don’t look at karina. you can feel her there, just behind him, still silent.

“have a good night,” you immediately shut the conversation down, keeping your voice clipped and neutral.

he laughs. “don’t worry, i will.”

karina steps forward and grabs his arm, her voice low. “don’t be such an ass — let’s go.”

he lets himself be led away, still grinning.

you stare down at your plate, your appetite’s gone. you hear the clinking of plates, a burst of laughter from the next table, the hum of a song you don’t recognise.

sana moves again, drawing your eyes back to her. her gaze is steady. “tell me about your parents,” she says gently, reminding you that you’re still here. “how are they?”

you sigh. “they’re okay. mum’s still watching every cooking show on earth and dad sends me weather updates from our town like i don’t have the same forecast app.”

she smiles. “that sounds comforting.”

“it is.”

she asks you what countries you would want to visit, you tell her about a childhood obsession with iceland and the way you used to look up glacier hikes online. she tells you about getting snowed in at a ryokan in sapporo and how magical it was. she’s trying, you realise. not to distract you…but to pull you back toward something that isn’t about them.

and for a while, it works. you laugh. really laugh. you lean forward and wipe your mouth with your napkin and let her smile reach you.

before dessert, you excuse yourself quietly, slipping into the bathroom down the hall. the marble counters feel too clean as you stare at yourself for a while, adjusting your hair even though there’s nothing wrong with it.

your cheeks are flushed, your lips are still a little red — you look fine.

but your chest feels tight because sana’s waiting outside and she’s perfect and patient and real, and you want to want her cleanly. fully. without looking over your shoulder.

but you’re not there yet.

and it doesn’t help that the bathroom is too quiet.

you run the tap but don’t wash your hands — just listen to the sound of it, trying to pace your breathing against the rhythm of the water. there’s something behind your eyes that’s ready to crack open if you let it.

there’s a faint crease on your cheek from where you leaned on your hand earlier. your eyes look swollen with too many nights of half-sleep and too many mornings where you woke up already bracing for the weight of the day.

sana had looked at you with so much patience over dinner; her smile came without conditions. she was there; not watching the door or distracted.

definitely not waiting for someone else to call her away.

and yet, when jaewook and jimin walked in, your body still betrayed you and your thoughts still unravelled in the space between their footsteps and the sound of sana’s voice trying to bring you back.

the marble is cold under your fingertips as you grip the edge of the sink. you don’t know what to do with this.

you don’t know what to do with the way sana makes you feel calm and seen and steady; and how karina still manages to set off something just beneath your ribs that feels like longing — or regret — or something worse.

it’s not fair to sana; not when she’s still in there, probably sipping her wine and pretending the lump in your throat didn’t appear the moment karina’s eyes met yours.

you fix your hair slowly, smoothing it behind your ears, avoiding your reflection now.

the door swings open and your breath stops because you know the weight of that presence before you even lift your head.

karina doesn’t say anything right away. the silence is dense — so dense you could carve into it with a knife. you feel her watching you through the mirror, like she’s trying to will you to turn around.

you keep your hands steady, adjusting the collar of your shirt. you don’t want this…not here, not like this.

“have you been fucking her all along?”

the question cuts through the quiet so abruptly that for a second, you think you misheard her. but the cold in her voice is unmistakable as if she’s furious and doesn’t know where to put it.

you turn slowly, meeting her eyes.

she’s standing near the door, jaw set, her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. her eyes are glassy and it makes something twist inside you —because you remember what it feels like to be the reason for that look.

you remember nights when she stared at you the same way, but with tenderness instead of suspicion.

you shake your head at her. “don’t do that.”

“don’t do what?” she spits, stepping closer. “don’t ask questions you clearly don’t want to answer?”

“this isn’t your business anymore.”

her breathing is shallow; she swallows hard. her eyes flicker across your face like she’s searching for something to hold onto.

“you told me you wanted me to choose you,” she continues, voice faltering. “so here i am. ready to choose you. just say it. tell me what to do and i’ll fucking do it.”

you heave out a sigh, but it doesn’t steady you. “you had months, karina.”

“i was scared.”

“so was i!”

“then tell me it’s not too late,” she pleads, stepping forward again. “please tell me there’s still a version of this where i get to have you.”

you close your eyes. for one second; just one.

because this is what she does — she comes back only when you’ve just started to walk away…when the part of you that loved her most has grown quiet enough to let something new begin.

you open your eyes and there she is. just her. small and stubborn and heartbreakingly soft in front of you.

and still — you know better.

“i can’t keep being your almost,” you whisper. “i can’t keep waiting for you to be proud of me in public.”

she looks like she’s about to cry. her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

you don’t know what else to say.

and then suddenly, behind her — another voice. steady, but sharp with interruption.

“what’s going on?”

you turn around just as sana walks in. she stops when she sees karina. her posture stiffens, like she’s debating whether to walk right back out again.

her eyes flick to you, then back to her. she doesn’t smile. “am i interrupting something?”

but no one answers. not right away.

because you’re still caught between them: one who haunts and one who holds — and for a brief, suffocating moment, you don’t know which way to move.

the silence barely lasts a breath. barely long enough for you to decide because sana’s eyes don’t move from karina’s. there’s nothing timid about her now — none of the teasing charm she wore like perfume over dinner; her jaw is tight. when she steps forward, it’s with the kind of composure that makes your stomach twist.

“you don’t get to do this here,” sana firmly starts, voice low but steady. “not in some bathroom while your fucking boyfriend’s sipping wine two tables away.”

the other girl doesn’t answer immediately. she’s still breathing unevenly, still staring at you like you’re something slipping through her fingers and now she can’t quite figure out how you got this far without her.

she turns toward sana, her voice sharp. “this doesn’t involve you.”

“it does; the second you made her cry on my couch, the second you let her walk away thinking it was her fault. it absolutely involves me.”

your heart’s thudding against your ribs as you try to ground yourself in its coldness. you hate this. the closeness of it, the fluorescent lighting, the way their voices bounce off tile walls and make everything feel louder than it is.

“you think this is about you?” karina snaps. “you think you just get to show up again and erase everything we had?”

sana crosses her arms. “i’m not erasing anything. you did that all on your own.”

your eyes flick between them, your head ringing with the pressure of too many thoughts trying to speak at once.

karina’s lips are trembling now, her eyes red, her hands flexing uselessly by her sides. she looks like she’s holding something in — rage or regret, you can’t tell. she shakes her head, tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek like she’s holding something in.

“you think you’re so much better than me,” she mutters. “but you weren’t there.”

“no,” sana replies, stepping further into the room. “because she didn’t want me there. she wanted you. and what did you do? you left her waiting. you told her things you had no intention of following through with. and then you paraded your boyfriend around like she was the mistake.”

karina looks at you again. her voice is lower now. “you think she’s better for you?”

you swallow hard, refusing to answer. because the truth is, you don’t know.

sana doesn’t make you feel like you have to shrink to be loved, she doesn’t hide you nor weigh her affection with conditions…but she’s not who your heart pulled toward first.

and that’s the problem. maybe the worst thing about it all — that the heart doesn’t care if the hands it longs for have already dropped it.

“she sees me,” you manage, finally. “she doesn’t make me feel like i’m not enough.”

you can’t breathe.

next to you, karina says quietly: “i don’t know how to let you go.”

and it hits you harder than it should.

because that’s the one thing you’ve always known about her — she doesn’t say the truth until it’s already been buried under rubbles of silence.

“you should’ve thought of that before choosing your boyfriend,” sana snaps this time, stepping between you and karina now. “you don’t get to mourn her like you didn’t help break her.”

you take a shaky breath and force your voice to work. “can we just — ” you stop, then try again. “sana.”

her head turns to you immediately, eyes softening.

you don’t know what expression is on your face, but it makes her take a half-step toward you. “hey,” she murmurs, already shifting her posture, “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have —”

“can we go home?” you cut her off. “i don’t want dessert anymore.”

she nods without hesitation.

“of course.”

you turn toward the door, but not before catching karina’s expression. she looks stricken, as if you just took something from her that she never thought you would actually keep for yourself.

part of you wants to say something to soften it. tell her you’re not choosing sides, not really. you’re just choosing peace; but there’s nothing you could say that wouldn’t pull you back in.

so you walk out.

sana trails behind you silently.

your hand brushes hers once as you make your way through the dining room. she doesn’t try to hold it — doesn’t reach — but you feel the warmth of her beside you, steady and quiet and grounding.

you don’t look back, don’t think you ever will.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

vi. i need to want something more (coming)

#kpop x reader #heliooosss #kpop gg #aespa x reader #kpop imagines #aespa imagines #karina #karina imagines #angst #karina x reader #aespa #sana x reader #minatozaki sana

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