#mr. let's block everyone's attempt to get home

[elizabeth-mitchells]

oh i don't KNOW John, WHY would any one of YOU block an attempt to get HOME???????? i would LOVE to know WHY

[nerdygirlramblings]

totally not at all inspired by a real life snowboarding injury, I present poly!141 x injured!reader

cw: hurt/comfort, accents attempted

You're sat in the hospital bed doing your best not to cry. You hold the tears at bay not because you're fine. Not because you're proud. Not because of the shock running through your system. No, you try hard not to cry because you don't know how your boyfriends will react if you're in tears when they show up.

The spill was the most ridiculous accident, comical in its cartoonish nature: ice on the steps. You were rushing to catch The Tube, desperate not to be late. You knew if any of your men were home, they would have chided your footwear. The pink heels were absolutely impractical, but they matched your pearl grey dress so perfectly. On a normal day, you would have worn something sensible and simply brought the cute shoes to wear around the office.

But today was not a normal day. Today was your anniversary, and you had lovely dinner plans with your men scheduled. You wouldn't be able to come home after work, so you needed to look perfect all day.

You were almost home free when the last step ruined everything. Your foot slid, your bag fell, and you put your hands out to stop your forward momentum. So many bad ideas all in a row.

You felt something pop, heard a snap, and knew immediately you were very injured. Pain radiated all the way up your arm, leaving fire in its wake. Signals weren't making their way from your brain to your hand; it flapped, unresponsive, in your lap.

Thankfully your neighbor, Mrs. Gillen, was on the curb, and while she couldn't help you when you fell, she called 999 for you. She asked if your men were upstairs, and when you shook your head, she called John. You knew she had everyone's number, but as she'd learned, a call to John usually got everyone.

As they loaded you into the ambulance, you heard Mrs. Gillen ask an EMT where they were taking you, only to relay that information into her mobile.

So now you wait in A&E, arm in a sling, hooked up to an IV of fluids and pain meds, to see just how bad things are. You hear your men before you see them, John's voice low, demanding information on you. You don't hear a response, but John's growled response means he didn't get what he wanted.

Next you hear Johnny, frantically shouting your name as A&E techs try to shush him for the benefit of other patients and their families. A nurse comes in, unease in his eyes, and says there are several people asking for you. He tells you they have a code they can call if you're not safe, if the people looking for you need to be directed elsewhere or handled by the authorities.

You roll your eyes and assure the nurse it's okay. You pass him your phone, open to a picture of the five of you on holiday in Majorca last summer. "They're mine," you tell him ruefully. "Best let them back if it isn't against protocol, otherwise you'll be dealing with a big ruckus."

He eyes you hesitantly, despite the evidence on your phone. "Really," you say. "We're together. They'll be harmless if they can see me."

He steps into the hall and you watch him talk with a doctor and a man in a security uniform. They all come in and you have to explain your unconventional relationship, all the while listening to Johnny's shouts grow more panicked and Simon's rumble join John's. The only one you don't hear is Kyle, but you sure it's because he's restraining Johnny, who would be running through the halls pulling open doors if he could.

Finally the nurse, doctor, and security guard leave. Within moments the door bangs open so hard it strains the hinges. The hall light is blocked by a mass in the door, breathing heavily.

"Hi, Simon," you say sheepishly. He steps into the room, strides eating up the distance to where you are. You watch his aborted attempt to hug you. You raise your uninjured arm and he quickly shuffles into the space, pressing his face to your hair and breathing deeply.

"Oh, darling," you hear John sigh, "what happened?"

You feel your face heat and won't meet his eye. His gaze tracks from your injury down your dress to your legs. And those pink heels. You see the realization hit. "Please tell me you did not leave the flat in those shoes." His voice is muffled by the hand he's dragged over his face.

"I wanted to look perfect for tonight," you reply. "And now I've ruined it all," you sniffle.

"Och, hen," comes Johnny's voice. "Ye didnae ruin anything," he coos, coming over, elbowing Simon out of the way to press kisses to your hair and cheek. "We were so worried when Mrs. Gillen called. We jus' wan' ye safe. Yer already perfect." He kisses you again and again.

"Ya mind if we wait with ya, love?" Kyle asks, sitting in the chair next to the bed.

You were nervous about being in A&E alone, scared of what damage you did to yourself. "I wouldn't want you anywhere else," you tell him.

They boys take up various positions around the room, Simon looming behind you, eyes crossed, watching the door; John in the chair near the door, looking at your chart; and Johnny on the bed with you, your uninjured hand in his.

When the attending finally comes in, she pulls up short at how full the room now is. She looks at your men, then at you, and says, "Do you want this medical information shared, or shall we ask everyone to wait outside?"

Suddenly the room feels smaller, the air stuffier. You know it isn't harder to breathe, but your men are expansive, and the idea they might not be welcome as the doctor tells you the extent of your injuries is too much.

"No, doctor," you say, trying to head off a confrontation. "They're with me. And it's best they hear whatever this is from you." You look at John and add, "I'm sure they'll have questions."

The doctor holds your eye for a long moment, and you see the moment she decides to trust you. She comes to the end of the bed and holds her tablet out, waiting for John and Kyle to come around and join Simon behind you.

She brings up the first scan of your forearm and you see it before she says anything, the glaring black line across the solid white bones. Combined fracture of the radius and ulna. She brings up a second scan of your shoulder where the injury is less obvious. There's no bone break, but the doctor points out where you tore the ligaments in your glenohumeral joint.

The more she talks the more the words blend together. You hear surgery. Physical therapy. Weeks of recovery. John's voice joins the doctor's. Then Simon's.

You tune them out, worrying about what this means for your job, for taking care of the house when your men are on deployment, for the burden this puts on the others.

You feel a warm weight on your thigh and glance down to see Johnny's hand, thumb rubbing soothingly back and forth. The sharp line of his jaw digs into your uninjured shoulder enough to get your attention. You turn your head to glance at him. He leans forward, breath warm against your cheek as he whispers, "Stop thinkin' so hard. Takin' care a ye isnae hardship. Hell, it's gunna mean ye cannae tell us tae stop."

You frown and whisper back, "I'm not supposed to be a burden," mouth twisted into a frown.

He scoffs. "Ah dare ye tae tell LT or the Cap'n yer a burden."

A throat clears, and you look away from Johnny. The doctor looks resolute; John's eyes are full of pity. They both seem to wait for your reaction, but to what? You were spiraling until Johnny drew you back to them, but what had John and the doctor said to make them look at you like that?

Your eyes dart between them, mouth opening and closing in your best imitation of a fish until the doctor saves you further embarrassment. "We can't do anything more today. The bones in your arm can't be set until the swelling goes down, so we can only put you in a temporary splint until a real cast goes on in about a week. And I don't want to schedule the surgery until the bone is in a cast, and preferably not until it's healed, but I need more imaging on the ligament to determine how quickly it needs surgery. I'm going to have to send you home with pain medication only. You're going to need quite a bit of help for a while."

At first, the most you manage is a small, "Oh." You clear your throat and try again. "Thank you, doctor. Er, when should I schedule the imaging for? And how should I do that? Oh, and where do I go for the actual cast?"

The doctor sighs and looks at John first before the others. "I gave your, er, friend all the contact information for the orthopedist and imaging specialists. He said they'd make sure you have your appointments set. I also gave him your script for pain medication to help you manage these first few days."

You thank the doctor again as your boys escort you home. You hold the tears at bay on the drive home, waiting quietly in the car when Kyle takes your prescription into the chemist. You make it up the stairs in Simon's arms, cradled against his chest like a fragile bird. It isn't until you're back in your flat that the tears come.

A torrent of pain snakes down your arm, stealing the breath from your lungs when you try to shrug your jacket off. Simon is only a step behind you, and he lunges forward, hands under you as you crumple, sobbing, to the floor.

A pair of warm, calloused hands gently cup your face. You can't see through the tears, but you smell sunshine when Kyle shushes you, telling you they're there.

"I don't want to be a burden," you cry between sobs. Your lungs are beginning to burn, everything throbbing in time to the ache in your arm. "Now I've messed everything up!"

You're picked up, gently, from the front hall. The smell of gunmetal tells you it's Simon. His soft steps thud along the floor. There're too many steps for you to be heading for the den, you think. The realization strikes that you must be going to the bedroom. The arms holding you deposit you in front of them on the bed.

Your hair is maneuvered over your uninjured shoulder and you hear the rasp of the zipper as it slowly descends. Simon carefully manipulates your good arm out of its sleeve while Johnny kneels to take your cute shoes off. Then Kyle and Simon work together to carefully, cautiously shift and support your arm to get your other sleeve off. You have a momentary flash - I'm glad A&E didn't cut my dress - before it's overwhelmed by the agony of getting your other sleeve down.

By the time the top of your dress has been slipped off, you're practically panting, teeth clenched tight to prevent the scream from clawing its way up your throat. The boys get you the rest of the way undressed and into your pajamas.

You look around and notice John isn't in the room. You look behind you to Simon, the one most likely to give you a straight answer, but when you ask about John, he pretends not to know him at all!

John walks in a moment later with some flowers you recognize from the vase in the kitchen. "I know you're disappointed, dove. We all are, but not because we think we're missing out if you're not there." John gets down onto one knee. "This isn't what we talked about. This isn't where we wan'ed to do it." He pulls a ring box out. "Was gonna do this at dinner, but I think you need ta remember, dove, you're our world."

You blink back more tears as Simon's voice vibrates your ribcage. His voice rumbles, " Wan' ya to be ours fully."

You look at Kyle and see the giant grin splitting his face.

You don't have to look to see Johnny's sitting, energy practically vibrating off him in waves, waiting as patiently as a kid on Christmas morning.

Your eyes land on John again, still kneeling. Silly man, putting himself through hurt for you. "Marry us, dove?"

Despite the unfounded hopelessness seeping into your bones. Despite the self-pity drowning you under waves of all you haven't done yet. Despite the agony rippling through your arm to the rest of you. Despite all that, you're answering before he fully finishes his question.

"Yes!"

main masterlist

[dwaekbin]

what we don't say

In that moment, there was no future. No promise, no guarantee. Only each other. And the desperate, fragile hope that surrendering to these feelings might mean something more.

pair: idol!lee know x painter!oc genre: slow burn, (light) smut words: 20k

notes: not sure how I ended up here, but after years of being a casual fan I recently really got into skz and eventually wrote this. for the first time in years I feel the need to share something, so here we are ⋆˙⟡ will this be the only thing I write or is my writer's block finally gone? who knows •ᴗ• but I hope you will like it as much I liked writing it ♥︎

January 2022

Nami loves winter. The icy air burning her lungs with every breath. The city muted. The darkness that wraps around her when she leaves the house in the morning and returns at night. The warmth of her apartment welcoming her back. The first snowfall and the half-melted snowmen spotted along the street the next day. Everything seems to move slowly, as if everyone is trying to walk more carefully to avoid slipping on the icy sidewalks.

That day, the studio was quiet, the last class having ended just a short while ago. The windowpanes were fogged up with condensation, and the smell of oil paints still lingered in the air. Most of her students were already on their way home, bundled up in thick coats and long wool scarves. Mrs. Kim, one of the oldest in the group, had given her a bag of mandarins. "Make sure you eat them! They’ll keep you from getting sick." Nami had tried to refuse, but every attempt had been futile. She looked at the bag, now sitting on a piece of furniture by the door, and smiled.

She went back to cleaning the brushes left in the long ceramic sink and sighed. It was the part she hated the most, cleaning up. Only after turning off the tap did she hear the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

It was Hyunjin. He’d been coming to the studio for a while now, ever since Yoobin, one of the founders, had met him at a friend’s gallery opening. He seemed genuinely interested in painting. And as a painter, he wasn’t bad; better than a lot of other celebrities Nami had seen take up art and claim to be true artists after only a few months. She liked him, Hyunjin. He was kind, a little dreamy, with a strange kind of sincerity she hadn’t quite figured out yet. Sometimes when he spoke, he’d trail off mid-sentence and laugh at his own thoughts.

Nami wiped her hands on an old rag before heading toward the back room. It was one of the smaller studios, with a few easels and a couple of shelves lined along the walls. Hyunjin sat cross-legged on a stool in what looked like an uncomfortable position. In front of him, a large blank canvas. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he was spinning a brush between his fingers. He stared at the canvas for a moment longer, then started. A single brushstroke that would soon become a flower.

Nami watched him for a few seconds without saying anything. Then her gaze shifted slightly. Sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the room was an unfamiliar figure, seemingly fast asleep, arms folded around his head to shield himself from the daylight.

Hyunjin noticed her and smiled.

“Oh, hey Nami! You done with your class already?”

Nami nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes went back to the sleeping figure. His light hair fell across his forehead, a black knit beanie left carelessly on the table beside him. His face was half hidden, cheek pressed into the crook of his elbow. She vaguely recognized him. An idol, like Hyunjin. Probably a member of Stray Kids. She couldn’t recall his name at the moment.

Hyunjin followed her gaze and stifled a laugh.

“He said he was bored and decided to tag along. But I think watching me paint turned out to be more boring than he expected.”

Nami let out a quiet laugh, unsure of how to respond.

“Is he really asleep?”

“He does this all the time. Sleeps anywhere. Like a stray cat.”

Nami stayed by the door, suddenly feeling awkward, unsure whether to stay or leave. She looked down at her hands, fingertips still red from scrubbing brushes.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked softly.

Hyunjin turned back to her.

“Tea, if there’s any.”

In the small kitchen near the entrance, Nami filled the kettle and prepared two large ceramic mugs, gifts from her students over the years. The shelves were half empty; no one had bothered to go grocery shopping before the holidays, but she managed to find a few forgotten tea bags in an old tin box. While she waited for the water to boil, she picked up a glass and stared at it for a moment longer than necessary before filling it with water.

When she returned to the studio, Hyunjin was still focused on his painting, humming a tune under his breath. Nami handed him one of the mugs without saying a word, then placed the glass of water next to the other boy. She saw him stir slightly. His eyes opened slowly, just enough to register her presence.

He studied her face for a moment, with a kind of lazy, almost impertinent slowness. Intent. Curious.

Then, lazily, he smiled.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy from sleep. He looked at her for a second longer, then closed his eyes again.

Nami blinked, puzzled.

“Is he always like this?” she asked Hyunjin.

He laughed.

“Oh, Minho? Don’t mind him. He’s a little weird, but mostly harmless.”

Nami sat down on the couch across from them, pulling her knees up to her chest. The tea was still too hot to drink, so she held the mug between her hands, waiting for it to cool. They didn’t talk much after that. Hyunjin kept painting. Nami looked out the window, hoping to see the snow start falling like the forecast had promised. And Minho kept sleeping.

It was still winter, and the wonder of watching snow fall from the sky had begun to wear off, giving way to a strange sense of oppression. Nami had grown used to wrapping her scarf around her neck until it covered her nose before stepping out of the subway on her way to the studio.

She hadn’t expected to see Hyunjin again so soon. The last time they’d met, he told her he wouldn’t be able to finish his painting before New Year’s because of too many commitments. But when she opened the door, stomping her feet to shake off the snow from her shoes, she saw his coat hanging by the entrance and heard a faint sound coming from the back studio.

Nami wasn’t in a hurry. She didn’t have any lessons scheduled that day. The studio was quiet. She poured herself a cup of tea, letting the warmth seep into her frozen hands. The pale winter sunlight streamed through the frosted windows in long, muted beams, catching the specks of dust suspended in the air.

But the first person she saw when she stepped into the studio wasn’t Hyunjin.

It was Minho.

He was sitting at one of the wooden tables, an elbow propped up against the surface, his head tilted slightly to the side as he sketched in a large sketchbook he’d clearly found on one of the shelves. His dark eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. He wore a black hoodie, slightly oversized, the sleeves haphazardly rolled up. One hand gripped a pencil; the other supported his head. He looked like a bored kid pretending to keep busy while waiting for his parents to finish work.

Hyunjin, seated in front of his painting, noticed her hesitation.

“He says he likes it here,” he murmured with an amused smile, before Nami could say anything.

Minho didn’t look up from his drawing. He didn’t seem to have noticed her arrival.

Nami slowly blinked, disoriented. She hadn’t expected to see him again. It had only been two weeks since she found him napping at the same table. Not that she’d thought about it. Not really.

She moved further into the room, heading toward a shelf that held all the brushes. The shelf was right next to where Minho sat. As she passed by him, she couldn’t help but glance down at his sketchbook.

His drawings were… unusual.

Childlike, almost deliberately so. They looked like caricatures. One had tiny legs and oversized arms. Another had a triangular head, bulging eyes, and animal ears. They were a little disturbing.

Minho noticed her presence and slowly turned his head toward her. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her, maybe for a bit too long.

Nami straightened her back once she realized how close she was standing.

“Do you like them?” he asked, his tone mischievous. As if daring her. Or maybe just testing her.

Nami tried to smile, but when she opened her mouth to answer, all that came out was a stifled laugh. “They’re… I don’t know. It’s hard to say.”

“You think they’re ugly?”

His tone wasn’t offended. If anything, it was amused. He was toying with her, waiting for a reaction.

“No,” she said slowly. “Just… different.”

He tilted his head, still smiling. “Didn’t know there were standards in art.”

Nami watched him, unsure if he was actually offended or just trying to provoke her. “There aren’t. More or less. But art does say a lot about the person who makes it.”

“And what does mine say about me?”

She looked back down at the page full of doodles. One of the figures had six fingers. Another had the body of a deformed kangaroo. She pointed to it, laughing. “That you’re weird. What is this? A kangaroo on steroids?”

“That’s Bang Chan!”

Nami blinked again, stunned. “You’re telling me these are portraits?” she asked, breaking into an incredulous laugh.

“Of course,” he said. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Nami laughed again. She couldn’t help it. The drawings were absolutely ridiculous.

“Did you draw a self-portrait too?”

“No,” Minho replied. “I’m not that self-centred.”

Nami ran her fingers along the bristles of one of the brushes she was holding. Then, before she could stop herself, she asked, “If you had to draw me, what would I look like?”

Minho looked up, this time meeting her eyes directly. The mischievous glint he’d had until then disappeared for a second. He studied her as if looking through a telescope, lingering on every detail of her face. Nami turned her head slightly, suddenly uncomfortable. As the silence dragged on, she regretted asking such a stupid question. But before she could tell him to forget it, he answered.

“Like a cat,” he said finally. “With a huge mouth.”

Nami parted her lips, startled. She tried to find something to say, maybe to complain, but he cut her off, still watching her.

“I like cats,” he murmured. “I like them a lot.”

It was such a strange thing to say and to be told. His tone was soft, sincere. It made what he’d just said sound like the sweetest compliment.

Nami didn’t reply right away. She stood there, brushes still in hand, watching him return to his sketchbook, the pencil scratching lightly at the page.

He really is strange, she thought.

Not in a bad way. Just… different.

February 2022

The rain fell in a fine, steady drizzle, almost silent, but persistent enough to dampen the ends of her scarf. Nami hunched her shoulders slightly and walked faster as she turned the corner toward the atelier. The street was mostly empty. Only a middle-aged man stood there, busy lifting the shutter of his hardware store. The city still felt half-asleep, disturbed only by the occasional passing car and the soft hiss of tires gliding over the wet pavement. Her fingers were numb from the cold despite remembering to wear gloves.

She wasn’t expecting to see anyone. It was too early for most of the students and even her colleagues. But as she reached the entrance, she stopped short.

Someone was already there.

He was standing calmly under the awning, leaning casually against the wall, eyes glued to his phone screen. A black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a white mask covering the lower half of his face. But the jacket gave him away: an old winter puffer that reached past his knees, with a poorly mended tear on the left shoulder.

“Minho-ssi?”

He turned sharply; eyes just visible over the mask. They narrowed just enough for her to know he was smiling.

“I’m bored,” he said, his voice muffled. “All my friends are busy.”

A short silence followed, filled only by the sound of rain falling softly around them.

“Is Hyunjin here too?” she asked, flicking some droplets off her coat sleeve with a quick motion.

He tilted his head, studying her face. “Do you want him to be?”

The question caught Nami off guard. She wasn’t sure how to respond. It wasn’t about Hyunjin. She wasn’t interested. Not like that, at least. She’d just assumed Minho was there to keep him company, like the other times. It seemed like the most logical explanation, considering he’d never shown much interest in painting, unlike his friend.

“No,” she replied at last, typing in the code to unlock the door. “It’s fine. Come in.”

Inside, the air was dry and carried a faint metallic scent. Minho followed her to the small kitchen. He moved quietly, almost cautiously, like he knew he wasn’t really supposed to be there.

Nami filled the kettle and gestured toward the cups stacked on one of the shelves. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and sat in one of the chairs near the entryway, his gaze drifting to the window.

Several minutes passed in silence, broken only by the sound of the water coming to a boil. Nami handed him a cup of tea. Minho took it with both hands, as if it were something fragile.

“Can I stay here today?” he asked, eyes fixed on the street outside.

She looked at him, uncertain. She didn’t mind, not really, but the question still lingered oddly in her mind. She glanced at the clock near the entrance. Her senior students’ class was about to start.

“Sure,” she said eventually, walking back into the kitchen to pour tea into her own cup. Then a thought struck her. She turned back toward him.

“If you’re bored… I might have something for you to do.”

Minho turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly before he brought the cup to his lips. The tea must have still been too hot; he flinched a little, like he’d burnt his mouth, and shot her a look like it was somehow her fault.

“Should I be worried?”

“It’s an offer you can’t refuse. You just have to sit. That’s all.”

“Sitting? Sounds like a trap.”

But fifteen minutes later, that’s exactly what he was doing. Sitting on a wooden stool, arms folded awkwardly, facing a semicircle of elderly students who were watching him with amused interest. One of them, Mrs. Yoo, had already started sketching, her pencil gliding over the paper with impressive speed.

“He looks uncomfortable,” she whispered to the person beside her, who chuckled in agreement.

Minho sighed, stretched out his legs, and slumped his shoulders in an exaggerated display of misery.

“This is not what I signed up for.”

Nami stifled a laugh, trying not to draw attention.

“Don’t move.”

He muttered something under his breath, but stayed put. His expression turned into an exaggerated pout, which made Mrs. Yoo giggle to herself.

From the side of the room, Nami tried to focus on her students. But her eyes kept drifting back to Minho. There was something oddly captivating about the way he sat there; half amused, half resigned, yet somehow graceful even in his stillness. The attention didn’t seem to bother him; he just looked vaguely perplexed. As if he wasn’t used to being observed like that. Or maybe he was just curious about the whole bizarre situation.

Nami found herself watching him longer than she meant to. She realized she was smiling. Shaking her head, she resumed walking around the room, focusing on the students’ sketches slowly taking shape.

Minho was a mystery. He kept showing up without warning, completely unpredictable. He didn’t try to impress anyone, didn’t seek attention. And yet, that made him even harder to ignore.

Nami still didn’t understand what he was doing there.

But she didn’t really want to tell him to leave, either.

The rain hadn’t stopped falling until late afternoon.

It kept hitting the windows of the atelier, a steady rhythm that echoed through the old building.

Minho was still there. He hadn’t said much after the lesson with the senior students. He had simply stayed, expecting nothing, claiming no one’s attention. From time to time, he wandered around the studio, poking through shelves and forgotten objects left behind by students, or rested his chin on his hand as he stared out the window. Eventually, he settled on the couch, hugging one of the cushions.

At first, Nami had been curious about what he would do, but at some point, she stopped paying attention. He was just there, that was all. Around noon, she left the atelier to cross the street and buy lunch from the corner shop. Without giving it much thought, she picked up an extra gimbap. She handed it to him wrapped in foil.

He didn’t thank her. He simply unwrapped it and began eating as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if it were owed to him.

The pale afternoon light filtered in through the grey sky, making everything inside the studio appear duller. Nami sat in the classroom where she usually taught, facing an easel set in one corner. She had pulled out a canvas she’d been working on for days; a birthday gift for her older brother. It was an idealized scene: two children, a boy and a girl, standing in a field of flowers in every colour, their chubby faces turned toward one another. She had based it on an old photograph she’d found at her grandparents’ house, but most of the details came from her imagination.

She was stuck on the boy’s face. She couldn’t manage to capture it in a way that satisfied her. His expression always looked too harsh, too lifeless, too defined. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t grasp what. She furrowed her brow and tried again, attempting to add shadows under the eyes and soften the curve of the cheek.

Behind her, Minho’s voice broke the silence. “Who is it?”

Nami turned slightly. “Who?”

He nodded toward the canvas from where he lay, stretched out on his side on the couch. “The boy.”

“My brother.”

There was a pause. Then he said, “You must not like him very much.”

Nami turned fully to face him, her back now to the painting. “Why?”

Minho’s voice was nonchalant. “He’s ugly. Or is that really what he looks like?”

Nami looked back at her painting. She pressed her lips together until they turned white. “No… he looks like me. More or less.”

“Then he can’t be that ugly.”

Nami rolled her eyes, ignoring the joke. Her gaze returned to the boy’s face, still unsatisfied with what she saw. It didn’t look like her brother. Or maybe it did. Maybe, deep down, that was how she saw him. And she didn’t want that to be true.

She took more paint with her brush, more out of habit than because she knew what to do. Her mind began to drift.

She loved her brother. She really did. But there had always been something between them that never fully healed. As a child, he had often been sick: too sick to play, too tired to throw tantrums. Their parents had watched over him like shadows, always attentive, always anxious. And in the midst of it all, Nami had learned to shrink. To wait her turn.

When she was six, she remembered very clearly thinking that if she had been the one who was sick, maybe they would’ve paid more attention to her. That twisted, unpleasant thought had never fully left her.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair.

“Would you be upset if someone gave you this painting as a gift?”

“Is it for your brother?”

Nami hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then yes. I’d be offended.”

Nami let out a laugh, surprised by his bluntness. “It’s just that… we never did anything like that together. Not when we were little. He couldn’t play, not really. Not like other kids. We mostly spent time together in waiting rooms. I think this is what I always wanted to have with him.”

Minho said nothing. She looked over at him. His eyes were closed again, one arm behind his head.

Nami pressed her lips together again, suddenly embarrassed. Maybe she’d said too much. Maybe she was just talking to herself. Maybe she just needed someone to listen, and he happened to be there.

“Never mind,” she whispered to herself. “I’ll paint it again.”

Minho lifted his head slightly, glancing at the painting. Then he laid back down.

“You’d better. Because that one really sucks.”

She threw a paint-stained rag at him. He caught it without even looking and dropped it beside him with a smile.

Outside, the rain kept falling. The afternoon was turning into dusk. Inside, the atelier was quiet. Minho didn’t say another word.

And for a while, silence kept them company.

When Nami started tidying up the brushes, the room was immersed in complete silence.

The last class of the day had ended ten minutes earlier, and the students had left, closing the door behind them. She moved slowly, careful not to drop anything.

Minho was still sitting at the back of the room, in one of the chairs near the door, legs apart and fingers busy scrolling through his phone. He gave the impression he could sit like that forever, unconcerned about the passing of time. Nami glanced at him briefly, observing the relaxed curve of his shoulders, the way his eyes lit up when something caught his attention.

Then, as she was heading toward the adjacent room, his voice broke the silence.

“Do you want to go get a drink?”

His tone was casual, low, like he had just asked the most ordinary question. And really, there was nothing wrong with what he’d said. Nami stopped, turning slightly toward him.

“Just the two of us?”

He looked up from his phone to meet her gaze. He blinked once, then again, and again, faster each time. “Why? Do you think that’s strange?”

Nami hesitated, tightening her grip slightly on the brushes still in her hands. “No… just unexpected.”

Minho slipped the phone into the back pocket of his jeans and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you mean, unexpected?”

Nami didn’t have a clear answer to that question, just a tangle of incoherent thoughts in her head: Why had he come that day? Why had he stayed so long? Did he like the atmosphere, the people at the studio, the silence? Or was it something else entirely? She couldn’t tell. He was always like that, unreadable.

“I just… I don’t know, I didn’t think you’d want to,” she finally replied, stumbling a bit. “I thought you were waiting for someone, like Hyunjin.”

Minho raised his eyebrows. “Hyunjin? Why would I be waiting for him?”

“I don’t know. It makes sense. You’re friends. He comes to the studio. And you don’t paint.”

Minho stood up, stretching his arms before stifling a yawn. “Well, I felt like coming here today. And now I feel like having a drink. That’s all.”

Outside, the air smelled of wet asphalt. It had stopped raining, but a light mist made the surrounding buildings look less defined. Minho slipped on his coat, then adjusted his cap and mask with the ease of someone who had done it thousands of times. It was only then that Nami remembered she was standing in front of a celebrity; someone famous, someone people might recognize in the street.

At the studio, Minho acted normal. Maybe normal wasn’t the right word to describe him. But it was easy to forget he was an idol. She felt her chest tighten for a moment.

The pub was quiet, hidden down a side street at the end of the block. A familiar place for Nami, somewhere she often went with colleagues. Minho looked around with the curiosity of someone entering for the first time. They found a secluded table in a corner, mostly hidden behind a row of coats sloppily hung along the wall. It felt private enough.

They ordered drinks. Nami got a beer. Minho did the same. For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke much. The low-volume music blended with the murmur of other customers. Nami took a long sip, glancing around. He slouched lower in his seat, silently watching the condensation slide down his glass.

But after a while, the silence began to unravel. They started talking, first about simple, mundane topics. The weather. How the rain had made everything feel a little gloomier in recent days. Nami told him how one of her students had accidentally taken her umbrella and forgotten to return it.

Minho laughed more freely. He had a dry, almost staccato laugh, the kind that came straight from the throat.

“A lot of weird things must happen in that place,” he said.

“You have no idea. One time I found a student trying to paint with soy sauce. The smell lingered in that room for weeks.”

They moved on to other topics. Minho told her about a weekend on Jeju Island with some high school friends, where nothing seemed to go right. After landing, they found out all their luggage had been lost, the hotel had never received their reservation, and they ended up spending the whole night on the beach. Nami told him about her first years at university and all the part-time jobs she had to take before landing the one at the studio; from cashier at a supermarket to art teacher at a preschool for wealthy families.

Nami realised she was watching him a little too much. His features were both sharp and delicate. His bluntness never came across as mean, and he paid attention to every little detail. And when she found herself looking at him for a second too long, his gaze caught her red handed.

“Are you thinking of drawing me?” he asked mockingly.

Nami blinked, then let out a short laugh. “No. I don’t like drawing beautiful things.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Why not?”

“They’re boring.”

“So you’re saying I’m boring?”

Nami rested her chin on the palm of her hand and smiled. “Your personality makes up for your boring handsomeness.”

Minho froze for half a second, then reached for the glass in front of him, as if trying to shift the attention away from his face and the blush that was beginning to creep from the tips of his ears.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

Minho smiled, an almost childlike smile, before quickly recovering and hiding behind a smirk.

They talked until their glasses were empty. Then they ordered another round and talked some more.

It wasn’t a date, not exactly. But it didn’t feel like just two friends hanging out, either.

There was something strange lingering in the air between them.

Something uncertain, but real.

A few days later, Hyunjin found some time to stop by the studio. His painting was completely dry by then, and he was afraid it might get damaged. Or, at least, that’s what he told Nami, though to her it felt more like an excuse.

When he arrived, the studio was enveloped in quiet. Nami was sitting at one of the long tables in one of the main rooms, earbuds in her ears, focused on a small canvas in front of her. Her eyebrows were furrowed, a paintbrush gripped in her right hand. The sleeves of her sweater were rolled up to mid-forearm.

Hyunjin walked over and cleared his throat to get her attention.

She looked up and jumped slightly, startled by his sudden presence, then pulled out her earbuds. “Oh, hey. You came to pick up your painting?”

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling. “Didn’t want to leave it here too long.”

He stepped closer, curious to see what she was working on. “Is it for uni?”

“It’s part of my thesis project,” she answered, leaning back in her chair. “But I’ve only just started…”

“It’s really nice,” he said sincerely. He paused, as if weighing whether or not to continue. “Minho told me he came by the other day.”

Nami looked at him, cautious. “Yeah, he stayed the whole day. Why?”

Hyunjin shrugged and let his shoulders fall casually. “I think he likes you.”

She studied him for a moment before turning her gaze back to her canvas, gently brushing away a speck of dust that had settled on it.

“Minho’s not the kind of person who likes being around people,” Hyunjin went on. “He has, like, two friends outside the group. So I think it means something if he decides to spend his day off here.”

Nami let out a breath that was somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. “Maybe he just likes this place because it’s quiet.”

Hyunjin pulled a face. “This studio’s not exactly the definition of quiet when the senior classes are in session. Especially when there’s fresh gossip.”

Nami smiled at the thought of her older students. “They can be a bit noisy,” she admitted.

“A bit?” Hyunjin echoed, rummaging for some plastic to wrap his painting in. Then he turned back to her, this time with a more serious expression. “Just… don’t ignore it, okay? Minho’s not the type to do things just for the sake of it. If he comes here, there’s a reason.”

Nami didn’t answer, she just nodded.

She watched him wrap up his painting and carefully tuck it under one arm. Nami raised a hand to wave goodbye, then slipped her earbuds back in and returned to her project. But for the first time that day, she found it hard to focus.

Nami was arranging some paintbrushes for that Wednesday morning’s class when the door swung open. She didn’t need to look up to know who had just walked in. There was a sort of lazy rhythm to the way he moved, like he was never in a rush.

“There you are again,” she said simply, glancing over her shoulder with a faint smile.

Minho pulled down his mask as he walked into the room. “Good morning to you too.”

“You’re early. Class doesn’t start for another twenty minutes,” she replied playfully.

Minho shrugged, dropping into one of the armchairs. “Rehearsal got cancelled this morning. I didn’t have anything else to do.”

Nami raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. She was starting to get used to his vague excuses, the way he appeared out of nowhere as if the wind had carried him in by mistake.

That day, he stayed longer than usual. He sat watching her give instructions to her students, as if she were being tested. From time to time, she noticed him nodding at her comments. Other times, he dozed off while she explained more complex concepts.

After the class ended and the students had already walked out the door, Nami found him sitting at one of the tables with a sketchbook resting on his knees.

“What are those supposed to be?” she asked, appearing behind him.

“Fish,” he replied, as if it were obvious.

“They look like crooked fingers…”

Minho smiled. “It’s my way of expressing creativity.”

She shook her head, holding back a laugh. “Well, it’s… fascinating.”

He looked at her, his expression completely unreadable. “You’re fascinating.”

Nami blinked. She felt her face flush and turned her gaze away. “Sometimes you say strange things.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

The following week, Minho showed up just as Nami was closing the atelier, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up and his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she said, surprised.

“I wasn’t planning on coming, actually,” he replied, starting to walk beside her.

They ended up sitting at one of the plastic tables outside the convenience store at the end of the street. It wasn’t exactly dinner, just a gimbap roll to share and two cans of coffee. The street was so quiet it felt like they were the last people left in the entire universe.

“What do you do when you’re not here?” she asked, snapping apart her chopsticks before starting to eat.

He chewed slowly, thinking. “I sleep. I dance. I go to vocal lessons. I hang out with Jisung.”

“Interesting.”

“And I visit my cats, sometimes.”

“And you have no interest in learning how to paint?”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I don’t know, you come to the atelier a lot. Or maybe you like it because it’s a quiet place.”

“Or maybe because you’re there,” Minho interrupted.

Nami opened her mouth to say something, but closed it a moment later. His tone didn’t let her tell whether he was joking or not.

He didn’t say anything else, kept eating as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

March 2022

By early March, Minho had become a constant. Sometimes Hyunjin would arrive with him and paint in silence, but most of the time he came alone. He would stretch out on the couch, eyes glued to his phone. Sometimes, Nami wouldn’t speak to him for hours. She’d just let him be, as if his presence didn’t matter. And yet, when he wasn’t there, his absence was deeply felt.

One rainy Tuesday, he didn’t show up.

Nami kept glancing at the entrance door, trying not to hope for his arrival. Her eyes kept drifting to the clock hanging in the hall. She checked the hallway during breaks between lessons, convincing herself it was just to stretch her legs.

That evening, as she walked home with her umbrella tilted against the drafts of wind, she thought about him. They had never exchanged phone numbers. She had no way of reaching him, and she realized that his absence weighed on her.

Minho was like a stray cat: he showed up on his own time, lingered when it suited him, vanished when it didn’t.

And Nami didn’t know if she would ever get used to that.

It was a Friday night like so many others, the air still cold but with a hint of spring. The streets of Itaewon buzzed with boisterous groups of friends, couples arm in arm, foreigners mixing Korean and English, and the occasional tourists navigating the alleys with wide-eyed wonder. Nami walked a few steps behind her friends, her hands tucked into a light coat. The familiar sound of their laughter echoed through the muffled music spilling from the bars along the street. They had all had a bit too much to drink. Yoojin was recounting yet another disastrous Tinder date, while Hyemi, clinging to her arm to keep her balance, was gasping for breath between laughs. And with each increasingly absurd detail, her laughter grew louder.

"At one point he says he doesn’t eat carbs, you know, to maintain his figure. Then orders another bowl of rice!" Yoojin went on, shaking her head in disbelief.

"No way!" shrieked Hyemi, nearly bumping into a bollard she hadn’t noticed. "You’re making this up."

"I wish I were, I swear!"

Minkyu slowed his pace to walk alongside Nami, taking a long sip from his beer can and laughing. “You should’ve told him you had a sudden case of explosive diarrhoea and run for your life.”

As they rounded the corner onto the main street, a massive LED screen lit up the night sky. The familiar faces of Stray Kids appeared in high definition, announcing the release of their new album, Oddinary. Nami’s steps slowed without her realizing. Her gaze lingered on the third figure, sitting on a pile of concrete bricks: Minho, his brown hair styled to reveal part of his forehead, an intense gaze, porcelain skin, and a silver earring gleaming against black clothing.

“Oh?” Hyemi stopped the moment she noticed Nami had fallen behind. She raised an eyebrow. “Seen someone you know?” she slurred.

Yoojin followed her gaze and smirked. “Well, would you look at that!”

Nami snapped out of it, feeling her cheeks burn. “I was just looking…”

“Sure, sure,” Minkyu chimed in. “You were just admiring the design, huh?”

“Please don’t start…” Nami pleaded, but her friends were already circling her like sharks.

Yoojin gave her a playful shoulder bump. “Come on, admit it. You like him!”

Nami wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, wishing she could disappear into it. They were teasing her, but without malice. It wasn’t the first time. A few weeks back, Nami had made the mistake of mentioning him a bit too often, and her friends had immediately picked up on it, starting to suspect her feelings for that strange guy who had started frequenting her workplace in recent months. They were right; she did like him. But it felt like if she admitted it out loud, something would change.

“Yeah, maybe,” she murmured. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Which, in the language of us mere mortals, means you totally like him,” said Hyemi, looping her arm through hers. “You should see your face when you talk about him!”

“And he’s so handsome,” added Yoojin. “It’s almost annoying, how good-looking he is. How are you supposed to resist a face like that?”

“Yeah, but he’s still kinda weird,” Minkyu cut in. He’d met Minho once and had been surprised by his bluntness and odd behaviour. “A little… I don’t know how to explain it…”

“He’s not that weird,” Nami defended him quickly, almost too quickly. Too defensively. She realized it the moment the words left her mouth.

“Ooh, look at her!” Yoojin teased with a singsong tone. “Already rushing to his defence. You’re totally smitten!”

“You’re hopeless, Nami,” added Hyemi in agreement.

“But be careful,” Minkyu interrupted again. “He’s still a celebrity. He doesn’t live in our world.”

Nami nodded slowly. Her friends’ laughter faded for a moment. Her gaze drifted back to the LED screen. Minho looked like someone else up there, almost otherworldly. Not the same boy who complained about his tea being too bitter or doodled ridiculous animals in his sketchbook.

“You’re right,” she replied quietly. “Sometimes I forget. That he’s famous, I mean.”

The group started walking again. Her friends resumed chatting around her, a new story, more laughter. But Nami stayed a few steps behind, her mind somewhere else.

She looked at the giant screen one last time before turning her head away.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” she said, mostly to herself. “He probably doesn’t even like me…”

It was just past ten in the evening when Nami heard the familiar sound of the atelier’s front door opening. She didn’t look up right away, too focused on finishing her work, but the clinking of cans knocking against each other caught her attention.

Minho appeared in the doorway, dressed entirely in black, slightly hunched from the cold, a beanie on his head and his mask pulled down to his chin. He lifted a plastic bag in front of him in greeting.

“I brought some beer.”

Nami blinked, surprised. “Minho-ssi, it’s been a while since you came by.”

Minho didn’t answer immediately. He sat down at one of the tables and pulled out two beer cans, opening one for himself. He looked tired, his eyes puffier than usual, hair messy. He took a long sip, and finally said: “All these rehearsals are killing me.”

Nami gave a short laugh and went back to her painting. He stayed quiet for a few seconds. Only the sound of her pencil moving against the canvas and the occasional clink of his can on the table filled the space. Then:

“Why are you always so polite with me?”

Nami looked up again, tilting her head. “What do you mean?”

“You always call me Minho-ssi. You always speak so formally.”

“Well,” she began cautiously, “you’re older than me.”

“Really?”

She nodded, brushing her bangs aside. “I’m the same age as Hyunjin.”

Minho let out a brief, tired laugh. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

She paused, then set her pencil down beside her. “So can I speak more informally? Can I call you oppa?”

He didn’t look at her, but Nami saw the tips of his ears turn red. “Yeah, if you want. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

Nami stood and walked over to him, picking up the second beer. “So what are we, then? Drinking buddies?”

Minho looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Maybe.”

Nami smiled but avoided meeting his eyes. She opened the can slowly, hoping it wouldn’t spill. “Is that why you came tonight? To drink?”

He shrugged. “Not exactly. I won’t be able to come for a while, so…”

Nami looked at him again, understanding what he meant without him needing to finish the sentence: he didn’t want her to think he had disappeared because he didn’t want to see her anymore. He’d just be too busy.

“Is promotion season really that hectic?”

Minho nodded, leaning back in his chair. “My next day off is in a month.”

“That’s insane.”

“It is. But I enjoy it, most of the time. Makes me appreciate the little free time I do have.”

She nodded, taking a sip from her can. “What do you like to do? Besides coming here, I mean.”

He gave a faint smile. “I cook. Hang out with friends. Or I usually go camping.”

Nami’s eyes lit up. “Really? I go pretty often too.”

Minho looked surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah, I always go with my friends. We go hiking and usually stay out for a night or two,” she explained with a smile, more at ease. “We have more in common than I thought.”

He rolled the can between his hands. “We should go together sometime.”

Nami narrowed her eyes, puzzled. “The two of us?”

He shrugged again. “Why not? We both enjoy it.”

Nami stayed silent for a moment, trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah. We could go one weekend…”

“I’ve got Music Core on the weekends. You know, as an MC.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were a presenter too.”

It was Minho’s turn to squint at her, feigning hurt. “Do you know anything about me at all?”

She laughed. “No, not really.”

“Anyway, I was serious,” he continued more calmly. “Let’s go camping. Sometime. Maybe next month.”

She raised her can and tapped it lightly against his. “Deal.”

May 2022

It was a Thursday afternoon, warm enough to leave the atelier windows open to let in some air. Nami was in her usual spot, elbows raised and fingers stained with graphite. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, and she wore a paint-splattered apron over a white blouse that had already looked wrinkled before she’d even put it on. She was trying to figure out how to finish her painting, the last one in the series she had created for her thesis project. She hadn’t slept well the night before, tossing and turning with thoughts she didn’t want to have, and now it was hard to concentrate.

The sound of the front door opening brought her back to reality. She glanced briefly toward the hallway. Then a voice caught her attention.

“Hi.”

She looked up.

Minho was standing in the doorway, like so many times before, lit by the sunlight that made his figure look almost angelic. He wore a light windbreaker over a grey hoodie, loose-fitting pants, and well-worn hiking shoes.

“You’re here,” she whispered, caught off guard by how happy she was to see him again.

He walked over casually, letting the door close behind him on its own. “I brought you some coffee.”

Nami stood up slowly and took the paper cup he handed her, careful not to let their fingers touch. “Thanks. That’s really kind of you.”

He shrugged as if it was no big deal. “I was thinking of going camping,” he said, glancing at the canvases left behind by the students. “Wanted to know if you’d like to come.”

Nami frowned. “Now?”

He nodded. “I can’t stay overnight, but I found a spot nearby. I didn’t plan on staying out late, I have to wake up early tomorrow. But we could grab something for dinner, maybe have a barbecue.”

Nami stared at him, unsure how to respond. Her first instinct was to say no. Not because she didn’t want to go, quite the opposite. She had been waiting for this moment for over a month. She had even dreamed of it. But now that it was here, she found herself hesitating.

“I have class later,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

Minho tilted his head slightly, a faint amused smile curling at the corners of his lips, like he always did when he didn’t believe her. “Really?”

Nami hesitated again. “No. I mean, not really. It’s just…”

“If it’s because you don’t have the right clothes,” he interrupted gently, nodding toward her blouse, “I have a spare sweater in the car. You can borrow it.”

Nami nodded, but didn’t respond.

“Is everything okay?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I got used to not seeing you anymore…”

Minho stepped closer and leaned over the table, resting one hand on it. He smiled. “I figured. But we said we’d go, didn’t we?”

Nami nodded again. She remembered the conversation they had the last time they saw each other. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

His expression shifted, a mix of regret and amusement. “Do I seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t keep promises?”

“No,” she admitted, before smiling. “I know you were busy.”

Minho pulled a chair over, turned it around and sat with his arms resting on the back. “But?”

“But it’s still weird,” she continued, embarrassed. “Seeing your face everywhere. On TV, on social media. It’s like you disappeared to another planet.”

Minho lowered his gaze to his shoes. “Maybe. But I still prefer this world.”

Nami didn’t know what to say to that, so she stayed quiet.

Then he added, gently, as if speaking to a child: “Come. Take a half-day break for me.”

She studied his face, trying to read between the lines of that usual enigmatic expression of his.

“Alright,” she finally gave in. “But I need to clean up first. Give me five minutes.”

Minho smiled. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Nami watched him walk out of the room, her heart refusing to calm its pounding in her chest. She looked at the coffee she still held in her hands, and smiled.

They arrived at the campsite a little after five in the evening. The sun was still warm, but a chill was already creeping into the air. The sky above them was almost cloudless, and the leaves on the surrounding trees trembled slightly. Even though they were only a few kilometres from the city, it felt like they had stepped into a parallel world.

Nami got out of the car and raised her arms above her head to stretch. Minho didn’t say much. He opened the car’s trunk and began pulling out the equipment and supplies they had picked up along the way. They hadn’t talked much during the drive. He had asked if she wanted to choose the music, but she declined, so a generic playlist of Japanese songs had filled the silence between them. Nami watched him as he took out a cooler and a small foldable grill.

“So,” she said after a moment, trying to break the ice and dispel the awkwardness lingering in the air. “How did the promotions go?”

Minho looked up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead with a tilt of his head. “It was intense,” he said, then paused. “I’ve never been so busy, honestly. But I’m still happy. It means things are going well.”

Nami walked over to him and helped set up the small table. “I saw some videos of the concert,” she said, keeping her tone deliberately casual. “There were so many people.”

Minho blinked a few times, staring at her. “You watched the concert?”

She shrugged. “Some clips popped up in my feed. I didn’t exactly go looking for them. But yeah.”

Minho’s expression relaxed, as if he found it amusing. “If I had invited you,” he asked in a whisper, “would you have come?”

Nami hesitated. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, bending down to set up the grill. “I always thought you didn’t like our music. But now I’m not so sure.”

She thought for a moment. “Maybe. I probably would’ve come. I’m not a fan, to be honest. Your music is a bit too aggressive for my taste. But from the videos, it looked like you put on a great show.”

Minho nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said after a beat. “For not inviting you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied. “There’s always next time.”

They focused on preparing dinner: organizing the meat into small containers, skewering vegetables, setting up the grill, and starting the fire. Nami opened a can of beer and handed another to Minho. He shook his head.

“I have to drive.”

“Right,” she said. “Responsible person.”

As the fire got going, the smell of meat began to rise into the evening air. They sat near the grill, just far enough to avoid the smoke.

“Oh,” said Minho suddenly, sneaking a glance in her direction. “Did your brother like the painting? The one you gave him for his birthday.”

Nami smiled faintly. “I think so. He hung it in the living room. Or maybe he did it just because I painted it. I never managed to fix his face. He didn’t seem offended, though. Or maybe he just didn’t show it.”

“He must really love you,” Minho said, laughing, “to accept such a terrifying portrait.”

Nami took another sip. “He definitely loves me more than I love him.”

Minho turned slightly to look at her. His expression was calm, his eyes glowing in the firelight. When she turned to meet his gaze, he didn’t look away. There was a tenderness there Nami had never seen before.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” he said.

Nami blinked. It was the first time he had said something like that to her. His tone, so gentle, caught her off guard.

“No,” she eventually replied. “I’m not. I was a nightmare as a kid. A real troublemaker. I was always angry. Constant tantrums no one knew how to deal with. My parents were already stressed because of my brother, and I definitely didn’t make things easier. Quite the opposite.”

“You were just a kid.”

“Still.”

Minho shook his head. “I really can’t picture it. You being angry. It’s a strange image.”

Nami laughed. “Why?”

“You’re always so calm. Almost too much.”

“I learned to channel the anger,” she explained. “Mostly into my drawings. My grandmother was the first to notice. One day she bought me one of those colouring books, and for the first time I sat still the whole time; no screaming, no crying. She made me draw every day, for hours and hours. She even convinced my parents to send me to art school. They weren’t thrilled, they thought it was a waste of time, but they were so desperate they eventually gave in.”

Minho nodded. “And what were your drawings like back then?”

“Weird,” she said, laughing. “Faceless people, purple-skinned figures, animals with human features. My parents were convinced I needed a psychologist.”

“Then they haven’t changed much. Your drawings are still weird,” he said teasingly.

“Thanks.”

“No, I don’t mean it in a bad way. Being weird is a compliment.”

“You’re right,” Nami murmured. “I like weird things.”

She turned her gaze toward the sky, her face flushed. The sun was slowly setting, and she was grateful for it.

Minho flipped the meat on the grill. “Me too.”

The ride back was quiet, and yet not silent. They kept talking, but without the energy that had always defined their conversations. Nami had rested her head against the window, watching the road ahead to avoid fixing her gaze on Minho. They drifted from one trivial topic to another: the taste of the sauce Minho had used, the burnt skewer they’d forgotten on the fire, the smell of smoke still clinging to their clothes. Minho drove with one hand on the wheel, occasionally adjusting the radio volume with the other. He didn’t tease her like he usually did. He didn’t interrupt or provoke her. Instead, he looked at her with curiosity, smiling now and then. Not his usual smug grin, but a different one. Warmer. Almost affectionate.

Nami kept talking, watching the streetlamps pass by her side, her own reflection briefly appearing in the glass before vanishing again. Something had changed between them. She couldn't have said how or when it had happened, but she could feel that it had.

A warmth was spreading through her chest, one that had nothing to do with the fire or the beer. It was different. A warmth she was sure she had never felt before, as if her body were trying to send her a signal, as if it had already understood something her mind had not yet grasped, or didn’t want to. It felt like all her senses had awakened. Everything seemed amplified. Even the silence had shape, had weight. And she longed to hold on to that new sensation, even if it scared her a little.

They pulled up in front of her building just after nine. The street was quiet, the air colder, though not as crisp as it had been in the countryside. Nami slowly unbuckled her seatbelt, not quite ready to get out. Her hand rested on the door handle.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “For the dinner. And the ride. And… for everything else.”

Minho nodded. “It was fun. I’m glad you came.”

Nami opened the door and stepped out. She lingered for a moment, unsure of what to do. She could have just said goodbye and walked away. But something held her back.

“Goodnight,” he said, his voice slightly muffled.

Nami nodded and took a step toward her building. Then she turned back toward the car.

“Minho,” she called.

He had just shifted into reverse. He looked up, confused. “Yeah?”

She stepped a little closer. Her chest was tightening more and more, her mouth dry as if she hadn’t had water in days. It was as if her body had completely taken over.

“I…” she began, and then, without finishing the sentence, she leaned through the open window and kissed him.

It was brief. Full of hesitation. Her lips brushed his for just a second, long enough to feel the warmth of his skin. She pulled back almost immediately, blinking several times, stunned by her own boldness.

But what shocked her even more was his expression.

He looked stunned. Almost disturbed. Disgusted, even. His mouth opened slightly, as if he was about to say something, but no words came out. His eyebrows furrowed. There was no confusion in his gaze. Only embarrassment.

Nami’s hands started to tremble.

“I…” she tried, but the words caught in her throat. “I didn’t mean to… I thought that…”

She couldn’t finish. She could barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping back quickly. “I’m so sorry.”

Minho didn’t say a word. He just watched her with an unreadable expression.

She turned and hurried away. She just wanted to disappear. The door was too heavy. Her fingers were still trembling. She punched the code into the entrance keypad twice before the door finally opened.

She didn’t look back. Not even when she heard Minho’s car pulling away.

June 2022

June arrived quietly, with longer days and heavier silences. Minho hadn’t come back to the atelier, and Nami knew exactly why: he was on tour, performing overseas. She had seen some videos online; cheering crowds, strobe lights, Minho dancing with the expression of someone who knows they are exactly where they’re meant to be. The space between them had become something Nami could now measure.

Hyunjin had stopped by once, unannounced, just before leaving for Japan. He stayed less than twenty minutes. They didn’t talk about Minho. She hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t made any jokes, as if they had silently agreed not to.

More than once, Nami had thought about asking for Minho’s number. Her hand had hovered over her phone, her mind racing through all the possible outcomes. But in the end, she chose to remain silent. Not being able to contact him was a form of indulgence toward herself. What if she messaged him and he didn’t respond? What if the silence was deliberate, intentional? It was better not to know. At that moment, she felt uncertainty was sweeter than the certainty of rejection.

She tried not to think about it too much. She tried to focus on her work, on the thesis project she would soon have to turn in, on keeping both her hands and her mind constantly busy. But the thoughts crept in anyway. They always did.

When her brother’s health took another turn for the worse and he was hospitalized for tests, everything else faded into background noise. She went to see him at the hospital one gloomy afternoon, bringing a bag of fresh fruit and some takeaway coffee, which he said he didn’t need but accepted anyway. The corridors smelled of disinfectant. His room was small, with a view of the parking lot. He shared it with a man in his fifties, who was currently at the cafeteria with some visiting relatives.

Taejoon looked worse than usual. Pale, thin, yet still smiling. His hair was a mess, his voice hoarse.

“You look like you haven’t slept much,” he said, watching her sit at the foot of the bed. As if she were the one who was ill.

“I haven’t,” she replied, beginning to slowly peel an orange. “It’s been hard lately.”

He nodded, watching her fingers move deftly. “Something’s wrong.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement.

Nami didn’t answer right away. She placed a slice of orange on the tray beside the bed and wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Can I ask you something? Even if it’s weird?”

“Of course.”

She hesitated. “If you kiss someone and they look at you like… they’re disgusted, it obviously means they don’t like you, right?”

Nami saw him blink, puzzled. “What?”

“I mean, if you like someone and they kiss you, you kiss them back. Right?”

Taejoon laughed, but stopped as soon as he saw the pitiful expression on her face. “Well, yeah. Most likely. That seems pretty normal.”

Nami let out a groan and buried her face in her hands, but said nothing.

Since his sister didn’t seem ready to go on, Taejoon continued: “Did you kiss someone?”

“Yeah. And he looked at me like I’d spat in his face.”

“Some people find that hot. Spitting, I mean.”

Nami didn’t laugh. She kept staring at the floor.

“And who the hell is this guy? Should I go find him and teach him a lesson?”

She let out a tired laugh and shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s not even in Seoul. He left on tour. He’s a singer. I don’t even have his phone number.”

Taejoon adjusted himself, trying to sit straighter against the hospital’s uncomfortable pillow. “Wait, a singer? Seriously?”

“Yeah, an idol. He showed up at the atelier one day and kept coming back unannounced for months, talking to me, staying late. I thought there was something between us… but apparently, I just imagined it.”

Taejoon was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You didn’t imagine it. You’re not crazy.”

Nami lowered her head even more. “I kissed him. Outside my apartment. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at me with this weird expression. And then he left. It was really humiliating.”

“Oh my God,” her brother murmured. “He seriously didn’t say anything? Just walked away?”

Nami nodded. “I keep thinking about how stupid I was. About how I persuaded myself he liked me. I thought he looked at me differently. But maybe that’s just how he looks at everyone. Maybe it was just me wanting him to feel the same, projecting my feelings, and that’s why I saw things that weren’t real.”

Taejoon opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden coughing fit stopped him. Nami stood up at once, placing a hand on his shoulder. Then she reached for the emergency button.

“You okay?” she asked.

He raised a hand, waving it quickly in front of him to show he was fine. “I’m okay. It happens sometimes.”

“You don’t look okay. The nurse is coming.”

Nami sat back down in the chair beside the bed.

“Sorry,” she said. “You’re already not feeling well, and here I am burdening you with my stupid drama. As if any of it mattered…”

He reached out and gently took her hand.

“It matters to you. So it matters to me.”

Nami didn’t answer. She simply nodded and looked away, squeezing his hand a little tighter. A thought flashed through her mind, one she instantly regretted: if she were the one who was sick, she wouldn’t be this kind. She’d make sure all the attention was on her. She’d be selfish and bitter. But her brother kept smiling at her, listening to her. He was truly too kind. And that only made her feel worse.

The nurse arrived moments later, checked that everything was alright, and gave him a glass of water, like it was the universal cure for all his problems. He accepted it without complaint, briefly closing his eyes after swallowing.

Nami stayed a little longer, mostly in silence. She peeled another orange, this time more slowly, watching Taejoon fall asleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing calmed her, though he still looked far too weak.

She still felt a strange ache in her chest, but in that room, it seemed irrelevant. Her thoughts about Minho now seemed ridiculous. But they weren’t completely gone.

She looked one last time at her brother’s sleeping face and got up, gently placing a hand on his cheek. She decided not to wake him and quietly left.

June 2023

The café was full of people, every table taken, and a constant flow of customers kept coming in and out to order takeaway coffee, dragging in the warm air of that early summer day. Some customers sat hunched over, eyes fixed on their laptops, while others chatted with friends. The air conditioning was too strong, forcing Nami to wrap a scarf around her neck.

She was sitting at a table in the corner with Yoojin, Hyemi, and Minkyu, all of them already halfway through their iced Americanos. They had met up spontaneously in the late afternoon, none of them ready to go home. The table was sticky, and the music a bit too loud, but none of it really mattered. For a few hours, it was as if they had gone back in time to a few years earlier, when they were all still in university, sneaking out of the studio to hide out in the nearest café and spend hours chatting instead of working on their respective projects.

Hyemi was scrolling her finger across her phone screen, sighing dramatically. “It’s unbelievable,” she groaned. “My entire feed is full of couples vacationing in Europe. Okay, we get it. You’re in love and rich. No need to plaster your happiness all over social media.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re single and jealous,” Minkyu replied, sipping through his straw and raising an eyebrow.

“You’re single too!”

“By choice,” he answered calmly. “Unlike you, I don’t fall for the first guy I meet on the street.”

Yoojin chuckled and quickly hid her smile behind her glass, taking a long sip. Nami smiled faintly, resting her chin on her palm. She wasn’t really listening. The night before, she’d stayed up late working on a new painting commissioned by a client. That morning, she’d received an email from a small brand interested in collaborating with her. But the exhaustion she’d been carrying around lately hadn’t even allowed her to feel happy about the small achievement.

Then, suddenly, she felt Hyemi tapping her arm. “Oh my god, look!”

On the café’s television, fixed high above the counter, another music video had started. Nami followed Hyemi’s pointing finger, looked up at the screen, and there he was.

Minho.

His hair was darker than she remembered, but still with a purplish tint. His gaze sharp, his expression serious. The chatter in the café covered the music, but she could still imagine it. She knew their style by now. Minho moved with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“Oh,” Yoojin said in surprise. “Isn’t that…”

“That’s him,” Hyemi cut in, almost gleeful.

Nami didn’t reply. As soon as Minho disappeared from the screen, she looked away.

“Anyway,” Hyemi continued undeterred, lowering her voice. “I’ve been thinking about it. About what happened with Minho, I mean. And I’ve come to a conclusion: he’s gay.”

Minkyu let out a shocked laugh. “You say that every time a cute guy doesn’t give you attention.”

“No, I’m serious this time,” she insisted, leaning in even closer. “After… well, after what happened, we talked about it, remember? And right after, my phone started filling up with posts and news about him. Articles. Videos. You name it. You know our phones listen to us. And trust me. That guy is anything but straight.”

“Are you sure?” Yoojin asked. Her tone wasn’t judgmental, just curious. “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I thought he really liked Nami.”

“I told you he was a weird guy,” said Minkyu.

“Guys, please stop,” Nami murmured, eyes fixed on the table. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But don’t you think it would be better?” Hyemi asked, unbothered. “If he was gay, I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it would mean the problem wasn’t you. He didn’t reject you because it was you, he just… doesn’t like women in general. Wouldn’t that be a relief?”

“You shouldn’t go around guessing people’s sexuality,” Minkyu interjected. “It’s not okay.”

“Oh, cut it out with that woke crap. I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”

The others fell silent. On the television screen, the video was replaced by an ad before moving on to the next one.

Nami didn’t look up. She stirred her now-watery coffee slowly, making the remaining ice clink against the sides of the glass. She felt a strange sensation in her chest. Not the same one she’d felt the year before. But it still made her uneasy.

Could what Hyemi said be true?

It would explain a lot. Especially the look on his face after she kissed him.

Over the months, she had convinced herself that Minho had come to the studio just to see her. But what if he had only wanted to find a place to escape to, a quiet space where no one cared who he was? A place where he could go unnoticed. Maybe Nami had misunderstood everything. Had mistaken the attention he gave her for attraction. His wanting to be around her for desire. And then she kissed him. And maybe he hadn’t gotten angry, but had simply been disappointed.

Nami bit her lip and pressed her thumb to the rim of her glass. A sudden wave of guilt crashed over her.

“Anyway,” Hyemi said, stretching her arms above her head. “Let’s go somewhere else. It’s too noisy in here, my ears are ringing.”

They gathered their bags. As they stood, Yoojin gently touched Nami’s shoulder. “Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”

Nami nodded but didn’t smile. “Yeah, I’m just tired. Don’t worry.”

Outside, the air felt heavier than it had a few hours earlier, even though the temperature had dropped a bit. Her skin was sticky under her cotton T-shirt, and the sun hit her right in the eyes.

She didn’t know if Minho was gay. And she didn’t care. It was one of the many questions she would never have an answer to. Like why he’d shown up at the atelier. Or why he kept coming back.

But a voice inside her kept asking the same question.

Had he thought about her at all, in the past year?

Nami would never know. But she hoped he had. Even just once. That would be enough.

February 2024

The gallery was small but well lit, tucked between a flower shop and a boutique. Outside, the air was still cold, but inside, the space was warm. The only background sounds were the guests' conversations and the occasional clink of glasses. People were scattered in small groups, intently studying the paintings on the walls while nodding thoughtfully.

Nami stood near one of the walls, holding a glass of wine, finishing up a conversation with a freelance journalist from an art blog. She was wearing a dark blue dress her brother had gifted her, which swayed with her every movement. She regretted not finding the time to stop by the hairdresser, as her bangs kept falling into her eyes. Despite trying to appear calm, her heart was racing, part excitement from seeing so many people, part anxiety over their judgment. Everything seemed to be going well; the guests appeared interested in her work, though she hadn’t yet had a chance to talk with them personally. Only her former professor had come by before the event started to congratulate her and share his thoughts on her paintings. Nami had nearly burst into tears.

When the interview ended, Nami gave a polite bow and thanked the journalist. As she watched her head toward the food table, she inhaled and exhaled deeply, as if she'd been holding her breath until that very moment. She walked slowly through the room, smiling each time she passed a new group of guests. Her parents had already left, but some friends were still there: Yoojin stood by the drink table, engaged in conversation with a photographer they knew, while Hyemi was posing in front of one of the larger paintings, directing Minkyu on the best angles for photos.

She was halfway to the buffet when Nami noticed Hyunjin.

He was leaning against the wall, his usual relaxed demeanour making it seem like he was never out of place, idly swirling a glass of wine in his hands. He nodded politely as someone tried to explain their interpretation to him, but his eyes lit up the moment they met Nami’s.

“Nami,” he said with a broad smile, pushing off the wall with one shoulder to approach her. “This is incredible! Your paintings are wonderful.”

She smiled, happy at his words. “Thank you. I didn’t know you were in Seoul.”

“Just for a bit,” he replied. “I’m leaving for Milan in a few days. But I was free tonight, saw your post on Instagram, and thought I’d stop by.”

Nami nodded, glad to see him again. But her gaze soon shifted past him. She recognized him immediately.

Minho.

He was just a few steps away, studying a series of paintings depicting the atelier. His back was straight, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. His frame looked broader than she remembered. His hair was darker, neatly cut at the sides. He seemed stronger, like he’d been training relentlessly, and yet there was something dimmed about him. When she finally saw his eyes, they lacked their old mischief. He looked more mature, more grown-up, but also much more tired.

She approached him hesitantly and stopped a few steps away.

Minho didn’t turn. His eyes remained fixed on the paintings.

“I didn’t know you got a cat,” he said suddenly, his voice low and calm.

“We didn’t,” she replied after a brief pause.

He smiled, almost to himself. “Shame. Cats are nice.”

Nami looked at the canvas in front of him: a sunlit corner of the studio, a ginger tabby prowling near a stack of books and open paint tubes. She remembered painting it almost absentmindedly, instinctively. The space had felt too empty.

They stood in silence, side by side. A couple nearby burst into laughter before drifting away again.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Minho finally said, turning slightly toward her. “I don’t know much about art, but your paintings… they’re beautiful. All of them.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “And thanks for coming.”

Minho shrugged. “When Hyunjin told me about the vernissage, I thought I’d come too. Didn’t have much else going on. Didn’t expect to see so many cats, though.”

Nami smiled faintly.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Good. Very busy,” he replied, glancing up at the spotlights on the ceiling. “I started boxing.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, still smiling. “Are you still working at the atelier?” he asked, gesturing toward the paintings with a nod.

“Not anymore. I got a job as an assistant at my old university. I don’t want to become a professor, but the pay’s good and I have lots of time to paint. But I still go to the atelier a lot. Yoojin lets me use one of the rooms. So whenever I can, I go.”

“Sounds like things are going well.”

“Yeah, I’d say so. I’m… lucky.”

Minho nodded slowly. Then silence fell again.

Nami lowered her gaze to her glass, tracing the rim with her finger.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered then.

He turned. “For what?”

This time, Nami looked him straight in the eye. “For what happened… you know, the last time we saw each other. I never had the chance to properly apologise.”

He shook his head. “You did. That night. You apologised. Twice.”

“I know, but I mean really apologise. I didn’t mean to…”

Minho truly looked at her for the first time. His gaze was gentle.

“There’s nothing to apologise for.”

He seemed to hesitate, as if he wanted to say more. Nami said nothing, hoping he would go on. But nothing came. She watched him glance around until his eyes landed on Hyunjin, who was near the entrance hugging Yoojin goodbye.

“We have to get up early tomorrow, so I should probably grab Hyunjin and head home.”

“Of course. Thanks again for coming. It really meant a lot.”

He lingered for a moment, then offered her a crooked smile. There was something familiar in that expression. Something nostalgic.

“It was nice seeing you again,” he said.

Nami hesitated. She wanted to hug him. Just once. Just to be sure he was real, that she hadn’t imagined him. But her body was frozen.

So she simply raised a hand in farewell.

Minho nodded, gave a brief bow, and turned, walking toward Hyunjin.

Nami watched them leave. Then she turned back to the paintings.

One of the cats curled up on the windowsill seemed to be staring at her. Nami smiled faintly, shook her head, and walked away.

March 2024

Are you at the atelier?

A moment later:

It’s Minho, by the way.

Nami stared at her phone screen and came to a halt. A strange feeling made her take a deep breath, somewhere between surprise and something unfamiliar she couldn’t quite name. She hadn’t expected to hear from him again. Not so soon. Maybe not ever.

Her reply came instinctively:

I was thinking of going after class.

She looked at her message for a second, regretting how quickly she had replied. It seemed too eager. She was eager, in truth. But that didn’t make her any less embarrassed.

His response came just as fast:

I’ll wait for you there.

That day, Nami took the shortcut. Normally, she liked walking along one of the backstreets behind the subway station, stopping for takeaway coffee at the bakery across from the second-hand clothing shop. But now she practically ran. By the time she reached the atelier, she was out of breath.

Inside, the atmosphere was calm, as always. She opened the door to her studio and found him there, sitting on the couch by the window, busy checking messages on his phone.

Minho looked up the moment he heard her enter, and for a second, it felt like she had been thrown back in time. And yet everything had changed. His hair was nearly black now. His body looked more solid, his shoulders broader. And most of all, his gaze. It seemed duller, somehow.

Nami said nothing. She simply took a step forward, took off her coat, and draped it over the back of one of the chairs. Then she sat down in her usual spot on her stool and looked at him.

He smiled.

“I was hoping to see the cats,” he said.

She smiled too, amused by the comment. “Told you, we don’t have any.”

“Shame.”

Minho looked around again, this time more slowly, as if trying to memorize all the small changes that had been made to this once-familiar space. When his eyes landed on her again, he looked at her differently, more directly. “So why did you paint them?”

Nami didn’t answer right away. She reached for a brush and played with the bristles out of habit.

“You once told me I remind you of a cat,” she eventually said. “They’re self-portraits.”

It was a lie, but she would never have the courage to admit the truth.

He smirked. “They don’t have big mouths, though.”

She shrugged.

For a while, neither of them spoke. She began arranging her materials without any particular hurry. Minho stayed where he was, never looking away. It was strange. She was used to seeing him wander aimlessly whenever he came here, barely paying attention to her. That day, he didn’t move. He watched her as if she were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“Would it bother you if I came here now and then?” he asked suddenly.

Nami turned toward him. “You’ve never asked before.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. “I know. I thought… maybe I wasn’t allowed anymore.”

There was a moment of silence. In that moment, he seemed younger somehow, like a child. Or maybe just more vulnerable.

“I like being here,” he added in almost a whisper. “I missed it. But I get it if you don’t want me to come.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” she asked, surprised.

Minho hesitated. Then said, “I feel like you hate me.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She stepped away from the easel, moving closer to him without thinking. “Why? I don’t… Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling. The way things ended, you know. I don’t know.”

“Minho, I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.”

He let out a breath of relief, and for a moment, his whole body seemed to relax.

Nami looked at him. His eyes wavered, as if he wanted to say more. But he didn’t.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Yeah. Why?”

She tilted her head. “You seem… I don’t know. Different.”

A smile appeared on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Nami decided to let it go. “Are you bored? Is that why you came here?”

“You want to make me pose again?” he teased, raising an eyebrow slightly. “I’m even more handsome now, so I doubt you’d want to draw me.”

“Yeah, your face is still boringly pretty.”

Minho laughed, and this time, it was real. Loud and unfiltered.

Nami smiled and felt her shoulders loosen. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until that moment.

Maybe, she thought, this was what Minho needed. A space where he didn’t have to explain anything. Where he could just exist.

And she realized, she was more than happy to be the person who could offer that to him.

It was late afternoon when Minho reappeared at the atelier. Spring sunlight filtered through the windows. Nami was finishing an initial underpainting when she heard the door open.

“You’re early,” she said, without turning around.

“You sound disappointed.”

She glanced over her shoulder. He was wearing a cap and a long beige coat, trying not to attract attention as always. But there was something in his eyes that made her frown.

“No, just surprised,” she replied. “I thought you were busy with preparations for the fan meeting.”

Minho dropped his backpack by the couch before collapsing onto it with a groan, exhausted. “Don’t remind me. It’s this weekend. We’ve been rehearsing for four days straight. It’s always so chaotic and loud, sometimes I can’t even hear myself think.”

“But you like it, right? What you do, I mean,” Nami asked. She tried to keep her tone neutral, but she could barely hide her curiosity. “I mean… two years ago it didn’t seem to bother you this much.”

He shrugged, his eyes following her movements as she painted. “Yeah, it was… different.”

“Different how?”

Minho let his head fall back, eyes half-closed. “Back then, I knew why I was doing it. I had a clear goal. Now I just do it because I have to.”

Nami glanced at him, concerned. “Maybe you’re just tired.”

He nodded. “Maybe.”

There was a pause.

“I really missed this place,” he murmured after a while.

She didn’t respond, but something in her stomach started to ache. She quietly wondered what had happened to him over the past two years, during all the time they hadn’t seen each other. Because this wasn’t the Minho she knew, only his shadow.

April 2024

They were sitting on the couch, sipping coffee Minho had bought before arriving. The nervousness of seeing him again had slowly faded with each of his visits, though it hadn’t disappeared completely. Nami let her gaze drift to Minho’s hands. She noticed cuts and bruises on his knuckles. She had to resist the urge to reach out and touch his wounds.

“Did you go train?” she asked him.

“Yeah, last night.”

“Teach me a few moves.”

He turned to look at her, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Are you serious?”

Nami nodded. “I need a break. I’ve been sitting all day, I feel like I need to move a little.”

They cleared a space in the centre of the room, pushing the tables to the walls. Minho stood in front of her, a bit taller than she remembered, or maybe it was just his posture.

“Okay, keep your hands up. No, not like that. Like this…” Minho stepped closer, adjusting her arms into the right position. “Keep your chin down. Elbows in. You’re fighting, not trying to hug your opponent.”

She widened her eyes in concentration and followed his instructions. “I don’t know how you do this. My arms already hurt.”

“That’s because you’re too tense. You need to relax. Come on, try throwing a punch.”

She did. Then tried again.

“Pretty embarrassing,” he commented, laughing. “Try again.”

“You’re a terrible coach.”

On the fifth try, her punch landed on his shoulder. Not hard, but enough to make him flinch.

“Ouch,” he said, blinking a few times like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry! Did I actually hit you? Did I hurt you?”

Nami dropped her stance and stepped forward instinctively. She reached out before she could stop herself. Her fingers brushed his arm, gently, as if checking to make sure she hadn’t left a bruise. Only after a moment did she realize what she was doing. Her breath caught in her throat.

He looked at her without blinking.

She pulled away.

“You’re fine,” she said quickly, turning her back to him.

Minho laughed and settled back on the couch. Nami walked over to one of the shelves, muttering complaints about how poorly the brushes were organized. She pretended she hadn’t felt the warmth of his body, hadn’t seen the way he looked at her.

That day, Minho stayed a little longer, but neither of them brought it up again.

A week later, they found themselves at the pub near the atelier. They’d been drinking for about an hour, sitting in their usual corner. It had started drizzling outside, but from inside, they hadn’t noticed yet.

Nami was holding a half-full glass of beer in her hands. She hadn’t eaten and felt warmth in her cheeks. She wasn’t drunk, but her arms felt lighter, her shoulders more relaxed. And even though her thoughts were beginning to blur into a hazy tangle, they kept circling around just one thing: Minho, sitting across from her, laughing at something she’d said. He had one elbow resting on the table, holding his beer with the other hand.

She was struck by how easily they had fallen back into old habits. As if the time apart had never existed. As if nearly two years hadn’t passed without those ridiculous exchanges, without the comfort of their shared silences. A faint thread of tension still occasionally passed through her when their eyes met and neither of them found the strength to look away first. What they had wasn’t friendship, not exactly. But it wasn’t love either. It was something in between, a kind of limbo with no clear way out. And Nami was afraid. Afraid that if she reached out to him, if she tried to get closer again, he would disappear. So she made do with that strange relationship and all their unspoken words.

She leaned forward slightly, letting her eyes wander over his face. If she had been more sober, she wouldn’t have dared to be so bold. Minho noticed and lowered his head, smiling in that shy, almost awkward way he had started adopting lately. That sweetness was new. Two years ago, Minho had been charming, mysterious, always a little untouchable. Now there was something more delicate in the way he looked away, in the way he smiled.

Her gaze traced his features, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Then she noticed a detail she had always missed.

“You have a mole here,” she said suddenly, voicing her thoughts out loud. Her words hung in the air, as if someone else had said them. Before she could stop herself, her finger rose and gently touched the side of his nose. “I’d never noticed it before.”

Minho blinked, surprised. The touch was brief, almost imperceptible, but it made him sit up straighter. He looked at her for a moment with an unreadable expression. Nami could see in his eyes that he was trying to process what had just happened, as if that innocent gesture meant something he hadn’t yet figured out how to name.

Then, softly, he said, “Do it again.”

Nami hesitated, her eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise. She reached out again, this time more slowly, brushing her fingertip against the mole just above the curve of his nostril. Her hand lingered for another second. He smiled again, this time with a hint of mischief, and looked away, almost embarrassed by his own request.

“My mom has the same mole,” he murmured.

“Do you look like her?”

Minho nodded. “They say I’m her exact copy.”

“Then she must be a beautiful woman.”

He laughed, more relaxed now. “Yeah, she is.”

For a while, they sat in that silence. It was comfortable. The pub’s background music filled the space, and the smell of fried food drifted in for a moment before fading again. Then Minho leaned forward, resting his head briefly on his folded arms on the table. A small sigh escaped him, like he was trying to let go of something heavy.

His hand reached out and found hers.

He didn’t hold it, not exactly. He simply took her index finger between his and began to play with it, lifting and lowering it rhythmically. It should have felt strange. But it didn’t. It felt completely natural, as if they had always done it. She didn’t pull her hand away. She let him do it.

She looked at his hand, and her heartbeat slowed to match its rhythm.

And yet, that feeling came back, that ache in her chest. Worry.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Minho?” she asked softly.

He didn’t look up. “I’m just tired.”

“You said you slept twelve hours.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “But I only got three hours of sleep over the last few days.”

Nami tilted her head slightly, studying him. His face was dull with fatigue, the shadows under his eyes deeper than usual. “Is it really that hard? Your job, I mean.”

He stayed quiet for a long time.

“It’s just that… it used to be fun,” he said finally, lifting his head a little. “It still is. I mean… yeah, no, it is. Being tired is a good thing. I just wish… I don’t even know.”

He looked at her, and whatever he saw made him pause again. His gaze lingered for a moment, uncertain. Then he gave a small, genuine smile. “Why do you worry about me so much?”

“Because I like you,” Nami admitted simply, the words slipping out before she could catch them.

Minho blinked rapidly, then looked down at their hands. His ears turned suddenly red. He didn’t speak for a while, as if trying to figure out what to do with that truth.

“Is it weird that I like the fact that you worry about me?” he asked in a whisper, almost like a confession, his voice unsure.

Nami laughed. “My brother would probably say there are people who find that hot. Like, sexually.”

Minho’s ears flushed even redder and he looked like he was about to burst into laughter, but something in his expression shifted suddenly, as if an idea had just occurred to him. He straightened up, but didn’t let go of Nami’s hand.

“Oh, your brother!” he said, smiling smugly. “How’s he doing?”

“Good,” she replied, amused by the obvious attempt to change the subject. “He found himself a girlfriend. She’s nice.”

“I’m glad.”

The conversation drifted again, and then again, one, two more times. It felt like it would never end. They talked about their families, a new show Nami had started but wasn’t sure she liked, the anime Minho wanted to start but hadn’t had time for yet. Their hands remained together on the table, his fingers still playing with hers, like he never wanted to stop.

She didn’t move. Not once. Not even when she felt the need to go to the bathroom.

She knew that moment would end.

But she let it be enough.

May 2024

May was drawing to a close when Nami saw Minho again. The weeks had passed slowly, a succession of interminable mornings, long afternoons spent grading papers, and drunken evenings with friends, punctuated by occasional messages from Minho and filtered glimpses of his life through Instagram. Stray Kids had been in New York to attend the Met Gala, and a flood of event photos had taken over her feed. Minho had even flown to London for a Gucci event, his name now listed alongside internationally renowned celebrities. He’d sent her a blurry picture of himself in a grey suit, likely taken back at the hotel. In secret, Nami had searched for other photos from the event and saved one of Minho standing next to Paul Mescal.

They had stayed in touch, just enough not to disappear completely from each other’s lives. Minho often sent her random pictures or embarrassing moments of the other members, without any captions. Occasionally, she’d wake up to a string of voice messages from a drunken Minho. He never said anything meaningful, but Nami would replay them just to hear the sound of his laugh. She’d reply with simple phrases, laughter, and photos of stray cats that had started to hang around her house. It gave her the illusion of continuity.

So when he texted her saying he had a day off and planned to stop by the atelier, Nami found herself both sighing in relief and holding her breath in anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.

But as she made her way down the narrow hallway toward her studio, she hesitated. Minho’s unmistakable laugh echoed faintly from inside, but it was overlapped by another voice, more animated and unfamiliar. For a moment, Nami wondered if it was Hyunjin. But the tone was different. More childlike, quicker. Nami paused in front of the door, then slowly pushed it open.

Inside, Minho was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a sketchbook resting on his thighs. Next to him was another guy, hunched over his own sketchbook, laughing at a poorly drawn doodle. Their heads were close together. There was an obvious intimacy in how they interacted.

Nami recognized him immediately. Han Jisung. One of the members of Stray Kids. The one Minho talked about most often. His roommate. His closest friend.

Finding him there, in the space Nami had always considered hers and Minho’s, was like coming home and finding a thief rifling through all your drawers, looking for hidden jewellery. She felt betrayed. That room had held their silences, their glances, their quiet. It was as if their bubble had suddenly burst. For Minho, perhaps it was just another room. But for Nami, it had been a refuge, a place where the complicated feelings that bound them could exist without consequence.

Minho looked up and his expression lit up cheerfully. “Oh, Nami, you’re here!”

She tried to smile but knew she hadn’t succeeded.

“This is Jisung,” Minho continued, pointing to his friend. “He was curious to see the atelier, so he came with me today.”

“Nice to meet you,” Nami said, her voice devoid of any emotion.

“Nice to meet you too,” Jisung replied, smiling timidly, cautiously. He didn’t try to fill the silence. He simply bowed his head again and returned to his sketchbook, his posture slightly hunched, as if he had already sensed her displeasure.

Nami walked past them, her hands gripping the strap of her bag. She let it drop onto the stool with a dull, almost aggressive thud. The boys’ laughter resumed behind her, as if she weren’t there. As if she were just another piece of furniture.

That place had become sacred to her. A quiet space where she and Minho could meet halfway. It was their grey area, where they didn’t need labels. They weren’t friends, or lovers, or anything else. They were just themselves, their silences and nonsense conversations. No one else had ever truly belonged to that space.

So finding someone else there didn’t just feel wrong, it felt like a betrayal. Minho had brought someone into something she hadn’t even realized she had claimed until it had been violated. She looked at the couch where they used to sit, at the brush shelf he had once reorganized just to tease her, and everything suddenly felt off. As if her memories were less real now, overwritten by this new person who laughed too loudly and acted too familiarly. She hadn’t realized how much she needed that room to be theirs, and theirs alone.

The afternoon dragged on slowly, thick with invisible tension. Nami tried to paint, but couldn’t focus. Behind her, the two boys kept drawing, laughing at their weird doodles, talking about things only they could understand, conversations Nami couldn’t take part in. Sometimes Jisung would fall silent when he sensed she was looking at him. She tried not to stare too directly. But she couldn’t hide her disapproval, either.

Toward evening, Minho approached her. “We were thinking of getting something to eat. Want to come with us?”

Nami barely turned to look at him.

“There’s this place nearby,” he went on. “Jisung and I go there a lot.”

She didn’t respond right away.

“My treat,” Minho added with a faint smile.

Nami gave the barest nod.

The restaurant felt almost stifling compared to the cool evening air. The smell of grilled meat hung in the air. Minho and Jisung sat naturally at a quiet corner table after greeting a couple of the waiters. Nami took a seat across from them in silence, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Jisung noticed. In fact, he’d noticed everything. He seemed hesitant to speak whenever Nami looked at him. His voice would soften, he barely finished his sentences. But Minho didn’t seem to notice. He was relaxed, at ease.

Nami tried to join their conversation. She asked a few questions about their trip to the U.S. But it was obvious from her tone that she didn’t really care. She wasn’t even listening to their answers. She was watching them. Watching the way Minho looked at Jisung. Not just fondly. With a familiarity, a deep ease that only comes with truly knowing someone.

Hyemi’s words echoed in her mind: he’s gay.

Nami hadn’t cared. She had told herself it didn’t matter.

But in that moment, watching Minho lean in toward Jisung, laughing, she felt something bloom bitterly in her chest. Something she’d felt before. The same feeling she’d felt as a child, forced to stand on the side-lines while her brother received all their parents’ attention. That feeling of exclusion that made her want to scream. That sense of always being the one left out. She knew her feelings were irrational, but she couldn’t stop them.

When they finished eating, Minho got up to pay. Nami and Jisung remained seated in silence. He glanced at her, then looked down at the table again.

“It’s really nice,” he said after a brief pause. “The atelier, I mean. I get why Minho always wants to go there. It’s very… peaceful. I really liked it.”

Nami didn’t answer right away. She looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, in a low voice, she said: “Please don’t come again.”

Jisung froze, his eyes wide and her words hanging between them. He opened his mouth slightly, but couldn’t speak.

She didn’t repeat herself. But she didn’t try to soften the blow, either. She simply looked away, as if she hadn’t said anything at all.

June 2024

It was a humid, hot Wednesday. Nami heard a knock at the half-open door of the office she shared with two other assistants. She had been hunched for hours over a pile of essays she needed to grade, twirling a red pencil between her fingers, her focus repeatedly broken by the buzz of the university’s air conditioning and the distant sound of drilling from the construction site across the street. Her eyes felt dry, her mind dulled by monotony and sleepless nights. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Her colleagues were both out for lunch.

When she looked up, her breath caught in her throat.

Minho was standing in the doorway.

He wore a cap pulled low over his forehead, and a black mask covered most of his face. But his eyes were unmistakable; large, dark, hesitant. The shock of seeing him there, on campus, in her office, made it almost impossible to breathe. Her heart kicked into motion at a sudden, confusing speed, somewhere between alarm and hope.

“Minho?” she said, standing up so abruptly that her chair banged loudly against the cabinet behind her. She rushed to the door and grabbed a sleeve of his shirt to pull him inside, shutting the door quickly behind them. “What are you doing here? Are you out of your mind? Someone could recognize you.”

He let her pull him in without resistance, his gaze slowly moving around the cramped room.

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

He sat at her desk like it was his own. He picked up a small ceramic frog Nami kept near her monitor and turned it over in his hands, his thumb brushing across the tiny raised black eyes.

“I’ve been busy,” she said. Her voice was flat, but her hands trembled slightly as she crossed them over her chest.

Minho took off his mask with one hand, placing it on her desk. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she replied. She paused, then added, “I told you, I’ve been busy. I barely check my phone.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

The silence that followed was tense, like something could snap with a single wrong word. Nami didn’t move. The longer he stared at her, the more she felt something inside her begin to crack.

Since their last encounter at the studio, something inside her had broken. They had spent weeks, months, trying to mend their relationship. She had convinced herself that their strange friendship was enough, that she could go on like that without ever letting it become something more serious. But it wasn’t true. She couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t hurt to be near him and always feel like she was waiting for something he would never be able to give.

She walked over to the opposite desk, her colleague’s, and sat down. Being farther from him seemed like the only way she could breathe.

Minho looked at her. He said nothing.

“Can I ask you something?” she finally said. Her voice trembled.

He nodded.

“Do… do you like men?”

His eyes widened slightly, his hands stopped playing with the frog. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then a faint, tentative smile flickered across his lips.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never really thought about it. But I think I do.”

Nami felt her chest tighten. Then, suddenly, an unexpected wave of anger hit her. She wasn’t angry that Minho might be gay. She didn’t care about that. She was angry at herself. In that moment, she realized just how much she had unconsciously hoped he wasn’t. Hopes that now proved useless.

Then he added, quickly, in a low voice, “But I like women too.”

Her breath caught again. He avoided her gaze. He kept his eyes fixed on the frog, starting to rub its belly as if trying to remove a stain. His embarrassment was obvious, as though that confession had drained all his energy.

“I don’t know,” he continued. “If there’s someone I like, it doesn’t matter if they’re a boy or a girl. You know what I mean?”

She should have felt relieved. Those words should have loosened the knot she had carried in her stomach for weeks, months. Instead, the knot tightened. Her stomach twisted, her thoughts racing faster than her heartbeat, aware that even that explanation wasn’t enough to calm her. If anything, it made things worse, because it wasn’t about labels anymore. It was about her. Her voice faltered with frustration, disappointment, and the pain of not being wanted back.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, finally looking her in the eyes. His voice was calm.

“You don’t like me.”

Minho’s expression tensed slightly. “Nami, please…”

“I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,” she cut in. “But I don’t think I can be your friend. I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice was barely audible.

“It’s not… Nami, I…”

“Don’t worry,” she said, forcing herself to keep speaking. “You don’t have to say anything. I understand. But I don’t think I can go on, whatever it is that’s between us. I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath. Her chest ached, but her eyes remained dry.

“I know you like going to the atelier. You can still go, if you want. It’s yours too. But I’d rather we didn’t see each other anymore. Do you understand?”

She looked at him, really looked. His face was serious, and there was something in his eyes, maybe pain, confusion, guilt. For a moment, she considered taking her words back. Pretending it was all a joke. But she didn’t. Because she also saw something else. That familiar hesitation. The same one he had after she kissed him. The same look that had made her feel like a mistake.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. No words came. His lips pressed together, his gaze once again fixed on the little frog in his hands, as if hoping it could answer for him.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

Then she walked out of the room.

Nami had spent the past few days wrapped in silence. A deeper, suffocating silence. The kind that allowed cruel truths to rise up forcefully in her mind, truths she wasn’t ready to face. She had cried for hours in the university bathrooms, only to shed no more tears afterward. Her entire body ached, as if the pain had seeped into her bones.

So when she returned home that evening and entered the lobby of her apartment complex, her breath caught when she saw him sitting on the floor by the mailboxes, his face hidden by a cap and a mask. For a moment, the world stopped spinning. Her knees buckled.

He stood as soon as he saw her, as though he had been waiting an eternity. Her first instinct was to ignore him, pretend she hadn’t seen him, get into the elevator and lock herself inside her apartment. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t have the strength.

But something in the way he looked at her made her hesitate.

She opened her mouth, not even knowing what to say, but he spoke first, his voice low and grave.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said, his eyes scanning her face for something to hold onto. “But listen. I… I really…”

He faltered, the rest of the sentence dissolving silently into the air. Nami’s heart pounded in her chest.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked after a moment, once she was sure she could speak without betraying any emotion.

He just nodded.

He followed her through the lobby, their footsteps echoing in the quiet. In the elevator, neither of them spoke. Nami couldn’t find the courage to look at him. She couldn’t bear the weight of his presence beside her.

Inside her apartment, Minho hesitated at the threshold. He stayed by the entrance like a guest who knew he wasn’t welcome. The space was small: a small living room with a kitchenette, a hallway leading to the bathroom and bedroom. The air smelled stale, mixed with the scent of a candle she had lit the night before.

“You can sit wherever,” she said, putting down her bag with calculated slowness.

He removed his shoes but remained standing, his gaze wandering through the room as if trying to memorize every detail of this unfamiliar space. The messy stacks of books, a dying plant by the window, a few photos taped to the wall.

“Do you want something to drink?” Nami asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.

He shook his head. “No.”

Nami sighed, sat at the kitchen table, and clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. Minho didn’t move, his posture tense, as if unsure how to act.

Before she could speak, he broke the silence.

“I want to go back to the atelier,” he said in a whisper, barely audible, like he was ashamed of his own words. Like a student who knew he was giving the wrong answer. “With you.”

She closed her eyes.

“That’s selfish.”

“I know,” he replied immediately, not trying to defend himself.

“Well, I can’t. I really can’t do it.”

“Why not?” His voice rose; not in anger, but in desperation.

“You know why.”

Minho ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He seemed to be fighting with himself, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words.

Her patience snapped.

“If you have nothing to say, then leave.”

“It’s just that…”

“Please, Minho. Go. Now.”

His voice cracked. He took a step forward. “Don’t push me away. Please, don’t.”

Nami felt a wave of anger rise within her. “You’re the one who kept me at arm’s length all this time! I told you I have feelings for you, that being your friend hurts. So why do you keep dragging me into this mess?”

“Because I can’t do this anymore!” he shouted. “This life… I can’t take it anymore.”

She stared at him, stunned by his outburst. Minho didn’t cry, but his shoulders began to tremble, his breath coming short.

“I have no choice in what I do,” he said, his voice cracking. “I only follow orders. Even when I have the chance to choose, someone always tells me I should’ve done it differently. This life used to be fun, but now it feels like I don’t own any of it.”

There was bitterness in his voice that surprised her.

“But when I’m with you,” he continued, his eyes pleading, “I forget all that. With you, I can be myself. And I need that. I need you. Even if it’s selfish.”

Nami felt a pang in her chest. Her body moved before she could think. She crossed the room and gently cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at her.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” she said. “I really am. And I wish I could fix it. But we can’t be friends anymore. Not like this. It hurts too much.”

He looked at her, desperate. “I like you, Nami. I really do.”

“Liar.”

“No, I mean it. I’ve liked you for years. I swear.”

Her heart tightened in her chest. “Then why did you look so disgusted when I kissed you?”

“I wasn’t disgusted. Just surprised, that’s all.”

“But you never came back.”

“I was scared.”

“So if I kissed you now, you’d be happy?”

“Nami, don’t…”

But she did it anyway. She rose on her toes and kissed him, soft, hesitant. He didn’t pull away, but when she stepped back, his expression wasn’t happy. It was sad.

“You don’t like me at all,” she whispered.

“That’s not true.”

“Then prove it.”

Something in him changed. His gaze grew more serious, more determined. Like he had finally surrendered. He stepped forward and kissed her again, this time deeper, more urgent. Real. His lips crashed onto hers with unexpected force, driven by years of silence, longing, and waiting.

They stumbled backward blindly. Her hands tangled in his hair, his fingers gripping the hem of her blouse like he needed something to hold onto. Their breaths grew ragged and uneven, the silence of the room filled with gasps and desperate kisses. His lips travelled along her jaw, brushing her skin, down to her neck, his breath warm against the frantic beats of her heart.

His hands slipped beneath her shirt, slow but deliberate. She gasped, surprised by how deeply she had craved that touch. Her skin burned beneath his palms as he explored her waist, the curve of her ribs, just beneath her bra. And yet, even in that frenzy, he hesitated.

Then he stopped entirely. Looked at her like he was afraid she’d vanish at any second. Nami felt his hands tremble.

She took his face in her hands. “It’s okay. If you don’t want to, we can stop.”

He didn’t respond.

“Please. Talk to me.”

“I’m not good with words.”

“And I can’t read your mind.”

He sighed, then paused, the weight of unspoken words thick in the air. He looked away, as if searching for someone to give him permission.

“Even if you could read my mind,” he began, his voice cracking slightly, “I don’t think you’d understand.”

Another pause. Longer, more painful. He let go of her and clenched his fists. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“My feelings for you… they’re the only thing I can control,” he admitted. “I don’t have control over anything else but this. If I keep them in check, everything will be fine. I won’t ruin anything between us.”

Nami felt her heart clench. His honesty was raw, sharp, like a wound freshly reopened. He wasn’t just afraid to let go. He was afraid of what she might see if he did.

She smiled, even though her throat was tight and her chest ached.

“You’re safe with me. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“What if you stop liking me?”

She kissed him again. That was her answer.

This time, he surrendered completely. Their kisses deepened. They clung to each other as if trying to erase all the months of silence, all the missed moments. One kiss turned into two, then three, until they lost count. Their clothes were discarded with no ceremony, left on the floor.

When he touched her again, Nami gasped. Skin to skin, his fingers traced the sensitive lines of her body. The moan that escaped her lips broke something in him. His body tensed, his breath came faster.

He pushed her back until she collided with the kitchen table. Her breath hitched as his body pressed against hers. His warmth, the touch of his hands; it was overwhelming. With his eyes, Minho asked one last time for her permission, for reassurance. She nodded, breathless.

Her fingers found the scar on his stomach. She traced it slowly, reverently, and his breath caught. Then his lips found her breasts, first softly, then with growing hunger. She gasped, her head falling back, spine arching, fingers knotted again in his hair.

There was no time to think. No clarity. Only instinct. He undid his belt, and she tried to help, both of them moving with urgency. When he finally entered her, they both gasped, overwhelmed.

Their bodies moved together on the table, the hard, cold surface making everything feel even more real. They held each other tightly, movements hurried and messy, but full of need.

Nami clung to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer with desperate need. Her body arched with every thrust. She moaned his name, over and over. Not softly, but with force, urgency. His voice, usually calm and controlled, was now raw and cracked.

None of this had been planned. They had dived headfirst into something messy, something that had been consuming them from within. As if everything they had kept under control had suddenly exploded and neither of them knew how to stop. His grip on her was tight but uncertain, his palms trembling against her sweat-slicked skin.

When she met his eyes, she saw only him, stripped of any mask.

In that moment, there was no future. No promise, no guarantee. Only each other. And the desperate, fragile hope that surrendering to these feelings might mean something more.

It was almost three in the morning, but neither of them could sleep. The apartment was immersed in darkness except for the faint light coming from the kitchen. In the silence, you could hear the distant sound of cars speeding down the main road.

Minho sat on the floor, his back against the couch, a bowl of instant ramen balanced on his knees. The chopsticks clinked against the styrofoam as he slurped the noodles, chewing absentmindedly. His t-shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was messy and still damp from the shower. He looked tired, but his features seemed softer.

Nami was lying on the couch behind him, curled up under a thin blanket, her face resting on her forearm. She watched him eat in silence, a small smile curling her lips. There was something oddly comforting about the scene: his bare feet on the rug, the way he kept blowing on the ramen before each bite, even though it had already cooled.

“Stop it,” she suddenly heard him mumble, mouth still full.

She widened her eyes, caught off guard. “Stop what?”

He swallowed. “You're staring at me.”

Nami chuckled softly. “Sorry,” she whispered warmly. “I’m just happy.”

Minho let out a short laugh, trying to hide how her words embarrassed him. He looked down at the now nearly empty bowl and mumbled, “What a weirdo.”

He finished the last bite, set the bowl aside, and slowly slid down to the floor. With a soft groan, he lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head.

After a moment, Nami slid off the couch and joined him on the floor. She lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, their bodies parallel, eyes turned toward the ceiling as if it could provide answers to all the questions lingering in their minds.

For a while, there was only silence.

“I’m sorry I got mad earlier,” she finally said.

Minho slowly turned his head to look at her. His expression was unreadable in the dim light. “Don’t worry,” he replied. Then he hesitated, his lips parting as if he wanted to say more. But he didn’t speak.

She nudged him lightly with her elbow. “You can talk to me, you know? I don’t judge.”

He nodded faintly. Another pause. Then he shifted position, turning onto his side so he could rest his head on her stomach. She inhaled, surprised, but didn’t oppose. She adjusted slightly. Her fingers found his hair and began stroking it slowly.

“I already know you're weird,” she said at last, a smirk playing on her lips.

Minho let out a brief, embarrassed laugh, muffled against her pyjama fabric. “And you like me anyway?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she replied. “You’re weird, but you’re a good person, Minho.”

Minho sighed deeply and didn’t speak for a moment.

“I’ve always wanted to live my life simply. Even though I’m a celebrity.”

Her fingers paused for a moment, then resumed their slow rhythm.

“But I don’t think my brain is wired as everyone else’s.”

“What do you mean?”

He moved again, turning his gaze back toward the ceiling. “I don’t know when it started. At first, people told me I was special, praised me for being different, for expressing myself freely, for not being afraid to seem weird. It made me feel like I had something to offer. But then that became a problem. People started acting like I was too much. Too different.”

He exhaled sharply. “All the rules that never used to bother me now feel like chains. I keep trying to fit into a mould that’s too small for me.”

“Do you feel trapped?” she asked gently.

He didn’t answer right away. Then continued, “I feel like I could do so much more, but I’m not allowed to. Like being myself makes other people uncomfortable. So I try to hold back. But every time I do, it feels like I lose a part of myself forever.”

Nami felt her heart clench again at his words. She took his hand and intertwined her fingers with his.

“I’m sorry they make you feel this way,” she murmured.

He shrugged. “I don’t blame them. But it’s still frustrating.”

They fell silent again. She kept stroking his hair, occasionally brushing his temple with her thumb. He seemed calmer, his breathing steady.

“Can I come back to the atelier?” he asked suddenly, still looking at the ceiling.

She giggled. “Of course, but only if you come alone.”

“No Jisung?”

“Only Hyunjin is allowed,” she replied in mock sternness.

He laughed, and she felt the vibration travel through her skin.

“Jealous?” he teased.

“Yes.”

A surprised laugh escaped his lips. “You’re not even trying to deny it.”

“Why should I? It’s the truth.”

They both laughed. After that, neither spoke. They remained lying there, fingers entwined, bodies close, eyes still on the ceiling. They didn’t talk about what had happened. They didn’t put any labels on it. They just shared the quiet.

But Nami’s mind began to wander. Would anything really change between them? They couldn’t go back to how things were before. And that scared her.

What if he pulled away again? What if the world outside that room, outside the atelier, claimed him once more, taking him away from her again? She tightened her grip on his hand. It was warm. His presence was there, tangible.

Minho sat up slowly. He turned toward her slightly and looked at her. Not with the same intensity as a few hours earlier. But with gentleness, with affection. With the eyes of someone who sees something precious in front of them. He leaned down and kissed her. A short kiss, too short. Then he laid his head back on her stomach, grabbing her hand to make her resume stroking his hair.

Nami laughed. He hadn’t given her an answer. He hadn’t said anything. And yet it felt like he had. She closed her eyes and sighed, content.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 201 (A Disturbance at Brindleton Prison)

cw: violence causing death, suggestive blood spatter

Conrad sat upright in his chair, cursing to himself as the Chief eyed him sternly. "Captain Gordon? Captain, did you hear what I said?"

He stammered, forcing himself to swallow the NesbeetsLT sandwich he'd grabbed from the breakroom while waiting for the chief. "Yeah, I...um..."

"I can trust you to lead our part of the investigation into Layne Coffin's disappearance, can I not?"

"Of course, Chief. I can handle it. I'm just processing the rest. You said it was another inmate?"

"I said one inmate waited in the prison yard to attack her. You're familiar with the Paris Amyot battery case against the author, Mercury Gratz. Turns out the two women began a feud inside the prison. There needs to be an investigation, but it looks like Miss Amyot may have taken revenge when Miss Bonilla was weak and recovering from childbirth."

"And she killed her? Ximena? Torn apart by a she-wolf?"

The chief's expression was unflinching. "There needs to be an official investigation," she repeated.

"Where's the baby now? Does Rafa know what happened to his sister?"

"The baby girl is already on the way to Sulani with a court-appointed guardian and Ximena's next of kin have been informed." The chief looked up from her reports. "Captain Gordon, are you going to be sick?"

"I might be, yeah."

"I know you and Ximena had a history and I know your relationship with her brother, but Captain Gordon, I need you to focus on the Layne Coffin investigation. San Myshuno PD's down a few detectives on personal leave and they really need the support on this. Layne Coffin's known all over Simlandia and everyone is paying attention."

Conrad nodded, his head still spinning. "My daughter, Lavender, she plays the violin and she loves the guy. Checks the news every night for an update on his disappearance."

"That's good. I know you're not the type to want to let your kids down. I'm going to need you to go to Ravenwood."

"When?"

"Now, Captain Gordon. It can wait until morning, but this investigation hasn't gone anywhere for too long. Layne Coffin's fiance's attorney has blocked all attempts by San Myshuno PD to interview her because they lack jurisdiction in Ravenwood, but Ravenwood has no police force. Everyone lacks jurisdiction in Ravenwood. He's stymied them with every legal trick in the book so far, but you were practically best man at that attorney's wedding. That's why San Myshuno PD recommended you. Get Olive Specter to talk, interview any of Mr. Coffin's associates in town, and report back."

He grimaced. "My family's supposed to leave for Sulani soon, Chief."

"Then bring back something San Myshuno PD can use even sooner."

When the Chief dismissed him, it was getting late. But Conrad's mind was too cluttered to drive straight home, and he headed upstairs to the precinct's small gym.

As his gloves pounded the bag, he remembered he'd been boxing the day he met Ximena. He had no idea she'd turn out to be the biggest mistake of his life, but now she was gone. It didn't feel real, but his boss wouldn't lie about this.

Conrad was angry Rafa was left to pick up the pieces, as usual, raising a newborn daughter Ximena would never meet. And now Conrad felt pulled in too many directions. He needed to tell Heather, had to talk to Felix about his client, Olive Specter, and he needed to be there for Rafa - but he couldn't be everywhere at once.

He headed home; his family was his first priority. The kids were already in bed, and he found Heather with a glass of orange juice in the kitchen. She turned to smile when she heard him come in.

"That didn't take too long. I guess that means no one died, right?" ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary | Gen 2.2 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

Thank you so much to @itmeansiris for staging Ximena and Paris fighting behind bars. I know you enjoyed having Ximena torture Paris as much as I loved flipping the script and giving Paris someone to defeat, knowing it will help ensure that crazy firecracker will rot for what she did to Mercury in your SSL save! I just loved the idea of trash taking out the trash too much to resist this crossover.

For the record, as excited as I sound right now, it's because I love crossovers not murder!

And just to squash any conspiracies ('no body not dead' etc):

[aloneinthehellfire]

Chapter Three: Bad Dreams

The Pariahs That Saved The World [Masterlist]

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: mentions of death, lots of angst

[A/N: I even surprised myself at the ending of this. Whatever my original plan for this series was has now been thrown out of the window just because I can never write without the angst-]

Bad Dreams

“Creepy.” You comment, staring up at the house in front of you.

“Can say that again.” Steve sighs, hands on his hips as he joins you.

“Creepy.” You repeat, smirking while you walk away with his irritated gaze on your back.

The Creel House stood tall despite its worn down exterior, the blackening wood and peeling paint only adding to the horrors you’ve heard of this place. Everything had been boarded up, blocking people from coming and going as they please. You’re just surprised they had never torn down the place.

Nancy and Steve grabbed some of Mr Wheeler’s borrowed tools and start working on the door, trying to tug out the nails holding it in place. You stand with your arms folded beside Robin, sending worried glances at Max every so often. You couldn’t help it, and you hoped she couldn’t feel your anxiety.

“I mean, what exactly are we looking for in this shithole?” Steve groans, discarding a nail on the ground.

“We’re not sure.” Nancy says and you clear your throat.

“This house is important to Vecna.” You speak up and you feel Robin’s eyes on you, making you feel hotter than you should. “Max wouldn’t have seen it in that mind world if it wasn’t.”

“Great.” Steve grumbles.

“Maybe it holds the key to where Vecna is. Why he’s back… Why he killed the Creels.” Dustin suggests, shrugging. “And how to stop him before he comes back for Max.”

“We don’t think he’s in here, do we?” Lucas voices and Max tightens her lips.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

With an agreed nod, Steve and Nancy pull back the board and let it thump onto the ground, the force whisking away leaves on the porch. Robin notices Max’s widened eyes and looks at the revealed door, viewing a stained glass window of a blue rose. Just like in her drawings.

The door rattles when Steve tries to open it, shoulders dropping in defeat.

“It’s locked.” He says and you snort, earning his glare. “Should I knock, see if anybody’s home?”

“Maybe Vecna is out grocery shopping.” You offer, trying to lessen the obviously tense mood of the whole situation. “Could always see if there’s another entrance…”

The comfort of Robin’s presence disappears from your side and you turn to see her grabbing something from the ground.

“No need.” She announces, holding up a discarded brick and smirking at you. “I found a key.”

“Innovative.” You smile, your eyes lingering a moment too long on eachother before you clear your throat and step aside, allowing her to launch the brick through the stained glass window.

You all could hear the brick rattling in an echo on the other side of the door before Steve slips his arm through the man-made hole and twists the door open, an eerie creak playing tricks with your mind.

Steve lets out a low whistle as you follow Nancy through, your boots crunching on sprinkled shards. It was dark in here, the dust forming a thick cloud even in the air as you squint. You feel Robin’s shoulder bump against yours and you look over to see her motioning to her flashlight. You nod, sticking by her side as everyone else piles in.

“Looks like someone forgot to pay their electric bill.” Lucas quips, standing back from the failed attempt at turning on a lamp.

Everyone immediately switches on their flashlights, leaving Steve puzzled.

“Where’d everyone get those?” He frowns and Dustin sends him a look.

“Do you need to be told everything? You’re not a child.”

“Thank you.” Steve deadpans, noticing your mouth opening slightly. “Don’t say another word.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.” You defend and he shakes his head. Robin hides a smirk, revelling in the fact that someone other than her could make him fidget like that.

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“Back pocket.” Dustin hands his backpack over with a sigh, letting Steve pull out a spare flashlight and dump it on the ground when he was done.

You, Robin, and Nancy head into the first room you see, their flashlights sweeping over the place. Ratted curtains, dusty frames and untouched furniture told Robin this used to be a lounge, her eyes focusing on the old books scattered across the place. A family once used this space for leisure, and now they were dead.

“They just left everything.” Nancy frowns.

“I guess a triple homicide isn’t good for resale value.” Robin says and you feel your heartbeat quicken.

Four years ago, you had been investigating this place, the family, the murders, unsure of what you were going to discover. So much had been redacted and forgotten, making you think that maybe it was just another freak accident, that maybe the father did kill his family out of insanity. But part of you couldn’t believe that. You wanted to know the truth. Now that you did… you wished you had never started researching in the first place. For four years, you’ve been letting yourself be haunted by this place and its stories. You weren’t ready to know what made things go bump in the night.

“Hey, guys?” Max’s voice calls out from the hallway. She was stood in front of a grandfather clock, it’s age well past any working function. “You all see that, right?”

You all murmur in agreement and you frown, staring at the face with intensity. You had seen this before. In a record somewhere, presumably, but you couldn’t remember Victor mentioning anything about a clock. Why was this important?

“Is this what you saw? In your visions?” Nancy asks and Max nods, gulping.

“I mean, it’s… just a clock. Right?” Robin tries to calm her, gently moving past and wiping a hand across the dusty glass. “Like a normal old clock.”

“A normal old clock that wasn’t there before.” You mutter to yourself and Nancy looks at you expectedly. You only shake your head, unsure of how you could even explain anything you didn’t even know.

“Why is this wizard obsessed with clocks?” Steve shakes his head. “Maybe he’s, like, a clockmaker or something?”

“Think you cracked the case, Steve.” Dustin spits sarcastically.

“All I know is… the answers are here. Somewhere.” Nancy looks at you again, brows furrowed. “Right?”

“Nance-” You whisper, but she’s already turning away.

“Okay, everyone stay in groups of no less than two. Robin, Y/n, upstairs.” She commands and Robin salutes in agreement, stepping down from the clock and stopping by your side when she notices you haven’t moved.

Your eyes were still fixated on the clock and Robin places a hand on your arm.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” You peel your eyes away from the hands that remained frozen in time and blink at her. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

When you reach the top of the staircase, you still feel Robin’s eyes on you, making you turn back to meet her. There’s a soft frown on her face until it drops completely when she realises she’s been caught, coughing.

“What?” You say with a breathy laugh and she avoids your eyes, head down.

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Robin feels like her entire body is flushing red just under your gaze. Why was she staring? Could she not be normal? She literally met you not even two days ago and she was already out of her mind trying to make you like her. As a friend, of course. It’s not safe to make assumptions like that in this town. Between you and Vickie, she was having the worst spring break of her life.

“Robin?” You call out to her again and she takes a deep breath, straightening up.

“Guys.” Nancy’s head pokes out of the doorway, gesturing for you both to join her. Robin exhales in relief and immediately walks away, leaving you a little dumbfounded.

“She does that.” Steve comments as he and Dustin come up the staircase behind you, a hand on his hip as he shakes his head at Robin’s retreating form. “Kind of reminds me of someone.”

“Who?” You frown and he stares at you for a moment too long, making your lips purse in annoyance.

“Bingo.” He says before Dustin eventually drags him away.

Robin’s flashlight illuminates a desk in a bedroom, the surface covered in cobwebs and dust. She tries to study the small things scattered across it; some books, perfume, a box. It kind of reminded her of Nancy’s room a little bit. The light shone onto the edge and her breath catches, brows furrowing. This part wasn’t as dusty as the rest.

“So,” Nancy comes back through the adjoining room she was investigating, smiling at Robin. “You and Y/n are…”

“What?” Robin almost drops her flashlight, muttering an excuse about Nancy making her jump. “Are, uh… are what?”

“Friends, I assume.” Nancy shakes her head like it was obvious, “You seem to be getting along.”

“Oh.” She nods, forcing herself to act casual as she inspects the shelves. “Yeah. I mean, she’s nice. I don’t really know her that well, though. And it’s only been like, what, a day? Obviously not enough time to know eachother but she’s cool, not like too cool for us kind of cool but cool like… yeah, she’s nice.”

Nancy hums, her smile growing when you walk into the room.

“What did I miss?” You ask, barely glancing at the room around you. Robin turns her head in your direction, looking at how you stood right next to the bed.

“Nothing.” Nancy sighs, looking around her one last time. “Maybe we’re approaching this the wrong way? I mean, the answers aren’t gonna be in plain sight.”

A massive crash echoes out from down the hall and Nancy’s eyes widen before she goes to investigate.

“Nice room, right?” Robin says and you blink, an unnatural head movement making you look around.

“Yeah, I guess. Could use a cleaner.” You add and she smiles, hearing Steve’s voice mutter something about a black widow. You mouth it at her in curiosity and she shrugs, following you to the noise.

“I got it.” Nancy says, picking something out of Steve’s hair as he lets out a breathy ‘thank you’.

“If there’s a spider nesting in there, you’re never gonna find it until it lays eggs and the babies spill out.” Robin says as you round the corner, making you laugh.

“What’s wrong with you?” Steve sighs in frustration and Robin chuckles. “Robin, seriously. She’s got problems.”

“Yeah.” Nancy agrees in a whisper and you roll your eyes. Some little part of you hated the way they talked about Robin.

“Did you get the spider?” You question her and she nods, “Shame. It might be the only thing that will ever be attracted by the amount of products you put into that hair.”

“Wha-” Steve turns in surprise, shaking his head. “Have you got a problem with me or something?”

“Ooh.” You blink, crossing your arms. “I don’t have the time in the day to even begin answering that.”

“Hey, you wanted to be here.” Steve frowns, both of you ignoring Nancy’s attempt at defusing the situation. “It’s not like I dragged you into this, why are you taking it out on me?”

“I have never once blamed you.” You scoff, “You’ve been nothing but shitty towards me since I got here.”

“Oh, and you’ve been a peach?” He challenges, making you narrow your eyes. “What is your problem with me?”

“Uh, guys? You’re both very pretty, how about we calm down?” Robin interjects this time, slightly taken aback by how furious you looked. Your eyes soften when you turn to her, however, losing that angry spark.

“Robin’s right, this isn’t the time.” Nancy says softly and your lips tighten.

“Right.” You slowly nod, a sad laugh leaving your lips. “We wouldn’t want emotions getting in the way.”

Robin watches as both of their faces drop, Nancy’s eyes widening while Steve started looking very uncomfortable. She knew about your dad, about how he had died like so many other people last year. But this didn’t look like guilt on their faces. It was regret.

“I think I saw another staircase, so…” You vaguely gesture behind you before taking off.

Robin hesitates for a moment before following you, rushing to your side. As soon as you hear her footsteps approach, you sigh.

“You don’t have to-”

“You need a light.” She says, flicking on her flashlight. “I also think you might need a friend.”

When you both turned the corner to the staircase you had in mind, you didn’t ascend them. Instead, you plop yourself down on one of the lower steps and put your head in your hands, feeling Robin’s comfort settle beside you.

For once in her life, Robin doesn’t speak first. She doesn’t try to fill the awkward silence with her forced ramble of words because she doesn’t feel like she has to. So, when you lift your head and take a deep breath, she knows she’s finally made the right choice.

“Last year…” You begin, turning your head towards her but never meeting her eyes. “I had to make a lot of decisions. A lot of them were easy, but… I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let anyone I love get hurt.”

“Your dad?” Robin asks quietly and you let out a breathy laugh, looking at her.

“I didn’t really have a good relationship with him.” You admit and she nods along, looking back at you like she knew exactly what you meant. “He worked at the Post. Um… I had been working there for a while after I graduated. I managed to get Nancy and Jonathan jobs there, too. He was one of the… he got flayed.”

“Shit.” Robin sighs and you nod. Nancy had only told her he died last year. She had no idea it was because of that thing.

“When he showed up at the hospital, I got… scared. All I wanted to do was run away.” Your face scrunches and she can tell you’re holding something back from her. “Um, Nancy and Jonathan convinced me to stay, told me they needed me there. And I ended up getting hurt. It’s not… I don’t blame them. It was my decision. They just… it’s hard to explain.”

“So you went to college.” Robin nods along and you smile at her. “I would’ve done the same. If I was even out of high school yet. God, I completely forgot about that part.”

“Spring break, right?” You smirk at her and she laughs, clapping her hands.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure everyone else is in, like, Spain or something. But what could ever compare to hunting down an evil wizard from an alternate dimension?”

“Honestly, they’re missing out.” You joke and, for a moment, you completely forgot about why you were sat here with her in the first place. But then that anger creeps in again, caged emotions you’ve been tucking away into the back of your mind threatening to break free. “I think… I think it was a bad idea for me to come.”

“What?” Robin’s head whips up, eyebrows scrunching together beneath her bangs. “No, we- we need you here.”

“Do you?” You ask, scrunching your face again. “Everything you guys know right now, that’s all I have to offer you. I wanna be here for Max, I really do, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be here when I obviously can’t-”

You gesture to the direction of where you had left Steve and Nancy, sighing. Robin was quiet and you started to think that maybe she was agreeing with you. You were only causing arguments and living in your feelings from the past, dishing out the blame like it wasn’t your choice to stay at that hospital.

“I think you know more than you’re telling us.”

Your wide eyes find Robin’s, her own still remained soft and inquisitive, studying your reaction.

“I don’t-”

“You knew where this staircase was.” She stops you, looking behind her at where it trailed up, “Except, you couldn’t have just noticed this here. We couldn’t see it from the main staircase, and Nancy never led us over in this direction.”

You hear Lucas’ voice call for everyone and you stand up, clearing your throat. “We should-”

“I kept seeing cleaner spaces everywhere.” Robin stands and holds out her arm to block you from leaving. “The bedroom, I- I saw a spot that wasn’t as dusty as the others, like someone more recent than the Creels had been in there. And when you walked in, you didn’t even try and look around, like you had seen it all before.”

Your breath hitches in your throat and Robin’s eyes widen.

“Because you have been here before.” She frowns at you, and she’s never seen you look so small. “Y/n. Have you been here before?”

“Guys?” Steve’s voice calls out from below as you struggle to answer her. His feet come bounding up the steps, peering around the corner to find you both staring at one another. “Hey, hope I’m not interrupting or whatever, but we’ve got company.”

When Robin doesn’t answer, he raises his hands in surrender and backs away. “Whatever, just be ready.”

“He’s here.” You whisper out when Steve was out of earshot, your begging eyes set on Robin. “Robin, we can’t be here, it’s not safe.”

She starts to shake her head, feeling like her heartbeat was thrumming in her ears. “What-”

The flashlight in her hand starts flickering wildly, a rush of footsteps echoing out from the hallway. Nancy mentions something about following Vecna, the lights leading them up the staircase and straight past you both, assuming you’d be following.

“What’s up there?” She asks, her voice almost inaudible.

“The attic.” You say, shaking your head as if you were surprised you even knew it. “Robin, I don’t-”

“Have you been lying to us?” She questions, chest heaving. “Did you know what was going on this whole time?”

“No!” You grab onto her jacket when she moves towards the stairs. “No, Robin, please, you have to believe me. I had no idea who Vecna was, I didn’t know any of this was going to happen! I- I don’t-”

“You don’t, what?” She challenges, staring at you like she was afraid. “How do you know what’s up there, how did you know about the bedroom-”

“Because I dreamt about it!” You finally blurt, a tear slipping down your cheek. She looks startled, frozen in place, and you take the chance to finally explain yourself. “Four years ago, I had a really vivid dream about a house, about murders. I- I thought it was just another nightmare, but something didn’t feel right about it so I researched and that’s when I found out about the Creel massacre. That’s why I started researching it in the first place. I wanted to know why I was seeing it. When I couldn’t find any photos of the place, I broke in here. I told myself it was just for research, but I… I started looking everywhere, and I couldn’t find it- I couldn’t…”

“Find what?” She almost slips on a step as she moves back towards you, a fearful look in her eye.

“The clock.” You say, wiping your tear. “I remember seeing a clock in my dream, and it wasn’t here. Not before, not when I looked. But then Max found it, and I- I don’t know what’s happening, I can’t- I can’t explain any of it but I just have this really bad feeling that we shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t-”

The light in Robin’s hand starts beaming brighter, making her drop it out of shock. It rolled across the ground, hitting the bottom step of the staircase and then, without warning, it shattered completely.

You both jump, Robin’s hand grabbing your arm as she looks away. You can both hear the murmurs from the attic, telling you this was happening to everyone. And, for some reason, you felt numb. Completely numb.

When Robin finally shakes away her fear, she lifts her head, closer to you now than before. There was a trickle stain of a tear running down your cheek, your bottom lip red from where you would gnaw on it constantly when you were stressed. There was so much about you she didn’t know, so much you probably would never tell anyone else.

“I promise.” You start, bringing your eyes to meet hers. “I will tell you everything. But you can’t tell anyone else. Please.”

Fuck, Robin thought, staring back into your eyes. How could she say no to you?

taglist: @kryztalglear / @dejerw / @officerrrfriendly / @a-simpfortessa-lesbriean / @spacedoutdaydreamer / @endurexxsurvive / @em16cor / @gray-cheese / @chaosofmanyfandoms / @kitdjarin1

[angeldrawsstuffs]

They Say it Gets Better

Summary: Cooper’s always struggled to live up to his family’s expectations of him, especially with the bar set so high my his brothers. But, before he had the Dream World to retreat to, Cooper had a… different solution

Based on this post of mine.

“You never forget your first.”

Cooper’s heard that said about a lot of things.

First crush.

First kiss.

First goal.

First A+.

First award.

But for him…

It’s the first time he ran away. Or- tried to, at least. Evidently, that didn’t work out so well. Really, all that’d happened was he’d gotten into a fight with his family, nothing really out of the ordinary, families have their disagreements. But, Cooper’s little 5th grade mind just… took it too personally is all.

He didn’t go far! He just ran over to Mateo’s place and… cried a lot, begging José to let him live there forever. Just kid stuff, it wasn’t all that serious, he was just overreacting!

Just an overreaction…

Well, needless to say, his great plan didn’t work for long, since he was over there for all of ten minutes before his mom came knocking. Much to little Cooper (and Mateo and Izzie’s) dismay, he was forced to go back home and deal with his family. The tension was thick in the house, almost like you could cut it with a knife.

His parents didn’t really… punish him, but he got a long talking to about how dangerous what he did could’ve been. And he didn’t do it again!

…that year.

The second and third times he tried were in sixth grade, just a year before he became an aware dreamer.

He really could’ve used the Dream World back then, you know? Then he could’ve just messed around with quite literally the car of his dreams instead of-

Well- being manhandled by his brothers.

He knows it sounds bad, but it was only because he’d gone out at night and tried to hide in a dirty alleyway that was probably super dangerous!

Ok- maybe some context is needed there.

The second time he tried to run away… went about as well as the first attempt. He thought he was being slick when he asked Mateo to cover for him by holding onto one of his model cars for the day, thus tricking the adults into thinking he was with Mateo again when, really, he was trying to hide at school.

It… went about as well as you’d expect. Mr. Oz ended up catching him that time. Although, to his credit, he did seem impressed with how long Cooper got away with that one for (about six hours if he remembers correctly).

But, in the end, Cooper was returned home once more and got the… privilege of his mom and brothers checking in on him every hour and a half…

For the next week.

This deterred Cooper for a few months. That was, until, the big blowup.

He shouldn’t have yelled.

He shouldn’t have cried.

He knows he was ungrateful.

He knows he was wrong.

But everything, every bit of bubbling resentment, every drop of anger and jealousy came spilling out that night.

He regrets every word of what he said.

Especially his final words:

“I wish you just didn’t have me!”

Overreaction. He knows.

In the moment it felt like the right thing to say, but, in hindsight (and a trip to the school counselor), it was the worst thing to say. He hurt his mom, his brothers, everyone. Running out the door right after didn’t help the situation at all.

This time, Cooper didn’t even tell Mateo where he was going. Mostly because he himself didn’t even know. He just knew he had to get away. He couldn’t face his family! Not after- after that!

He didn’t want to even consider the consequences of a young kid on the streets of Brooklyn, cold and alone with no one knowing where he is. He honestly didn’t care at the time, all he cared about was finding some place to hide. Hide from his actions, hide from his words, hide from his family.

How could he have been so cruel to his family?

Eventually, he found an alleyway a few blocks away from his house. Cooper knows a dark, dirty alleyway should’ve been a deterrent to his plans, but he was just so exhausted. His legs felt like Jell-O, giving out from beneath him behind a dumpster.

He doesn’t remember when he passed out. He remembers crying… a lot, and everything just… going black.

He woke up to a sudden aching in his arm. His eyes flew open, taking a few seconds to reorient to the now early morning sky.

His brothers.

Cooper tried to fight back, he wiggled and squirmed, heart racing faster than one of his model car’s engines in his chest. He should’ve realized it was fruitless immediately, his brothers were all stronger, faster, better than him.

It was all a blur from there. He remembers yelling. A lot of it.

But he also remembers being hugged, told about how worried everyone was.

He remembers the sinking feeling in his heart as the weight of his actions finally occurred to him.

It was that moment he vowed to never run away again. Things can get better, especially if he doesn’t pull that stunt again. He just needs to work harder to meet expectations.

He just needs to try.

[tomboyjessie13]

I had this scenario in my head for a while and I had ChatGPT flesh it out but I will rewrite it myself, because this is more of a plot bunny but tell me how funny this idea is.

The Scene: Cozy Living Room

The Nordics were gathered in a cozy living room, sitting around a large coffee table piled high with snacks, board games, and a few whimsical ornaments. It was a lazy afternoon, and the atmosphere was relaxed, filled with laughter and playful banter. But beneath the fun, a competitive tension began to simmer. Each of them silently vied for Cindy’s attention, hoping to charm her with their unique styles—much to the unspoken annoyance of the others.

Cindy lounged comfortably among them, blissfully unaware of the brewing rivalry. As she watched, she felt a playful sense of power—she had the affections of all these intriguing Nordic beings, and it was amusing to see how far they were willing to go to win her over.

The Flirting Begins

Norway leaned closer, sharing a story about the breathtaking fjords back home. “You should visit sometime. The scenery is… breathtaking, much like yourself.”

“Aw, Norway, I’ve seen a few pictures, but I’d love to see it for myself!” Cindy smiled, her eyes sparkling.

Denmark, sensing his moment slipping away, chimed in with a loud laugh. “Yeah, but have you seen the wild parties in Copenhagen? I could show you a good time that you’ll never forget!”

“Please, like you could out-fun the beauty of Norway’s nature!” Norway shot back, his voice laced with feigned annoyance, but his eyes betrayed his jealousy.

Finland decided to jump into the mix, attempting to keep the conversation serious. “Well, Cindy, if you’d prefer some tranquility, we could always relax in a sauna together. I promise it’s a wonderful experience.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather have some action! Why relax when you can party?” Denmark interjected, clearly wanting to drown out Finland’s suggestion.

The playful verbal sparring only escalated, and soon Sweden couldn’t stay silent. “If you’re going to party, let’s make it a proper one by having some good Swedish food too. What about some meatballs afterward? You can’t have a party without meatballs.”

Rising Tension

As the banter continued, the mood shifted. Glances became sharper, and little jabs turned into full-on competitive remarks.

“Come on, Finland, your idea of fun is sitting in a hot room and meditating!” Denmark exclaimed, crossing his arms and leaning back dramatically.

“Oh really, Mr. Wild Party? Is that why you’re constantly getting kicked out of venues?” Finland shot back, a smirk forming on his lips.

Cindy chuckled at their silly bickering but found herself slightly overwhelmed by their intense rivalry. “Guys, it’s all in good fun! You don’t need to fight over me!”

“Maybe you should pick one of us then!” Iceland chimed in, attempting to add fuel to the friendly fire. “Everyone knows that I’m the most cultured here!”

The Cockblocks Enter the Scene

Suddenly, to diffuse the tension, Cindy pulled out a bag filled with quirky plush toys shaped like square chickens, aptly named Cockblocks. “Alright, enough of the banter! How about you all take a shot at my new plushies instead?”

“What are those?” Norway asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

“They’re Cockblocks!” Cindy laughed, pulling one out and tossing it at Denmark, who caught it mid-air.

Denmark’s eyes widened in mock horror. “You’ll pay for this, Cindy! I’m not a cockblock!” He tossed the plush toy back at Norway, who caught it with a smirk.

“Oh, but look at it, Denmark. It’s perfect in matching your personality,” Norway teased, chucking the plushie back at him.

The chaos escalated as each Nordic began throwing the Cockblocks at one another, laughter filling the room as they cleverly made comments with each throw.

The Cockblock War

“Oh, look, Denmark! A perfect representation of how you always try to block my path!” Norway laughed as he pelted Denmark with another plushie.

“Hey! At least I have more charisma than your ‘brooding silence’ act!” Denmark shot back, tossing two plushies in tandem, hitting both Norway and Iceland.

Iceland jumped up, shouting, “That’s it! I’m declaring a Cockblock war!” He grabbed two plushies and started throwing them wildly, almost hitting Cindy.

“Watch it! I’m the one giving those out, you fool!” Cindy exclaimed, laughing as she dodged a flying Cockblock.

“Too slow, Cindy!” Sweden teased and threw a plushie directly aimed at Finland, who tried to shield himself with his arms.

“Guys! It’s practically raining Cockblocks in here!” Finland shouted, attempting to throw them back but ended up tripping over a cushion instead.

Cindy, laughing hysterically at how silly the situation had become, finally yelled, “Okay, okay! Enough! Maybe you should all just use these to block each other out!”

Aftermath of the Playful Chaos

Finally, as feathers exploded from the Cockblocks and laughter filled the room, the Nordics paused, panting from the playful frenzy. They looked around at the mess, at each other, and then at Cindy, who was gleefully enjoying the spectacle of their antics.

“Okay, we might need to work on our aim,” Denmark chuckled, picking up a plushie and tossing it to Cindy.

“Or at least learn to be more civil about this,” Sweden said, trying to catch his breath.

As the laughter slowly died down, all the Nordics found themselves a bit closer, their competitive spirits momentarily quenched by the silliness of what had just happened. They realized how much they enjoyed sharing this light-hearted moment with Cindy and with each other.

Cindy smiled brightly, looking at each Nordic in turn. “See? This is what good fun looks like! You’re all great, but just remember—no blocking!”

With that, the Nordics gathered their plushies, settled back into the couch, and took a moment to find peace in the shared laughter and joy of sibling rivalry, each secretly more determined than ever to win Cindy’s heart, but for now, simply enjoying the moment of camaraderie.

...............Uuuuuhhh...

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶Eddie's month began with a rough start, but as the days passed, and your time together grew, his mood improved. He opened up to you, and you listened. Then things escalated. Slow dancing in the garage? Openly flirting while hanging Christmas decorations? This wasn't what he was supposed to be doing with his coworker who was leaving in a few months. And to make matters worse..

"I swear I didn't hang that," he promised while Adrie held both your hands, giggling under the mistletoe.✶

NSFW — slow burn, fluff, flirting, mutual pining, mild sexual tension, light angst, depictions of poverty, mention of blood, reader wears eddie's work jacket, 18+ overall for eventual smut, drug/alcohol mention/use

chapter: 6/20 [wc: 16k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 6: May I Have This Dance?

Eddie opened the cabinet above the coffee machine in the breakroom, and took out his mug to replace it with a themed one of Garfield attempting to coax Nermal under a sprig of mistletoe for a kiss. He stepped back, admired the change in seasons, and clung onto the giddy elation before the impending stress wove knots into his muscles.

He’d be getting a lot of use out of that mug in the coming days..

————

Eddie disguised his crisis well.

He knocked on your desk while keeping the glass door open with his foot, “Hey, can you make me another pot of coffee?”

It was a favor you were happy to oblige. Pausing from thumbing through the filing cabinet, you smiled at him over your shoulder. “Sure!”

And later, he came to you again–diverting the stress from entering his eyes by focusing on the kindness in yours.

“Do you mind if I eat alone today?” he asked, flopping his black notebook back and forth for you to frown at.

“Fine, but you owe me.” And of course, he made it up to you the next afternoon, eating his sandwich made with the scraggy ends of the loaf, and no side container of leftovers, and downing it with a mug of coffee.

Adding onto that, Eddie concealed his problems through other means. Blocking out his suffering, disallowing it from bothering others, but to you, it was no bother.

You leaned over your desk to look into the garage, and asked Mr. Moore when he was passing by on the way to his office, “Did Eddie leave somewhere?”

“Awh, he’s probably out on a smoke break,” he said, rubbing his knuckles along his grayed beard.

“Another one?”

“Yeah, guess so.” He shrugged, inadvertently confirming your fears. “Been takin’ alottavem the past couple’a days.”

You had an inkling of what was going on when you caught Eddie eating his lunch earlier. Alone, scribbling in his notebook for the third time that week, dipping a knife into an unbranded metal can labeled PEANUT BUTTER and slathering the Government supplied commodity on a plain saltine cracker.

Sustenance to live, and hardly at that. You weren’t about to let him hide his misery behind excuses meant to keep you ignorant.

After closing, when everyone went home but you and Eddie, he poured himself the last of the coffee to stave off his hunger, and you shot up from your desk.

“Hey! I’m going out for a sec. I’ll be right back, ‘kay?”

He backed his lips off the mug mid-sip in order to remind you to be safe because it was dark out, and you really should wear brighter colors for cars to see you, and to slow down before the sharp turns because there could ice on the road and you could get hurt, and, and–

“Bye!” You cut off his worrying by riding past the doors with your eyes on him, not where you were going, narrowly missing a street pole by centimeters.

~~~

Back in record time–beating the previous record by default because you’d never had this idea before–you hopped off your bike, loaded your hands with the two paper bags sitting in the handlebar basket, and ripped the stapled receipt off them. You finagled your way into the garage.

“Eddie!” you shouted his name as you entered. And louder again as you approached him from behind. Tempting as it was, you didn’t want to scare him, but part of you hated raising your voice, as well. It felt blasphemous to disturb the scene which captured your heart time and time again.

He was at the workbench in the back corner, sat on a stool with his heavy boots on footrests, knees angled out, bouncing his legs in a rhythm offset from one another–most likely parroting the drumbeat of the tinny music funneling from his headphones so loud he’d surely lose his hearing one day.

The smooth expanse of his shoulder shifted and flowed under his coveralls as he worked, hunched over a set of parts he was cleaning. He settled his forearms on the edge of the creaky wood and swirled an old toothbrush into a bowl of cleaning solution, and scrubbed at the hunk of metal in his hands, setting it aside on the stained towel when he was finished to let it dry. A diligent worker, through and through. Tendons in his tired hands straining to hold the next slippery piece as he circled the bristles over the grooves craggy with grease. Muscles in his jaw tensing from the way he clenched his teeth in between mouthing the lyrics to the music vibrating his brain.

Concentration bundled itself between his eyebrows and above his scrunched nose.

It was endearing to watch him work; watch the menial things he was good at for no other reason than to familiarize yourself with all assets of him.

But good things must come to an end, for you had a better one in store.

You caught him right as he was dropping into a reserved headbang on a chord progression you could hear wailing from where you stood. “Hey there, handsome.”

He panicked, and knocked the headphones around the back of his neck. “Shit, I didn’t hear you come in.” He paused the cassette player clipped to his pocket with a sharp click, and after fixating on your sly grin for a second longer, he dropped his gaze to the oil-soaked paper bag in your hand. “Food?”

“The burger place down the street messed up my order,” you replied in soft amusement. “Do you want the extra?”

He didn’t need convincing.

~~~

The sounds of your togetherness filled the open room–wheels rolling on concrete, crinkly wrappers in your hands, and the grateful noises of him devouring his dinner. Sitting parallel to one another on the creepers, you rolled back and forth, brushing shoulders with Eddie on each pass, stuffing your faces until your taste buds dulled with french fry oil, and sparked with blooms of tangy ketchup.

Wordlessly, he told you he was ready to talk by coming to a stop past the point of your shoulders touching, and resting his arms atop his wide-spread knees, holding the last bites of his burger in front of his face.

You twisted around to observe the width of his back rise with a deep breath.

“Child support is late again. Happens every December, but it’ll come a day or two before it’s officially considered late in January.” Deepening his voice, he put an edge of distaste when speaking about Adrie’s mom, “She has the money–her and her husband have good jobs–so it’s just to be petty and get back at me, or whatever. Like being tied to me years later should affect our kid when I don’t even speak to her.”

“Eddie..”

He shook his head to dismiss the pointless pity imbued in your tender whisper of his name. “Doesn’t matter. Money’s tight, but we get paid tomorrow, so that’ll help.. I figured you knew something was up when I stopped eating with you, but anywhere I can save helps. I want to make sure Adrie has a good Christmas this year.”

Realizing something, he raised his hand to ward off any criticism you were about to give him, having been trained to expect it from others since his daughter was an infant. “I want to make it clear.. Adrie always has food,” he stated slowly, and from a place of loathsome apprehension in his chest.

“It never crossed my mind she wouldn’t.” You pushed yourself backwards on the rolly board, and leaned into him, bicep to bicep, gazes met. “I know you’re a good dad” –He glanced away– “You are, Eddie, and I know how well you take care of Adrie, even when shit like this happens. And Christmas will always be special because of how much you love her, not because of what you buy her.”

“But I want her to keep up with her friends, and bond over whatever they’re into.”

“I know you do..”

Even to his detriment, through the sacrifices he made, he’d make sure his daughter had whatever she wanted.

You ran a purposeful knuckle along his tensed tricep. It didn’t earn his eye contact, but he did relax his hand, dropping it to peel down the rest of the wrapper and finish his burger while you spoke. “Maybe they’ll mess up my order again tomorrow, and we can eat lunch together.. And maybe Robin’s mom will make an extra casserole for dinner tonight, and I can leave it in the breakroom, if that’s okay?”

“I’d appreciate it.” No malicious pride. No toxic masculinity. No senseless denial. Eddie accepted your offer with gratitude, and packed his trash into the paper bag while you still ate, settling in with his arms hugged around his knees, ensuring some part of your bodies remained touching–in this case, it was your shoulders again.

The sweet, trusting pressure of yourselves melding into each other’s comfort.

Then, while the candidness was raw, it was your turn to point your attention elsewhere as you asked something you were shy to voice out loud, “Uhm, when we were at Adrie’s school, her teacher kept saying something about, like, you not carrying her, and babying her, or whatever.” You gestured vaguely as if you weren’t eavesdropping the entire time. “And I’d been meaning to ask if I’m–uh?–too affectionate with her? Like if it’s weird, or something I shouldn’t be doing? You’re the parent and I never really asked if it was okay before picking her up, and hugging her, and–”

He cut you off.

“No, no, no.” His assurance was delivered swift, and earnest. “How you are with Adrie is fine by me. More than fine. It’s–It’s–Seriously, it’s great having her look up to someone who isn’t me.”

“What about what her teacher said?”

“I don’t care,” he scoffed. “I know she means well, but it’s not like Adrie’s going to be a kid forever, and if I want to coddle her, who gives a shit. Now, her teacher is great, and I don’t want to diminish what my uncle, and people like Steve and Nancy have done for my family, but for most of Adrie’s life, it’s just been me and her, and even if she annoys the living fuck out of me sometimes, she’s all I have, and if I want to carry her around, I will.”

“You have me now, too.”

You heard yourself say it.

You heard yourself say it aloud, after he said his daughter was all he had, and now you had to follow it up with a tongue-tied spew of clarifications.

“Just, you know, it’s not only you, Adrie, your uncle, Steve and Nancy, and her teacher. You have me now, too, as your friend.. I mean, we are friends, aren’t we?”

Warmth spread through your body. From your ribs, outward, where he jabbed his elbow into your side. Thrumming where his weight pressed into you, sending his hip into yours. Pleasure–blooming–from his silly grin to your romantic heart, to your platonic fingers snagging the fabric of his coveralls around his thigh to stop him from shoving your board away. Yearning. Sprung from the grease dirtying your skin being the same as the black streak above his eyebrow where he wiped his bangs off his forehead.

“Yeah.. Yeah, I think after this, you’re my friend,” he agreed, accidentally kicking over the takeout bag in his teasing. “No qualifier of reluctancy, or addendums, or prefaces. We’re friends.”

Yeah, definitely friends.

Friends who could calculate the exact degree of the arc of the other’s smile through memory alone, having stared at their lips for longer than friends ought.

————

And you played the part of companion quite well, you thought, when Eddie cursed as he came in from the garage with his hand cradled to his chest.

He ducked into the bathroom, and before the door closed, he was pushing it open on his way to the breakroom sink. “Shit. Don’t we have a first aid kit?” he asked.

“Oh! I left it in the women’s restroom after I got a paper cut.” You pushed yourself away from your desk, and found it in the cabinetry, bringing it to him as he scrubbed Dawn soap over his left hand, from upper wrist to fingertips. “Is it bad?” you asked cautiously. Blood was.. fine. But anything needing stitches was more than your red zipper pouch could help with.

“I’m okay,” he grunted, voice deep with the resonance of an inconvenience, more so than true pain. “Just one of those shitty surface cuts that doesn’t stop bleeding.”

The moment Eddie’s hands were dripping with diluted red water instead of blackened motor oil droplets, you tore a paper towel from the roll, cupped his palm, and folded it over his pinky and outermost knuckles. You bent over to keep his hand over the sink, and accepted the sharp jut of his elbow tucked into the softness of your waist.

The scrapes were shallow, as he said. You pressed your thumbs over the superficial wounds until the white paper dotted bright crimson–same color as his cheeks–and he remained silent. He didn’t deny your doting. Didn’t disrupt the gesture, nor break the spell.

It was a nice moment. Until you opened an alcohol wipe and swabbed it over the afflicted area. His mouth twitched at the stinging liquid cooling on his skin. As it dried, you made brief eye contact and shied away from his suspicious squint, like you had a secret to tell him sealed behind your lips all morning.

“What’s that look for?”

While pulling out two beige bandages for his knuckles, you answered in feigned indifference, “Oh, nothing. Just.. y’know.. Mr. Moore promoted me to Office Administrator, and maybe it came with a little raise, and who knows, an extra sick day or two.”

“Nice!” He angled his hand so it was easier for you to wrap the Band-aid around to the side of his palm where there was a wet, angry cut. He was trembling from the rush of adrenaline, endorphins, and relief he didn’t get more injured from his strained muscles giving out while wielding a power tool without protective gloves on.

“So now I have the confusing job of being both the person who cleans the toilets, and also organizes payroll.” You drew your eyebrows in. “Whatever organizing payroll means.”

Eddie watched you turn over the pouch to shake out the slots where the more grown up, adult bandages usually resided, and came up empty. Instead, a metal tin with Sesame Street characters clattered on the countertop. You popped it open.

“Hope you don’t mind,” you said.

Cookie Monster and Big Bird were gingerly wrapped around his pinky, protecting him from further harm.

Bright, cheery colors in contrast to the grime nestled into the crevices of his skin, and the dark blue coveralls he wore today. Your delicate touch. And his rough calluses. Your soft, chapstick-slick lips. And his cold-weathered mouth lifted at the corner. Your obedient body turning with his. And his face drawing near. Your tender, weak grip on his injured hand. And his sneaky fingers reaching past you.

He took three extra Band-aids and put them in the pocket below his embroidered name patch.

Eyelashes fluttering at the sensation of your forearm resting against his stomach, you chided him in the faintest exhale, “That’s stealing from the company, you know. I could write you up.”

Pleading with you amidst a persuasive smile, he begged, “If Adrie sees I have a cool Band-aid, and she doesn’t get one too, she’ll be upset.”

“That’s not fair.” Not like you cared if he took things from work, but if the Band-aids were for Adrie, you’d give him the entire tin, and he knew it. “You play a mean game, Eddie, using my greatest weakness against me.”

He took another Bert and Ernie, and slipped them in with the others, patting his pocket flat.

In a defeated sigh, you crumbled under the smug display of his proud chest, gaze trained on the cursive lettering composing his name, the motor oil blackening his cuticles, and the grease stain on his coveralls from the french fry he dropped earlier.

“Who’s the pushover now?”

“Considering you’re robbing me of Sesame Street Band-aids to bribe your daughter out of a tantrum?” You looked him up and down, from his half-closed eyes to the ketchup stain. “Still you.”

He hummed a warm reply, and twitched his other hand closed, curling his fingers over yours for a split second. A movement stunted by the bandages. Likewise, you drummed your fingertips on the heel of his palm, and let go.

“Wear your gloves next time, idiot.”

“Yes, dear.”

————

Taking on the role of Office Administrator meant one thing to the both of you: less time together.

The interactions were fleeting; sneaking a glance at each other when Eddie made an unnecessary trip to the breakroom to get his jacket for an equally unnecessary smoke break. But it meant he’d pass by Mr. Moore’s office twice while you were being taught how to fill out ledgers and spreadsheets. Two possibilities for you to become enamored with his hair flowing from underneath his bandana, and two chances for him to capture your interest with his charm–his larger than life presence stomping past the door with his chin held high and his hands in his back pockets, looking at you out the corner of his eye, and giving you that tight, knowing grin.

It was lonely working in the mornings, having a short lunch at your desk while scheduling business meetings with salesmen for Mr. Moore, and clocking out at 4PM to help take care of things at home while Robin was managing the night shift, and her dad was on bed rest.

You missed Eddie.

Eddie missed you.

————

It was a cold, bleak mid-December night after a dreary day of clouds and wind. The service bay doors were closed, except for one to allow the draft to carry out lingering exhaust fumes. Darkness smothered the world beyond the auto shop, interrupted intermittently by the odd car stopping at the streetlight. Turn signals blinked. Headlights peered into the warehouse, shining light on the single truck in the empty garage.

Blissful, tranquil winter. Crisp, throat-aching air. Bites of frost sinking into flesh. Numbed fingers. Frozen teeth nipping at the bone. Undisturbed. Quiet. No music.

“Man, it’s freezing in the lobby,” you complained loudly upon entering Eddie’s domain and crouching in front of the space heater next to the workbench.

The pair of legs sticking out from under the truck shifted.

Surprised by your sudden appearance, and grumpy about the loss of hot air directed at him, Eddie beat his wrench on the wheel axle to show his annoyance when you giggled and refused to move. In fact, you hunkered down, rubbing your palms together, hogging all the warmth while having the audacity to wear his tan work jacket.

He tapped the heel of his heavy work boot at you. “I thought you left for the day.”

“Did you really not notice me at my desk for the past hour?”

After waving the tool at the underside of the truck he’d been staring at for the better part of the evening, he then tucked his chin to make a snide remark, “Do you think I keep track of your whereabouts at all times?”

“Yes.”

No response except for a sour expression. Predictable. It was in his best interest to roll his head to the side, and pretend to be working by muttering mathematics to himself. You, however, stood up, and sidestepped the heater to read the buttons on the stereo radio, and dug for the cassette you slipped into the jacket’s pocket before coming out here.

Snap. Click. Whirr.

The black tape spun on the wheels, and from the speakers strung at the back corners of the garage, music began.

Eddie’s groan rose above the plucky piano keys. “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re subjecting me to Christmas music.”

You shushed him, “It’s just jazz.”

Ella Fitzgerald’s warbling hum filled the concrete walls. Her stunning voice and evocative, blunt lyrics soothed your eyes closed. Face-burning words you weren’t ashamed of. You let them take you. Dipping and swaying your shoulders side to side as the piano lulled you into its drunken blitheness. Guiding you two steps to the left, the right. A lazy turn. Paused on the cusp of anticipation. You stopped. Blinked lovingly at the boots beneath you.

“May I have this dance?”

Metal clinked to the ground. Eddie gripped the edge of the car, and pulled himself out. Pushed himself into a sitting position on the creeper, focusing on your hand extended to him, and climbing his gaze upwards. To the smudges of pencil lead and blue pen ink on the inside of your fingers from where you gripped the writing utensils, to the coffee stain on the cuff of his jacket, the name patch, the roundness of your cheeks from your hopeful smile.

“My hands are dirty,” he said.

“I don’t care.” You urged in all gentleness, “Don’t turn me down because you’re shy. I’ll teach you.”

Teach me, he mouthed.

A delicious secret emerged.

Excitement, charismatic boisterousness, unhesitating–eager–sincere excessive vulnerability, bursting to be the shameless youth he used to be and oh so endearing–Eddie sprang into action at the upkick in tempo. The namesake of the song vibrated under his ribs–I’ve Got a Crush On You–and the garage blurred in your dizzy eyes.

Eddie, Eddie, eddie eddie eddie, eddieeddieeddie. Hawkins’ reject, the town’s outcast, Eddie, in all his awkward, standoffish exterior built to protect his sensitive heart, swept your right hand into his left. Raised them. Compelled you into a fast, tight spin under his arm, and at the rotation’s completion, you sank into each other’s embrace like a released breath.

You used the solid curve of his shoulder as leverage, and fit your other hand in the space between his thumb and index.

Eddie didn’t lead.

He demanded you follow.

His muscles were braced with ego as he ushered you backwards. Large advances towards you, forcing you away from the truck, and half-turns to the side with an appropriate pressure at your waist to follow him to the unoccupied center of the garage. But his modest hand grew longing in the distance as you struggled to keep up in the short chase. The thick jacket meant for durability kept him wanting more, and he used it to reel you in. Draw you near. Bodies untouching, but radiating heat in the hushed sigh of winter rolling in from the service door.

Not once had you managed to sound the question on your parted lips, but he understood it, and answered.

“You’re not the only theater kid,” he said softly. “It was the only elective I liked. Had to learn to dance for a few parts over the years, and if I may judge by your reaction, I’m not half-bad.”

You laughed, “Wh-Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

The smug grin he wore waned to something more humble in nature. “Mm-nn. I never wanted to interrupt your stories. It’s more interesting listening to you talk about how you played a witch in a slutty Off-Off-Broadway rendition of Macbeth where you managed to snap both your stilettos in the first Act, than it is for me to go on about how I played background character #4 in my second senior year of high school and mostly used the class as an excuse to make props and shit.”

“Eddie,” you whined. Once upon a time, during your first days working here, he told you to leave him alone for jabbering on about the theater works you and Robin were a part of, and now he reveals this? “I didn’t even think you were listening when I told you those stories. And again! Why–didn’t–you–tell me?” Your words were minced from you shaking his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it’d be relevant,” he explained, speaking in that shy mumble of his.

“We could’ve been dancing this whole time.”

Eddie hung his head back, and bounced his brows upward. “Mmm. You make it sound like you’ve been wanting to do this since we met.” His hum, his words sent his Adam’s apple crawling up the deep shadows his jaw cast on his throat. Vibrating from within his alluring chest, and coming from the plump lips which appeared less blemished since the last time you were blessed with studying them up close.

The tube of Carmex you found in his pocket was doing wonders.

Basking in the overhead lights as flowers did in the sun, he listened to the end of the song fade. He willed his eyes half-open as it switched, dropped his face to lock onto your gaze, and obeyed the slower rhythm. Languid lurches into your compliant hips to the smooth saxophone. Step, step– With a pivot, guiding you around the floor in an unpredictable routine. One which kept you guessing. Had the rolled cuff of his pants brushing against your ankle, and his body coaxing you into a quick reverse turn at the piping trumpets on the following track. Broached the intimacy of his scent in your nose. Of course he didn’t smell great after a long day of working, but.. By your racing heart rushing blood in your ears, you had to admit, you didn’t find it as gross as you should, either.

Breaking you from your trance of staring at the frizzy baby curls sticking to the dried sweat on his neck, he suggested, “Dip?”

Your surprised shriek bubbled into a scathing yelp of Mother Fu–.

Impatient, ineloquent, and forgetful of manners. It was by the grace of your muscle memory you grappled for his upper body before your eyes could adjust to the upside down car cruising by the shop, puttering to a stop at the intersection. The arch he put in your back was wicked. Sinful, even. Supported by his strong arms.

Merciful, he righted your world. And in reconciliation, he observed you with the same obsessive interest he showed when he made you laugh. Watching for your reaction, and when it was adoring, he relaxed the apology from his features.

He hooked a finger around the lock of hair stuck at the corner of his mouth, and pulled it free; clasped your hand again–the other was slipped under the back of the jacket, and he settled his forearm around your waist, hot palm on your spine.

You took the cue. You climbed the scope of his shoulder to wager your dignity on the tight muscle at the crook of his neck. When he didn’t object, and his easy grin remained, you ventured under his unruly mane and found the back of his neck. You slipped your thumb into his collar, and rested it along the naked skin of his nape.

He shivered.

A car passed by.

The gossipers of Hawkins watched a mechanic and his boss’ receptionist-turned-Office-Administrator stare into each other’s eyes, and sway.

The distance between you two was unassuming, except for the tastes of more when the music encouraged, twirling yourself under his lifted arm as two separate beings, and rejoining as a pair, rocking back and forth, side to side, smiling from the exploration into something new.

The drum beats ebbed to a drowsy cadence.

Minutes passed. The embrace became familiar. Your held hands were sticky with shared dust and nervous sweat. His exhale mingled with your inhale. The steady sway was a polite shuffle in either direction, any direction. It didn’t matter. The embrace was the point.

“As Office Administrator,” you started, “I wanted to throw a party next week, the day before our holiday off. It’d be right after work, if you wanted to hang out, eat, and maybe bring Adrie?”

Before he could answer, you lowered your voice to an all-too-candid beg, “Please? I promise it won’t be boring. Mr. Moore said no one’s thrown a work party before, and I’m terrified no one but Kevin and his three dogs will show up.” You put a compassionate squeeze on the back of his neck. “Please don’t let it just be me, Kevin, and his three dogs.”

The bottom of Eddie’s two front teeth showed as he spoke on the verge of a grin, “I thought he only had two.”

You whispered dramatically, “It’s three now.”

He pretended to think over the offer, shifting from foot to foot.

“Eddie.”

As if he could keep up the act when you craved his name like that. “I’ll go,” he placated you, but not before inclining his head, viewing you through his messy bangs and long lashes. “And of course I’ll bring Adrie.”

You celebrated by punching up your linked hands–yours smelling of pencil shavings, and his of burnt brake pads. Eddie used it to maneuver you into another turn. Smooth, suave. A true gentleman.

“Would you help me decorate too?” you dared ask. His answer was an apathetic grumble. “And maybe bring any non-denominational wintry decorations you have because all I could find in town were very red and green, and very Christmas-leaning.”

“You’re not sweetening the deal.”

“But it’s a ‘yes,’ isn’t it?”

Another dissuasive grumble.

Whimsy, breathless lyrics about fresh love trilled from the speakers. The cassette was on its last song before needing to be flipped.

“Do you really listen to jazz?” he asked, skirting into the territory of curiosity as his frame rocked you to the left.

“I listen to a little bit of everything,” you answered honestly, engaging in a fluid stride to the right. “Are you asking because of the music you listen to?” At once, your expression went wry, and his widened to barely constrained intrigue, like you were two steps ahead of him, reading his private thoughts. “The kinda stuff you blast when you think I’m not around.”

“You’ve heard that?”

Not helping the pink hue stemming from the hot base of his neck beneath your palm, you were quick to tease him, “Well, I’m not exactly competing in the Tour de France, y’know. You don’t wait for me to ride away before starting up your little concerts in here when you tell me to leave early. Bet you play air-guitar ‘nd everything when I’m gone, like a dork.”

Visibly curbing his habit to lick his lips, not desiring the swipe of dust it’d come with, Eddie narrowed his eyes, and cocked his head back to regard you down the slope of his nose. “Yeah? And what do you think of the music I listen to?”

“Unsurprising. Suits your image.” Engaging in a bit of intentionality, you worked your hand from his nape and introduced your fingertips to his other shoulder, wrapping your arm tighter around him, and you were enveloped by his warmth doing the same. The waistband of his coveralls rubbed against the metal zipper of his bulky jacket you wore as you moved in unison. “I recognize the big stuff. Metallica, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest..” You shrugged. “Accept?”

The tip of Eddie’s nose came into focus, then his big eyes searching yours as he turned his face side to side, examining you up close. “I wasn’t even playing Balls to the Wall. No one just casually names Accept like that. You like them!”

“Okay, okay, slow down, don’t get too excited,” you calmed him before he strained a tendon in the very finger he pointed at you. “I’ve couch surfed with a lot of weirdos, and lived with six roommates at one point. I’ve listened to my fair share of music through thin walls whether I liked it or not.. But yeah, I like metal enough, I guess.”

Though he unlinked your waltzing hands in his rush to assert himself in your personal space, his arm around your waist persisted–and if he were wary of crossing boundaries, he showed no heed when he employed his strength to press your chests together through the layers of clothes in a sense of spontaneity.

Your view was eclipsed by the thrill in his boyish grin, and then, his hair was slipping from your curious fingers.

“Wait here–!”

And he was gone. His body heat bounded away and out the back door. You were stunned with your hands still posed as if he were there.

You dropped your arms to your sides, and clutched the rugged canvas jacket around you, waiting, listening to the gravel crunch and a car door slam, peering out into the dark to see what became so important he left his dancing partner in the middle of the warehouse in utter confusion.

“Got it,” he said in his stride to the stereo.

“Got what?” It was rude enough to abandon you, and now he was ignoring you in his frenzy. You followed him to the workbench, and turned to the side to rest your hip on it. The heater thawed your shins while Eddie pried open a cassette, but you couldn’t read the front from how he held it in his palms.

Snap. Click. Whirr.

He leaned his ass on the table top and folded his arms over his chest, instilling a narrow distance between you two. His gaze was on the floor. Eyes falling closed. For once, he did not want to see your reaction.

The speakers crackled with static.

You startled.

It was a hard left turn from the somber jazz from before.

Drumsticks crashed on cymbals, setting the aggressive pace for a piercing guitar to enter on a screeching note, quickly devolving into thrashy chords sure to make the fingers sore, along with a bass and rhythm guitar that were getting lost in your pounding head.

Though he wasn’t watching, you schooled the surprise from your features, and relaxed your shoulders. The music wasn’t offensive in the least, but it was loud.

After the initial assault, and a quick bass solo, you were nodding along, enjoying the overwhelming beat pulsing in your throat making it difficult to breathe.

The shredding guitar wept to a softer bridge, and the vocals began.

The vocals began.

The vocals..

The lyrics were spoken–sung–with the last word being dragged into a melodic ballad as the instruments went silent. A rich note held by a man whose voice was neither deep, nor falsetto. Perfectly in the middle. Perfectly fitting your preference. Perfectly matching the one you heard most days, and thought about at night, when your bed was lonely and your body was flushed with heat.

Perfectly matching..

You snapped your attention to Eddie’s face. His eyelids twitched with movement. Individual curls of his hair swung in time to his head dipping to the tempo. His cheek jumped at the start of the next verse, and he dug his fingernails into his sleeve until they turned white.

“This is you,” you expelled in pure infatuation. “Eddie!” You clasped his bicep, and leaned in to him, excelling at matching his enthusiasm from earlier, and surpassing it. “Eddie, this is you!” He opened his eyes and slouched away from your efforts in a laugh, angling his face into his hair to hide his shy grin.

You ran your hand along his forearm and tugged, wheedling him out of the tight hug he had himself locked in, urging him to open up. “This is you singing, isn’t it? This is your band.” The cassette case was behind him. Corroded Coffin. Same name as what was on his sweatshirt on Halloween. 

The second button on his coveralls snapped open, below the one he always kept unfastened. You didn’t know at what point you were bold enough to put your hand on his chest, nor gather the fabric into your fist while shaking some sense into him, but you did. You really did expose the tight white shirt clinging to his sticky skin. All for the sake of validating Eddie.

When he continued acting far too humble–shrinking into himself, and mumbling how it wasn’t that cool–you wasted no time embarrassing yourself by jumping on your tiptoes, telling him just how cool it was, you promised.

Reaching behind him, he slapped the volume knob down so you both could stop shouting.

“I appreciate the groupie attitude, but it’s not like we’re a big deal, or anything,” he said, awkwardly folding one of his arms on top of the workbench as he surrendered and turned to you. His other hand hesitated near the bottom of the jacket. “About once a month we get a gig in Indy. Doesn’t pay much, but it covers the cost of the trip, and we get a decent crowd, I guess. Uhm, the venue sells out.. sometimes. People know some of the lyrics. We sell a couple of shirts..” he trailed off upon making eye contact. “We only get to practice on the days I leave work early. Maybe on the weekend.. so.”

Overflowing with sincerity, you trusted your hands to behave themselves on his forearm, laying your decent fingers over the tensed muscle above his wrist where he wore his watch.

He canted his head, and gave you a cynical look. “It’s not like we’re famous or anything.”

“I think it’s so cool you’re in a band,” you stressed. “How come you never told me?”

Shrugging, he glanced elsewhere. “Being you, and being from New York, you probably know hundreds of bands who’ve made it big. I’m sure you’ve met way more impressive people.”

Is that what this was about? Not sharing his theatrical past, and now his band because he was insecure about not impressing you, of all things? Using a resentful tone when speaking about his life versus yours, as if the comparisons mattered when it took all of your willpower to not stare at his lips in this proximity.

“Who cares who I’ve met. You sound amazing. The music, your voice. Everything. It’s uniquely yours, and I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner.”

Eddie sighed.

Cozying into the position, he leaned his weight on the arm you cupped your palms over, and there was a pull at the hem of the jacket. You shifted closer. He looped his finger into the pocket and rubbed his thumb along the edge of it, seeking an absent-minded distraction as he explained, “I also didn’t want to, ah–I don’t know.. Scare you off. Like, if you didn’t like it, or thought heavy metal was Satanic, or some shit.”

“Scare me off?” At least, you intended to repeat it back to him as a question, but your laugh interrupted you. “Oh, Eddie. Light of my day, my neverending fountain of mirth, a true joy to be around,” you gushed at his exaggerated sneer. “If you didn’t scare me off the first week of meeting you, where you made it a point to glare at me for the mere act of speaking in your direction, I don’t think your very obvious music taste would.”

He looked at his boots for a moment to reflect on his behavior, but forwent an apology, and instead asked, “So, you don’t think it’s lame for me to be pushing 30-years-old, and still playing in a garage band?” There was a truncated tension at the end of his question, like he wanted to add more self-deprecation to it, but stopped himself. Good thing, too, because you were about to voice your adulations until you were rendered to a puddle of embarrassment.

Sparing no sarcasm, you furrowed your brows and screwed your mouth into a snarky grin as you rolled your eyes. “Yeah, girls find it totally lame when hot guys with long hair drive fast cars and play loud music and are in a band. It’s totally the most unattractive thing, especially when they have tattoos and are good singers. Definitely isn’t a turn-on at all.”

Too far, too much, too inappropriate–

The last sentence was over the line, and you could see it in his surprised eyebrows wrinkling his forehead, and his wide pupils boring into yours, and his cheeks reddening as your words sank in.

The garage went viscerally quiet.

He stopped fidgeting with the jacket pocket.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

“Not just the vocalist,” he said, voice cracking on the whisper. “I play lead guitar, too.”

You spat out, “Very cool,” desperate for the relief of his face cracking into a flattered grin.

But no, Eddie didn’t grant you such comfort. However, he did spare you the chance to scratch at the anxious sweat dripping down your back when he rearranged how he was standing, and spun around to the stereo. “It’s pretty late, huh? We should probably get going.” He pressed his hips to the workbench as he organized the tapes into their cases. Then, he paused.

The case yours went to was blank. Nothing written on the dotted lines on the back, nor on the front of the tape.

“I need my jacket back,” he reminded you.

“R-Right.”

You shimmied it off, and handed it to him. He draped it over his arm, and clutched the bulk to his stomach, covering his front as he turned to face you again. “Here.” Holding out the black and white cassette with a stylized logo he drew himself, he gave you his personal copy of Corroded Coffin’s first recording session. “You take mine. I’ll take yours.”

“Are you sure?”

Staring at the mixtape compiled of the cheesy love songs you made over the course of a few nights, he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.” And as he dragged his feet backwards–avoiding the space heater without looking–he said on his way to the tray where he kept his rings, “We should do this again. The whole.. dancing thing.” He gestured with the tape. “I’ll pick the music next time, too.”

With his back to you, he cleaned up his station, and let you know you could go. “I’ll lock up behind you.”

“You never answered if you were helping me hang decorations,” you found your voice. It was hiding behind a hammering heart, and shallow-filled lungs.

Outside, a car honked at a truck to take their turn at a green light.

The metal teeth on his jacket ground together as Eddie zipped it up. He sank his heavy hands into the pockets to weigh them down, and crossed his work boots at the ankle to about-face in a sort of pirouette, pinning you with his lopsided grin and mellow demeanor. “You know, I thought with all the life lessons I’ve had to learn over the past five years, I’d be able to resist a pretty girl asking me to do things for her.” He snorted and flicked his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. “But when they’re as beautiful as you, I just can’t.”

His gaze came crashing down onto you, and your tongue froze at the tip of your teeth.

“Alright, Casanova,” you let out in a shaky breath. “I’ll take that as you agreeing, and will see you bright and early, and without any complaints.” You left as fast as you could.

No, really. The Tour de France better have a spot open for you, with how fast you pedaled home to sit on your bed, cross legged, happily ruining your hearing from having the volume scrolled to the max on your Walkman, listening to Eddie’s voice, wondering at what point the endorphins would wear off and you were stuck agonizing over how blatant you were about calling your coworker hot. And how he called you beautiful in return.

————

Talking amongst the sputtering coffee machine beginning its brew:

“The fourth one–uh–Solivagant, is definitely my favorite!”

“That one’s instrumental,” Eddie pouted. “And here I was under the impression you liked my lyrics.. Mm, a little lower on your side.”

You put blu-tack on your end of the banner, and pressed it into the wall. “I do! But that one really got stuck in my head. The way all the guitars came together to play the harmony was just–Eddie! You did that on purpose.”

Stepping around to the other side of the lunch table, you threw your head back in a groan at the glittery Happy Holidays sign you wrongly assumed he would help you hang without turning it into a way to tease you.

“You’re the worst,” you grumbled on your way to fix the banner so it was even, and his side wasn’t higher by a few inches.

“Sorry,” he said weakly between his snickering. “Let me.”

There was no letting him do what he wanted. He was going to push his way into your space, regardless. Literally, shoving a chair out of his way with his hip, and standing behind you to peel the sticky tacky off the wall, and raising it from your face’s height, to slightly above your head, needlessly, infuriatingly, unhelpfully helping you. Barging in with his hand on your shoulder, and his body at your back. Closer, more intimate than the time at the grocery store.

His inhale swelled his solid chest against your shoulder blades, and his hum rumbled down your spine. “Am I supposed to dress up nice for your party?”

You twisted your head back to admire the underside of his freshly shaven jaw smelling of astringent spice. “Only if you feel like it,” you guessed. “The dress I’m wearing is pretty casual, but you don’t have to do anything special if you don’t want to.” After circling his thumb over the tacky corner of the sign, he dropped his arms, grazing them over yours, if only in passing. “I think the other guys are wearing button down shirts.”

His gaze drifted as he visualized his closet.

You stared. “Do you really not have one nice shirt?”

“I might still have the one from my job interview,” he said, tucking his chin to look at you, creating a silly amount of wrinkles along his burgeoning grin.

The front door chimed. Either Carl, Kevin, or your boss just walked in, and it was then Eddie realized the position he had you in. It struck him when his peppermint-candy-and-cigarettes breath caressed your fluttering lashes, and he could discern the bubblegum flavored chapstick on your lips, just like you could observe the balm on his.

If someone saw him trapping you alone in the breakroom against the wall with your backside pressed to him, there would be no delicate conversation about consensual workplace relationships. He’d be gone.

“Sorry!”

Eddie made his swift retreat–three, no, four steps away.

You widened your eyes at him, at his obviousness, and tried to communicate through your facial expression you knew what he was thinking, and everything was okay. You two were a bit too comfortable around each other, that’s all. It wasn’t something serious he needed to explain away. No one caught him. It was innocent, like slow dancing when no one was around. Innocent. Teasing.

“I, uhm– Y-Yeah, the shirt.” He forced his fingers to unclench into limp fists at his side. Face pale, yet hot. “It’s–I’ll wear it.”

Wringing your hand around the fridge door handle, you bent towards him, and raised your eyebrows higher, imploring him to chill. “Eddie, you can come in a t-shirt and jeans. It doesn’t matter. Adrie can wear whatever she wants, too. It’s just a casual thing.”

Totally casual. Like the body heat fading from the back of your green knit sweater where his chest became acquainted with the acrylic. Dissipating on his skin beneath his coveralls where the crown of your head met his shoulder. Very casual.

“Uhm–”

“So..”

You both started, and ended.

“Mornin’!” Mr. Moore’s gruff greeting came from the hallway.

Treating it as a warning, you each responded with an acknowledgement of your boss’ appearance as he walked into the room. “Good morning!” and “Salutations!” To which you shut your eyes in exasperation at Eddie’s unusual welcome, begging him to act normal while Mr. Moore poured sugar in his coffee.

After stirring in complete silence, he took turns smiling at you both, and meandered to his office, closing the door behind him.

Eddie shifted topics to the table where piles of garland remained coiled.

“Should we–?”

“Wanna just, uh, forget decorating for today, ‘nd do it tomorrow?” you spoke over him.

“Yeah,” he answered, nodding too enthusiastically. He tossed his hair out of his face, revealing the red tips of his ears for a split-second, and said, “Tomorrow, yeah. We can do the rest of this shit tomorrow.”

A very graceful conversation between two people who just had a very ordinary interaction without any explicit implications.

“We’re still having lunch together later, right?” you asked.

“Duh. You’ve gotta finish giving me your thoughts on the rest of our EP. The chorus for Taladasian Empire has some meta references to the other songs, I don’t know if you caught onto that, but the second verse mentions..”

Oh, he was adorable when he hyperfixated. Not only did it steer the conversation away from the previous blood-scorching incident, but it was rather nice to have a reason to stare at his lips move a mile a minute as he conjured an unprompted dissertation about his music’s lore, even as you were sitting at your desk, pointing at your ringing phone, and suggesting he should also get to work.

There were only two days left before the long holiday, and customers needed their cars before the shop was closed for the break.

————

Kevin sipped his coffee in the early morning sunlight filtering through the garage.

You garnered Eddie’s help whenever he was available, and the current task was dressing up your receptionist desk to look like a big present, complete with a gold bow flowing over the ledge where the candy bowl sat. Eddie crouched at one end holding a roll of wrapping paper while you unfurled it to the other, and measured it to the side facing the lobby.

Kevin watched the interaction through a unique lens, noting how Eddie bounced on his heels, appearing both bored and anxious to get back to work, but when he glanced over at you–at your face pinched in concentration as you fought with the tape dispenser with one hand–it was as if his worries melted away.

The boy calmed down.

Though Kevin didn’t come in often, the effect you had on the misfit was overt in the sweetest way. It reminded him of his first and last love, who had since passed.

~~~

Carl sipped his coffee as he stood in the doorway to the breakroom.

The lobby was taken over by a cheerful wonderment.

Eddie was hanging white and blue streamers from the drop ceiling tiles, while you decorated the windows with silver snowflakes. At first, Carl thought Eddie was pinning them up around the perimeter of the room because he lacked direction, but then he saw why he insisted on following you around, setting up the step ladder directly behind you.

Without discussing it, you reached out for Eddie’s arm as you stepped onto the cushiony lobby chair customers sat in when waiting for their cars, and he was at the ready. He lent his balance to you, crooking his elbow for you to slot your fingers into, and once steady, you let go.

The conversation picked up where it was left off, and the decorating continued.

Now that the glass door was unblocked, Kevin shuffled inside with his cold mug to get a refill, and stopped next to Carl on his way to the coffee machine.

“You sure those two ain’t datin’?” he asked.

Carl shrugged with his mug on the way to his mouth. “Apparently not. Ed said they’re just friends.”

At a sound in the lobby, they craned their heads to the furthest wall to witness Eddie beaming down at you. His smile was a rarity, and watching the enormous emotion take over him when you touched his arm and laughed at his joke; it was a sight worthy of remembering.

Kevin scratched at the side of his head, then straightened out the bill to his baseball cap over his wispy white hair, and squinted at the mischievous glint in Carl’s eyes.

“But David did say he walked in on them looking mighty flustered yesterday.”

“Did he, now?”

Swallowing the hot coffee with a wet smack of his lips, he emphasized a drawn out, “Yep.”

Kevin suggested, “Maybe the holiday spirit will take over, and they’ll confess their feelings under some mistletoe.”

“Uck,” he replied with a disgusted noise. “You’re always such a romantic.”

“You’re the one starin’ at them,” Kevin countered on his way to the coffee pot, shuffling from the arthritis in his knees, and focusing his energy into keeping his trembling hand still as he poured his drink. “Besides, I think his little girl would appreciate having someone like her in their lives.”

————

Four hours before the party, the auto shop was swept into a flurry of activity.

Carl and Kevin each had vehicles to work on; driving a truck out to the parking lot for a customer to pick up after you called them, and driving a car in. Working in tandem to the jolly Christmas music on the radio. Crowding the garage with discarded packaging from parts that would be gathered to be burned later.

“Guh–” You hung up the phone, and pressed a button to erase what you previously recorded after you stuttered over part of your script.

This outgoing message thing wasn’t going well.

Sighing, you picked it up and pressed the record button again. “You’ve reached David’s Auto Shop at..” you enunciated the number and address in an even tone. “We’re currently closed for the Holidays, and will open at 8AM, Mon–”

The smell of cigarettes should’ve been your first warning. The hand tipping your office chair back should’ve been the second. The general Eddie-ism of it all should’ve been the third.

Eddie blew a raspberry directly into the receiver.

“You! Why! That one was perfect. God, you are so–freaking–annoying. I swear. Obnoxious little..” Fuming, you hung up, and glared at him.

He cackled on his way to the garage. “Hey, since you’re not busy, can you help me roll this stack of tires to the Buick over there?” Before you could share the choice words you had prepared for him–before you could process the droplets of spit drying on your cheek–before the door could hit him on the way out–he spun and caught it and ducked his head back in. “Oh! Don’t forget your policy. Can’t say no to helping me, huh?” On his smooth exit, he winked and made a clicking sound with his mouth, flashing a gratuitous amount of teeth on the smirk.

“You are the absolute worst.” You grabbed your hoodie and followed him, pointedly not thanking him for holding the door open for you. “And you know what? I seriously regret ever telling you about my dumbass policy.”

“Really? I’ve only just begun to actualize the potential for making you do things for me. I’m loving it!”

~~~

Three hours before the party, you put the finishing touches on the breakroom before Robin arrived with the food you ordered from the bakery and deli at the grocery store. Some was excess that would’ve gone to waste; extra cupcakes, and cookies. Other things were ordered, like finger sandwiches, veggie trays, and an arrangement of cheese cubes with those cute toothpicks that have red and green cellophane at the top. You also gave her money for the makings of smores, bags of pretzels, and crackers, themed plates and cups to match. The works.

You cleaned the countertop free of appliances, putting them away in the cupboards to make space and give outlets to the crockpots Mr. Moore’s wife was bringing later.

Otherwise, you shoved a tall stool borrowed from the garage in the corner of the room, and placed the small TV from Mr. Moore’s office on it, intending to play Holiday programs while people funneled in and out.

~~~

Two hours before the party, the sun was setting on the horizon. Eddie moved his car to the end of the alleyway, and Carl rolled out a barrel to be stuffed with leftover cardboard boxes, and firewood he brought from home.

He and Eddie moved the workbench to the service door, and set up the bigger TV so people could watch the football game while standing around the fire.

~~~

One hour before the party, the garage was cleared of anything that a child could hurt themselves on or with, and the shop was hushed in wait. Eddie left first to get Adrie from school, and go home to change. The other guys did the same, leaving to collect what family they were bringing, while you stayed behind to stress over having enough food to feed everyone, even after Robin dropped off more snacks than you remembered listing, along with your party clothes.

————

The evening began trepidatious.

Guests filled the lobby like a sea of warmly-dressed sardines. Scarves, mittens, jackets brushed necks, hands, shoulders. Those recognizing each other hugged, while three rambunctious dogs wove through their legs. You introduced yourself to Mr. Moore’s daughter, Misty, and waved at her newborn. Carl’s teenage sons took the opportunity of their mom being busy to throw pebbles at each other outside. Mr. Moore’s wife and her brother and his eldest son were either setting up food or starting the fire. There was a moody girl of unknown origin moping in the corner. You lost track. It was hard to concentrate in the excitement.

You tugged your sleeves into your palms, and looked around the room for what must’ve been the hundredth time..

Eddie was late, and it was difficult keeping the concern off your face.

“Don’t look so worried,” Kevin said, landing a hand on your back as he shuffled by, carrying the scent of lighter fluid and smoke. “Your date’s still in his car. Probably workin’ up the nerve to come see you.”

“He’s not my date,” you corrected with a comically repulsed frown, hoping he’d buy it. “We’re friends.”

A twinkle danced in his stark blue eyes, and his open-mouthed smile peeked from beneath his thick mustache. “Look out.”

Look out?

A pair of tiny arms hugged you around your ass, and if it wasn’t for the tell-tale giggle, your stomach would be flipping with a much different emotion.

“Adrie!” You twisted and subtly scooped her arms higher on your hips before cupping the back of her head, and hugging her to your leg in the warmest greeting you could muster while your brain went to mush.

“You made it,” you said, staring, staring, staring.

Eddie pressed his lips together as he looked from his daughter to you. Happiness etched itself in every facet of his expression; in the tight smile he failed to control, to the tenderness of his half-closed eyes shining behind his lashes, his confident stance with his hands slotted into his work jacket pockets, in his washed hair falling to one side as he let his head loll from the heavy thoughts swaying his shoulders in a slow rocking motion. Everything about him was relaxed upon seeing you.

“You look beautiful,” he complimented with a magnificent amount of ease, as if he wasn’t a bundle of anxiety minutes ago. Yet, he didn’t withhold his praise. In gradual seconds–each longer than the last–he beheld your appearance in the highest regard, noting the vast departure from the jeans you usually wore.

The burgundy pinafore dress fit you snug, and the hem stopped high on your thighs. The thin white turtleneck underneath clung to your figure, and your black pantyhose matched your chunky Mary Janes.

It was one beret and a baguette short from being an outfit you wore for a skit with your comedy troupe, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Really beautiful,” he said to himself, taking you in, his whisper lost amongst the beginning strums of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree playing from the garage.

Adrie grabbed at the dress around your waist, chaining herself to you in a needy act for attention, and you stroked your thumb over her hair in return, eyes refusing to leave her father.

“And what about you, handsome?” You signaled it was his turn to show off.

So far, the formfitting gray slacks with a faint plaid pattern were doing him justice, but you wanted to see the whole thing.

Peacocking, Eddie lifted an arrogant brow on the same side of his smirk, and put some confidence in how he unzipped his jacket, savoring the anticipation. Opening it slowly to unveil, unfathomably, a button up shirt. White with blue stripes. Untucked, of course. Dropping the jacket from his shoulders, he strutted in a circle, giving you the full view of his back–no rugged coveralls, no leather, no durable canvas, no sweatshirt–just thin polycotton blend stretched over his frame alluding to his musculature.

Working the jacket back up his arms, he presented one of his legs forward. “Think I gained some weight since I last wore these. They used to fit better.”

Oh. Oh, no. They fit perfectly.

While he was busy looking at where the slacks tapered to his black boots, you were commending other areas. Like his thighs, where the pants gave a slim shadow where his boxers ended. And a little higher, to the place the fabric bunched around, and forced the zipper to curve outward. The real deal. The whole package. The big show.

Jesus..

“You look good,” you croaked out with the last of the air in your lungs. He jerked his head up, and smiled his usual way–too wide, a little askew, showing more teeth on one side than the other. “Should’ve known you’d be just as handsome dressed up as you are in a t-shirt and jeans.”

“You hear that, Adrie? It was worth it being late, because I look extra handsome.”

“I didn’t say extra–”

“Who cares,” she whined at him. After demonstrating an ounce of patience while her dad took a shower, washed his hair, shaved, spritzed on too much cologne, and stood in front of the mirror debating over wearing his nicer clothes or his usual ripped jeans for an excruciating number of minutes, she was at her limits. “My outfit is way, way, way cuter,” she argued in her kid-like way, fighting for your approval.

You crouched to her level, and she twirled in a circle, copying him. “Oh my gosh, you’re right! Your sweatshirt is way, way, way cuter than his boring clothes. What does it say?” Somewhere above you, you heard Eddie suck his teeth.

Adrie pinched the red pullover and held it out for you to read along with her.

“Santa’s.. Widdle helper.” The pronunciation wasn’t her fault. Upon closer inspection, the text did indeed spell ‘little’ as ‘wittl’.’

“And who’s that?” you asked, pointing at the character jumping out of a Christmas stocking on the front.

“Tweety Bird!”

“Alright!” You held your hand up, and she high-fived you.

Thrown back into reality at a dog’s yip, and Mr. Moore’s survey of heads, you let go of the romanticized bubble you surrounded yourself in, where it was just you, Adrie, and Eddie, and took heed of the packed room lurching towards the smell of cooked meatballs wafting in the air.

“Everyone here?” Mr. Moore asked, and when a murmur arose, he rubbed his hands together, and announced, “Let’s eat! Game starts soon.”

The sardine conglomerate moved as one, making a concentrated effort to form a line from the breakroom, down the hallway, and ending where you stood at the glass door. Adrie struggled to accept being last in line, but you prepared many distractions for her; the first of which being Eddie’s present.

“I got something for you,” you said, and reached over the ledge of your desk, patting around in search of the special item. He expressed an unreasonable amount of suspicion. “You have to promise to wear it. Or else..” You gave Adrie a look, and she had a pout at the ready if he didn’t comply.

“I don’t like it when you two gang up on me,” he mumbled, eyeing you.

“Too bad. Here.”

Eddie snorted at the red, white, fuzzy, jingly accessory in your hand. “Really?” he asked, and laughed, “Would’ve worn it anyway.”

After a pause where he held the Santa hat in strange contemplation, he humbly knelt on his knees to Adrie, and asked her to do the honors, “Wanna put it on for me?” She did so enthusiastically, jamming the hat on his head, rattling the bell at the end of the cap, and calling him Daddy Santa while roughly combing his hair. He was sure to hold your gaze as he prompted Adrie, “Not real Santa, right?”

“No, you’re Daddy Santa. Real Santa is coming in two days! And he’s bringing me lots of presents because I’ve been good.”

You understood, then, the glaze of fatigue in the look he gave you. It’d be a few more years until Adrie thanked him for the miracles in her life, the food in her belly, the roof over her head, and as a father, he only hoped he’d fix his situation before she learned the full details of his sacrifices to raise her, to give her a room, to provide her with a bed of her own while he went without.

Still, he was in the constant battle of yearning for the acknowledgement, while fearing her growing up and discovering the real world.

A complex set of emotions to parse for both him and his daughter, and he had to do it alone.

“Ow, Adrie..”

Coming to his rescue when she began pinching his cheeks to a rosy state, you got her attention, “Don’t think I forgot about you, cutie pie.” From behind the ledge, you pulled out a pair of reindeer antlers on a headband, and slid them on for her, doubling as a way to keep her bangs out of her eyes.

Glee burst across her face in a smile which rivaled the dawning rays of the rising sun. Deep-seated satisfaction erupted in your chest at her joy over the small gesture. Her immediate desire was to be picked up by you, ready to be doted on, and in that moment, you wanted nothing other than to gather her in your arms. But Eddie stole her for himself. You were left Adrie-less. And the fact it bothered you, and the fact making his daughter happy affected you in a way you’d only begun to unpack last week when you asked Robin to drive you to the toy store at the mall, was complicated.

“You can’t coerce Miss Mouse into picking you up at your command,” he told her in a playful tone. “You’re a big girl now, and only Daddy’s strong enough to hold you.”

“Oh, puh-lease.” As if your tongue wasn’t already stuck out in disgust, it certainly was when he made a show of flexing his biceps. Under his jacket. Like that would prove anything.

Now, if he were wearing less..

You latched onto the change of subject in your mind, and moved on with the night, away from the poignant feelings of longing for something you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

For now, you made a sardine family. You, Adrie, and Eddie. Your hand in hers, she on his hip, and his kiss to her forehead, fond of one another. Huddled in shared conversation–the type where everything faded away. No one else. Just you, Adrie, and Eddie.

You volunteered to make their dinner. With Adrie clinging to his side, she was able to boss you into putting whatever she wanted on her plate, and you checked Eddie’s amused face every time she added another carrot or ham pinwheel, knowing he’d be the one to eat it when she was full. After hers, you made his, and after his, you made yours. Balancing them all on your palms and forearm, and bringing them to your desk, assuring Eddie he could have the office chair while you took the black stool.

Poor him, though. He sat with Adrie in his lap, desperate to maneuver around her antlers to get a mini cupcake in his mouth while you freely ate your sandwiches, and answered her questions about if reindeer were real, and if they could fly. (Yes, and yes.)

Other guests were present in the lobby, you knew, but at the impact of your knee prodding Eddie’s thigh, and his sly grin over Adrie’s head, they faded away once more.

Until a flash startled you both from your ga-ga gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Just saving memories!” Kevin exclaimed, scrolling his thumb over the disposable camera’s film cog.

And before you could blink away the spot invading your vision, he was gone. “Hope we looked good, at least,” you said to Eddie, not having a candid picture taken since you moved to Hawkins.

He snorted, and leaned around Adrie to see the meatball he was quartering for her with a plastic fork. “I don’t think you have to worry about that, sweetheart.”

Your heart fluttered at the endearment. He said it in a casual manner, not like when he was trying to fluster you. And the compliment was sincere, not teasing. It was sweet, with his arm around his daughter to keep her from squirming away, and the warm comfort of his leg against yours, body heat transferring from his slacks through your thin pantyhose.

A moment you’d like to remember. Including..

“Here,” you giggled.

He looked at the napkin you held out to him, and where you tapped at the corner of your mouth. “Oh.”

In true Eddie fashion, he used his tongue to edge at the green icing, following it with his thumb to get whatever he missed and sucking the rest from his fingers while still managing to entertain Adrie with questions about what she did in preschool today, and dipping a carrot in ranch, dropping some of it too onto his pinky and licking that off without hesitation too. A chaotic mess of a man.

~~~

As predicted, it didn’t take long for Adrie to get bored, and she wandered off to play with Kevin’s dogs. Eddie took it upon himself to finish the monumental task of eating the assortment of leftovers she surrendered on her plate. A real hero of the times, scarfing down the butter ring cookies she wore on her fingers, and downing the sip of juice she didn’t want.

The conversation between you two was the easy kind. Simple, flowing. He slouched to the side with his elbow on the desk, cheek to his fist, legs spread,  listening to you talk about nothing.

“And as you can see” –You pulled open the second drawer to the short filing cabinet under your desk– “I’m all organized for the new year. Got my Post-it notes, a new set of highlighters, some of those fancy pens that make my handwriting look nicer. Living a life of luxury over here.”

“Very cool,” he replied in a hollow tone, implying it was in a mocking ‘you’re adorable’ kind of way, and not a ‘wow, you bought the Bugs Bunny themed sticky notes, that’s very cool of you’ kind of way.

You pushed the drawer closed with your foot, and rocked on your stool, grinning.

Beyond the circle of touching knees, fluorescent lights, and brave glances, there was an abrupt cheer at a scored touchdown. In the lobby, the mothers grouped the chairs together to adore the hiccuping newborn. In the parking lot, the teenage boys drove a remote control car around. The moody girl brought a skewer and marshmallows out to the fire. A Jack Russell terrier panted at your calf. Kevin patted Adrie’s head, and stooped to whisper a secret in her ear as they passed each other outside the glass door.

Eddie took the pom pom end of his Santa hat between two fingers and rattled the bell at you. He looked like he was about to speak, but someone special interrupted him.

“I’ve been sent on a mission. You have to come with me!”

You both turned to Adrie.

When neither of you did anything besides raise your eyebrows expectantly, and she didn’t give more context, nor information, she got impatient. “Come on!” she pleaded with a stomp, and grabbed your hand, and you grabbed Eddie’s sleeve on instinct, practically tripping him over your stool while she dragged you into the hallway.

After several feet, she stopped. You stopped, Eddie stopped.

“What’s the mission?” he played along, linking his hand in hers so you were one big circle. A sardine family.

She didn’t speak. Only grinned, and giggled.

Not catching on, you exchanged a confused shrug with Eddie, and asked her, “Is it a riddle?”

More laughter. Harder, more persistent tugs around your pinky and ring finger where she snared you. And a direct, focused smile aimed above your heads.

Slowly–slowly–slowly–

You straightened up from how you were bent over, and listened to Eddie’s clothes shift as he did the same. You followed the invisible line to where she was looking, tipping your head back in curiosity to see what was taped to the doorway exactly between you, and her beloved dad.

There was silence all around.

From the sharp leaves and red berries of the mistletoe, your gaze began its slow descent to Eddie’s. Passing over the red hat, the wrinkled forehead with messy bangs flattened onto it, the worried eyebrows. His sickly pale cheeks, flushed red lips. Suspended in time. Heart in your tight throat, pounding pulse, stomach twisting. 

You searched the frightened sheen in his eyes.

“I didn’t hang that, I swear,” he whispered.

“I didn’t either,” you promised just as quickly.

It didn’t matter who did.

There was noise all around. The football game turned to a commercial, and heavy feet announced people entering the garage, and approaching the glass door, coming inside to refresh their drinks and nibble at the cheese cubes.

Quickly–quickly–quickly–

“She.. We’ve been watching a lot of Christmas movies, and she must’ve seen it in one of them.” Lowering his voice, he brought his hand up in a sympathetic gesture, trying to explain her behavior. You let go of his sleeve. “She doesn’t understand.. The meaning, and everything.” He paused. “Us.” Another pause, a tic in his lower lip like a tremble. “Working together, and stuff.” Voice almost mute. “That w-we can’t..”

As much as you wanted to smash your lips on his to stop him from overexplaining the multitude of reasons you two couldn’t, or shouldn’t kiss, (you’re at work, this place smells like meatballs, his daughter is right there, Mr. Moore’s shadow breached the lobby, the fact Eddie chose listing coworkers as his rationale for not kissing you and not because you two were friends, but then again, what if he was about to say that, that he only saw you as a friend, and maybe being coworkers was an easier excuse than saying he wasn’t into you like that, oh god–), you had to get out of this situation with grace.

“No, yeah, I get it. Uhm.” Think fast, think fast, think fast. “You know who else is under the mistletoe, hmm?” you drew out the hum to build tension, setting your sights on your target.

Adrie squealed when you snatched her up and spun in a circle, attacking her cheeks with an unrelenting amount of kisses; the type that were quick pecks with lots of kissy noises, so saccharine and fawning and annoying to listen to. Tender and pure and tempting to the man who made a conscious effort to release the pinch of frustration from his face, and remorse from his discontent sigh before answering your question.

“Can she have one of these chocolate snowmen?”

“Only if you’re willing to tire her out before we leave,” Eddie said, taking intentional steps towards you and Adrie on your hip, leaving the mistletoe and its implications behind. He placed a friendly hand along your shoulder blade. His other hand was more menacing on her back, as indicated by her eyes growing large.

He warned her in a stern tone, “If you have too much sugar and keep me up all night, you’ll never have another dessert again.”

She called him out, point blank, nose turned up in triumph. “You’ve already said that before, and I got cookies anyway.”

Your cookies, he said in a quick glance and eyebrow wag at you, before speaking to her again, “You got me there. However.. I would hate for Santa to find out you stayed up past your bedtime.” He sucked his teeth with a pitying shrug. “The consequences are steep. He’s very strict, you know.”

Adrie’s frown was serious.

Eddie was having too much fun using his one seasonal threat to get her to behave.

“Aw, don’t listen to him,” you soothed her. You lifted your chin so she could burrow her head against your neck, and amended, “Well, do listen to your dad, but I have something special planned for us, Adrie.” She roused out of her heart-wrenching pout, and hugged you harder, kicking her feet around your waist in excitement.

You smiled at him, but your gaze fell elsewhere, passing over the men in the hallway, and taking a last, long look at the mistletoe, seeing it for the confusing event it created, not the romantic scene it was known for. “I’ll take her for the night. You go watch the game, or something. Hang out with the adults. I’ve got her.”

The tiny room became overcrowded. Someone whispered, “Oh, aren’t they cute together,” and Eddie chewed on his inner cheek. He removed his hand from you, fingertips slipping over the back of your dress, catching the strap, then your side, below your ribs, above Adrie’s leg. Measured, methodical touches. Not accidents.

While his face lacked strong emotions, there were words in his eyes. Maybe they were an apology for the weirdness you now found yourselves in, or a thank you for taking her off his hands for a bit, or they were something else entirely. He didn’t say.

“You two have fun,” he expressed in his soft voice, and grabbed a cold soda on his way out.

~~~

A cold soda did not unwind him like a beer.

Eddie warmed himself by the barrel fire while the game played. Though any opportunity to talk with his peers rarely expanded past the usual topics of work and raising his daughter, and were frequently shadowed by what was happening on the screen, he didn’t mind the interruption. He knew the rules of the game enough to feel a sense of camaraderie when they celebrated. And really, he just wanted the time to think. Or not think. Definitely not think about how he reacted earlier, stumbling over his words to assure you he wasn’t some creep who hung mistletoe as a way to trick you into kissing him. Absolutely not agonize over his inability to articulate himself, and provide you with an out while also reminding himself why he shouldn’t listen to his impulse clawing to be released, and kiss you on the spot. And certainly not consider your mild response to the whole thing, and how your gaze lingered–for a millisecond–on his lips before you scooped Adrie into your arms.

Eddie ran the heel of palm along his jaw, back and forth, and worked it to the back of his neck, wringing his nape in tight squeezes to release the tension.

A beer was definitely better than soda, but so be it. He downed the rest of it, and justified going inside for another. Of course, his motives for going through the lobby weren’t to quench his thirst, but as he almost ran face-first into the glass door, his mouth went dry.

Your ass in the curve-hugging dress was the first thing he noticed. Noticed it because you were curled into the fetal position on the floor, pretending to die a dramatic death. Oh, and you were wearing a black cape adorned in shiny gold stars, and your mouse ears from Halloween, along with a crown.

The loud crunch of him crushing his soda can got your attention.

“You don’t always have to dress like a mouse for her; she knows who you are,” he said in cool nonchalance on his way to the fridge.

You pointed a pirate’s cutlass at him, regarding him down the plastic blade. “I’m the Rat King.”

The music on the portable radio changed moods from a battle march to a victorious, slow piece.

Ditching the mouse ears by throwing them aside into a small pile of other props, you instructed Adrie to exchange her rapier for a flower crown. “Ooh, ooh! And this is where Clara and the Nutcracker Prince dance. Yeah, hold my hand, lift your leg in arabesque. Just like that.” You walked around her, spinning her in a circle while she posed with her leg behind her, and when you let go, you granted her the stage to improv what ballet moves she knew through pop culture osmosis, clapping and gasping and cheering her on, both of you panting from the exertion of playing an entire cast of characters.

There was a pang in Eddie’s stomach. The usual stuff: wanting to watch, wanting to join, wanting to stop it. The jealousy of being left out of the intimate moment, the yearn to add a third to his and Adrie’s life, the grief of when things don’t work out and this was a mistake. Decisions, daydreams, the reality of you maybe moving away, maybe not. Maybe dating him, maybe not. Maybe making work a place he dreaded coming to again if he tried something and it ended in disaster.

He had no other job options.

And yet..

“Hey.” Eddie traced the rim of the chilled soda in his hand, collecting condensation. “Ah, the TV in there is playing those old claymation Christmas movies in a marathon. D’you guys wanna watch them with me?”

Teaching her to put her toe to her knee in the passé position, you asked, “Don’t you want to hang out and watch the game?” When he didn’t respond, you looked up at him. Immediately, your focus honed in on his shy habit of chewing on his bottom lip.

“Nah. Not really. I’d rather be in here.”

~~~

The breakroom lights were off, save for the dim set on either side of the sink lighting the buffet, and the air was humid from steam curling off the crockpots. On the table were three marshmallow snowmen held together by melted chocolate and pretzel stick arms; remnants of an impromptu competition of which he lost.

It was a warm and cozy affair, made more so by the three of you squished together to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on the small TV in the corner. 

Adrie nestled deeper into her baby blanket. She had the quilt cocooned around her, running her fingertips over her mouth while she watched. Beside her, you sat with your hands laced in your lap, and at the end, Eddie slumped diagonally in his seat, propping his elbow on the back of your chair. Half paying attention to the stop motion film, half congratulating himself on getting this far. It took all of Jack Frost to work up the courage to daintily set his elbow at the very corner of your chair, almost making contact with your shoulder without worrying if he sweated through his deodorant or cologne yet..

But what if his breath smelled bad from the weird combination of food he ate?

Fuck–

The golden retriever lounging on the floor behind Adrie wagged his tail. Kevin’s distinct shuffle came down the hallway. “Well here’s where you three gone off to,” he said. His dog lifted his head, and licked his lips in anticipation for a pet. “Don’t mind me, just came in for another pepperoni slice, isn’t that right, Coop?”

Cooper panted at his name.

Adrie mumbled around her fingers, “I love your puppy. He’s the best.”

“Yeah, she adores him,” you added.

“Aw, you’re a good boy, aren’t ya?” Kevin bent down to praise his dog with a couple of pets under the chin. And when he was finished, he made a fuss about his old knees, and the cold weather affecting them, and the–whatever else he said.

Upon struggling to stand, Kevin sought a place to put his hand for assistance–and wouldn’t you know, the perfect spot was right in front of him. He clutched Eddie’s forearm for purchase, which incidentally took him off guard before he could brace his muscles, and pinned it to the back of your chair. Once the move was complete, Kevin stood and patted the spot he held until Eddie’s arm curved flush against your shoulders. Then he winked and walked off, no longer shuffling. Eddie stared open-mouthed at the determination.

His insides clenched with unreleased tension. The holly hung in the doorway. Things he wasn’t supposed to do. Anxiety, nerves heightened with the sensation of your solid body breathing beneath the weight of him.

Adrie mumbled something about what was happening on screen, and you said something back, nodding.

It’s not like this was the first time he put his arm around a girl. But it was the first time he did so with the burden of pessimism warning him not to.

He scrutinized the side of your face for any sign of acknowledgement that his arm was around you, but if you cared, you didn’t show it. You remained poised as ever.

You didn’t mind, outwardly.

So he didn’t either.

It was only in front of his boss that he lifted his arm to comb the hair off his neck when Mr. Moore entered. And as soon as he was gone, Eddie strung it casually across the back of your chair again, twirling a curl of Adrie’s hair around his finger.

And when Carl came in, you sat forward for the entire duration of his stay, eating a marshmallow while he was in the room. And when he left, you sank back into your seat.

The third time someone came in, neither of you moved. You followed each other’s lead and did nothing. Subconsciously–or consciously–finding the courage to fit your bodies together in a purposeful way, relaxing towards one another, and slotting into the cushiony space his arm allowed against his bulky jacket.

Time went on like that.

The conversation between you two was the easy kind. Wordless, intuitive. Exchanged in the permanent grin affixed to his face, and your tender hums of affection when you looked at him or Adrie. Somewhere in the silent conversation, he summoned the balls to stroke his thumb–only once–over the soft slope of your bicep, and coped with the aftermath of studying the profile of your lips tugging up at the corners.

~~~

The party came to its natural conclusion when the game ended. Eddie scooped what was left in the crockpots into mismatched tupperware he brought from home, filling up an old butter container with chili, and rinsing out the cookware to give back to its original owner. He placed cupcakes in their plastic clamshell packaging, and downsized the veggie tray into a manageable load. You played the part of an amiable host, and wished everyone a happy holiday on their way out, insisting you’d take care of cleaning up. Really, it was no problem. You had Eddie with you, and Adrie was helping by falling asleep with a crayon in her hand.

Eddie listened to you usher them out the door, and lock it behind them once they drove away.

In truth, he preferred them gone when you both made trips to his car, loading the backseat with the leftovers. Didn’t matter if they were room temperature carrots, or the mangled overcooked meatballs from the bottom of the crockpot, he accepted them.

He took inventory of the last containers on the breakroom table while you woke up Adrie, and for once, he felt okay.

Normally stress chewed holes in his stomach this time of year, but knowing the panic of not paying the electric bill before incurring another late fee would be eliminated by the generous bonus Moore gave him in the white envelope tucked away in his inner jacket pocket, Eddie felt.. alright. Like things would be alright. He put enough aside for his daughter to have one big present this year, and things would be alright.

“Ready?” you asked, holding Adrie’s hand in the doorway.

“Yeah, it’s just these two containers, and we’re good. Were we doing anything about the decorations?”

“Nah.” You waved him off. “We can take them down after the break.”

More than happy to get home and reap the reward of a full night’s sleep, he picked her up mid-yawn, and you carried the last of the containers to the car for him. While you found available space to shove the tupperware without it spilling, Eddie swayed with Adrie. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, and closed his eyes, feeling himself meld into the drowsy moment, comforted by her weight in his arms.

He heard the gravel crunch from your movement, and your shivered exhale beneath your jacket. It was his turn to put Adrie in her carseat, but when he caught the dewy glimmer in your eye, he thought he might hold onto her for the next eternity if it meant he could earn that soft awe from you again.

However, it was cold out, and he should hurry up.

“Uh, there’s uh,” you started, standing back while he buckled Adrie in. “There’s actually one more thing inside.”

“There is?” he questioned dumbly. He glanced at your incessant finger guns pointed towards the back entrance door, and tried to picture what he left behind.

“Yeah, if you could just help me real quick.”

He shrugged and tucked the quilt tight around Adrie. “I’ll be right back, okay?” She nodded, and covered the lower half of her face with the blanket.

Still cool, calm, and collected, Eddie followed you into the garage, through the glass door, into the lobby, down the hallway, and stopped when you stopped. In the breakroom doorway. Under the..

He struggled to swallow around the lump in his throat.

Adrenaline raced to his nerves, to his brain, to his heart jumping in confusion. The addictive buzz enabled him to remember each detail of your lips parting, the sound of your shallow inhale, and the sting of doubt on his cheeks when you spun around and pried out the noisy keyring from your pocket, shaking them until you found the one to the storage closet.

You turned the key in the door opposite him in the hallway, and reached inside, into the dark. “I, uhm.. I got a present for Adrie, if that’s okay..”

“You..?” He went silent at the large gift bag you held out to him, with the giant portrait of jolly Saint Nick on the front bulging from what was inside.

Second guessing if you were overstepping boundaries with the gesture, you faltered, “If it’s not okay, I can, I guess–?”

“No, no,” he finally said, screwing his eyes shut at realizing he just stood there like a moron. “No, that’s, that’s so nice of you. I-I don’t even know what to say. Just, yeah.. You didn’t have to do something like that.” He accepted the bag, and hugged it to him, crushing the decorative tissue paper sticking out the top.

“I signed it as being from Santa. I figured that was appropriate.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect. Uhm.. wow.”

He was doing his favorite trait–where his smile evolved into an open laugh; a little obnoxious, and a lot flirty–and he could tell when you beamed up at him and your cheesy grin overflowed into a giggle, it was your favorite trait too.

And you kept the presents rolling.

“As Office Administrator,” you said with a spry loveliness in your sidling up to him, “I have some insider knowledge that someone put in a good word for you, and uh, it looks like you’re getting a pretty nice raise at the beginning of the new year.” There was no mistaking who. “And I heard through the grapevine that Mr. Moore is going to start pulling from his retirement in June, and Misty isn’t interested in running the family business, so he’s seeking out a new owner,” you put more than a hint of inflection on the end of the sentence, and gave him a look.

You shrugged your shoulder to your chin. “Anyway, do with that information what you will.”

Eddie stayed stupefied, speechless, staring down at the bag. Because you were you, you ended the conversation with a weak punch to his arm when a car drove into the parking lot.

“That’s Robin,” you said.

He watched you walk away. Down the hall, into the lobby. Putting distance between him and the doorway to the breakroom, where his regrets taunted him.

The sharp leaves and red berries were lost amongst the shadows, but their warning rang true. The reasons he shouldn’t kiss you. The talk he never had with Adrie, the potential expiration date even if things did work out between you two, the issue of seeing each other every day and knowing he couldn’t handle the habitual rejection of ignoring the other’s existence if things went bad.

New year, same old coward.

Except.

An idea.

An impulse.

A vicious desire.

He rejected the rejection. “Wait!”

You turned, and jumped at his sudden appearance. Eyebrows raised in surprise, a fresh smile lighting up your face in the gentle moonlight.

Eddie stopped you by grabbing your hand, wielding you closer with his rough fingers pressed into your sweaty palm until your arms entwined, and your jackets rubbed. He dropped his head to the side with a shameful shake, and ran the tip of his tongue along his teeth, building to an apologetic admission. “I’m doing that thing again where I forget to thank you,” he said, not needing to speak above a whisper as he gazed down at you, unafraid.

“Then thank me,” you replied, curling your fingers around his.

His wavering voice went deeper in his chest, “Words don’t feel good enough anymore.” The bag under his arm crinkled as he lifted a finger at Robin who had come to peer inside the window, and very quickly made herself scarce after witnessing the moment she was intruding on. “You’re too sweet, and I don’t even get to drive you home.”

You encouraged him in a laugh. “Then think of another way to thank me that’s not transportation based.”

A bad thought bloomed warmth across his cheeks. “I will,” he promised, nodding. “I’ll find a better way to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and Adrie. Something good.”

“Looking forward to it.”

You lingered for a second, waiting, and when you both remained kissless, you rocked your body into him, cozying your sides together with your joined arms squeezed between in a sort of goodbye hug. “Speaking of Adrie, you might want to get back to her before she becomes a popsicle.”

He inhaled sharply and snapped his head up. “Yeah, I should probably go start the car.”

“Have a good holiday, Eddie. Get lots of rest over the break, okay?”

“I will, I will.”

With an absolutely astounding amount of memories made today, you were both content to step away from each other and go home to begin the tossing and turning, sickly sweet, cold-side-of-the-pillow reminiscing about the brave glances, and daring touches.

You reached for the door handle.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You stalled with your back facing him. Thinking you were sly, you checked the reflection to see what part of you his gaze was admiring, and you laughed.

Finally. He was making eye contact with you through the glass.

“Goodnight, handsome,” you answered, and left with your smile ducked into your collar.

The evening ended spectacularly.

[steviebears]

Quite The Gentleman

SUMMARY: The day has finally come for Eddie to meet your parents.

GENRE: fluff, Wheeler!Reader

"Mom, she's not a kid anymore. It's not like Eddie is.. terrible." Nancy says with a supportive tone that slightly falters at the last word. Nancy wasn't necessarily approving of your relationship, but it wasn't like she had a say being your younger sister.

Mike was a different story. Part of him was secretly stoked because he worshipped Eddie in a way. The other part, the majority, was absolutely pissed at him. So, mike rolls his eyes while setting the table.

"I know. I'm just-" Karen sighs and puts a hand on her hip.

"I worry about her judgement sometimes. I heard some not-so-great things about this Eddie Munson." Ted clears his throat and pours a glass of wine. Karen eyes him, frustrated with his lack of concern over your dating choices.

"He's not all bad, you'll see." Nancy gives a reassuring smile. You come down the stairs wearing a dress nancy had never seen you in befo- was that hers? Nancy silently groans at you and you stick your tongue out at her.

The doorbell then rings and you run to it, excitedly opening up to see a moderately cleaned up Eddie. His hair was brushed, sort of, and he wore a button down he'd bought at a second hand store with jeans. He smiles wide, cupping your cheek and giving you a quick peck.

Your mom drags everyone to the door to greet poor Eddie. She's taken aback by the metal head's hair but quickly pushes the thought to the side.

"Mr and Mrs, Wheeler! It's a pleasure." Eddie says with excitement, shaking both of their hands. His gaze travels down to a shy Holly, hiding behind Karen. He reaches out his hand with a genuine grin.

"M'lady." She giggles and shakes his hand shyly.

Karen ushers him inside. Nancy gives a polite wave and Eddie ruffles Mike's hair. You hold Eddies hand and guide him next to your spot at the dining table, but he pulls out your chair for you before sitting down.

"You've got a wonderful home." Eddie compliments, his hand settling on your thigh. He was doing great. You knew he would, he was nervous but not enough to throw off his charm. Your mom thanks him, clearly surprised by all of his manners.

"I'll set out dinner now, help yourself to some water or w- how old are you again?" He answers, 20, and she shakes her head.

"No wine then, excuse me." Eddie stands up.

"Should I give you a hand?" Her face lights up, not even Jonathan had been this polite when she'd met him. She nods and smiles, showing him to the kitchen. Mike gives you a tired look, clearly not happy with the show Eddie was putting on. You scrunch your nose at him.

-

The night could not be going better. Well, maybe he'd be better off without a few of the jokes he made, but other than that, perfect.

"So, Eddie. You're head of the club Mike is in?" She takes a sip of wine.

"Yes ma'am, the Hellfire Club." Karen and Ted pause, looking at Mike who had a guilty look on his face.

"You didn't tell us it was called that, Micheal."

"You would have never let me join if I did!" He defends, looking frustrated with Eddie.

"You're right! It sounds like some kind of cult..." Karen looks questioningly at Eddie. He starts to sweat, so you set your hand on his in attempt to calm him down a bit. Mike's gonna get an earful from you later...

"It's not ma'am. Just a silly name for a D&D club." He calmly states with a lighthearted chuckle. She looks slightly relieved.

"Do you often play children's games?" Your dad says sounding disapproving of this newfound fact. You can see your mom kick him underneath the table.

"Sometimes. I think we all need to nurture out inner child." Karen smiles and nods.

"You know, that is actually very insightful, I like that"

-

Your parents and you walk Eddie to the door, wishing him a safe drive home while he tries to block the sight of his beat up van.

"Dinner was delicious, thank you. Have a great night!" He says his goodbye and you step outside with him.

"You think they liked me?" He asks. You just pull him in for a long kiss.

"Absolutely." You say, brushing your lips against his.

"You're right. I nailed it!" He replies cockily and kisses you again, promising to meet you at your window tonight.

All in all, your mother still did not fully approve. She had to admit, he was quite the gentleman. However she couldn't get past the fact that he flunked his senior year, twice. Ted seemed indifferent but secretly liked him a lot and cut him some slack in the discussions proceeding the dinner. Mike was not looking forward to seeing him around the house, especially not after getting his mom upset at him.

[laedback-taurus]

Pretty Eyes

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader Word Count: 1.8k Warning: None A/n: Well, it’s been a hot minute, but I really just had an urge to write again. Sorry if this sucks, it's my first piece since trying to get over my writer's block but I feel pretty good about it.

All it took was a drunken compliment for Tommy Shelby to change his mind about his opinion on love and all it took was the help of one fortune teller to realise he couldn’t never lose that love.

Tommy believed he was man that couldn’t be loved, he believed that he didn’t deserve someone that would cherish him, but you made it your mission to change his mind. You had met Tommy not long after he returned from the war, you applied for the position of his secretary, and he couldn’t refuse once he saw your skills with a typewriter. You of course immediately thought he was a very attractive man, it was undeniable, but you’d be a fool not to notice his cold exterior. After months of working for Tommy, you had tried to get closer to Tommy, the furthest you had got was he now accepted you calling him ‘Tommy’ instead of ‘Mr Shelby’, but it was extremely hard to break through the walls he had put up. It wasn’t until one night after work at the Garrison that you finally broke down a wall.

“Tommy!” You heard Arthur call out to his brother as he entered the bar, you were sat next to John in the private while Arthur had gone out to get the table more drink, stated that he wanted to stretch his legs. You had already had a few and were a bit tipsy so it wasn’t surprising that you got up at the sound of his name. You made your way over to the bar where Tommy and Arthur were ordering drinks.

“Let me buy you a drink boss” You offered as you stood in the middle of them, Tommy took in your slightly of balance form and smiled slightly.

“You know I own the place y/n, if anything I should get you a drink, but I don’t think it's wise”.

“Don’t ruin her fun Tom” Arthur slurred from the other side of you.

“No Arthur, Tommy’s right” you started, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to steady yourself “I should get home, we have to work tomorrow after all. Tommy watched as you gave Arthur a soft pat on the shoulder before attempting to walked back to the private both to collect your coat and bag. Tommy sighed before throwing back the rest of his drink and putting his coat back on.

“Night Arthur” was all he said before he made his way over to you, he grabbed your coat and draped it over your shoulders. You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks at the gesture, but you knew he wouldn’t notice as your cheeks were already flushed from the alcohol you had consumed previously. You waved goodbye to everyone before leaving the bar with Tommy’s hand firmly secured on your lower back.

The walk back to your flat felt painfully slow but you had also never felt safer than you did with Tommy next to you, you would often catch him watching the shadows and alleyways. Before long you reached your flat, you fumbled through you bag to try and find your keys, but they were nowhere to be found. You let out a groaned as you gave up.

“I can't find my keys” Out of frustration your eyes started to well up, you had finally gotten Tommy back to your flat, but you couldn’t find your damn keys. You heard Tommy let out a soft chuckle and before you could turn around and cuss him out for laughing at you, he reached around you and into your bag, pulling out your keys.

“Oh…” You stared at them for a moment before grabbing them “Found them!” You cheered, earning another chuckle from Tommy, he was finding this whole display quite amusing. You finally got the key in the lock and opened the door, throwing your coat on the ground as soon as you entered.

“Where’s your room?” Tommy asked casually, this took you by surprise.

“Being very forward aren’t we Tommy?” You turned to face him, maybe a bit too quicky causing you to become quite dizzy. Tommy smiled and leaned down so his face was only inches from yours, you very quickly forgot how to breathe.

“So I can put you to bed” he explained, bringing you back to your senses.

“Oh right, of course” You quickly turned back around again, making you dizzy once again, this time you stumbled slightly but Tommy quickly caught you, holding you by your shoulders. “Down the hall to the left”

Tommy guided you down the hall and into your bedroom, the first thing he noticed was hour empty it was, it only held and bed and a dresser with a chipped mirror sitting atop it. He knew you didn’t live in luxury, neither did he but he expected more maybe more photos or perhaps more plants, he wasn’t sure. He guided you to your bed and helped you sit down on the edge.

“Where to you keep your night dresses?” He asked, you pointed to your dresser, and he made his way over there.

“Top draw” You quietly called out, now starting to realise the extent of you situation. Tommy grabbed a garment from the top draw and brought it over to you, you took it from him and looked up to see he had turned his back. You got up slowly and started to undress, highly aware of the gorgeous man starting only a few steps away from you. You pulled on your nightwear and looked over at Tommy.

“You can look now” He turned and found you trying to pull the covers of you bed down to get in, but you were struggling. He came over and pulled them up for you, allowing you to slip in underneath them, once you were in, he pulled them back up and pretty much tucked you in, you watched him with hooded eyes the whole time.

“You have very pretty eyes” You whispered before your eyes fluttered shut, before you were fully asleep, you felt a slight pressure on your forehead, making you scrunch your face up slightly in response. Tommy smiled seeing your reacted to the kiss he placed on your forehead, he stood there of a moment processing what you had just said to him. He watched as you drifted off to sleep, peaceful and oblivious to the way you just made him feel. He hadn’t been complimented on his eyes for a long time, the only and last person to compliment them was his mother. She always loved his eyes and as a boy he hated it, no young boy wants to be called pretty and he would always complain when she brought them up but after he lost her, he found himself longing to hear her say it. but instead, it was you, a persistent woman who he knew had been trying to find a way into his life, he swore he wouldn’t let you; he didn’t want the world he lived in to ruin you, but maybe he needed you to fit it, maybe he needed you to fix him.

That night was six years ago, five years ago Tommy asked you to be his wife and not long after you were married, you fell pregnant with your first child Charlie, then nearly two years ago you fell pregnant with your second child, your daughter Anna. You never knew the moment Tommy Shelby fell in love with you, you had asked a few times but he usually just shrugged it off, you had always wondered why, it wasn’t until your wedding night that he told you it was when you called his eyes pretty, you were baffled because you didn’t remember telling him that but then he told you the story and you had never felt more shame but you also never knew the impact those five small words had on Tommy. One night while the two of were getting ready for bed he suddenly spoke.

“Do you know the moment I realised I couldn’t live without you?” The question took you by surprise.

“When I told you your eyes were pretty?” You asked, looking at him in the mirror as you brushed your hair.

“No, that’s when I realised I loved you, I’m talking about when I realised my world revolved around you and I vowed to myself to never lose you” He explained as he came up behind you, nuzzling his head into your neck, his wet hair from his bath brushing your cheek.

“No?” you didn’t quite know what to say. He lifted his head from you neck, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“I went to see a fortune teller” he said simply.

“You did what?” you spun around it your seat to face him, he smiled and grabbed your face in his hands, looking down at you.

“A friend of Polly’s, it was not long after Anna was born, some lowlife gangster had threatened your life and I was having second thoughts on if I was doing the right thing, putting you in danger by loving you and I just needed any kind of advice, I don’t know why I went to her, but I did” He explained.

“What did she say?” you asked, still looking up at him.

“If I told you that your life was supposed to turn out differently, to change, would you want it to?”

In that moment Tommy saw you, lying in his arms, looking at him with that look of adoration that you only reserve for him, then he thinks of his children, the ones you blessed him with, the way his son smiles at him, how he sees his father as a normal man and not a monster and his precious daughter, how she lights up whenever he is around her, how she cries to him when she’s upset, knowing that her father will always protect her from her fears.

“No” was all Tommy said.

“That is why I won’t read your fortune, there is no point. You’re where you’re supposed to be already, you’re a troubled man and you can’t lose what keeps you grounded”.

Tommy knew she was right, he was scared to lose you but if he pushed you away, he’d lose you anyway, your safest place was with him, he belonged with you and he wasn’t going to let anyone change that, not even himself.

“She’s a wise woman” You joked, smiling up at him.

“Of course you would think that love” Tommy leaned down, placing a kiss on your forehead before heading over to bed. You finished brushing your hair and joined him.

“I want you to feel safe” You lifted you head from its resting place on his chest and rested your chin there instead, looking up at him.

“I am safe with you” You whispered, looking into those pretty eyes your adored so much.

[pinkthick]

For the request fic:

4. repositioning the mistletoe because it annoys them

5. repositioning the mistletoe because they need MORE kisses

With BBC Sherlock Holmes x Reader

[Ngl, the #4 one made me laugh my ass off cuz it reminded me of Sherlock 🤣. Like he would canonly do this fr💀]

Hi. 🙃

I am aware that Christmas has long since passed, but I've had such a writer's block because of this request, and even now I'm not happy with how the fanfiction ended, but I hope you'll forgive me. I do, however, hope you enjoy it.🫶🏻🫶🏻

Where are the mistletoes?

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Fem!Reader

Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson & John Watson & Reader

Summary: Although your relationship with Sherlock is still relatively new and he still has a lot to learn about how people interact with one another, the two of you are beginning to understand each other better, even if Sherlock did believe that he should attach mistletoes so that he could kiss you whenever he wanted.

John began decorating the apartment an hour ago, but he didn't get much done. He wasn't sure how long the detective would be entertained by just trying to assist you in purchasing gifts for the others and items from Mrs. Hudson's shopping list that weren't really necessary for Christmas. Sherlock would soon understand what everyone was attempting, it was pretty obvious. Get him out of here so they can at least decorate this apartment for the holiday.

He abruptly halted what he was doing when he suddenly heard someone climbing the stairs. Mrs. Hudson opened the door while holding a little box and John abruptly let out a breath after realizing he had been holding it just moments earlier, feeling relieved that it wasn’t Sherlock.

“Oh dear, perhaps you should take a break. It is obvious that you won’t finish decorating anytime soon.” the elderly woman smiled somehow sadly at him.

“Well, if I had help from others, it would have been finished by now.” John spoke aloud in a harsh manner.

“Don’t hold that against me. I am the one doing all the cooking.” As Mrs. Hudson eventually set the box down on the couch and made her way outside, she stated in an irritated voice.

As he went to check what was in the package, John sighed. It was disappointing to decorate an apartment alone when it was supposed to be something you would do with your friends and family. However, he didn't have the right to snap at the poor woman because she had already accepted so many things Sherlock and he had done. But was it really that simple when you shared a home with Sherlock Holmes? But when it came to the detective, nothing was, in fact simple.

He was a little shocked by what Mrs. Hudson had brought him. But not in a bad way. The box was filled with mistletoes. Even though he had no idea how she could have obtained this, he knew better than to question her. He could take one or two, they wouldn’t hurt anybody hopefully.

He grabbed one and walked up to Sherlock's armchair, but before he hopped on it, John placed a newspaper over it since he didn't want Sherlock to become upset that he climbed on it while wearing his shoes. Only the great detective could do that since it was his chiar. He could be such a drama queen sometimes, but that’s just how the young Holmes is.

He took the tape from the small table and the doctor lifted the mistletoe over his head and eased it up to stick it on the ceiling. As he climbed down and took the newspaper in his hands, he wrinkled it as he threw it in one of the small trash cans. Might as well get rid of the evidence, right?

Perhaps he could hang one more right at the door? Even though it was a bad idea, nobody could have stopped him. He managed to climb on a small chair, but attaching it to the ceiling was a little bit more difficult. He did lose his balance once, but it undoubtedly didn't seem to stop him.

Although he was pleased with himself, John felt as though he would never be able to finish decorating this apartment as he once more glanced out the window and noticed that the Christmas tree was still slightly blank. He went to begin decorating it once more after retrieving the box of decorations.

The grocery store isn’t a place you would normally consider crowded. It's rather easy to get in and out of aisles without having to weave through threads of people, but Christmas was coming up and everyone was buying food like there was no tomorrow. It didn’t matter that they would have throw out half of the food when the holidays are over.

Sherlock worked very hard to keep himself entertained since he didn't want to be a burden to you. He scrutinized everyone who passed him, looking for even the smallest detail that wasn't even really significant in order to infer something about their life. The seconds were flying by, and he was beginning to grow increasingly bored and everyone knew that Sherlock Holmes should never grow bored. He was perplexed as to why fewer crimes occurred over the holidays. It didn't matter whether anyone died during them. A crime was a crime, as if the killers would receive acclaim if they avoided killing around orthodox holidays. The way regular people thought was so bizarre to him.

He watched you as you read the list Mrs. Hudson provided you while growing increasingly impatient as he struggled mightily to come up with something he ought to do. He snatched it from you against his better judgment since he didn't want to be here anymore, eliciting a startled gasp from you.

“Sherlock!” You said as you turned to follow the detective.

"I feel that if I stay here any longer, my brain will rot. You can attempt to keep me outside the building all you want; I don't care. The sooner we leave, the better.” He gave an explanation as he started to select the items Mrs. Hudson had written.

“Was it really that obvious?” You asked in a defeated tone while attempting to match his pace.

He slowed down and nodded briefly as he gave you a faraway "yes" while turning his head away from you and looking ahead. You weren't surprised, but you were a little let down. Well, you did know who you were dating.

As he started to make is way straight to the baking aisle, you were a little held back by other people. It’s not that it was that hard to pinpoint where the detective exactly was, thanks to his height, but somehow you couldn’t see him. Just then someone slipped his hands into yours and you glanced up, seeing Sherlock.

“If we want to get home sooner, it would be beneficial if you didn’t get lost. It would take some time to find you.” He said as you felt his fingers thighten around your hand.

As you allowed yourself to be dragged by him, you grinned a little. Maybe you should text John to let him know you'll be home sooner than expected.

While listening to Christmas music and halfway through decorating the tree, the doctor was unaware that the door had been opened.

Even if you did send him a text, it wasn't very effective because he didn't see it. In addition to the music playing through the entire apartment, John left his phone in the kitchen and set it to mute. He couldn't really do much at this point, especially since both of you had returned.

You initially went to Mrs. Hudson and left her the grocery bags, saying you would return to assist her as soon as you had left the gifts upstairs. Maybe, just maybe, you were interested in Sherlock's reaction as well, hoping that he wouldn't act out as he did the year before.

For a short while, the detective remained silent, and you were staring directly at him while he examined the entire apartment. You weren’t sure if he had any issues with the decorations or not.

"Why is this parasite hanging over my chair?" he asked at that same moment.

Yup, there it was.

Swiftly approaching it, Sherlock snatched it off the ceiling and dropped it into the trash. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed how you and John were looking at him.

"You and Y/N were just standing under the mistletoe moments ago," John said as he observed the detective's devastation. How could he fail to notice something that was right in front of him?

Your boyfriend wasn't even concerned about what it truly meant as you walked over to him; instead, he was only pondering on how he hadn't been able to notice the mistletoe at the entrance the first time. He was startled out of his reverie when you rose to your tiptoes and gave him a swift kiss, noticing a hint of pink brightening your cheeks.

“What was that for?” He asked bewildered

“You are familiar with the tradition, right?” You looked at him while chuckling slightly as he didn’t know what to say.

Given that Sherlock Holmes believed his brain to be similar to a hard drive, it only made sense to store useful information there. He didn't think the customs of Christmas would be useful after all.

“John, see if you can make him help you, I’ll go aid Mrs. Hudson.” You said while also leaving the flat.

As John began to assemble some candy canes on the tree, the doctor did not even make an attempt to persuade him to assist him. It appeared as though he was actually looking at the Grinch. He didn't understand why Sherlock was so opposed to anything that was Christmas-related.

John continued to embellish it with globs and some lights but the detective suddenly disturbed the comfortable silence. “Where are the mistletoes?”

Sherlock would occasionally come across you throughout the day, lead you somewhere where there was mistletoe, like outside the kitchen or the hall, and give you a short kiss before leaving you so he could clean the apartment. Even though you didn't understand what was going on with him, you would just resume helping Mrs. Hudson since you didn't want to question him.

He occasionally had you go where there was mistletoe hanging from the ceiling even after the guests arrived and the party started. This was the first time that the presence of other people didn't matter. Sherlock never kissed you in front of others, so you knew something was off. So, you began to ask yourself even more questions, even if you did know that you couldn't find your answers yet.

You didn't even have the courage to ask him what had actually happened today while you were lying in bed with him. Yes, Sherlock would typically behave strangely, but not in that way. And that kept you up.

You have a routine of rising late at night to get a glass of water. Really nothing out of the ordinary for anyone, but because you were having trouble falling asleep, Sherlock realized that something wasn't right.

You were being held by the detective in a soft yet firm manner. Unaware that he wasn't even sleeping, you made an effort to escape his grasp. Just then Sherlock Holmes' anxious voice suddenly reverberates through the empty space. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, don't worry. Just want a glass of water.” The detective eventually let go of his hold on you. He just realized how big of an impact you had already had on his life as he saw you discreetly stand up and leave the room. Now that he was accustomed to your touch, being alone didn't feel right. It's strange to consider that he reacted negatively when you originally suggested cuddling.

He began to wonder what was keeping you up at night and somehow came to certain conclusions without knowing if they were true. As he lifted his head to look at you, Sherlock must have been too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice when you entered the room.

“Is everything all right?” As you once more get onto the bed and sit next to him, you inquire.

“You have a question, don’t you?” He states bluntly as he wraps his hands around you again. “So let’s have it.”

“What was up with you today?” You asked as you tilted your head slightly.

“I am— not quite following Y/N.” He says unsure as he changes his position, allowing you to get closer to him.

“The mistletoes?” You ask as Sherlock becomes more rigid “They were everywhere today.”

“I should have asked you if I could kiss you, right? I’m sorry. I thought that I could do it without asking for consent if I used the mistletoes.” He says quietly.

“What?” You chuckle a little, which only confuses the great detective further. Despite his brilliance, it was obvious that he still had a lot to learn about emotions and interpersonal relationships.

"I don't—"

"Sherlock, you don't have to ask me every time you want to kiss me. We are a couple. We didn't snuggle like this before, but we do now because it's pleasant for both of us. You don’t need my consent for some things and that includes kissing for me.” You explain as Sherlock brings you closer to him.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” You informed him as he nodded and silently uttered ‘oh’

For a while, neither of you said anything, but then Sherlock probes once more: "But are you really sure that you are fine with it?"

You stayed quiet beside him and the detective raised a hand to your nose. Of course, now was when you fell asleep.

His eyes rolled under his eyelides as he rolled over. “Goodnight, Y/N” he murmured, aligning his arm over the curve of your side. “And Merry Christmas..”

Tagging list: @rhasima @fictional-hooman @so-this-is-a-thing-noww @bumblebee0609 @vynrichtermybeloved @xx-sonofabitch-xx @realityisadamnlie @friendlydemon @sleutherclaw @k1mikoz @spadequeen22 @justanotheromen @kh-aii @paola-carter @alahmorah @quesowakanda @jyessaminereads @harukaaaaa172993 @whiteboycarlgallagher @couldntbedamned @marebare21 @scar-lett-mess @lokiethar @chorraich

[bemtevis]

the sin of sincerity

With nowhere to go, Kamala stumbles upon Alastair. They get along much better than expected. Ch. 1: tell me the truth... Ch. 2: ...so I don't have to lie

This theory comes from this post by @melanielocke, pls check it out!

CW: spoilers for chain of thorns, allusions to period-typical homophobia; let me know if I missed anything.

     Ariadne walked a couple blocks before realising she had nowhere to go.

     Crap.

     Don’t panic.

     She considered her options. Going back was out of the question, of course. Renting a hotel room, too, would be difficult, seen that she had no money. She had no friends or relatives, no favours to call in, no idea where to go next… crap, crap, crap. Do not panic.

     Okay, she was panicking. Her pace became unsteady and her breaths choppy, creating clouds in the chilly London weather. Ariadne stopped for a moment, leaning against a wall. If only she weren’t so dependent. If only she had bothered to build connections outside her engagement. If only she was more like… 

     Anna.

     Maybe Anna would laugh at her and shut the door on her face. Maybe she’d have a look through the peephole and refuse to let her in. Maybe she was with another girl right now. Maybe. But it was better than going home.

     Ariadne got up with renewed determination, which lasted minutes before being crushed. As she approached Anna’s flat, a sound filled her ears: music, coming from the inside. She was probably throwing a party, or receiving a private concert from a pretty girl. Of course she was. She was Anna bloody Lightwood, and her life hadn’t stopped because Ariadne’s had.

     She sat down on the steps, burying her face in her hands. Panic was rising up her throat again when a familiar face approached her.

     “Miss Bridgestock?” 

     It was Alastair Carstairs, her ex-fiancé’s ex-friend, or whatever he was. Charles had never told her, but she had her theories. They’d made friendly conversation in the past, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he disliked her. But then again, he seemed to dislike everyone.

     “Mr. Carstairs,” Ariadne greeted, then cringed at the roughness of her voice. She cleared her throat, doing her best to sound casual. “Good evening. I was just out for a stroll. You know how it is.”

     His eyes found the holdall beside her and he raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Heat filled her cheeks. She had to get better at lying.

     “I see,” Alastair said with practised politeness, a tone she knew all too well. “I was doing the same, actually.”

     An idea occurred to her. 

     “There’s a restaurant down the street,” she burst out. “Have you had the time to visit it? Lovely place, really. I could show it to you, if you’d like. Or not. That’s stupid isn’t it? Crap.”

     “No,” Alastair interrupted, and she felt the urge to crawl into a hole and never get out. He clarified, “I haven’t had the time to see it.”

     Relief washed over her. “Oh. So… would you like to accompany me?”

     He nodded. His brashness, she realised, was simply a much better cover for awkwardness than her stammering. 

     “Let’s go, then.”

- - -

     The restaurant really was lovely. 

     Less fancy than Alastair would’ve assumed was the taste of the Inquisitor’s daughter, which was a plus. They ordered their food and made a poor attempt at small talk.

     How Alastair found himself in this situation was a mystery. His only plan was to visit the Fairchild residence to check in on Charles. Nothing much had happened between them since the man’s injury; their relationship was now fragile, and any sudden move could shatter them. Not to mention the advisal against physical activities, sex included–he guessed that was the main reason Charles hadn’t made a move.

     But then, he’d found Ariadne Bridgestock at Anna Lightwood’s doorstep, with puffy eyes and a bag in hand. He saw the despair of a broken person in her eyes, the same he saw in the mirror every morning. He couldn’t bring himself to ignore her.

     An awkward silence had installed itself between them. 

     “You were crying,” Alastair said, giving up politeness. It wasn’t a question.

     Ariadne was silent for a moment, but when she spoke, her voice didn’t waver. “I was. Are you going to ask why?”

     “Do you want me to?”

     The answer came promptly. “Yes.”

     “Alright. Why were you crying?”   

     She told him everything, from the beginning. Her father’s absence, her mother’s concern, the papers she’d found in his office. Information about the Herondales and the Lightwoods, she said. Errors and problems so small, it was strange that the Inquisitor took interest in them. Alastair’s heart skipped a beat upon hearing the name Lightwood. He bit his tongue to avoid asking if there was something about Thomas.

     “And there’s more,” Ariadne said, withdrawing a sheet of paper from her coat and handing it to him. Its edges were burnt and much of it was illegible, but its contents were undeniable. “A blackmail letter.”

     Horror dawned on Alastair as he read it. 

     “I have not one guess as to who the target is,” Ariadne said, but Alastair barely heard it. 

     Aligned in our views–

     The secrets which you believe well hidden–

     Some people are sentimental–

     He felt sick. To think he was heading straight to him, completely unaware of this whole ordeal…  

     “Alastair? Are you okay?”

     His attention snapped away from the letter and he met her gaze, brown on brown. 

     “This letter was unsent, correct? Is there a chance your father didn’t go through with the blackmail?”

     “I’m pretty sure that’s an early draft. He must’ve sent a later version.”

      Alastair closed his eyes. “I think I know who this is for.”

     The waiter chose that moment to serve their food. He told her his theory while they ate. 

     He knew of Ariadne’s preference for women, and was positive she knew of him as well. There was no reason to be scared. Still, he spoke in a low voice, glancing around for eavesdroppers. He didn’t know how Bridgestock had found out about them, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

     When he was done, she was quiet for a moment. 

     “That makes a lot of sense,” she said, then frowned. “The Herondales and the Lightwoods are like family to Charles, aren’t they? Do you think he’d do that to them?”

     Alastair recalled the way Charles talked about his family. Charlotte was emotional and unreasonable; Henry, unambitious and shortsighted; Matthew, immature and shameful. He didn’t think Charles’ family held a privileged spot in his mind. 

     “Yes,” he answered simply.

     Ariadne nodded. “I believe you. Godamnit, Alastair. I’m so sorry. I have no idea how my father found out! It’s awful that he’s using your secret like that… quite ironic, too.”

     She chuckled, but it was bitter. Upon his questioning look, she elaborated, “My mother was very unhappy that I’d gone through Papa’s files. We got into an argument, and I lost my temper. So I told her. My secret, that is.”

     Alastair was filled with sympathetic dread. She narrated the events of the night, and his chest tightened further. The thought of his sweet mother doing the same to him… Ariadne had no idea how strong she was.

     “So I ran,” she concluded, staring down at her now empty plate. “I have nowhere to go, but I won’t go back. I refuse to.”

     She raised her chin, daring Alastair to doubt her. He didn’t, not for a second. He was convinced she could walk through fire if she put her mind to it. 

     “I understand that the last thing we want right now is a scandal,” Alastair said, “but you could come to my place. Until you have somewhere else to go, I mean.”

     Ariadne smirked. “I’m sure that would go well. ‘Yeah, I slept at Mr. Carstairs’ house, but it was not like that! You see, I actually like women, and he does not!’”

     That punched a surprised laugh out of Alastair. “That’s a good way to avoid a scandal,” he remarked, thinking briefly of his sister. “Just create another one.”

     She laughed, then stopped. Cautious hope lit up in her eyes, and she bit her bottom lip. “Nobody needs to know where I am. I doubt Mama would make my escape public anyway. So, if you were being serious, I would love to stay at your place. Thank you.”

     He nodded, still smiling. She had brought him a strange kind of levity. It was different than what he’d felt in the Sanctuary; that had been a dream, and like a dream it ended. Ariadne’s presence was different, grounding, easy. Weird, but not unpleasant. 

     They made their way to the Carstairs residence, a comfortable silence between them. Despite the tragedy surrounding their circumstances, he couldn’t shake the feeling something great had just begun.

I don't actually remember my taglist, so bear with me: @melanielocke @stxr-thxif @sheisbeautyweareworldass @cant-think-of-anything @littlx-songbxrd @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @zaaharaa @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer

[seonggihun]

Can you write a cloud strife x reader imagine/ headcanon where the reader is an artist and cloud is trying to understand their art and attempts to draw but miserably fails and cute stuff just happens between them? Sorry if thats too much or not specific enought.

Hi Anon! I hope you like this. This will be my first ff7 story so i hope it is good enough. I also switched it up a little bit so i hope you don’t mind! <3

Artist’s Block

———————

The room is silent as you nibble on what’s left of the eraser on your pencil. You sigh as you set it down in your sketch book, disappointed of the terrible artist block you’ve been having. The hands that once held your pencil and sketchbook were now roaming in your hair eventually falling to your face, cupping it. You sighed as you stressed on what you would sketch not noticing the knock and the slight creak of your door opening.

“Hey, sorry to be a bother but Tifa was wondering why you weren’t hanging out with everyone.” That familiar voice. The same voice that made everyone feel safe at home even though it was so monotone. Such a lack of emotion. You pondered what to say for a second. “I was just drawing again. Nothing much really.” The creaks of the floor grow louder as the EX-SOLDIER grows closer. “Whatcha drawing?” He bends down to look at your sketchbook. You watch as his face scrunches and distorts into confusion. “There isn’t even anything on the page (Y/N).” “Well that’s because i’ve been having some Artist’s block.” You huff, leaning back into the comfy chair Tifa let you borrow. “Artist’s... Block?” He looks at you confused.

You hold back a laugh at his confusion you don’t wanna make him feel bad for not knowing. He’s already so shy. “Artist’s Block is basically when an artist...” You gesture at yourself. “Like me has trouble figuring out what to draw.” You put your hand down back onto your lap and wait for his response. “Um.. I don’t understand.” He looks away and huffs. “What i’m trying to say Cloud is that I have no inspiration to draw anything right now.” He averts his eyes back to you and tilts his head. “Ah I see..” He frowns and looks at your sketchbook. You watch as his gloved hands reach for the blank piece of paper you were staring at for god knows how long and rips it from the book. “I just remembered Tifa needs for me to write some orders down. I’ll be in the bar if you need anything.” He takes the paper and snatches a pencil from your book and runs off.

Pure confusion was printed onto your face. Well sitting around isn’t gonna help my problem, might as well walk around. You get up and push your chair under the chipped and damaged desk. I don’t even know how this thing still holds up. You put your jacket on and step outside of the dimly lit room only to be met by the sun shining through the windows of seventh heaven. Cloud is sitting at the table in the far right corner, his back turned as he scribbles something down on a piece and Tifa, well. Tifa is being Tifa. Cleaning off shot glasses, making sure to get every left over drink out of the tiny cup. Well I might as well go. As you’re walking towards the door, Cloud looks at you for a second and covers the piece of paper. His face was flustered as he pretended to look around the room, eventually picking at the wood on the table. You raise an eyebrow but pay no mind to Clouds odd behavior as you walk out the door.

When you return to seventh heaven the sun is already down and everyone has gone inside to feel the comfort of their bed. A very unsuccessful day... Well for you at least. You managed to find absolutely nothing. Surprising huh. You walk back into your room, stressed to oblivion. You meet eyes with a very familiar man. Mr Mako Eyes himself. Sitting in your room. On your chair. With something in his hand... Okay what? You’re so confused at this point that you completely forget about your Artists Block. “I.. um have something for you.” He clears his throat pushing the paper he tore from your book towards you.

You grab it and lock eyes with it. A drawing of a chocobo? Well I don’t know if i’d even call it a chocobo considering how deformed it was (sorry cloud). You slightly giggled as you saw the picture he drew of you. Lines scribbled everywhere. It was a mess but it was thoughtful. You look at Cloud and see his blushing face looking down playing with his thumbs. You feel yourself walk towards him and pull him in a tight hug. Normally Cloud doesn’t like it when people get in his personal bubble but that doesn’t mean he has no space for you. You feel his arms wrap around your waist as your face heats up.

“Y’know Cloud. I think I know what i’ll draw.” You move your face from his shoulder to look at him in his eyes. “W-What is it...” He stutters Blushing. “More of who is it.” You smile moving your hand to his hair. You look down to his lips and back up to his eyes, those beautiful eyes that no one can resist to melt into. He gets the memo and starts to lean closer, brushing his lips against yours. “Alright, Well who is it (Y/N)” He says looking at you in your eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know Cloud.” You smile as you feel him lean in, closing the gap between you two. The room felt like the inside of a volcano from the body heat radiating from you two. His gloved hand cups your face, leaving the left resting on your hip. You eventually part and as you two are calming down from the kiss, he sits you on his lap and scoots the rolling chair toward the desk.

He hands you the pencil you chewed on from this morning and rests his hands on your waist. “You better make me look pretty in that drawing.” You smile as he lays his chin on your shoulder, kissing your cheek. Maybe this Artists Block wasn’t so bad.

[ateezmakemeweep]

playing with fire (part 1)

word count: 23k

fluff, smut (warning: age gap, infidelity, roommate’s father)

(series masterlist)

“is there any other way you could pay?” the woman behind the desk asked, stout and soft spoken with sympathy in her eyes.

she probably has to have this conversation with students a lot, tell them that their tuition payment didn’t go through or that they’re not eligible for government support.

or that the athletics department needed more scholarship money, successfully rendering you, one of the many photography majors on campus, unable to pay for your last semester of college.

“a loan of some sort or another scholarship, maybe?” she tried to help, “i could send over an e-mail of ones you might be eligible for.”

you swallow the lump forming in your throat, attempting to calm all the anxiety and stress violently making its way through your body.

“y-yes, that would be great, thank you,” you barely manage to get out, hoping and praying to some unknown force above that you don’t burst into tears.

you were nearing the end of the fall semester, the last fall semester you ever anticipated of having, when you found out just last week that you were no longer eligible for your scholarship.

in a short, curt e-mail explaining that, while you kept up your gpa and never strayed from the requirements, they’ve maxed out their amount of funding and are looking to use that money elsewhere.

“can they do that!?” your best friend and roommate of four years yelps, gucci sunglasses atop her head as she stomps around your shared, off-campus apartment.

“they can’t seriously do that! you’ve been a straight a student since you started and now they wanna take it away?! before your last semester of senior year?!”

“eunbi, it’s not ideal but i’ve already come to terms with it,” you explain gently, leaving out the part where you did, in fact, have a break down right outside the bursar office only an hour ago. “i’ll just save up money and come back in the fall to finish.”

“that’s so not right or fair though!” she whines, something about the concept of not getting what she wants unfamiliar to your roommate.

you first met park eunbi during freshmen move in day, your two raggedy luggages and beat up backpacks an embarrassing contrast to the multiple louis vuitton travel bags she lunged in.

you were intimidated for all of three seconds, before she looked at you with a smile and threw her arms around you like a long lost best friend.

it was obvious she came from money, the way she spoke and carried herself so confidently before her parents came in and introduced themselves.

they were both gorgeous and tall and looked far too young to have an 18-year-old daughter, covered in fancy jewelry and expensive looking clothing.

her dad, who introduced himself as mr. park seonghwa, didn’t seem to bat an eye at your more humble appearance. he reminded you a lot of eunbi, honest and genuine in the way he was kind and nonjudgemental.

mrs. park seemed nice enough, too, though you could see the judgement behind her pretty eyes.

the way she sneered at your bags and looked down at your hands, so different from her and her daughter’s not covered in diamond bracelets or acrylic nails.

“did we just miss your parents?” she asked, her voice just as pretty and rich sounding as she appeared; you bet if she laughed, she’d had have that melodic, care-free laugh all rich women seem to have.

“oh, uh, yeah, i’m sorry,” you apologized, lying through your teeth with a shy smile and averting gaze - you had to move in by yourself, the same way you traveled here all alone with no one to send you off.

“it’s okay, we just thought it’d be nice to meet them,” eunbi’s father interjects, the smile on his handsome face causing your stomach to swoop - how is he a dad?

“we were gonna take eunbi to an early dinner before we left. do you wanna join us?”

“oh no, it’s okay, i’d hate to intru-”

“no, you’re coming, c’mon!” your new roommate whined, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door. “we’ll be able to get a lot of dessert out of them. probably the whole menu if we wanted.”

and you saw that over the years, eunbi knew she could, in fact, get whatever she wanted from her parents. they had the money and the means and the fondness in their hearts for their only daughter.

but it never seemed to get to your friend.

she was always kind and thoughtful of others and never said or did anything to suggest she was just a brainless, spoiled rich kid.

even in your guy’s second year when she found out you were going to school on an academic scholarship, she didn’t care. she didn’t turn her nose up or think you were lesser than her for not having the funds; if anything, it only made her praise you more.

that you were smart and ambitious enough to work under the strict guidelines of a prestigious scholarship.

“i know it’s not fair,” you mumble, not wanting to cry or have another anxiety attack over this matter. “but it is what it is. i’ll figure it out.”

she lets out a dejected, defeated sigh so uncharacteristic of the girl, plopping down on her pink, fluffy bed and bringing you down with her.

“we’ll sell feet pics over winter break,” she concludes after a few minutes of silence, wrapping her arm around yours and curling her body into yours. “you know how much money we can get from that? and we have pretty feet,” she says, sticking her leg up and wiggling her red, painted toes.

there’s a little less tightness in your chest and a little heaviness lifted in your stomach as you let out a giggle, looking over at your best friend who truly got you through the last four years of school.

you really don’t know how you’d still be functioning if it weren’t for her.

“you’re sick.”

“i’m serious,” she giggles out, flipping on her side and causing the bed to bounce under you. “you’re still good with coming tomorrow, right? i told my parents you were.”

she had invited you to her house for the winter break this year, the girl not wanting you to spend a month alone in the apartment.

you’ve shared with her how strained your relationship with your parents has been, really, since birth. never seeing eye to eye to them and feeling as if they never had your best interests at heart.

when most kids get full ride scholarships, their parents are immensely proud. bragging about how smart they are and telling them how proud they were.

but your parents were the opposite.

they didn’t want you to up and leave them to pursue an education. they thought you were gonna stay with them forever, not go to college like them and help run the family business back home in your tiny little hometown.

it was your dream to go to college and get a degree, though, so that’s exactly what you did for yourself; but they saw it as a giant fuck you.

saw it as you thinking you were better than them and basically told you to never come back if you thought you were so much smarter and better off without them.

so you’d spent every winter or summer vacation in the dorms, this year finally being the time you accepted eunbi’s invitation to stay over - reluctantly.

“i packed all my stuff, yeah,” you mumble, hands twisted into one another nervously. “but... are you sure they’re okay with it? i don’t wanna intrude or be there if i’m not wanted.”

“y/n, please,” she whines, “my mom may be a raging bitch but you know i make the rules in that house.”

“that’s not what i meant,” you mutter immediately, looking to the girl with a small frown on your lips.

although it was no secret eunbi’s mom didn’t ever seem too fond of you, always sneering at your off-brand items or questioning the logistics of why exactly you needed a scholarship to afford college, you always tried to remain polite.

smile at her and greet her happily even though there was always a thick, palpable tension between you two.

“oh but it is,” she chuckles out, the girl far too aware of what a materialistic snob her mother is. “it’s fine, i know she’s a bitch. my dad’s just coming tomorrow anyway. i told him to bring one of the bigger cars so we can lay out in the back.”

you have to bite back a snarky comment about the fact there are multiple cars in question, though the look in your eye certainly gives it away. she can only giggle and shrug her shoulders, flopping onto her back as she tells you about how excited she is to be reunited with her boyfriend.

eunbi and jiwoon have been dating since their second year of high school, going to colleges only an hour away from each other; he was just as handsome as he was kind and good to her, leaving you with no other option but to love and support the both of them.

and you try to listen to her rambling that ensues, you really do, but your mind is swirling with some slight anxiety about staying with her family for a month.

you don’t wanna make her mom even more irritated, deal with the side eyes and passive aggressive comments and overall feeling of just not being wanted.

you don’t want eunbi to feel obligated to be with you 24/7, act as a cock block to her and her boyfriend who haven’t seen each other in almost six weeks.

and maybe, you don’t want your tiny, small, miniscule crush on mr. park to make you feel any more awkward than it does, wondering how a married man who has a daughter in college is still so handsome and alluring.

it also doesn’t help that he’s just so incredibly kind, always making everyone feel so comfortable and welcomed, it’d be hard not to just develop a little, secret crush on him.

“eunbi, who is that sexy ass man who just dropped you off?” one of your suite mates asks your roommate, everyone gathering back in front of the dorm building after winter break.

it was sophomore year and you spent a month in the quiet, almost eerie college dorms alone (apart from the ra down the hall). you were grateful for everyone to return, no matter how loud or catty things were about to become.

“yeah, for real. is that your new boyfriend? he’s hotter than the last one and i didn’t even think that was possible.”

“uhhh.. no,” eunbi says, shooting the crowd of girls with lustful eyes and curious glances a look of distaste. “that’s my dad.”

and that’s when a chorus of disbelief and inappropriate comments erupted from the group of college girls.

asking how a dad could look like that while hoping and praying he’s single.

inquiring about just how much her dad’s on campus and when’s the next time he’s gonna pick her up.

about how he’s definitely hotter than her boyfriend, with a more mature and sophisticated look than these college boys.

“are they fucking serious! like how disgusting? he’s my literal father!” eunbi rages once in the dorm room, sharing a few curse words and vulgar phrases at the girl’s before stomping away from them.

“and for them to say that shit in front of me? did they think i want to hear that?”

“i know, that was so sick,” you agree, because even though you, too, think he’s attractive, it’s not something you would ever verbalize to your friend.

“like... i know he’s younger than most dads, my parents had me when they were teenagers, but shit! how sick,” she rants, throwing down her heavy designer bags and flopping on her bed.

you can tell by the look on her face how much it truly bothers her, everyone always noticing her dad and making comments like that. she handles it well, she’s always able to handle herself well, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s something that worries her.

people getting close to her to get to her dad, even if it was teachers or other moms in elementary school or her friends when she got to college.

it’s one of the many reasons you would never give away your little crush on him - because it’s not only inappropriate and uncomfortable for her to know but there’s also no need to tell her.

because it’s not like it would go anywhere.

he’s a married man and your roommate’s father, a twisted, dark, forbidden fantasy that will stay in the walls of your head and never see the light of day - no matter how thrilling and fulfilling being with him would be.

“eunbi, your dad’s gonna be here soon,” you yell into your roommate’s doorway, met with the sound of her groaned “five more minutes!” that you’ve been hearing for the past twenty.

she was on facetime with jiwoon when you went to bed around one, briefly waking to the sound of her girlish screams or high-pitched giggles three hours later; you wouldn’t be surprised if she only went to bed a few hours ago.

“you said five more minutes thirty minutes ago,” you say, stomping your way over before smacking her over the head with a pillow. she lets out a loud sigh before swatting you away, your surprisingly fast reflexes grabbing her wrist.

she peeks one eye open as a smirk covers her morning face, looking from you all dressed up and ready in your pink pleated skirt and white thigh high stockings, down to her wrist in your hold.

“that was kinda hot. and you look good. i don’t know how to act right now.”

“shut up and get your ass out of bed,” you demand, biting back a smile as you storm out of her room.

you’d been pacing around the apartment ever since you woke up at seven a.m., more and more unsettled about staying over her house as the time drew closer.

you checked to make sure you had enough clothes and chargers and skincare products for nearly an hour, finally settling the same purple suitcase you moved in with freshmen year near the door.

you hope mrs. park doesn’t notice, remembering the way she sneered at the wonky zipper and slightly stained bottom.

you also hope you can keep yourself in check, not get too nervous or flustered by eunbi’s exorbitant wealth or a new setting you don’t feel welcomed in or her hot ass father whose bones you wanna jump.

the knock at the door completely sobers you, jumping in your spot just in time to see eunbi fly across the living room to get to the door. there’s a big, happy smile on her face, ripping open the door and greeting her father in typical eunbi fashion.

“are those for me?” she asks, snatching the red box from his hands.

excitement bubbles inside the girl as she unveils twelve chocolate covered strawberries, a speciality at one of the local dessert shops just a few miles from her home.

“you shouldn’t have, dad, really. i’m much too tired to appreciate this.”

the man can only look at his daughter with a look of disdain and affection, waking up to an extremely passive aggressive text that she’d really appreciate an early morning treat from her favorite place ever and that it’d really inspire her to be ready.

but as he can currently see, given the state of her hair and pajamas pants, it didn’t at all act as a motivator.

“then maybe i should just-” but upon her father’s hand reaching out to grab the box of strawberries, the girl brings it to her body and runs away, yelling that her bags are packed and she’s just gonna wash her face.

he looks to you with a mock annoyed expression, your heart jumping in your chest as you send him a small, polite smile.

“how do you deal with her, y/n?” he asks, a smirk on his face rising as you let out a soft, slightly forced giggle - this man looks too good for his own good at ten o’clock in the morning.

“don’t talk shit about me!” she yelps before you can even think to say something, a smile lighting up his face again before he nods his head down the hall.

“i’ll bring down your girl’s bags,” he says, his tall, large frame coming toward you making your knees feel slightly wobbly.

you swear you see his eyes roam over you for the shortest of seconds, down to your shirt and exposed legs before back to your face, until he’s looking into your eyes questioningly.

totally not like someone who just checked out their daughter’s roommate - this is what you feared, your own delusionals and attraction making your crazy little brain see something that’s not there.

“her bedroom’s down that hall?”

you resist the urge to swallow nervously, begging yourself to snap out of it and remind yourself you have to deal with the man for a month. a month of his dark, piercing eyes and bright, white smile and skin so smooth and clear, it’s far too easy to forget he’s almost forty years old.

“yeah,” you barely manage to get out. “i-i can help and bring down mine.”

“no, it’s okay,” he insists, “help in getting eunbi ready. you know she’ll delay us thirty more minutes.”

you let out another strained chuckle as you nod your head, finally letting out the breath you’ve been holding when you hear his footsteps disappear down the hall and into her room.

as long as you distance yourself from him, not look him in the eye or let any sort of idea get in your head that an older, married man could want you back, this will be fine.

it’ll be a nice, calm, relaxed break actually full of interaction and socialization opposed to your usual lonely bubble of solitude.

eunbi’s not making that very easy though, when twenty minutes later, she’s opening the back door of her father’s black g-wagen and sprawling out on the black leather seats.

“where’s y/n supposed to go, eunbi?” seonghwa asked, the fatherly tone is his voice causing eunbi to let out a huff; the only time you see eunbi’s spoiled tendencies come out is around her father, the girl knowing he’ll do anything and everything for her.

and apparently, so will you.

sitting in the front seat of her car, next to her extremely hot father you’re trying to stay calm around, while she sleeps soundly in the backseat - if she didn’t invite to stay at her home, meals and bed and transportation free, you’d say she has to owe you.

“was she up all night talking to jiwoon?” mr. park asked, the past few moments of silence just as comforting as they were terrifying. it felt awkward to you, extremely tense and full of suspense, but you knew it was completely normal.

you bite down on your lip, looking back at eunbi sleeping soundly on the seat, even prepared with a fuzzy white blanket. you let out a soft giggle when you see her mouth open, the slightest bit of drool hanging from her mouth and threatening to spill on the dark leather.

“she might’ve been,” you mutter, a breathy laugh leaving her father that causes you to sneak a glance at him.

there’s not a hint of a wrinkle or imperfection on his glowing skin, black hair hanging in his face and red lips quirked into a content smile. that’s something you always noticed about him, despite his dark appearance and looming figure, he always appears to be happy.

smiles and laughs and never gives anyone without his same wealth a dirty glance - he treats everyone the same and that’s another reason you’ve taking a liking to him, not just because he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life.

“y/n?” he asks, your intrusive thoughts being ripped away at the sound of his voice calling your name.

your eyes move to his and he’s watching you in slight amusement, a rampant blush creeping up on your cheeks at the way you’ve been caught. you’re quick to look away, shake your head and let out an awkward chuckle and apology.

you miss the way his eyes roam your side profile, a delightful smirk and feeling in his chest blooming before he speaks again.

“how was your semester?”

“it was good,” you say, hands placed nervously in your lap. “a lot of work on top of an internship but it was good.”

“and you girls are almost done,” he hums lowly, one hand atop the steering wheel while his eyes focus on the highway in front of him. “eunbi’s been talking about a combined graduation party since the moment you guys met.”

you let out a small laugh as you remember eunbi’s plan since your second semester of freshmen year, ignoring the twinge of sadness in your stomach.

you could’ve never anticipated delaying your college career when you first received your scholarship, happy and proud and eternally grateful for the opportunity.

but you suppose you’re lucky enough to have gotten this far, and delaying one last semester is nothing compared to people who never get to go to college - but it still makes you feel upset.

you think you have the right to feel disappointed and sad, the lingering sick feeling in your stomach making you feel nauseous.

“is it okay if i open the window for a second?” you mumble to mr. park, the man looking over your face.

he presses down on the passenger window button immediately, your face met with cold air as relief floods through your body.

“are you okay? do you get car sick?” he asks, remembering how much eunbi used to get car sick (on the rare occasion she wasn’t passed out during a road trip).

“not usually,” you mumble, resting your head on the side of the door.

then again, i’m not usually freaking out about making tuition money or repressing my violent attraction to my roommate’s father.

seonghwa watches as you close your eyes for a few moment, allowing the cold, windy air to hit your face. he couldn’t help but notice the pinkish tint to your cheeks, suppressing the urge for his eyes and thoughts to wander.

you’re a college girl in the prime of her life and his daughter’s best friend, he’d be a fool to think you were blushing and nervous because of him - but he also doesn’t remember you looking like.... this.

so pretty and dressed up and pink in the face as you check him out with a soft and curious look in your eye.

“maybe try to take a nap,” he suggests, his gaze lingering back onto the road so he doesn’t look at your exposed legs. “i’ll pull off at a rest stop to get you ginger ale.”

“that’s not necessary, mr. park,” your sweet voice says, something about it causing his insides to jump - he definitely doesn’t remember you sounding like that. “i’ll be okay. just need the window open for a little longer.”

you spend the next few minutes with the cold, december wind blowing through the car, your back pressed against the comfortable seat behind you. a chill runs through your body, goosebumps rising on your exposed thighs, but it feels better than the alternative.

potentially panicking or vomiting due to current stress of your life.

your gaze shifts to the man beside you, whether it be to check him out or ask if he’s cold unknown to you.

“are you okay with the-”

the words are stuck in your throat when you see his eyes aren’t on the road but your exposed, goose-bumpy thighs, the white lace of your thigh high stockings and pink skirt leaving little to the imagination.

you wish you could see the look in his eye, if it’s judgemental and shameful or full of lust and curiosity. if he’s wondering what you have on just a few inches under your skirt and if that’s something he even thinks about.

or maybe he’s just looking because it’s there - your skirt blowing in the wind and him caught off guard by the sight right there in his passenger seat.

“um, i think i’m good now,” you mumble, watching from your peripheral as he shifts in his seat and tightens his hold on the steering wheel.

“alright, let me know if you wanna stop.”

you bite down on your lip as you nod your head, keeping your eyes on the view in front of you.

the faint sounds of eunbi snoring behind you act as a way to ground you, remind you that these thoughts and feelings you’re having can’t stay.

maybe you have to get it our of your system now, take all the looks you can and feel all the hopefulness your delusional brain needs until you act as if eunbi’s father is a mean, disgusting, grotesque man.

not someone who gets your heart and body pounding.

you’re not sure how many songs play on the radio until you both are talking again, seonghwa looking in the rearview mirror to see his daughter still passed out on the seats.

“do you think she’ll sleep the whole time?”

he hope for his sake, she doesn’t.

you look back at eunbi sleeping soundly, the drool previously trickling down her mouth successfully making a pool on the black leather.

“probably,” you chuckle out lightly. “i have a feeling she went to bed around six.”

“shit,” he laughs out, remembering the days he used to be able to pull all nighters in college or dreaded the idea of waking up in the morning. “i can’t remember the last time i was able to stay up past one.”

“you’re not even that old, mr. park,” you tease, not sure where you got the balls to say that and feeling, at least for a few seconds, that you overstepped; but then he lets out a deep, amused chuckle and it causes butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

“not that old, huh?” he quips, your tooth sinking into your lip at the tone of his voice. “you know i’m turning 40 in a few months, right?”

you crane your neck to look at the man in the driver’s seat, swallowing thickly when you see his eyes are already on you. there’s a certain type of lightness and teasing in them that you’ve never seen before, the man always happy and jovial but never like this.

never looking so... teasing and playful.

“yeah,” you say with a growing smirk, not being able to help your own nervous excitement. “that doesn’t seem too bad.”

the deep, low chuckle that leaves him causes your stomach to swoop, eyes wide and the small smile on your face causing him to look over you once more.

it’s shameless and bold but neither of you seem to care in that moment.

“i’ll keep that in mind,” he says, deep brown eyes piercing through yours before his face turns teasing and.. appropriate.. “the next time eunbi tries to call me an old man or something.”

“right,” you chuckle out, cheeks burning and heart pounding as you allow yourself to break eye contact.

the ride to eunbi’s house is just over two hours, hoping and praying that it goes by quickly - because you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to be alone, or mostly alone, with him.

you’re thinking too much into his words and his gaze and the way he makes you feel, making you silly enough to believe that, maybe, a part of him wants you too.

the second you arrived at eunbi’s, you had already felt unwelcomed.

not only because of mrs. park, who just about sneered at your presence in her exquisite home, but because of the dozens of other socialites in the immaculately white living room.

it looked and felt almost like a hospital. a white color scheme with black accents, extremely cold and spotless - the only bit of color was in eunbi’s room where it felt like you could actually breathe.

“i’m sorry, i told her not to throw her fucking gathering today,” eunbi complained, grumpy from her nap but still happy to finally be home.

“a bunch of stuck up snobs, i swear to god. they either have to get the stick lodged so far up their asshole removed or get dicked down by their lousy excuses of-”

“eunbi,” you hear her father’s deep voice reprimand, the girl not even feeling the slightest bit of shame or embarrassment for talking that way in front of her father.

“oh, c’mon, dad, you know it’s true!” she whines in a whispered tone. “they’re the worst! and she knew me and y/n were coming today, do you really think that wasn’t a coincidence?”

because, as far as eunbi thinks, she has sinking suspicions that her mom did this solely to make you uncomfortable.

she had already been hesitant to let you stay in the first place, had eunbi not gone full on bitch mode and stubbornly proclaimed she’d spend the break with you at the apartment.

but you didn’t have to know that.

“i don’t care, it’ll just be my first christmas without my family, mom, who cares about that,” she had said, all types of manipulative and toxic behavior that she learned from the best.

she’s sure her mother was sweet and good at one point in her life, she wouldn’t have ended up with her father in the first place if she wasn’t, but money changes people.

wealth and greed and having the power to get anything you want because you flash a stack of money around or write out a check.

“i told her to have them out by dinner,” he said, his eyes moving from eunbi to you, standing there with tense shoulders and a shy, uncomfortable look on your face.

“you’re more than welcomed here, y/n,” he said, his voice low and full of kindness as he stands in eunbi’s doorway. “don’t worry about it, okay?”

you resist the urge to pout at the touched feeling in your chest, looking from the man to eunbi who’s nodding at her dad’s words.

“thank you, mr. park,” you say, a phrase he swears has never effected him this deeply.

and because of that, he’s quick to haul ass out of there. tells you guys that dinner will be ready around seven and to come down whenever.

you and eunbi spend that time in her room to unpack both of your things and watch movies, her king sized bed nearly lulling you to sleep until her loud squeal and bounce of the bed causes you to jump in shock.

“y/n, don’t be mad at me please,” she whines directly in your face, all wide-eyed and cutesy as she looks at you with mock innocence.

“what did you do?” you mumble tiredly, pushing her away with the smallest of sneers.

“i’ll be back for dinner, i promise, but... is it okay if i go to jiwoon’s for a little?” she asks, cocking her head to the side before shimming closer to you. “i have to get railed so bad.”

“jesus christ, eunbi,” you snort, pushing her away again and burying your face in the pillow - you’ve never met someone who overshares as much as she does.

she plops down on her back with an unabashed giggle, popping right back up like an annoying little dog and looking at you with a smile.

“of course you can go, i’m not gonna hold you hostage here,” you say when she pulls your face away, looking at you so expectantly and sweetly, you couldn’t say no if you wanted.

“okay, but i don’t want you thinking that i’m gonna ditch you this whole time. i’m really not, y/n,” she pouts, knowing that was one of the reasons you were apprehensive about coming - that and her bitch of a mother. “i just miss him.”

a pout falls on your face as you look at eunbi and the genuine look on her face.

“bi, i’m serious, go. i want you to,” you insist, moving a piece of her tangled hair away from her face. “we were just gonna be up here anyway. i’ll probably take a nap, i was about to fall asleep before your loud ass-”

“thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says, pulling you into a tight hug before jumping off her bed and rushing toward her door. “i’ll be back a lot more calm and happy. oh, why, you ask? because i’m about to get my back blown the fuck ou-”

you thank god for your impeccable aim, promptly whacking eunbi in the face with one of her pillows.

“get out of here,” you groan, eunbi throwing the pillow back with a smile on her face.

“sweet dreams, y/n!”

you let out a sigh when she closes her door, falling back onto her bed with a soft plop.

you were definitely tired from your anxious pacing this morning but aren’t sure how much sleep you’re gonna get right now, tonight or for the rest of the month.

knowing that you’re unwelcomed by one person, extremely attracted to another and silently betraying the person you should be most loyal too - but as long as it just stays in your head, and you remind yourself that there’s no way mr. park could feel anything back to you, it’ll be fine.

you’ll just get by quietly and smoothly at dinners or in passing through the hallways, enjoy eunbi’s comfortable king-sized bed and the fact that you don’t have to spend yet another holiday alone.

reruns of drake and josh play in the background, keeping your giggles quiet as drake soaks his feet in lizard pee. you feel your eyes grow heavy the more episodes you watch, the shitty laugh track and loud, bickering brothers eventually lulling you to sleep.

it takes about five knocks on the door to eventually stir you, your eyes fluttering open to see mr park’s figure in the doorway. you can only stare at the man as you adjust to him, taking in his tall, slim figure just a few feet away from you.

taking in the way his white shirt clings to his body, broad shoulders and slim torso on display in a way that makes you wish you could see, just for a second, what he looks like underneath that a-

“sorry if i woke you,” his deep voice hums, the slightest bit of amusement in his voice that causes your cheeks to warm. “i didn’t think you’d be sleeping at seven p.m.”

“no, it’s okay,” you stammer out, sitting up in eunbi’s bed. “i... i don’t even know when i fell asleep, to be honest.”

he looks at the screen to see drake and josh playing, a smirk pulling at his lips as his gaze shifts back to you.

“it’s funny,” you defend with a mumble, a deep chuckle leaving his mouth that causes butterflies to erupt in your stomach - he’s far too handsome, everything about him is just far too attractive, even in his laugh.

“that’s what eunbi claims,” he says, remembering all the years of his daughter forcing him to watch ridiculous shows.

despite his daughter’s outgoing nature, she never had a lot of friends growing up.

there was once a small group of girls she hung out but they quickly drifted apart throughout high school, leaving eunbi really only with him and her boyfriend.

the boyfriend who seonghwa really didn’t wanna like out of principal but seeing that the kid really does love his daughter quickly coming around.

“speaking of, where is she? jiwoon’s?”

“yeah,” you tell him, settling back into the pillows and stretching your arms out in front of you. “she said she’d be back for dinner.”

“well she’s wrong, as usual, because dinner’s ready,” he quips playfully, the smirk pulling at his lips causing you to smile back at him. you swallow nervously when his eyes roam over your face, your own gaze trained on him before you see his mouth start to move again.

“do you want me to bring some up for you? or you’ll come down?”

he can see the apprehension on your face immediately, fear crossing your eyes and your arms folding into each other uncomfortably. he tries to ignores the way your soft white sweater dips by your chest, a hint of perky cleavage just barely showing that causes his dick to twitch in his pants.

he doesn’t know when this happened.

he didn’t know when he became a pervy old man who checked out college girls with his wife just downstairs and the knowledge that you’re his daughter’s friend.

“i’ll come down,” you say, surprising him just as he was about to insist he brings some up for you. “she’ll probably be back soon anyway.”

but five minutes pass by, then ten, then twenty and eunbi’s still not home - it’s just you, seonghwa and mrs. park at the long, glass dining room table.

white chairs with high backs and comfortable cushions to match the immaculate, hospital-like color scheme and environment; truthfully, you’ve never been more terrified to eat a plate of chicken parmesan in your life.

the sound of utensils scraping on the china and the crackling of the fireplace a room over are the only noises heard throughout the home, mrs. park taking a swig of wine and gently placing it on the table with a light clack.

“so, y/n,” she finally says, breaking the tension with her rich-sounding, nasally voice. “how has school been, dear? you’re an... art major, am i remembering that correctly?”

“uh, photography, yeah,” you smile tensely, trying to ignore the judgment in her voice.

“ah, so you never switched over to business then,” she hums, her wine glass back in hand as her dark, gorgeous eyes look you over.

you bite the inside of your cheek as you feel a pink flush cover your face, faintly remembering your roommate saving you a few semesters ago when her mom was grilling you about picking a more practical and useful major.

“she can do whatever she wants, mom,” eunbi eventually snapped, “whether she does business or photography or even liberal arts is none of your business.”

“no,” you mutter out, dropping your gaze to look over the intricate pattern on the table. “i thought about it but it wasn’t something i wanted.”

“so you didn’t want something practical? or useful?” she asks, using those two words yet again while cocking her head to the side with a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“a business degree would’ve been great, y/n. everyone always has connections to somewhere, you could’ve found a job right out of college.”

you bite back the urge to tell her no. that not everyone has connections to multi billion dollar companies or numbers of ceos in their phones or the ceo of a tech company as their next door neighbors.

but instead, the same way eunbi defended you against her mother, seonghwa does against his wife. gives you a soft, sympathetic side eye before placing his larger hand on his wife’s.

“there are tons of jobs in photography too, honey,” seonghwa says, his voice so warm and soft and welcoming compared to hers even despite the slight edge in it.

“and she can travel to build her portfolio. it’s a fantastic opportunity to explore the world and make money. is there a particular type of photography you’d wanna do?”

you feel yourself relax slightly, a small smile on your face as you nod your head toward the striking couple.

“i would love to be a wedding photographer actually,” you mumble, a romantic at heart who’s read and watched far too many novels and romcoms.

“taking pictures of all those moments would be really fun, i think. like when the groom sees the bride for the first time or just everyone dancing and having fun. weddings are usually happy and i like to photography happy things.”

“that sounds perfect for you then,” seonghwa smiles, his brown eyes lighting up and making you feel even more at ease.

“i think you’ll do great, y/n. and you only have a semester left, right? maybe you and eunbi you could travel for the summer before you start your jobs.”

you ignore the swish of dread and anxiety in your stomach at the mention of next semester, instead choosing to smile softly and nod your head at the man.

“i think she’d love that,” you giggle out, knowing damn well your roommate already has an extensive list of cities she wants to visit before ‘real life begins.’

“and how do your parents feel about everything?” mrs. park asks, making your stomach twist with even more dread and discomfort. “are they proud?”

you wish you could fold in on yourself right now, swallowing the growing, nervous lump in your throat.

because not only is she making you incredibly uncomfortable right now, with her harsh looks and topic of conversation and snide little tone, she just mentioned the people you haven’t spoken to since you left home at eighteen.

you don’t know what to say, you have the slightest bit of concern you might throw up on her, when the loud, chipper voice of your roommate floats through the cold, silent house.

“i’m back!” her chipper voice yelps, sock-clad feet running through the house and sliding on the marble floor. “what’d you guys make?”

“you’re late, eunbi,” seonghwa mumbles warningly, an innocent smile on her face as she picks up her plate of food and plops down next to you.

“am i? or are you girls just early?”

“i’m not a girl.”

“it’s a figure of speech, father,” eunbi says, smiling playfully at her father before turning to you.

she’s able to tell the second she sees your face that you’re uncomfortable, the pink flush still lingering on your face and the tenseness of your shoulders making her frown.

“i’m sorry you were alone with them,” she whispers, genuine sorrow in her wide, mock-innocent eyes. “i got held up. or... down, rather, but i tried to leave on time. i promise.”

“uh huh, i bet,” you mumble back, fighting back a smile despite your discomfort.

because eunbi has always had something about her that made it impossible to stay mad at her, her carefree, unfiltered way of communicating that made being her friend so easy.

even if, sometimes, you wanted to kill her.

“so mom,” eunbi quips, turning her soft gaze to you before looking over her mother.

“what was with your little group of bitchy housewives today? you couldn’t have had them over any other day? what kind of christmas disgrace is that?”

“eunbi...” seonghwa chastises lowly, the girl with her brow already quirked and eyes narrowed.

“i can do whatever i want in my home, eunbi. are you forgetting how things work around here?”

“how could i, when i’m met with thirty middle-aged women with botox out the ass in my home the second i get back from school?” she asks, “you didn’t think me and y/n would wanna spend the break, like, resting?”

“you ran off to your boyfriend’s the second you got here,” mrs. park bites back, her glass of wine empty as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “left your friend all alone in your room. what did i tell you about leaving... guests unattended in the house?”

the accusation and direction of conversation is quickly making you feel uncomfortable, your head turned down in your lap and leaving your cheeks aflame.

she’s making it sound like you would steal something in her home for christ’s sake, like you’re not a guest who’s dreaded coming here due to this very reason.

you block out the back and forth between eunbi and her mom, a few more seconds of yappy feminine voices before a deeply spoken “enough,” echoes through the dining room.

you even look up at the sound, watching as mr. park’s eyes rest on you. his eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of your red cheeks, his gaze shifting from you to his daughter to his wife beside him.

“y/n’s here for a month and we’re gonna make her feel welcomed the entire time. if you two are gonna fight, don’t do it at the dinner table.”

“but dad, she totally-”

“maybe you should’ve taught your daughter-”

“no more,” seonghwa growls, a sense of finality in his tone that causes the room to go silent.

you can tell your friend is unbothered by the reprimanding, shoveling food into her mouth and sipping from her wine glass completely unbothered.

sometimes you wish you could be more like her, so unfazed by conflict or loud voices or the strained relationship with a parent.

eunbi was always open with you about the rocky relationship with her mother, saying more than once to you that if it weren’t for her father, she would’ve long cut off any contact with her.

she had never really been there for eunbi growing up, having nannies and chefs take care of her for most of her life - it was her nanny of fifteen years who taught her how to walk and talk, was there with her for all the milestones she met through infancy, childhood and even adolescence.

but even then, eunbi was nonchalant and carefree about it.

saying that she’s not gonna waste her time being upset over it when she knows her mom doesn’t think about her at all. it makes your heart hurt for eunbi, grateful that the girl at least has a good relationship with her father and boyfriend.

and you, of course. you consider her your best friend and you know she does the same - even if sometimes, you wanna pull her hair out.

“i’m gonna go the food store tomorrow, eunbi, so if you and y/n want anything, just text it to me.”

“oooh can we come!” she squeals, knocking her arm into yours like an excited kid in a candy store. “we wanna try making our cookies again.”

“you’re gonna bake?” the girl’s father asks, a look of doubt on his face that causes you to bite back a smile.

“no, we’re gonna bake,” she corrects with snark, “y/n measures the ingredients and stirs, i put it in the oven and watch.”

“right, silly me,” the man hums, a smirk pulling at his lips the more he sees his daughter get irritated. “but of course you girls can come,” he says, his eyes flicking to you for just a few seconds too long.

you can only look back with a small smile, a quiet “thank you,” leaving your mouth that you’re positive he doesn’t catch.

(he did).

you help clean your plate off before you and eunbi go up to her room later that night, once her door’s closed and she’s sitting down shooting her a look of disdain.

“i know you’re mad, okay, i’m sorry, i really am!” she whines, holding her arms out for you to come over. “i tried to leave but he wouldn’t let me. he just kept wanting to-”

“i don’t need the details you sick freak!” you yelp, going over and plopping down on her bed. “ugh, it was just... so awkward. your mom hates me. she was utterly perturbed that i didn’t switch my major to business.”

“ugh, she’s a crotchety bitch i swear,” eunbi says, falling onto her back and looking at you with sorrow in her eyes. “i’m sorry, i really am. i won’t leave you alone with her again, i promise.”

you quirk an unconvinced eyebrow her way, eyes full of doubt and distrust before she throws herself on you and squeals that, at least, now you can have a scary movie marathon without any interruptions.

it seems you also probably should’ve made her promise last night that you’d never be alone with her father either; it didn’t even occur to you at the time, not thinking that she’d really ditch you two days in a row.

but alas, jiwoon’s car pulled up when all three of you were walking out of the house to the g-wagon for the trip to the food store, her shooting you an apologetic look and whispered condolences in your ear.

“i’m technically not breaking my promise because my dad’s nice,” she mumbled, the feeling in your body more nervous and aroused than it is angry and upset.

but she could’t know that.

“and when i break your head? then what, eunbi?”

“i love you,” she giggles in your ear, the playful tone of your voice letting her know she got off the hook again. “it’ll be fine. my dad’s a good man. he wouldn’t ever talk shit to you the way my mom does.”

little does she know how much you want her dad to talk shit to you.

talk to you in a way that’s casual and playful and teasing, like the hints of it you’ve seen in the car or in eunbi’s room when you were alone last night. you just want him to look at you with the slightest bit of something, even though it’s wrong.

not only because of his wife, no matter how big a bitch she is, but because of-

“do you still wanna come with me?”

seonghwa’s voice pulls you away from your thoughts, looking to the man dressed in a long, black jacket and expensive loafers. he looks far too fancy and delectable for a trip to the grocery store.

eunbi is long gone by now, her giggles and carefree run down the driveway and into her boyfriend’s car leaving you and mr. park alone, with only the blue sky and crisp air as your witness.

him looking you over hopefully, with a twinge of teasing and longing in his gaze.

you looking at him full of nerves and excitement, biting down on your lip as you nod your head timidly.

“s-sure, if that’s okay,” you say, looking from him to his car just a few feet away. “it’d be better than sitting in eunbi’s room again.”

a handsome smile crosses his face as he nods his head, heart pounding and throat constricting as you watch him walk toward the car.

he walks around the front of a smaller, sleek suv, your own eyes watching in confusion until he opens the passenger side door.

you can only stare blankly, head cocked to the side as you really start to wonder if this man is about to make you drive his car costing more than your life.

“are you getting in, y/n?” he asks, an amused smile pulling at his lips - almost like he’s making fun of your nervous, intimidated disposition.

you shake your head of the confusion, cheeks flushing in the cold december air as you do an awkward jog toward the car. you dip in beside him as your body hits the cool leather, craning your neck to shoot him a small, grateful smile.

your faces are closer than you anticipated, breath catching in your throat as his gaze watches you closely.

he doesn’t say a word or move a muscle, taking a few moments for his eyes to roam your face and body before mumbling to buckle up.

you wish you knew how long the drive to the store would be, as it would slightly settle you and the thick, awkward tension in the air. it appears to be enough time for the heat to go on, warm air blowing from the vents before he asks if you want your seat heater on.

“oh, sure, thank you,” you mumble, a smile quirking on his lips as he presses down on the small circular button.

more silence lingers in the air as the trees outside you pass by, the bright winter sun and blue sky not making it feel like christmas is only a few days away.

you can’t remember the last time the holidays have actually felt like it, though,  all the lonely days blending into one and feeling as if they were the same.

maybe this year, because you’re surrounded by eunbi and her family, it’ll feel less lonely. maybe you’ll actually enjoy yourself and find that you’ve missed out when you denied her invitation each and every-

“i’m sorry about my wife last night.”

those are words you don’t expect so they shock you even more, looking at the older man beside you with a wide-eyed, confused gaze. his dark eyes are expressionless and casual on the road, one hand on the wheel while the other rests beside him.

“i... what do you mean?” you ask, knowing damn well you understand his apology - and given the unamused look he throws you, he knows you’re full of shit too.

“i don’t think she means to judge you so harshly,” he begins, his deep, smooth voice full of sympathy and softness. “it’s not her place to question your education or major, so i just want to apologize for her.”

“that’s not necessary, mr. park,” you insist, shaking your head as a small, breathy chuckle leaves you. “and it’s not like i haven’t heard it before.”

because no one is ever too confident in any of the arts being your main source of income or profession; even your own parents, although it really wouldn’t matter what you would have chosen, haven’t been supportive.

and you especially haven’t missed the looks of pity or distaste when you tell people on campus or at parties in the frat house, future business leaders or stem majors looking at you like just said the sky is hot pink.  

“well that’s just ridiculous,” seonghwa says, ripping you from your thoughts so you can roam over his strong, handsome face. “it’s a great field to work in and something you’re passionate about. that’s what matters most.”

he can tell by the way your cheeks flush that you’re slightly embarrassed and he can’t help but find it endearing, licking over his lips as his mind begins to wander.

wonder about what other parts of you could flush so easily or what else he could say to really make the pinkness deepen.

“i guess,” you mutter, shrugging your shoulders as you look at the passing oak trees and mansions.

“and... what you said last night about traveling to build my portfolio,” you begin, shocked by the words continuing to leave your mouth. “that’s something i’ve thought about doing. i think it’d be really fun, regardless if i did wedding photographer or not.”

“yeah?” he asks, the smile on his face causing your head to jump. “i think that’d be good, too. where would you wanna go first?”

your lips purse to the side as you think it over, a love for traveling anywhere you could but having an especially strong pull toward the tropics.

“cancun or the maldives,” you answer, the financial aspect of the trip leaving it most likely impossible for you. “it’ll probably never happen, because i’d have to sell my first born, but i’ve always wanted to go somewhere like that. somewhere tropical and fun.”

seonghwa bites his tongue about his multiple trips there, instead letting out a chuckle that causes butterflies to erupt. his eyes are too drawn to your body in the front seat, legs crossed and arms over your lap politely.

“you never know,” he hums, ripping his gaze away before you catch his gawking. “you might get there one day, after being the best wedding photographer the city has to offer.”

“oh, please,” you glggle out, cheeks flushing despite the absurdity of the comment.

you catch the smile that creeps on his face, the same handsome, carefree smile you saw in the car last time.

you try not to let it get to you, let your brain convince you that maybe he likes hanging out with you alone as much as you like it too.

“i’m serious,” he says, the earnest tone of his voice slipping into dad mode in a way he doesn’t even realize. “your parents must be proud.”

you bite down on your lip as you let out a soft, almost scornful, chuckle, a quietly mumbled “yeah,” leaving your mouth that causes his eyebrows to pull together.

he always thought it was a little suspicious that in the four years eunbi has known you, she’s never told him about your parents; as far as he knows, she’s never even seen them.

“she has her scholarship and stuff so she doesn’t really need them,” his daughter said one day, the two of them discussing why you were spending yet another break alone in the apartment.

“but they don’t want her home for the holidays? you told her she was welcomed, right?”

“ugh, about a thousand times,” his daughter groans in the seat, throwing herself against the window dramatically. “i basically begged her, dad, but she said she didn’t wanna intrude. i’m telling you it’s because mom is the biggest fucking-”

“eunbi...”

“you know it’s true!” she squeals, seonghwa biting his tongue in an effort to be the bigger and better parent. “i don’t even know why you guys got married.”

but that’s what happens with teen pregnancies and rich families. how they were destined to marry anyway, due to their parents companies and stupid business politics.

it was one drunken night at his dad’s company party and a broken condom that sealed his fate with finality - made him go from a single, carefree high school student to a married businessman with a child just two short years later.

his wife was good at one point he likes to think, remembering she was gorgeous and sassy and not like the other girls who would drop to their knees for him.

but marriage and a child and just life quickly caught up with them, already trapped in a loveless, pointless marriage by the time he hit 25.

he’d be lying if he said he didn’t stay for eunbi, that they both didn’t stay for eunbi throughout her childhood and now just grew too used to being an unhappy married couple who live separate lives.  

there was never any reason for them to divorce though, no one serious in his or his wife’s lives and the hassle of money and disputing houses and cars and assets far too draining.

“i don’t believe i’ve ever met them,” seonghwa says, pulling into the store parking lot to see it’s less crowded than he suspected it’d be. “what do they do?”

you couldn’t imagine anything more unbearable than disclosing to your friend’s hot dad who you may or may not have feelings for about the messed up relationship with your parents.

it just screams daddy issues, which might say a lot about your very attraction to him in the first place.

“they run a little restaurant back in my home town. it’s about three hours from campus, which is why i don’t really go home for breaks.”

seonghwa hums lowly, nodding his head as he looks at you at a stop sign.

you’re unnerved by the way his eyes roam you, like he can see signs of you being uncomfortable about your parents and wants to know why - but why would he care? you’re only his daughter’s roommate.

“do you miss seeing them?”

you lick over your lips nervously, watching as his eyes darken every so slightly.

he watches each and every of your movements carefully, so in tune with your reactions and breaths you can just feel yourself getting more and more worked up.

not in the slightest, you wanna say. i’ll probably never see them again and have no qualms about it, mr. park.

“i suppose,” you mutter, shrugging your shoulders as you apprehensively meet his gaze.

“you suppose?” he asks, concern etched on his face. “when was the time you’ve seen them? since your freshmen year?”

you avert your gaze as your teeth sink into your bottom lip, in no way wanting to have this discussion at ten a.m. when, much to your pleasure, an impatient car behind beeps at seonghwa’s mercedes.

his dark eyes move to the rearview mirror, narrowed and irritated in a way you can’t help but think is sexy, before he puts his foot off the break and turns into the parking lot.

“i think this person’s leaving,” you mutter when you notice another car go in reverse, seonghwa snatching the spot before the impatient, crotchety lady behind him could steal it.

you can’t help but smirk as seonghwa eyes her when you get out of the car, giving him a look that’s half judgmental and half amused.

“what? she beeped at me.”

“aren’t you supposed to be, like, an adult?”

he rolls his eyes as he takes a cart from the pile, nodding his head for you to go in front and “stop talking back to an elder.”

you can’t help but smirk at his playfulness, taking your spot in the front and pretending as if you always move your hips this much when you walk casually; you would’ve felt embarrassed, had you not turned around a few moments later to see his eyes already on you.

“where to first, mr. park?”

he has to bite back the groan threatening to leave his mouth, reminding himself to keep himself in check this month - starting tomorrow.

“depends, y/n,” he hums, voice far too deep and sultry to be surrounded by innocent bystanders in the grocery store. “what do you want?”

words are caught in your throat and you can only stare dumbly, your plan quickly back firing as he appears to do the same - but it’s gotta be in your head, right?

regardless, it quickly humbles you in the form of a small, unsure shrug.

it’s how you two start walking up and down the aisles, seonghwa putting in what he remembers and items on his mental list while also insisting you put in anything you want.

your arms bump ever so often, softly apologizing and acknowledging it the first few times before you both realize it may be happening on purpose.

you stick close to him when the aisles get tight and crowded, his deep voice telling you to “go ahead,” causing you to swallow shakily. you feel the presence of his hand just a few inches from your hips, lingering and hovering but never fully touching.

it’s finally when you’re in the bread aisle, seonghwa a few feet away talking to the man at the bakery counter, that you decide to put something in the cart.

you would usually never accept someone’s offer to buy you something, already feeling bad about staying with them rent free and eating their meals without compensating.

but the brioche loaf brand is one of your favorites, only sold on occasion at the corner store near campus.

you press up on your tippy toes to grab the bag of bread, stretching your arm up with all your might. the plastic slips through your fingers just as you’re about to snatch it down, letting out an annoyed huff as you pulled down your sweater dress.

you mumble your annoyances before trying again, back on the tips of your toes with your arm raising when you feel a hand on the small of your back.

it’s large and warm and seeping through the thin material of your burgundy dress, a snappy protest about to leave your mouth when you catch mr. park’s face in your peripheral.

there’s a content look on his face as he takes the bag with ease, holding it above your head as his hand moves from your back to your waist with a gentle touch.

you look at him with wide eyes and a pounding heart, his hand on your waist so foreign and strange but... good. something you didn’t even realize you’d been craving until it happened.

the strength and warmth of his hand, though if you think about it just enough, you can feel the weight of his wedding band through the fabric.

“is this what you wanted?”

his voice is deep and low as he speaks to you and you alone, your eyes raising to see him staring down at you. you can’t make out the expression in them, just the darkness in his eyes and the frantic beating of your heart.

you can’t even being to understand the context of his words right now because, yes, this is exactly what you’ve wanted - but he doesn’t know that, right?

“w-what?”

he can’t help the smirk that crosses his face, all sorts of pride and satisfaction and arousal coursing through his veins at your current disposition.

“the bread,” he says, stepping back and holding it out to you. “is this the one you wanted?”

your eyes narrow as you look at him, the smirk on his face, the amusement in his gaze, the playfulness that’s radiating off him - is he fucking with you?

“oh... i... yes,” you finally say, coming to your senses and not allowing yourself to think this way anymore. “that’s the one. i hope it’s okay.”

“of course,” he hums, placing the bread in the cart before going back to the front handles. “you can get anything you want, i already told you that.”

you nod dumbly as you follow beside him, seonghwa picking more things off the shelves and muttering the list to himself as you try to get your shit together.

because yes, you’re attracted to him and yes, you’ve found yourself alone with him for more than two days in a row and yes, there’s been some lingering looks and touches but that doesn’t mean anything.

you can’t let your own deluded thoughts and desires get in the way of reality.

the reality that he’s your friend and roommate’s married father and you’re a college student. he doesn’t want you just as much as you shouldn’t want him so what’s the problem here?

maybe it’s that you’re a 22-year-old woman who’s only been on a handful of dates.

that the last time you made out with someone was when you were drunk and dared to kiss the first guy that walked through the bar (luckily, somewhat attractive and surprisingly polite).

that, maybe, you’re so horribly touch-starved and aching for affection, you’re trying to find it in a hot father figure who’s just as kind as he sexy - and that, you think, is the second most tragic thing here.

because the first would absolutely be thinking that any of this, any of these stares or touches or coincidences of eunbi leaving you two alone, means something.

means that maybe this break is for you two is create an attraction and build some sort of bond and-

“y/n.”

you’re barely able to register seonghwa’s voice before his arm is wrapped around your waist, pulling your body into his taller one and having you pressed up right against him.

you were so lost in thought of him that you didn’t see the older women skirting her cart around the aisle quickly, phone pressed to her ear as she yells to her husband about the christmas ham.

you’re not even sure if she shoots you a look of sorrow or utters any apology, too consumed and distracted by the feeling and proximity of mr. park.

his arm wrapped around you, your body pressed flush up against him, his neck craned down to look at you with a building... something in his eyes. playfulness and teasing but also something darker, something that makes your stomach swoop and renders you unable to move.

“are you always so clumsy and distracted?” he mumbles lowly, his deep voice quiet for only you two to hear - like he knows even in a sea of strangers, he has to keep these interactions quiet.

“what would you do if i wasn’t here to help you, y/n?”

i wouldn’t have been distracted in the first place, you’re tempted to say - but you certainly don’t wanna open that can of worms, especially not in the middle of this grocery store with the way your heart is pounding.

“i... i’m sorry, i was distracted,” you mutter, playing up the damsel in distress just a little bit. “my mistake, mr. park.”

he licks over his lips, swearing his name just being spoken has never effected him like this. he doesn’t even know where this attraction came from, seeing you leave the dorm building yesterday morning and something in his body jumping at the sight of you.

maybe it’s just showing how unhappy he really is with his life, living day to day to just work. hang out with his friends and go to sleep alone - he doesn’t remember the last time his wife touched him, looked at him like she wanted him or made any move to be with him.

he just knows that you showed up, looking so pretty and wide-eyed and coy, and is now about to lose his mind.

“it’s alright,” he says, hoping you don’t hear the thick tension he hears in his own voice, like he’s some idiotic, hormonal young boy. “i think we only have a few more aisles left, anyway.”

he plucks the remaining items off the shelves before you both make your way to the self check-out, him scanning and you bagging because “eunbi says if my career as a photographer fails, i could be the best grocery bagger ever.”

“that’s just because she puts the bread on the bottom,” seonghwa mutters, a smile on your face as you nod your head - she squished one too many of your brioche loafs before you realized bagging just wasn’t for her.

your fingers graze ever so often, the coldness of his tips a stark contrast to your warmer ones.

a particularly big, bulk bag of vegetables proves to be a challenge for you, working through the packed bag with some difficulty. you let out an annoyed groan as you play a dangerous game of tetris, trying not to rip open the brown paper bag.

you finally get the box inside, a little bit prouder than you care to admit, when your precious brioche loaf is dropped right atop. you look up at seonghwa to see him already apologizing, your brow raised as you look at the older man in confusion.

did he think your hand was out? why would he just throw the food at you?

but it’s only when you feel a little more air than normal on your chest that you see what could’ve possibly caused the distraction, the white lace from your bra sticking out.

your cleavage in this dress was hidden for the most part, only becoming a little more obvious when you moved around or packed a shitload of groceries. it makes you bite back a smirk as you put two and two together, looking up to see his eyes still lingering over you.

two can play at this game mr. park.

“mr. park,” you begin, feigning a certain kind of innocence as you place your bread atop the other groceries and finally look up at him. “are you always so clumsy?”

it takes a few seconds for a smile to pull at his lips, the tick in his jaw not going unnoticed to you - so maybe this wasn’t all in your head. maybe he wants you too... possibly.

“you’re funny, y/n,” he mumbles, a smile pulling at your lips as he takes out his black card. “i guess i was distracted, too.”

you swallow the lump in your throat as you feel the slightest hint of arousal run through you, shaking it off and letting out a forced, girlish chuckle.

you pack the car a few minutes later without any lingering eyes or touches, seonghwa telling you about the meals they plan on cooking for christmas.

they usually don’t make their own food for holidays but decided to have a more traditional set up for you and eunbi’s arrival - he also hasn’t cooked a meal for his family in god knows how long.

“that’ll be great, thank you,” you tell him, clicking your seatbelt in as he backs out the spot. “i’m kind of a picky eater but i’ll eat anything you guys provide me.”

“and you have the whole brioche loaf,” seonghwa says, a giggle leaving your mouth as you nod your head.

“true. it’s really good.”

“i’ve never tried, perhaps you’d be willing to-”

his wife’s name popping up on his car dashboard acts as a way to bring you back to reality, brings a certain kind of silence over the both of you for a few seconds.

like he wasn’t just rubbing his body against yours and you weren’t just flirting with him in the form of smirking lips and snarky comments.

you watch a twinge of annoyance behind seonghwa’s eyes, gaze roaming over the screen as if he’s in contemplation before muttering “one second.”

“hello?”

“where are you?” her voice snaps in annoyance, “i told you we had that board meeting at one.”

“and it’s only noon,” his deep voice mumbles, not matching her level of irritation but sounding a whole lot different than a few seconds ago. “me and y/n are coming back now.”

“y/n?” she spats, like it’s a disgusting piece of food she wouldn’t dare put in her mouth. “what about eunbi?”

“she went off with jiwoon before i could get her in the car.”

“so it was only you two?” she asks, the snide judgment and underlying tone in her voice causing your stomach to churn. “did she ask you to buy a bunch of-”

“i’ll be home in twenty and then be on my way over,” he says, cutting her off and hanging up before she can even get another word you.

your stomach churns and a sick feeling comes over you, her utter dislike and disdain for you causing you to bite your lip.

because not only does she not like you to be with her daughter, she doesn’t want you with her husband (although, you suppose, you can’t really blame her for that one).

“i’m sorry about that,” seonghwa winces, the silence lingering between you two heavy. “you could’ve gotten anything you wanted, y/n. this is your christmas too. don’t feel bad about anything, okay?”

you swallow the lump in your throat, your gaze moving to his as he stops at the red light.

your eyes lingering over his and his doing the very same, hand twitching to reach out and move the piece of hair from your slightly flushed face.

and there was something about the way you were both looking at each other, eyes so focused and unwavering and honest, that had you thinking maybe all of this wasn’t in your heads.

but it didn’t mean either of you could act on it - they were just... feelings of lust and wonder and all things forbidden, not seriously believing that a relationship like this could unfold right under the nose of his wife, his daughter and your roommate.

unless the pull was so desperate.

so overwhelming and all-consuming and present between the both of you, little moments couldn’t help but happen.

strike one:

with none other than eunbi as a distraction, the girl promising she wasn’t gonna leave you alone anymore, you were able to take your mind off everything.

the tension-filled, heart pounding moments with mr. park that felt just as wrong as they did right.

you spent a few nights going out with her, jiwoon and all of their high school friends, a surprisingly nice group of young adults who you got along well with.

they were loud and crazy and did far too many shots but they also seemed to be genuinely kind. even the boy who was flirting with you all night, handsome and tall with pretty dark eyes, acted as a good distraction.

grinding up against him as the music pounded throughout the bar, alcohol coursing through your veins allowing you to forget about the older man who’s been living in your head for almost a week now.

“how have i never met you before, y/n?” the boy mumbled lowly in your ear, your head against his shoulder carelessly.

but it was right there in that moment, him saying your name, that the moment was over.

because it just didn’t sound like seonghwa, as delusional as that was.

it didn’t get your heart racing or lips quirking the same way it did when you heard the older man say it. the smile attached to his handsome, mature face and the deep, lowly spoken tone that always held a hint of teasing and sincerity.

“but danny really is so freakin’ nice!” eunbi squeals to you on christmas eve, the two of you in her immaculately white and modern kitchen prepping the chocolate chip cookie cough for tomorrow.

“and you two seemed to be getting along, i saw your ass all up on him.”

“eunbi, that wasn’t me. that was the vodka. i don’t know who that girl was.”

she throws her head back as a loud chuckle leaves her, telling you again that she warned you her snobby, rich little friends have been able to handle their liquor since middle school.

it’s how they cope, she had said, unloved kids with more money than god learning to deal with the world of limitless funds and minimal parental supervision.

“well he hasn’t stopped asking me about you, you know,” she hums, her eyebrows quirked suggestively as she mixes the bowl of ingredients lazily.

“and not just because of your newfound grinding skills, which by the way, are usually learned by the tenth grade.”

your eyes narrow at her comment, throwing a small ball of dough at her that she, impressively, catches in her mouth.

“he really is just, like, so taken by you, y/n. seriously. i told him that you’re graduating this year with a degree in photography and he nearly came in his pants. he loves the artsy girls.”

“you are so vile,” you snort out, shaking your head at the girl sitting criss-crossed on the counter. “and stop saying that. we both know i’m not graduating this year,” you mumble, her face falling pathetically.

“i told you we’re gonna find a way,” she whines lowly, looking at you with all kinds of sympathy and sadness in her eyes - she would offer to pay for you, if she didn’t think you would smack her upside the head.

“oh and what? is my new boyfriend danny gonna do that for me?”

“in exchange for more grinding and a photoshoot, i think. do you want me to try?”

she lets out another giggle despite the way you pinch her leg, peeking inside the bowl with a surprising amount of pride.

"this looks good,” you mumble, swiping your finger to collect some of the chocolate dough.

“hey!” she whines brattily, thrusting a spoon toward your hand just a second too late.  

“why are you whining in here like a child, eunbi?” seonghwa asks, walking through the entryway and the large, white island in the center. “what are you making? please don’t burn the house down.”

“haha dad, you’re so funny,” she mocks sarcastically, jumping down from the counter with her hands on her hips. “where are the baking sheets?”

a simple shrug from her father causes her to roll her eyes, grumbling about how she was really trying to avoid her bitch of a mother today. he holds back his smirk, about to reprimand her before she’s out the kitchen and shouting for her mother upstairs.

it’s only you and seonghwa in the kitchen now, a heavy silence in the air as you stand there dumbly - bowl beside you, cookie dough adorning the top of your finger.

“what are you girls making?” he finally asks, his body moving closer and closer causing you to swallow.

“i... uh, cookie dough. for tomorrow,” you say, lifting your finger and wiggling the tip full of batter. “chocolate chip.”

his eyes move to your finger before grazing over your mouth, his tongue peeking out ever so slightly as he reminds himself to act right.

he hasn’t been alone with you since that day at the food store, just seeing you in passing in the hallways or outside the house as you and eunbi went to and fro.

he hears your giggles at night and tired groans in the morning, quietly yelling at his daughter to wake up and get her ass out of bed.

and he knows it’s probably for the better, that you two don’t find yourselves alone with each other, but he can’t help but feel a rush of excitement right now.

you watch as he moves closer, with the same wide-eyed look you’ve been giving him since he first saw you in your apartment weeks ago.

“ahh, you’re making it from scratch? that’s ambitious.”

“yeah, we googled a recipe,” you tell him, finger still beside you in the air.

you don’t know what causes you to be so bold, maybe him attempting to carry out a normal conversation even though he’s looking at you with so much lust and desire, but you can’t stop once you start.

“how’s it taste?” he asks, his voice deep and slightly strained as he nods his head toward your finger.

you don’t even bat an eye as you slip the tip of your finger in your mouth slowly, swirling your tongue around as you take up all the dough on your skin.

it’s sweeter than you originally thought it’d be but it tastes good nonetheless, keeping your eyes on him as you reamin as innocent and unassuming as possible.

“it’s good,” you say, dropping your finger like you didn’t just make a show of licking and sucking it. “i like it better raw.”

you don’t even realize your words until you see the fleeting look on his face, tongue swiping across his lip and eyes hardening. they roam you so slowly and darkly, you can’t control the growing butterflies and swooping in your lower stomach.

“mm, me too,” he hums lowly, the hardening of his cock in his pants something he hasn’t felt in forever. it’s taking everything in him to control himself, from his eyes popping out of his head to letting out the deepest of growls in the back of his throat.

“do you want some?” you ask, cocking your head to the side questioningly.

he has to desperately hold on to his composure, not think about how easy it’d be to pin you against the cabinet right behind you. take just a few steps closer, have your back against the cold granite and let you feel just how much he wants some.

but he has to play it cool, push down these building desires and ignore your teasing because he’s almost fucking positive that’s what’s happening here.

“want some what?” he asks, his voice lowering just a tad.

he hasn’t played a game like this since college, watching as your eyes widen and brow quirks up.

but he sees that’s exactly what it is when you turn around and face the bowl of cookie dough to him, a smile just as sweet as the cookies on your face.

“cookie dough. before we put them in the oven and possibly burn them.”

the breathy chuckle he lets out leaves your stomach in shambles, his tongue peeking out and poking the inside of his cheek causing a swooping sensation to flood through you.

but before he can even think to say anything, before your eyes can look over his body and make you feel even more warm and bothered, eunbi floats back in and fiddles in the cabinets for the baking sheets.

“that woman is too much, i swear,” she grunts, whipping out the materials quickly before her head snaps to her father. “why are you still here?”

“i wanted some cookies. and to ensure y/n won’t allow you do burn down the kitchen.”

“it was one time, dad, and an accident. how many times do i have to defend myself in this house?”

you let out a giggle as you look from eunbi to seonghwa, your roommate turning her back to set up the practice baking session.

“let’s go bitch! i hope we didn’t fuck this up.”

seonghwa’s eyes roam over you for a few more moments, his tongue swiping across his lips before, finally, leaving the kitchen with his dick hard as a rock.

strike two:

christmas consisted of successful cookies per your and eunbi’s homemade batch, passive aggressive comments from mrs. park about your degree and a whole fuck ton of sexual energy between you and seonghwa.

you could almost always feel when his gaze was boring into you, when you got up to take more mashed potatoes or kept your attention on eunbi as she told her parents about what job she wants to start at next semester.  

it’s also when eunbi almost let it slip about your scholarships, had you not viciously pinched her arm and caused a pained cry to leave her mouth - if you ever thought jiwoon was gonna verbally assault you, it was certainly in that moment.

“why did you pinch me so hard?” she whined later that night, jiwoon passed out on the couch after five too many homemade cookies. “look at my bruise.”

a genuine frown crosses your lips as you look at her arm, rubbing her skin gently as you mumble your soft spoken apologies.

“i’m sorry but i just... i didn’t want your mom to know that,” you say back just as whiney and pathetic. “she already thinks i’m an incompetent idiot. knowing i have to wait a whole year because i’m broke is just too embarrassing.”

it’s an admission that, while eunbi already suspected that, still makes her feel bad - it nearly makes her wanna cry, that you don’t feel welcomed and loved in her home because her mom has to be a judgmental bitch.

“y/n...”

“bi, it’s fine, oh, my god do not cry right now,” you grumble, flicking her in the head lightly.

“i just feel bad,” she cries lowly, moving hrself closer to you and away from her boyfried. “it’s not fair, y/n. you worked so hard and now you have to wait. how could they do this to you?”

a small, touched smile crosses your face at eunbi as you shake your head, dabbing at her watery eyes.

if jiwoon wakes up, he’s literally gonna beat my ass,” you say, smiling when a wet giggle leaves eunbi; you don’t want this time to be sad or upsetting. “i thought he was gonna hit me at dinner.”

“okay if he’s hitting anything, it’s gonna be my-”

“no. no, no, no.”

the snort that leaves her mouth doesn’t help the sinking feeling in her stomach, looking at you with a frown still adorning her face.

“i’m sorry if my mom’s making you feel uncomfortable. she does it to every single person ever and i don’t-”

“it’s fine, please stop apologizing for her,” you say, the sinking reminder in the back of your mind that seonghwa had been doing the very same thing - apologizing for that woman.

“i know she’s stressing you out, too. we’re in it together.”

“that’s true,” she sighs, letting out a long, dramatic groan before resting her head on your shoulder. “i’m so bloated, i don’t think i’m ever gonna be able to eat again.”

and it was funny that, days after the holiday, eunbi was still convinced that she was bloated from christmas dinner.

“babe, i don’t even think that’s possible,” jiwoon consoled her, you and him sitting in her room as she gets ready to go down to the pool.

because, naturally, like everyone in this godforsaken rich town, they get ready to go to the pool that’s inside of their homes; when eunbi told you to pack a bathing suit back at your apartment, you looked at her like she was insane.

until she clarified that her pool is heated and, conveniently, indoors.

“just through the backyard,” she had said - and she truly meant it.

just a few yards away from the main deck area, with floor to ceiling glass windows that showcase the extravagant landscaping and, of course, the outdoor pool and jacuzzi just a few feet away.

“eunbi, this is insane,” you say, marveling at the sight before you.

“don’t you wish you came sooner?” she asks with a wink, your eyes rolling as you place down your towel.

you had the option to bring two bathing suits - a skimpy black one you don’t remember being so scandalous or a red one you remember eunbi insisting you buy last summer.

and you just knew it was because danny was coming, currently showcasing his impressive eight pack that, truly, just doesn’t do it for you - maybe if he was twenty years older, apparently, and somebody’s father and husband.

you shake the thoughts out of your head, walking a few steps toward the pool before eunbi tackles you from behind. you both land with a loud splash, followed by the excited shouts and loud splashes of her other friends.

you’d be lying if you said you could remember the last time you had this much fun, splashing and giggling and acting so carefree despite the many challenges you’ll have to face soon.

but that’s not any of your concern right now, currently sitting atop danny’s shoulders and trying to knock down eunbi in a game of chicken.

“you little bitch! get your nails out of me!”

“coming from the girl who literally just tried to choke me two seconds ago!”

“like it’s your first time being choked!”

and you don’t know whether jiwoon was shocked by you saying that statement or the fact that his girlfriend exposes all of her sexual kinks to you but alas, it did the trick in sealing you a victory.

a smug smile on your face as danny jumps up and down in excitement, your body bouncing and nearly falling over him had you not gripped onto his shoulders.

it’s at that time eunbi pops up from the water, hair a soaking mess and mascara running down her face. she’s about to open her mouth, probably to yell at you, before a volleyball is thrown through the air and just misses her face.

instead, it hits danny square in the head. the boy letting out a yelp before you promptly fall backwards in the water, hearing eunbi’s shrill squeal and giggle on your way down.

you pop up and throw her a dirty look, danny rubbing at the back of his side before apologizing profusely.

“it’s okay,” you giggle out, about to say you shouldn’t have been up there for so long before eunbi’s squealing in the air.

“dad, what the hell kind of aim was that!”

you feel your body stiffen before you quickly shoot around, none another than mr. park standing there looking as handsome as ever.

he puts the young men around you to shame, good-looking, muscular college boys who anyone in their right mind would find attractive - but they just don’t beat him.

his striking eyes or tall, lean stature or the fact that he’s just so fucking-

“got worse with age, bi, what can i say?” he chuckles, extra white fluffy towels in his hold that he places on the chair. “sorry, danny.”

seonghwa’s known danny for a few years now, one of jiwoon’s friends who seems... alright. not a bad guy but also not a good guy - just kind of there; but it didn’t occur to the man just how much he was bothered by him until he saw you on his shoulders.

because he could’ve put you in danger, of course. put you in danger at his house where if things got bad, he’d be responsible; as for the ball, it merely slipped from his finger tips.

“no problem mr. park,” the kid smiles, the other friends gathering around and looking at him expectantly. “we’re gonna play a round of volleyball. you in?”

“no. no dads allowed,” eunbi whines, seonghwa rolling his eyes at his bratty adult daughter.

“why not? because i’m better than all of you, eunbi?”

“oh please,” she grumbles lowly, rolling her eyes and grabbing you to lead you toward the stairs. “you know what, we’re going in the hot tub anyway. since she decided to rock my shit in chicken. enjoy my father traitors,” eunbi grumbles to jiwoon and his friends.

“i did not,” you protest weakly, feeling two pairs of eyes on you as you make your way out of the pool with your friend.

the first thing that strikes seonghwa, apart from the major twitch in his pants, is how skimpy your bikini is.

red bottoms with thin straps holding it up, a matching red top showcasing cleavage and beauty marks on your chest and all the things that are proving to drive him fucking crazy upon seeing you every day.

it’s taking everything in him to control the growing ache in his shorts, your eyes looking at him so coyly and attentively that you’re ignoring the college boy gawking at you right in front of him.

there’s a certain sort of twisted pride in his chest, you giving him attention and seemingly reciprocating his interest, when there’s someone younger right there for you.

younger and unmarried and more suitable for you. someone you can actually be with where it wouldn’t be considered dirty or wrong or secretive; but maybe that’s why you’re both drawn to it in the first place.

that, and because you’re both really hot.

“he’s literally hot, y/n! why don’t you like him?” eunbi whines to you, the two of you sitting across from one another in the hot tub outside.

the december air is crisp but feels nice comapred to the steaming water you’re gratefully submerged in. anything to take you away from mr. park shirtless and wet in the pool right now.

“i do like him, bi,” you mutter, trying your best to convince her and now seem suspicious.

“okay, yeah, as a person but who cares about that!” she whines, flopping her hands dramatically in the water. “you don’t want him to rail you.”

“eunbi!” you squeak, splashing in her direction as a warm, embarrassed blush rises to your cheeks.

“i’m serious y/n. you’ve never been railed before and danny’s such a good option. he’s hot and he’s sweet and he’s so pathetically into you, it’s a little sick.”

you don’t know what to say so you don’t say anything, shooting her a look that screams can we please not talk about this because you don’t know how much i actually wanna be railed by your father so let’s stop this discussion.

but she only rolls her eyes, moving herself closer to you so she can tug at your arm annoyingly.

“is he just not your type?” she questions, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion for a few moments before utter shock crosses her face.

“wait, what is your type? it’s... men, right? have i been hooking you up with the wrong gender this whole time?” she asks in disbelief, “could we have been hooking up this whole time?”

you press your lips together so you don’t burst out laughing, dryly replying “yes, eunbi, i’m into men.”

but the more you think about it, the more you think maybe you don’t have a type.

“and i’ve... never really thought about it before, to be honest. i just know i’m not into like... frat guys or whatever.”

because any party you’d been to, any douchey college guy wearing a backwards hat or cut off shirt, you had never been more disinterested. you couldn’t ever picture yourself falling for someone like that, romantically or sexually.

the one time you remember thinking someone was hot was when you took film and lit with your 31-year-old professor.

“so older guys?” eunbi concludes after hearing that, a smirk on her face as she raises her eyebrows playfully. “we gotta scope out some golf courses or retirement homes?”

“please,” you scoff, a giggle leaving her mouth as she throws her head back gleefully.

“okay, really though, i’ll tell danny you’re not interested and to stop trying so hard if you’re really not interested.”

but maybe danny as a distraction will be good.

will make you see that, perhaps, someone single and your own age and not your best friend’s father will be good thing for you to explore.

so you shrug lightheartedly, the smirk on your face causing eunbi to let out a low “oooh shit.”

you look over at her and your smile only widens when she knocks your shoulder, saying that you’re looking to be a play girl and drain a rich, lovesick man of some christmas presents.

“yeah, right! why drain a rich man when i can drain my best friend,” you tease, looking around her yard and still in astonishment that this is really her life. “i mean, two pools? is that really necessary?”

“three actually. there’s one behind the guest house on the other side. a small one. very humble.”

“oh, a small one, okay. great.”

she lets out another giggle, the two of you talking over plans for new years eve.

you might go up to jiwoon’s parents house in the mountains for the weekend, spend the time drinking with the small group of friends you’ve come to genuinely like over these past few weeks.

“it’s only two hours away so it won’t be that bad either,” she says, getting up to shake the hot water off her arms. “i’ll be right back, i have to pee.”

you nod your head, grateful she didn’t piss in the pool and allowing yourself to sit there, eyes closed, body relaxed, in the silence.

you can hear the faint screams of the boys from the indoor pool area and the swish of the hot tub filter, peeking open your eyes when, suddenly, you think you hear a boom of thunder in the distance.

you watch the sky darkening and clouds coming in, signaling a storm is coming in soon and quick. a sigh leaves your mouth, enjoying your last few moments of peace before finally standing in the hot tub.

the crisp winter air blows and sends goosebumps up your arms, a shiver running through your body as you attempt to splash some hot water on your upper body.

you don’t know how you know someone’s watching you but you do, some sort of strange intuition within you looking up to see none other than mr. park standing a few feet away from the hot tub.

his dark hair is wet and hanging in his face, swimming trunks soaked and his exposed chest still dripping chlorine water.

you press your lips together as your eyes roam his chest, a hint of abs on his lean stomach that causes a small, strangled groan to leave your mouth - you will never understand how this man is pushing 40.

but the same way you’re looking at him, he’s looking at you.

water covering your body, currently hunched over trying to warm the rest of your body; but it’s when you stand he really starts to gawk, your figure standing full and tall and giving him a perfect view of your hardening nipples from the cold crisp air.

you can see the lust in his eyes the same way you know he can and you’re about to do something to just make him crack. mistakingly untie your bottoms, catching them at the last second so he thinks he’s about to get a peak.

or undo the back of your top and pout at him, ask him to please tie it back for you because it’s way too hard to reach behind and do it yourself.

or maybe you’ll just drop to your knees right there, try to see if there’s any hint of a bulge in his swimming trunk bottoms and-

his body is gone just as fast as he arrived, confusion covering your face before you shake your head of your perverted thoughts - dropping to your knees when his daughter and wife are right here, what the fuck is wrong with you today?

you blame eunbi, all her talk about getting railed when you’ve been wanting to jump her father’s bones.

you carefully make your way out of the hot tub, not wanting to eat shit and scarp your leg on the concrete.

it feels like you’re about to freeze in the cold, another shiver wracking your body before you turn to stick your cold, goosebump-ridden arms back in the hot tub. it warms you for just a few seconds, a low, satisfied hum leaving your mouth before you hear footsteps coming up from behind you.

something in you tells you it’s him again.

whether it be the way your body heats up and feels prickly, the obvious feeling of eyes burning into your exposed back causing you to remain still and oblivious.

but you can longer remain oblivious a few seconds later, when a tall body is just a few inches away from completely pressing against you.

“you forgot a towel,” is all he says, placing it on the wet rim of the hot tub.

when he leans forward to place the white towel down, he’s careful and meticulous with his movements. brushing up against you every so slightly and carefully that you can feel his hard bulge on your ass for a few seconds too long.

at first you think you’re crazy, feeling what you were trying to envision in your head, but then you absolutely know it there’s.

you can feel the wetness from his bathing suit on your legs, his cock right there resting on the thin, red fabric of your bikini bottoms and if you were as weak as you felt inside, if he stayed there just a little bit longer, a moan would’ve absolutely left your mouth.

if you pushed back just a little to feel more of his cock on you, grind your ass his hardness just enough to hear him let out a low groan or maybe curse a little.

but he moves away, almost like he knew the perfect amount of time before that happened and almost like he did it by accident - but when you turn around and see the look in his eyes, you know it wasn’t.

the same way he can see a palpable desire and surprise and tension in your gaze, causing him to suppress a growing smirk. it makes you wanna tease him back in whatever way you can but you know that eunbi’s due back from the bathroom at any moment.

so you only cock your head to the side, lick over your lower lip carefully as you grasp the towel in your hands gently.

“thank you, mr. park,” you say, your voice as airy and sweet as you can possibly make it without sounding like an idiot.

“you’re welcome, y/n,” he says, taking a few steps back as his eyes lock on you. he stays there for a few moments until he hears the door to the pool house open.

you watch his lustful, dark expression change right then and there, a towel wrapping around his lower body and his face stretching into a happy, father-approved look.

“so you’re good with anything for dinner, y/n?” he asks, his voice loud and clear enough for his approaching daughter to hear. “i know you mentioned you were picky.”

“let’s get pizza!” eunbi screeches through the air, telling seonghwa that everyone’s staying over and they’ll need at least four boxes.

but you can’t even think about pizza right now, not when this moment right here is solidifying the crazy thought in your head that your best friend’s dad wants you just as much as you want him.

you called him out later that night around one a.m., after eunbi and jiwoon were the last to pass out to your scary movie marathon.

the others were sprawled out on the basement floor, an intricate array of blankets and pillows on the floor that you attempted to weave through, both, skillfully and quietly.

there was a dryness in your throat that could only be settled by a cold glass of water, making your way through the house quietly and praying you don’t run into mrs. park.

she’s been just as passive aggressive as she usually is in front of people so you could never imagine being alone with her. wondering what the hell she’d say to you without seonghwa and eunbi as buffers.

you were relieved when the lights were off in the kitchen, padding your way to the fridge to take out a bottle of water. you twist and turn the cap off to gulp down the cold liquid in the refrigerator light, a quiet gasp leaving you as your thirst is quenched.

you briefly consider going up to eunbi’s room to sleep tonight, not sure how you feel about being squished in with eunbi and jiwoon cuddling on the couch, when the light suddenly flicks off.

it causes you to freeze and halt all thoughts, fear running through you for all three seconds before you see seonghwa’s tall, familiar figure pass you. you watch him carefully in the dim light of the fridge, his shirtless chest yet again right in front of your face.

leaned back against the counter across from you, giving you a perfect view of his toned chest and gray sweatpants.

“midnight snack?” he asks, the smirk on his face almost causing you to roll your eyes.

instead, your lips quirk into a small smile. raising your water bottle by your head and shaking it, the water swishing in your pounding ears.

“just water,” you respond quietly, matching his low tone. “i hope that’s okay.”

“that you took water? of course, y/n,” he says, amusement in his gaze as he looks you over.

you’re freshly showered and in a pair of pajamas, matching pink sets that eunbi got you for christmas one year - he remembers because he was with her when she bought it.

a soft smile crosses your face, your back getting cold from the open fridge but not daring to move a muscle. not with him looking at you the way he is and with his body just a few feet away from you.

a silence lingers in the kitchen, you not sure why he’s looking at you and him waiting to see if you say something, before he bites the inside of his cheek.

“i wanted to say sorry about before.”

your eyebrow quirks up, interest so clearly peaked as you cock your head to the side.

“what do you mean?”

a smirk crosses his face as he watches you play dumb, head cocked and eyes wide and everything about you with such mock innocence, he thinks that’s what’s driving him the most crazy.

that you do this shit and say certain things with almost complete unawareness and innocence, if it weren’t for the hidden look of desire and teasing in your eyes.

“you know,” is all he says, his voice dipping and eyes twinging darker, it makes your lower stomach swoop.

a part of is positive, even if you ask, he’s not gonna say it aloud.

he’s not gonna say or acknowledge any of this aloud and make you guys play this game until you leave in a few weeks.

and then when you leave, unsure about your next prospects of college or education or even living arrangements, who knows if you’re ever gonna see him again.

so you only hum lowly, closing the fridge behind you and leaving you both in darkness. the only source of light is from the moon outside, lighting up half the kitchen from the large bay window.

it leaves you both incredibly exposed, anyone from the outside able to see the two seemingly innocent bodies standing toe to toe with each other; but they don’t see the lustful looks and eyes full of desire, both of you so entrapped by the other, it’s obvious with the tension in the air.

“oh, well, then... it’s okay, mr. park,” you say with a smile, taking a step back as your eyes roam his chest one last time. “i didn’t mind.”

you’re about to say goodnight when you see his arm reach out, shocked but oh, so ready ready to give into your desire and feel your body crash against his or your lips connect finally.

moan into his mouth and feel more of his hardness against you - but he only takes the water from your hand, presses his mouth against the plastic rim and swigs down a big gulp.

you watch with wide eyes as his adam’s apple bobs in the moonlight, head tipped back and body perched calmly on the counter as he takes a swig of your water bottle, spit exchanged and his mouth right where yours was.

he pulls back with an unreadable expression, licking the excess water from his lips before simply closing the cap, holding out the bottle and smiling at you with the most wise-ass smirk you’ve ever seen, you’re not sure how you’re ever gonna one up this man.

"sweet dreams, y/n.”

strike 3:

your new years weekend get away turned into an extended stay that consisted of sleeping on a lumpy air mattress, five extra guests and so much alcohol, you’re positive you’re still hungover three days later.

“it wasn’t that... we only did a... i mean it wasn’t like we were....” eunbi says, the two of you laying on her bed nursing headaches and body aches to the severest degree.

“okay, it was pretty bad. we were kind of rowdy and out of control.”

“you don’t say?” you grumble, never one to black out and get that shit faced and then doing it nearly every night - maybe to deal with danny’s pathetic soft looks or whispered sweet nothings to you.

“nothing is working either. not advil or water or greasy food. we might’ve fucked ourselves for life, bi.”

but if there’s one thing that always helped for eunbi, it was a nice, long bath. steaming hot water that burned her skin and the prettiest bath bombs to make the entire bathroom smell of strawberries and cream.

so even though you didn’t want to, nothing more comfortable than eunbi’s king size bed and warm, fluffy comforter, you allowed the girl to drag you to the bathroom down the hall to set up ‘your last resort, hangover paradise.’

it consisted of every type of bath bomb and lotion and bubble bath the luxurious could dream of, sending her out immediately when you saw her sneaking in with a glass of champagne.

“are you crazy?” you ask, dipping your toe in the water to test the temperature. “that’s what started this disaster.”

“fine, more for me!” she squeals happily, turning down the lights and pressing the bluetooth button for your phone’s music. “enjoy. i’ll see you in an hour, completely hangover free.”

“we’ll see about that,” you grumble, your words falling on deaf ears as she locks and closes the door to makes her way back to her ensuite.

and as much as you wanna give eunbi shit for her pompous tactics and techniques for everything in life, you have to say that this is certainly helping.

soaking in the steaming hot water, with cucumbers on your eyes and quiet music playing through the ceiling speakers. the jets in the tub also added another layer of relaxation to it, healing your sore muscles from days of waking up on a hard, wooden floor.

the mirrors were steamed and the room was boiling by the time you got out, stepping on the fuzzy bath mat and drying yourself off with a towel. you had tried not to get your hair wet but it proved useless, your relaxed body sinking further and further down until nearly your whole head was wet.

you stretch your arms above your head as you let out a content groan, feeling the best you’ve felt in three days and ready to take a nap.

but it’s at that moment, looking around the large steaming bathroom, that you realized you didn’t bring a change of clothes in. meaning you’ll know have to walk done the hall and into eunbi’s room in just a towel.

it’s fairly late, almost 11:30, so you’re hoping that her parents are in their rooms and fast asleep by now.

you peak your head out, feeling like a spy in a cheesy action movie as you look up and down the hall. you turn off the light once the coast is clear, walking quietly but quickly down to eunbi’s room - or wing, as it could be considered

you’re almost out of the gate, just a few more steps until you round the corner down eunbi’s hallway, when seonghwa’s tall figure is coming right up the stairs.

his head is down as he looks at his phone, still in his dress shirt and tie from his long day at work. you noticed that after the holidays, he’s been around the house less - working from home when he can but also needing to go into the office more often than not.

he’s at the top of the stairs when he finally notices your figure watching him, wrapped in a towel with a flush on your cheeks and your wet hair dripping on the floor.

it seems to be the thing to break him right now, not able to tear his eyes away or think of any fun, flirty comments to keep you from suppressing the need to roll your eyes.

because his days have been long and stressful and the only thing he needs right now is to just get off - and then there you are like something his prayers have answered, standing there quiet and awestruck at the sight of his loose tie and messy black hair he’s been running his hands through all day.

“h-hi, mr. park,” your quiet voice says, sweet and soft-spoken and utterly apologetic, like you’re embarrassed to be caught in just your towel - and he supposes that would make sense, to feel embarrassed about getting caught like this your friend’s father.

but he can’t find it in himself to care right now, two seconds away from dragging you down to his office so he can finally fuck you over his desk - but he knows that would be the worst decision in the world, for countless reasons.

“hi, y/n,” he grumbles back just as low, leant against the railing with a voice that sounds defeated and gruff.

“are you okay?” you ask, something about his voice and demeanor off.

he has to hold back a strangled laugh, his lips quirking up before he bites down on his lip.

“i’m... i’m fine, thanks. work’s just busy,” he says, a certain part of his chest warming at the fact you even asked - he knows his wife won’t when he walks in their bedroom in a few minutes.

“oh, okay,” you respond, twirling with the end of your towel nervously. “well... i’m sorry to hear that.”

he allows himself to let out a chuckle this time, shaking his head as he looks over your bare, wet face; you’re too pretty for your own good, he’s not even sure you realize just how pretty you are.

just how much he really wants you and just how much he’s coming to like seeing you in his house everyday.

“it’s alright, that’s why you gotta do something you love, right?” he quips, his long fingers up to recreate a camera, pressing down as if to snap a photo.

it cause you to let out a soft, genuine giggle, nodding your head and easing the slight embarrassment of him catching you in a towel.

“right,” you say with a smile, shy smiles and gazes shared until you finally look away in fear of your cheeks warming again.

but it doesn’t stop him from admiring the view of you, your bare face and exposed chest before the towel covers up all the parts he wants to so desperately explore.

he pictures dropping your towel and hearing it fall to the floor with a plop, take in the sight of your perky boobs and hard nipples in the air.

drop his mouth just a little bit to your neck, pressing small kisses against your skin as his fingers knead your nipples, all the quiet moans and breaths to make sure you two don’t get caught shooting right to his cock.

he probably wouldn’t be able to control himself, sliding a finger into you right then and there in the middle of the hallway, pressing your back against the wall to have you trapped against his larger body.

he’d pump his finger in and out of you slowly and tauntingly, hearing how wet you are and feeling how tight you are. it’d be similiar to how this past month has just been both of you taunting and teasing and beating around the bush, occasionally letting his fingers curl to his your g-spot or graze your sensitive clit.

and then he’d drop to his knees to taste you. make sure he sucks and licks and takes your clit in his warm mouth that you’re-

“i should get back to eunbi,” you finally say, breaking the silence and ripping him from his dirty, hidden fantasies. you can’t take the lust and desire in his eyes that you see when he looks at you, an painful ache building between your legs more and more.

“goodnight, mr. park.”

you nearly run into eunbi’s room and slam the door had you not seen her sleeping form, passed out right there in the middle of her bed wearing a baby pink robe.

you look beside her to see an extra one laid out, a silky lilac one that causes a small smile to cross your face.

you’ve never felt material like this on your skin, basking in the feeling of the smooth, silky material as you clean up her room quietly - both to tidy up and distract you from the ache in your legs and last encounter with her father.

for eunbi growing up with housekeepers and nannies her whole life, it always surprised you how clean and tidy your roommate was; the sink was never full of dishes and you alternated vacuuming the living room carpet.

but it’s obvious all of that is a facade because since the moment she got home, her messy ways have shown through - you find it endearing, though, and it’s all very eunbi: a homey, lived in mess of luxurious items and articles of clothing worth more than your childhood home.

the girl in question had moved to the right side in her sleep as you cleaned, a quiet chuckle leaving your mouth. you look to see both your water bottles are empty, deciding on the brave decision to go downstairs to grab two new ones.

the last time you’d done that, you thought for sure mr. park was gonna jump your bones - and you know you were gonna let him.

your mind is littered with memories of that night as you make your way through the dark house of twists and turns, carefully going down the stairs as you walk toward the kitchen.

there’s a room with beautiful double doors on your left, a room you’ve walked past hundreds of times throughout your stay here. eunbi told you it was her dad’s first floor office, where he usually worked and had his meetings from home.

the first thing you notice from down the hall is that the door is slightly cracked open, a peak in from the dimly lit kitchen showcasing some fancy decor of a globe.

as you make your way closer and closer, your ears are met with a quiet, strangled groan that causes you to stop in your tracks; your mind begins to race with a million different scenarios of what you could be walking past right now.

your first thought is that you’re about to see mr. and mrs. park in a very compromising position over his desk - and, as sick as it sounds, as delusional and crazy and absurd as it sounds, that prospect makes your stomach sink and twist painfully.

but that would be normal, you suppose; they’re a fucking married couple after all and seonghwa had seemed stressed from work. obviously he was gonna ask his wife to help calm him down and relax him.

get all of his stress out in the form of-

you shake your head before you can even think about it, forcing your feet to move past the office doors.

and it’s like you can’t even stop yourself from peeking in, confirming to see if your thoughts are correct and you’re about to be gutted, when you take in the sight before you.

seonghwa still in his loose tie and white dress shirt, pants around his ankles and his head thrown back in his office chair as his own hand jerks his cock off.

everything about it is dirty and wrong and you know you shouldn’t be looking in but you can’t stop.

you can’t stop watching the way his hand works around his cock expertly, long and thick and so fucking nice it nearly makes you drool. the thought of you on your knees before him, taking him in your mouth and licking and sucking around the tip, making you bite back a moan.

you can’t stop your eyes from looking at his face, his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut with his neck on display - perfect for you to bite and give hickies, if you were on top straddling him.

you can’t stop the painful ache and wetness seeping in your thong as you watch him get off, his groans and grunts and heavy breaths making you wanna whine out in arousal.

and it’s that suppression right there, getting so worked up and horny over the sight of your peeping tina activities, that cause you to pull yourself away.

because as much as you don’t want to and as much as you wanna help him, you can’t.

you can only scramble into the kitchen and get water as fast and quiet as humanly possible, scurrying past the office and up the stairs with the stealthiness of a lion.

you can only lay in bed with the thoughts of your roommate’s father and the noises he makes, the sight of his cock and the hand movements replaying over and over in your mind.

and you realize that night, with only a few more days until you both have to leave for the spring semester, you can only hope to never see mr. park again.

let this flirtation and fascination and utterly screwed up infatuation with your roommate’s dad be nothing but a dirty memory you’ll keep to yourself for the rest of your life.

because if it’s not, if you have to see him again and have him in your daily life again, you won’t be able to hold yourself back.

your lust will turn deeper and you’ll find yourself in a much bigger issue than damp underwear and secret, forbidden moments with mr. park seonghwa.

you should’ve known with only two days left of your stay that eunbi was gonna let the news slip.

you were at least grateful for the fact that mrs. park had a charity ball with her clan of “botox getting, bitchy sounding gold diggers who need to desperately get laid,” successfully riding her of your last friday night dinner.

“so you girls don’t want a new apartment then?” seonghwa asked, glass of wine in his hand as he looks at the two of you questioningly. “that building’s looking for a new owner, eunbi, i think it’d be perfect for you both.”

“dad don’t be ridiculous, we can’t own the building!” eunbi says, swatting her dad playfully as she shovels a piece of food in her mouth. she’s casual and comfortable without her mom’s prying eyes and biting tone, her foot resting on the white fabric beneath her.

“and besides, i might be alone in there soon. we still don’t know if y/n is gonna be starting her-”

you kick the girl under the table roughly, her face pulling into a wince as a cry leaves her mouth.

“ow, y/n! what the he-”

but it’s upon seeing your white face and annoyed expression that she realizes what she said, her mouth falling open and silent as she looks at you apologetically.

“oh shit...”

you can only shoot her a pained, sarcastic smile, daringly looking at seonghwa who’s watching the two of you with a curious expression.

“what do you mean?”

silence hangs in the air, you and eunbi sharing side eyes and dejected looks with her dad before he cocks an eyebrow at the both of you.

“girls... what do you mean?” he asks, his voice deeper and more serious, taking on a dad-like tone eunbi isn’t used to hearing from her relaxed, playful father.

and that’s when, before eunbi can open her big mouth any further, you calmly and regretfully explain the situation with your scholarship.

how you got an e-mail a few months ago about alternate funding for the art department and that you were one of the many students who, while keeping up your end of requirements, could not be awarded money.

“it’s awful that they can do that,” seonghwa says, his eyes full of the same sympathy and outrage eunbi’s held - except he knows that this happens all the time. that it’s unfair and sick and a big ploy in the education system that needs incredible reform.

especially when it hurts students like you.

“yeah but it is what it is,” you say, trying your hardest to steer the conversation to literally anything but this (in fear that you’ll scream or start crying or have yet another anxiety attack).

“i can just finish up in the fall, it’s no big deal,” you lie through our teeth, a sad smile on your face as you look at eunbi. “i’m just sorry it messes up our combined graduation party.”

a frown crosses eunbi’s face as she smacks you in the arm, pulling you closer to her just so she could cuddle herself into your arm.

“i will wait for you,” she proclaims dramatically, a pout on her lips and starry-eyed look in her gaze. “i will wait as long as i have to. if they delay it any further, father, you will simply have to sue the school.”

“father, huh?” seonghwa hums lowly, his lips quirking into a smirk.

father is the term eunbi uses when she wants to use him and his money, whether it be blackmailing unfair teachers or shitty students or calling for him when her and her mom are fighting.

“yes, father,” she says, looking to you with a sweet, apologetic smile on her face.

“i’m serious, y/n. we got your back,” she quips with a wink, a pained smile on your face that she knows means you can’t wait to let her have it when you two are alone.

“you had one job, eunbi, and you were doing so good,” you say in her room later that night, pacing back and forth as she sits on her bed like a scolded child. “literally two nights left and you let it slip out!”

“i’m sorry, okay!” she whines for the ninth time, a pout on her face as she plays with fingers; you wanna roll your eyes seeing it, knowing for a fact that’s something she does when she’s in trouble with jiwoon.

“i didn’t mean to, it just slipped out!” she begins to defend, “and it was only my dad! he wouldn’t dare say a bad word about you, y/n, he loves you.”

you ignore the twinge in your chest when you hear her say those words, feeling a tad guilty at the bodily reaction you have about her own father. how much you’re hiding from her and that you have these suppressed feelings and secret moments in the first place.

“loves me or not, bad word or not, it’s still embarrassing, eunbi,” you say, a frown on your lips as you start to hear the situation aloud. 

“i still can’t pay for my tuition and have to wait almost a whole year to take a degree in fucking photography. like how embarrassing is that, all of this just for me never find a job and live in a box.”

you’ve only seen a flash of anger on eunbi’s face a few times in your life, the incident with the dorm girls and her dad and when a sorority girl tried to kiss jiwoon at the bar.

and you see it right now, her small but mighty frame jumping off the bed and lunging toward you quickly.

“are you kidding me!” she squeals, smacking you in the arm and pushing you down on the bed.

“what the hell do you mean a degree in fucking photography? or living in a box? you’re gonna be the best photographer in the world and shoot every event in my life and charge me quadruple the amount!”

a smile pulls at your lips as you hear her go on and on, hype you up and build up your confidence and tell you to never talk that way about yourself again. how there’s nothing embarrassing about not being able to afford thousands of dollars when you were alerted about the expense on such short notice.

“okay, okay, i know that,” you eventually give in, letting out a sigh as you flop down on her bed. “it’s just.... stressful. i can’t move back home but i also need to get like, a real job. a job that’s gonna pay well so i can save up as much as possible.”

“and we’ll find you that when we get back,” she says, assuring with a confident look in her eye and her hands in yours. “i can promise you, with or without my father’s connections, we’re getting you a job.”

her words prove to reassure you for the remainder of the night, when, after she kisses your ass a little more, asks if she can go to jiwoon’s for a little.

you spent that time in her room looking at nearby job offerings and building up your resume and cover letters, working well into the night hours with a text from jiwoon that she fell asleep and will be back in the morning.

you stretch your arms above your head with a quiet groan, noting it’s almost one o’clock and you’re fucking parched yet again.

it’s no surprise to you when the lights in the kitchen are on, dimly light and no noise around as you pad your way to the fridge.

you almost expect the footsteps that come in a few moments later, when you take a sip from your water and close the fridge without hesitation.

“have you told your parents about tuition?”

you’re confused by the statement that leaves seonghwa’s mouth, brows pulled together and a sinking feeling in your stomach at this conversation again - because as if tuition wasn’t enough, he just had to bring up your parents.

but you don’t wanna beat around the bush any longer; you two seem to do that enough.

“me and my parents don’t talk,” you say, straight forward and quiet as you look right at him.

it’s the first time he sees you look a little broken and defeated, a certain kind of sadness shining behind your eyes that makes him wanna pull him into you. it feels like a protective instinct he’s used to, caring for the people in his life and not wanting to see them struggle.

“they wouldn’t help me anyway.”

this protective instinct feels a little different in this moment, something else tugging in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a very long time - not until he started seeing you more.

“but it’d be a shame if you didn’t finish, y/n. you got so far and you’ve done so well for yourself.”

you smile a little at the praise, tongue rolling over your lips in a way he certainly doesn’t miss - but this moment isn’t about that. it’s not something he cares even a little bit about right now.

“thank you, mr. park, but i am gonna finish,” you say with finality, the confident and sure tone making a strange sort of pride swell inside of him.

“i just have to save up money and i’ll start in the fall. it’s really not that big of a deal,” you tell him with a smile, taking a few steps back so you don’t feel too crowded by him.

“eunbi’s gonna help me look for jobs when i get back,” you say, a teasing smile pulling at your lips as you look at him. “a big girl job. something real and hard, that’s gonna make me super stressed and agitated.”

so much so that i have to get off at the thought of you.

a deep chuckle bubbles out of him that you match with ease, the two of you sharing small smiles and quiet giggles in the middle of this spotless, white kitchen.

“can’t do what you love quite yet, i guess,” seonghwa says, his eyes roaming your face so slowly and carefully, it makes you a tad bit nervous.

you hadn’t realized how natural and easy this conversation was between you two, like you were talking to someone you’d known your whole life opposed to someone you’ve barely known for four years.

his hand itches to reach up and touch your hair, tuck the soft, silky looking strand behind your ear and watch your cheeks heat up when your skin touches; but instead, he smiles down at you, inching closer until he’s just looming over you and staring down at you with a soft, undetectable look in his eye.

“but it’ll be worth it in the end, i think. it’s just gonna... take some time.”

you lick over our lips, throat and mouth suddenly so incredibly dry, as you nod your head.

“yeah, i think so, too,” you say, your lips smushing together nervously before you open your mouth to speak again - this could be one of the last times you’re alone with him.

“thank you for letting me stay with you guys, mr. park. it’s been... really nice spending time with people for the holidays.”

he feels his heart twinge in his chest again, his eyes falling down to your lips and swearing he’s never wanted to kiss someone so bad in his life.  

“of course, y/n, it’s been a pleasure,” he says, a smile quirking at his lips with a hint of something you just can’t quite make out. “maybe we’ll see each other again soon.”

it was five days before classes started that you got the confirmation e-mail - a message confirming your tuition for the spring semester was paid in full and your current balance was $0.

you had to look over the message for three whole hours making sure you had read the e-mail correctly, even going as far to call the bursar office to make sure they had the correct address.

but they had confirmed with surety that your balance was paid off, urging you to quickly sign up for the classes you need before the day was over.

“okay, you will never believe what interview i was able to score for you,” eunbi says the moment she walks in the apartment, shopping bags up her arm and gucci sunglasses perched atop her head.

“i’ll admit, the vibe was a little off with the coworkers but i think it’d be a great opportunity to-” her eyes catch your laptop screen on the school website, a list of classes and times on your screen that causes her eyes to widen.

“oh?” she squeals, running over and throwing herself down on the couch beside you. “what the heck are you doing? are you... did you...?”

the lie came way too quick and easy to you, excitedly blabbering out that there was a change in the system and your scholarship was approved - “i think they felt bad that i was a graduating senior,” you said, eunbi’s face pulled into the happiest smile you’ve ever seen.

she clapped and danced and bounced around in excitement, proclaiming you guys just had to go out and get drinks to celebrate the fact that your surprise party was back on.

but you could only sit there with your thoughts and suspicions and this overwhelming feeling deep within your stomach that, while eunbi definitely doesn’t know, her father might’ve just paid your college tuition in full.

(part 2)

tag list: @mochibabycakes @atinyarmyx1 @middle-of-a-wonshua-sandwich @baekhvuns @marksflvr @bunbaebae @markleeyeosang @inkigayeo @nlost21 @hyunjeansuniverse @cherryeonii @songsoomin @reeateez @biaswreckingfics @yunhoiseyecandy @sophrosyneeeee @uglychildd @happycandynoelle @seolarjk @liqhtiny @maedesculpaeusoubi @revehosh @svt-mangos @hcwurld @ateezappreciation @sanisms​ @khjssss​ @yixing-jaehyun​ @yeosangs-left-ass-cheek​

couldn’t tag: @ateez-after-dark @arkive78 

[kiridarling]

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐢𝐝𝐚, 𝐃𝐞𝐤𝐮, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐮.

(ft. panty-stealing, cum-filled boxers, tipsy!shinsou and f!reader)

—ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴀɴ 𝟷𝟾+ ʙʟᴏɢ. ᴍɪɴᴏʀs ᴅɴɪ

𝐈𝐈𝐃𝐀.

→ poor boy doesn’t know what’s going on :(

→ you’re the new girl and he just cannot tell what makes you different from the others! You wear the same uniform as mina and yet your thighs distract him in the middle of mr. aizawa’s lecture. you and uraraka use the same shampoo and yet your scent is the one he tries to remember, late at night when the moons high in the sky and everyone on his floor are halfway through their rem cycle.

→ either way, iida’s made a grave mistake.

→ because he’s stolen your panties—but technically it’s not his fault because you accidentally dropped them in the common room while doing laundry—but now iida has them and he can’t return them now, can he? no, no. that’d be even worse.

→ ...and they smell like you a bit.

→ and iida’s truly got to he some kind of heathen, because now he’s hard (yes he knows what that is, despite what denki says behind his back) and maybe iida’s undoing his belt, and maybe he’s wrapping your panties around his cock that’s already soaked with precum and that plus the spit in his palm provides enough friction to make his thighs clench.

→ and—oh no. he likes this. he likes this a lot.

→ and when iida closes his eyes, he can pretend its you. he can pretend he’s got you sat in his lap, panties pulled to the side and chest bare to his disposal, so it’s not his fault when he can’t quite...keep quiet.

→ at the end of the day: iida cums harder than he ever has in his life, and ojiro wants to move floors.

→ and...iida’s keeping the panties. sorry, y/n.

𝐃𝐄𝐊𝐔.

→ down, down boy.

→ kacchan’s sick today. and usually that has izuku doing backflip after backflip because finally, he can see the chalkboard that’s usually blocked by kacchan’s big ass head (not that he’d ever say that aloud), but today? today is bad.

→ you’re all in ectoplasm’s class, which would be fine, but he had to pick you out of all people to write everyone’s answers to the homework on the chalkboard.

→ aka—izuku’s subjected to watching your tits, ass and thighs jiggle as you jump in attempt to reach the top of the board, and he is not okay.

→ he’s hard. very hard. and it wouldn’t be that difficult to just...

→ izuku hisses when he grinds his palm against his cock because it feels heavenly, and gods, this is rediculous—him, a third year, the next symbol of peace, and he’s palming himself in the middle of class because he can’t help himself.

→ the view is perfect though...

→ uraraka says something and it has you jumping, and izuku has to resist the urge flutter his eyes because the friction in his pants along with the view is just heavenly.

→ and...maybe izuku can get away with this. sure walking around with cum stained boxers might suck, but if he can jus—

“midoriya, what’s the answer to number ten?”

→ izuku jumps in such a way the heel of his palm digs into his cock perfectly and it has the greenette biting back a whimper, before izuku has to scramble though all his papers because he’s wholly and utterly unprepared.

“u-uh, number ten? um, w-well let’s um, lets see...uh fifteen! fifteen is the u-uh, answer to number—number ten.”

→ you giggle before returning your attention to the board. your skirt flutters and izuku swears he sees the red lace of your underwear, but the thought is enough to have him groaning under his breath.

→ gods. you’re going to be the death of him.

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐔.

→ shinsou needs to stay far, far away from you.

→ he’s having borderline mineta-type thoughts—a statement absolutely no one wishes to say—and they’re about you, the new pro hero everyone’s been raving about. and goddamit, shinsou’s about to make himself go blind so he doesn’t have to look at you on literally every other billboard in musutafu. seriously, he’s going nuts.

→ so, (without explaining the whole story, obviously) shinsou goes to denki for help. because at the end of day, denki’s kind of a pro at these things right? not in the getting chicks department, persay, but you catch his drift—shinsou’s trying to forget, not chase.

→ ultimately: denki’s useless.

→ shinsou decides that he’ll just drink and forget. he’ll go home and pull out the whiskey in the cupboard he keep for special occasions, turns on reruns of his favorite show, and just forgets.

→ or he thought he would, until he accidentally presses on the remote and the tv switches to the news channel.

→ shinsou blinks and—oh look, you’re on the fucking news. of course.

→ but he doesn’t dare move to change the channel. he just sits there, tipsy, and watches you kick some semi-small time villains ass on tv.

→ you look good. good enough to make him want to...no. no, no, no—that’s not a good idea, a very no good one—

→ but the camera angle switches, and its a closeup that highlights your, um, curves, and it has shinsou saying fuck it, shuffling out his grey sweats until they’re mid-thigh and whipping out his cock in a flash. (because who the hell wears underwear inside the house?)

→ silently reassuring himself that this is fine and completely normal, that people probably do this all the time, before spitting in his palm and relaxing into the couch.

“fuck, princess...”

→ and when you ask him if he saw you on tv at the agency tomorrow, shinsou doesn’t quite know how to respond.

i was feeling very...um, italic-ly today, teehee. hope you enjoyed it!

— sun

[sophieswundergarten]

Second go on trying to explain what I think would happen if Curtain moved into the Benedict home, featuring:

(tags from @mvshortcut)

Curtain is finally getting used to how friendly everyone is, and calming down enough that he doesn't automatically start insulting people whenever they make eye-contact, only for Martina to show up. She probably had been planning some sort of "revenge" for months, even though she knew she'd never see Curtain again. Imagine her surprise when Kate mentions to her during a phone call that Curtain is actually living with them now.

(I like to think that after the van-stealing incident, Martina's tether-ball team begins to understand that her sharp, pushy attitude is more of a facade that's rooted in insecurity (and a lot of passion), and that trying to knock her down a peg will not help as much as they had initially thought, so they start to support her more. They give her more opportunities to show off her skill, and she in turn beings working with them more, and they also all chip in to get her a small motorbike so that she can blow off steam from her impulses in a way that won't get a valued member of their team arrested.)

At any rate, she informs her team that an emergency has come up (this happens every couple of months and she never fails to be back in time for practice, so they let her go) and speeds off to the Benedicts' house. Luckily, the team had been playing a tournament in the next city over from Stonetown, so it doesn't take her too long to get there. After screeching to a halt in the driveway, she climbs the fence (having been warned about the maze by Kate). She does the aforementioned kicking open of the (back)door, quite startling Rhonda and Constance, who had been sitting in the kitchen.

"What do you want?" Constance asks testily. Martina storms into the kitchen, looks around, and proceeds to storm out again, screaming "CURTAIN! I know you're here. Wetherall told me, and I'm not leaving until you fix my transcripts! I need to get into a good college so that I can keep playing tether-ball and nothing stands in my way when it comes to tether-ball."

She's halfway up the stairs and has alerted the entire household to her presence by the time Kate comes skidding down to meet her. "Martina! You're here. Why are you here?"

Martina: "You said Dr. Curtain was here. I need to see him. My paperwork is a mess, and I can't get into any of the schools I applied to."

Kate: "And you think that he can fix this how?"

Martina: "He's the one who was in charge of the school, so he's the one in charge of all the paperwork. He's the one responsible and he's going to fix this for me, so move—"

She tries to push past Kate, but all of the other kids have shown up now and are blocking her in. Mr. Benedict appears on the landing, looking curiously down on the knot of children attempting to contain the furious teenager.

Mr. Benedict: "Hello, children. Martina. May I ask why you have entered my home in such a violent manner? Is there something that we can help you with?"

Rhonda, who is standing at the bottom of the stairs: "I believe she said she wanted to talk to Curtain, something about transcripts?"

Mr. Benedict, looking back at Martina: "Is this true?"

Martina: "Yes! I spent years at his stupid school where I was supposedly a top student, but now none of the schools I applied to are accepting my credits! He had better have something to give me for all my time and effort."

Mr. Benedict: "Ah. Yes. Well, I'm not sure how—"

Curtain, brushing past Mr. Benedict: "Martina. I regret to inform you that I will not be able to help you with your transcripts, as that would require forging legal documents, and, as I am now... reformed, I am unable to do that."

Mr. Benedict from behind Curtain, slightly surprised: "Oh, is that all she needs? We can definitely do that. I thought she needed your signature, and since you're no longer recognised as a legitimate educator—"

Curtain, whipping around to look at his brother: "What? You are encouraging this child to lie to the federal government?"

Mr. Benedict, waving at Rhonda: "Yes, yes, of course. She is obviously competent and deserves to be able to attain higher education if she chooses. Rhonda, the documents?"

Rhonda, in another room, collecting papers: "Already on it. Number Two is finding the embossing equipment."

Curtain, fully losing it as the group bursts into action around him: "What?? What??? Is this something you have done in the past? Is this a common thing here? It's fully illegal, in case anyone was wondering."

Number Two, walking by with a pile of equipment: "Of course, how do you think we got the children into your school in the first place? Your standards were ridiculously high, I'm surprised you got anyone enrolled outside of the kidnappings."

Curtain whirls around, searching for Mr. Benedict in this mess of seemingly well-practiced movement. He eventually finds him, sitting at the kitchen table asking Martina questions about her academic accomplishments while Rhonda and Number Two are teaching the rest of the kids about how to forge signatures (Kate is already a natural at it).

Curtain: "What is going on? You have been lecturing me for weeks on the ins and outs of being a "normal, legal citizen", and yet you all regularly falsify educational transcripts? What kind of a double standard is this?"

Mr. Benedict: "Well, Nathaniel, this girl was one of your top students, yes? And she obviously has the knowledge and capabilities to continue her education if she so chooses. It's not her fault that you set up a school with disingenuous credit transferring. If anything, it's your fault that she is in this predicament. Now, what would you call Messenger duty? Could it be classified as an extracurricular?"