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hansolmates · 4 years

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a hero’s journey (m)

summary; jungkook and jisoo are the mightiest power couple. however, one drunken confession and that whole facade fades in an instant. you realize that maybe you need to break from your unvaried life for a bit and be the hero of your own love story pairing; jungkook x editor!reader (f) genre/warnings; best friend’s boyfriend au, slice of life, angst with a happy ending because im weak, pining pINING, everyone’s kind of a mess in their own sweet special way, alcohol use, mentions of ze weed, toxic relationships, mean friends, sex—slight dom!kook, food play, fingering, squirting, heavy use of the petname “pretty girl” bc im weak, strength kink, manhandling (oop!) w.c; 22.2k a/n; woof! my first fic for @goldenclosetnetwork 23 | jungkook’s birthday project! this goes out to all the closet romantics *ahem me cough* who doesn’t love pining between a cutie koo? a huge thank u for vivi @eerieedits for making this bbbBEAUTIFUL fic banner!

prompt used: “I should’ve known.”

if you like this fic pls consider giving a like n’share🥺💜🥺💜

It’s so easy to ignore the world.

Maybe it’s a young-adult thing, but it gets difficult fitting into the 9-to-5 and playing to satisfy bosses that don’t entirely understand your work ethic. Maybe it’s out of complacency, or fear. But you prefer to let the world flow around you and when you’re needed, you’ll act. You’ve reached that point in your life where you enjoy the little things, satisfied by an extra hour of overtime tacked onto your paycheck, a new fabric softener, or finding the perfectly squishy yoga mat.

You’ve finally started feeling comfortable in your shoes, uncaring as to whether you’re single or drowning in college debt, happy to live a relatively stable life. You’re grateful. There’s nothing more than you need than your happiness, and the love of your friends and family.

Namely, your best friend from college. Jisoo always joked about how you two “won the lottery” as dorm rooms in freshman year were determined by lottery. Pulling numbers 883 and 884, you and Jisoo snagged a corner spot of the dormitory, leaving you two utterly cramped but utterly close as the years went by. Six years later and it’s still the case, the two of you have grown into talented working ladies. While you may not be able to spend time with each other the same way you did in school, you still care for each other.

So when Jisoo shows up teary with a rumpled dress shirt and her hair waterfalling out of this morning’s bun, you break out the good alcohol and season three of Jane the Virgin for her.

After the liquid is warm in your cheeks and you’ve fawned enough over Micheal and Rafael’s love triangle, you let Jisoo ramble.

Jisoo has downed a whole bottle of soju on her own, while you’ve decided to have a tasteful glass of wine. You’d rather be tired wine drunk than wasted on soju.

“Jungkook and I had a fight,” she warbles, stuffing a handful of popcorn in her mouth, “it was totally stupid.”

Your eyes flash, picturing Jisoo and Jungkook in quarrel. They’re the epitome of an Instagram-worthy couple, beautiful and deathly charming to a fault. They show nothing but kindness and sweetness to you whenever you third-wheel, not a lick of anger between them when you’re all together.

So a fight is something surprising. Jisoo and Jungkook, J-squared are a power couple. Saying their names next to each other just emits a sort of energy you can only akin to famous small screen couples like Troy and Gabriella or Cory and Topanga. Jisoo’s Instagram is belly full with sweet selfies of them together, the doe-eyed man always looking completely sweet and gentle to the woman in his arms.

You never piqued Jungkook as the type of guy who would pick a “stupid fight.” And you know Jungkook pretty well.

Maybe a little too well.

“He surprised me during my lunch break and he caught me talking to Doyoung and he thought I was flirting,” Jisoo is practically eating her sweater, her head falling between her flannel pyjama sleeves.

“Doyoung, as in your ex Doyoung?” you raise a brow.

She groans, glaring at you in earnest. “Not you, too! I told him it was ridiculous to get jealous, and then I told him how jealous I get when he’s around girls and I don’t need to tell him that,” she rolls her eyes, twisting her feet petulantly in her fuzzy socks, “but then you know what he says back?”

You wince, swirling your wine glass, “That you’re crazy?”

“That I’m crazy, exactly! How did you—” her bloodshot eyes zero in on you, where you’ve tucked yourself in the corner of the couch. You swirl the ruby liquid in your cup, watching the feet web around the cheap crystal, “you think I’m crazy too, don’t you?”

You swallow your sigh, taking your time to finish your liquid in languid sips. Uneasy, you wish you could just sink through the couch in order to avoid this conversation. Jisoo’s heart is generally in the right direction, but in terms of emotions she has the kind of sensitivity that you prefer to ignore rather than tread. Jungkook is also equally emotional, but in a different way. He wears his heart on his sleeve, preferring to keep things straight as opposed to bottling it up like Jisoo.

However the theoretic bottle has reached it’s brim and Jisoo’s tipping, fast.

“I need to tell you something,” Jisoo is swerving, crawling like an infant on wobbly limbs to reach your corner of the couch. You almost stop her, tell her you can continue this conversation in the morning, it’s what you normally do when she drinks into a stupor. But tears are swimming in her glassy caramel eyes and she’s grappling onto your blanket, resting her head in her lap.

Her glossy russet strands curtain her head, so you don’t see the expression on her face when she says her next words:

“Jungkook told me he liked you senior year, and I told him you weren’t interested so I’d have a chance.”

Wow. So that explains everything.

The memories that you’ve tried so hard to brush away, the feelings you’ve tried so hard and continue to try to suppress, are laid out in front of you on a rusted platter. You could laugh, you could fling the rest of the Pinot Grigio down your throat like fresh water on a hot day and call it a night.

But instead you choke back your tears, and push her off because you’re hurt.

Deep down you know you would’ve been less upset if she told you the week after Jisoo and Jungkook called it official. If you knew from the beginning, it would’ve been easier on your heart. But it's been over two years since the past, thinking you’ve been needlessly, stupidly, delusional in thinking that you could’ve possibly had a chance with Jungkook.

Because it could’ve been you. And the reason why Jisoo and Jungkook fought today? Now you know it’s because deep down, they know they’re each other’s second choice.

You can’t even recall a time where Jungkook and Jisoo were together alone before they suddenly started dating, remembering how it used to be you and Jungkook before Jisoo found him one day in your shared apartment, utterly smitten. And now you know you weren’t delusional, because the feelings and the signals you two were exchanging in senior year was real.

But it doesn’t stop the fact that over two years have passed. Two years of a serious relationship between Jisoo and Jungkook, and two years of you secretly loving him from an arm’s length.

“You hate me,” Jisoo removes herself from you, voice trembling. The quick, dark part of your mind wants you to snap back of course I hate you. You’ve trusted Jisoo with your life all these years, she was the reason you got through college so gracefully, why you enjoyed the past seven years of your life.

But the sentiment is stained, and all you can do is deliver a tired smile and stand up. “I don’t hate you,” you say, “I’m just, really overwhelmed. I can’t lie and say that I’m not hurt,” your fingers clutch the fake crystal in your grasp, and for once you’re thankful you’re not strong enough to break it, “but you two love each other now and there’s no point in dwelling in the ‘what-ifs’.”

Now that you think about it, when was the last time Jisoo treated you like a best friend? You stare at your wine glass, thinking that the only time comfort is provided in this apartment is when Jisoo is upset, never when you’re upset.

Jisoo bobs her head senselessly, agreeing to every word. It’s pathetic, seeing her on her knees and her eyes glimmering with the hope that you’d forgive her straightaway. She must feel awful. That’s good.

You sigh, needing to be the bigger person. “You need to call Jungkook and tell him he has nothing to worry about though, after all, you two have history now. As much, if not more than Doyoung.”

“Right,” she replies, biting her lip. It suddenly feels like you're talking to a wall, carrying a conversation that's long ended.

“As for us,” you have half a mind to slam your glass on the counter, but instead you give it a heavy hand, letting slowly thump to the coffee table, “I don’t think I want to see you two, for a while.”

“Understandable.”

“And I don’t want to help you move out anymore,” I just want you gone.

“Right,” she whispers. The both of you will be completed with your lease in two months, and Jisoo and Jungkook have decided to move into Jungkook’s apartment. As for you, you haven’t decided as to whether you want to go through the whole process of moving out or looking for a new roommate.

“I’m sorry, I’m so so fucking sorry. I just was insecure as fuck in college and Jungkook was the first person I met in a long time that helped me feel more… like me.”

You want to say that she's right, she’s selfish. Her excuses aren’t palpable anymore. It’s too late. But if you were in Jisoo’s shoes, you’d think this apology is mere crumbs in comparison to your friendship. Why isn't she trying harder? Maybe because she doesn't know any better. After all, you never told her what you felt for him has morphed into love.

You don’t even have to ask as to whether she’ll tell Jungkook this or not, you now know honesty is not her style.

Jisoo doesn’t get a goodnight and a drunken kiss on the forehead like she usually does whenever you two have your late night talks. Instead, she seals herself to her own demise as you slam the door to your bedroom, effectively shutting each other out.

Work is a bitch the following morning. You’re like molasses, rolling out of bed despite the whole world and its mother telling you to go back to sleep.

Your feet are killing you as you make your walk to work, deciding to wear a pair of red-backed heels so you can stomp your way through your day.

Your Wusband (Work-Husband) Kim Namjoon matches you step-for-step, eyes glued to his phone as he catches you on the sidewalk. “Woman on a mission,” he comments absentmindedly, eyes glued to his phone as he follows the click of your shoes to your favorite cafe.

You spare a glance to your right hand-man, eyeing him appreciatively at his dedication to your morning routine. He’s your favorite co-worker, one who keeps you on time to your meetings and keeps you sane when you want to pull your hair out and dig out a coffin in your little cubicle. Namjoon’s long legs always seem to catch up with you during your workweek, whether it’s to get coffee in the morning or to talk shit about the latest gossip in the breakroom.

The bell of the glass door tinkles in your ears as you enter the café, relatively busy for the morning rush. While you wait in line, Namjoon ticks off your activity list for today.

“Meeting with Victoria is cancelled this morning,” you groan in relief, your supervisor Victoria always scares the shit out of you even when she’s not doing anything, “and just the usual proofing and whatever we have to do on the third floor today—can I get a large iced Americano with a pump of caramel? Thanks,” Namjoon moves aside so you can throw your order in as well, “and after work could you stop by Vernon’s? He took a sick day today and he has most of the manuscripts for the next issue.”

“Done and done,” you swipe your card in the dip, tucking your card away in your zippered pouch. “So like, do Americanos taste any good? Like it’s literally watered down espresso how do you pay to drink watered down tar—”

Jungkook’s at the pick-up counter. Jungkook’s at the pick-up counter swirling stray sugar crystals with his thumb and putting them in his napkin. What an impeccable display of Virgo energy, absentmindedly cleaning things he has no business doing. You scoff to yourself, recalling this morning that Jisoo got off the phone this morning with a stupid smile on her face. From the mirror image that Jungkook is excluding while he’s smiling on his cellphone like a smitten teenager, it seems like they’ve made up.

Nevertheless the hurt from last night is still fresh in your bones, and you force yourself to look away despite the fact that your morning pick-me-ups are almost done and are sitting tauntingly next to Jungkook’s elbow. Does he really need to learn against the counter like he owns it? Hair slightly damp from the shower, your heart beats a little faster at the fresh image.His biceps are straining against his charcoal lycra long sleeve, which is slightly damp from his morning run. Snap out of it! You are a mature, working woman who does not swoon in the view of bulgy muscles, especially when the man who owns those muscles is taken. Suddenly there’s a call of your name, and two cups and a paper bag are put in front of Jungkook.

He blinks, and you immediately pale when you see his eyes flit over your name surrounded by your favorite coral pink beverage. You feel struck as his head perks up at the name and he narrowly makes eye-contact—

“The fuck you’re doing,” Namjoon gripes, shoving your guava iced tea and croissant in your chest, “standing there like a moron as if we don’t got shit to do today.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, pulling at the brown paper bag to tug a piece of croissant between your teeth. The warmth, buttery pastry melts in your tastebuds. Ah, bread. Nothing like a little bit of carb to make you feel better.

You’re suddenly thankful for Namjoon’s gargantuan torso from effectively blocking you from Jungkook, hauling you out of the coffee shop like a petulant toddler. He doesn’t even give you a chance to catch another secret look at the object of your affections, making sure you’re back in your work game before you enter the building. Even if he doesn’t know it, Kim Namjoon’s always got your back.

Or in today’s case, breathing down your back.

Without your third editor and a hard deadline coming up by the end of the week, you and Namjoon are working in tandem throughout your 9-5 to complete drafts for Big Hit Publishings Arts & Media section. Both of you take turns to bring snacks and feed each other, feeling like reading zombies and slaves to your desk as you remind each other to breathe throughout the whole ordeal.

In complete honesty you don’t totally mind. Namjoon is a great partner-in-crime, and you both love what you do and do a damn good job at it. You call it “Buzzfeed but with Benefits.”

And at least for today, you could quell the feelings in your chest from last night and this morning. Sure, you’ve always been okay with the pining you’ve had for Jungkook. The feeling comes and goes whenever it pleases, and since yesterday you’ve been okay with just admiring from afar and being their third wheel.

However, now the feelings are acutely comparable to a third-degree burn with the help of Jisoo playing with fire.

With a quiet exhale, you concede in your gaming chair (because it’s just so damn comfy to keep in the office.) You’re an adult and not a petty child, and you will not let this piece of information derail you from your calm, stable lifestyle.

But honestly? Fuck Jisoo.

“Let’s go, buckaroo,” Namjoon logs off for you, the cinnamon-y smell of his shampoo effectively waking up your senses, “it’s already 5:30. And you said you’d stop by Vern’s to get his drafts.”

“Right,” you blurt, mindlessly putting away your papers and snack wrappers in your bag. You can’t believe the whole day’s gone already.

“Maybe you don’t even have to go to his apartment. Just text him or whatever.”

“Sounds good, thanks Joonie.”

“And y/n?” Namjoon gives you a look that causes you to force a terse smile, one you give one too many times to higher-ups at work. It isn’t to insult Namjoon by any means, but you guys are partners, the kind that tell way too much but hide just enough to remain close from afar. “Take it easy, will you?”

“I will,” you concede, stretching your arms, “I’m def overdue for a massage.”

“You don’t look sick,” you scoff, taking in the casual look your co-editor boasts as he leans casually against the doorway.

Hansol Vernon Chwe is the epitome of fluffy, decked out in large electric blue sweats and his russet brown hair curling softly above his porcelain skin. Not only is he your co-editor, but also a friend from college. Not to the extent that you were with Jisoo and Jungkook, but you operated in the same publishing club and managed to get partnering internships that made you the co-workers you are today. You see a little bit of that collegiate youth in Vernon right now, as he looks well-rested and fresh faced despite the fact he probably didn’t apply moisturizer or drink enough water today.

“But you kinda do,” he tilts his head, noting the heels that adorn your feet, “you’re wearing your sexy shoes today, that means something’s going on.”

“Gee, ever the ladies’ man,” you scoff, getting under his arm to invite yourself inside, “all I want is the completed interviews so we can pick out the best parts and draft them. Then I’ll be on my merry way.”

“Oh c’mon, we’ve been talking nothing but work this whole damn month. What happened to college when we’d talk hours about House Hunters, the safeness of library sex, that little furry thing in Lincoln Hall’s urinal? That was prime conversation.”

“Vern, I’m just here for the drafts,” you sit at his tiny kitchen table, glaring at his open laptop.

“You could’ve just emailed me,” he teases, twisting around his chair so he can rest his arms against the back. “But since you’re here, that means you probably wanna spill some tea but you’re too upset to admit it.”

“If I talk will you stop talking like that?”

“Yes. Give me the juicy details. Need some juicy juice.”

“Nevermind, get out of my apartment.”

“Uh, this is my apartment.”

“My point still stands,” you make another face at his outfit, “you look like the blueberry girl from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.”

Vernon purses his lips, scooting his chair closer to yours. He’s unfazed by your insult, far used to your defenses being higher up than Fort Knox. He looks up at you with his pretty lashes and deceivingly sweet caramel eyes, leaning his head along the backrest. “C’mon, tell me what’s bothering you,” he says in a gentle tone, coaxing you open.

He always knew how to do it for you, a little bit of sweet talking and that clear open gaze always reduced you to shreds in university. For him, it always took a good meal and some sci-fi movies to get him to talk. That must be why you’ve stayed friends for so long, you two knew how to connect.

Finally you crack, kicking off your shoes and hoping the sharp end doesn’t land on his cat. You hear Luna meow in protest but she’s got great reflexes. Unbuttoning the first three buttons of your stuffy blazer, you air out your cleavage, not caring about Vernon’s gaze. He’s seen worse.

“Remember Jeon Jungkook? Majored in graphic design.”

“Ah, yeah. The guy who like, lived at the gym and the dining hall? Haven’t seen him in a minute,” his eyes seem to glaze over the glory days, reminiscing in the simultaneous safetynet and stressor that made up your early twenties, “didn’t you guys hit it off real well? Like I remember you ditched like—three sci-fi nights to study with him. Who even studies at 1AM?”

“Yeah, we did,” and you can’t help but frown at as you remember the 7-Eleven runs, the utter warmth you felt when he would wipe a stray rice grain off your cheek, and how happy you felt to laugh so much with him it hurt, “but uh. Jisoo got drunk last night, because they had a fight. And she sort of admitted to me that she sabotaged our relationship and told Jungkook I wasn’t interested in him so they could start dating. Two years later and here we are.”

A pause. And then, “Want a beer?”

Vernon doesn’t even wait for a response when he gets up, bare feet slapping against the tile as he prepares some drinks and snacks for you.

“That’s pretty fucked up,” he practically sing-songs among the cacophony of popcorn pop-pop-popping in the microwave. The aroma of buttery kernels is all but a relief, reminding you of movie matinees, “and like, she knew you liked him! It was totally obvious, even if you didn’t spell it out for her.”

“Yeah,” you practically gushed to Jisoo those past two months, every waking moment with heart-eyes over the talented graphic designer Jeon Jungkook.

“I can’t believe Jisoo would keep that a secret from you for so long. Like, can you even trust her anymore?”

“Don’t know, was she even my bestfriend or was I just a good roommate to her?” you ask. Vernon is holding two beers in one hand and a bag of popcorn by the tips of his fingers in the other, careful to not burn himself. Opening the beer for you, you thank him and take a long swig.

“Well, good thing you’re still not in love with him or whatever. That would really suck. Unless—”

The look on your face says it all. You’re practically snotting into your bottle, your face tucked into your chin as you fight hard to stop the tears you’ve been suppressing for the last two years. “Don’t give me your pity,” you garble, turning away from the sad look Vernon gives you as he wraps his arms around you.

The tears are soft and gentle, flowing freely onto the cotton of Vernon’s arms as you let it out.

“‘M’not,” he concedes, rubbing his chin into your neck. He really is a lot like Luna, just like his cat ready to give you affection. “Let’s just, get some take-out and watch Hamilton or something.”

He lets you wear his matching sweat suit, lime green, as you order Thai food and rap along to Hamilton’s sick beats. Vernon does a better job keeping the flow, but you’re having a good time being his hype man as he parades around the living room like it’s 1776.

You go home that night around ten o’clock, feeling noticeably lighter and more relaxed. Be that it may you are still wearing the sweatpants and heels ensemble, you feel comforted.

The apartment is quiet when you walk in, not a single light turned on. You get a slice of the city lights bleeding in from the organza curtains, which allow you to kick off your heels and hobble to where you think the kitchen counter is.

Today is Jisoo’s day to cook dinner. You can tell she decided to cook today from the faint smell of Japanese curry and a small unwashed plate in the sink. Whenever it was someone’s turn, they usually left an extra bowl or serving in it for the other roommate when they got home. Unsurprisingly, you find no such thing on the counter or in the fridge.

You’re not upset, but rather decided. If Jisoo is going to let your friendship fade off with no intention of redeeming herself, then you should give her the same amount of energy back. You realize now the apology she gave last night wasn’t for you, but empty words to make her feel better and mend whatever toxicity she’s created in her own relationships. People like Namjoon and Vernon reminded you that you didn’t need to try and earn other people’s friendships.

It’s disappointing, but the feeling is all but too familiar.

If you could describe Jisoo as anything, it would be the color pink. Blushing, beautiful, beguiling pink. The way she flushes when Jungkook does an uncalled for grandiose gesture of romance, or when she wears a hot magenta number when she’s hosting a fashion show. Jisoo is the personification of La vie en rose, unbothered and unabashed.

But now all you see when you think of Jisoo? Nothing but red.

With that, you go in your room and untack the polaroid of you and Jisoo at the carnival last month, putting it away in your junk drawer to be forgotten.

“You’re running away.”

“Am not.”

“Are too,” that interjection comes from Vernon’s roommate, Jung Hoseok. He’s been watching you two bicker over work for the past hour while he plays GTA5, failing to get a good hard carry because you and Vernon are too busy discussing whatever finishing touches you need on your final draft.

“No one asked for your opinion, Jung,” you throw over your shoulder.

“I’m just saying,” Hoseok flicks his wrist and nabs a tank, “you never wanna go home, you eat all our food, and I found your pyjamas in my laundry basket.”

“You said your basket was the blue one,” you hiss under your breath.

“The navy blue one,” Vernon chirps unhelpfully, “not the electric blue one.”

Hoseok hits “save” on his campaign, disconnecting from his PS4 and stretching his lean limbs. “I mean, we could use a third roommate,” Hoseok jokes, getting up from the couch and grabbing a handful of M&Ms from your bowl, “you do make a bomb mac n’cheese.”

“Appreciated,” you relent when Hoseok presses a kiss to your cheek and tells Vernon he’ll be back late working, leaving you and Vernon alone in their shared apartment. When Hoseok is gone, you stare at the door, tilting your head, “y’know,” you remark, “Hoseok’s a cool guy, why did I never hang out with him in college?”

“Because he was stoned the majority of senior year and you just didn’t vibe with that crowd.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“But, you’re trying to change the subject,” Vernon carefully untacks your hands from your keyboard, knowing that you two have already been done with this month's issue and you’re now just mindlessly re-reading emails. “You’ve been here since Thursday, and now it’s Saturday. And as much as Hoseok and I like having you around so you can wake me up before we go to work, it’d be nice to throw me a bone and let me in on what you’re thinking right now.”

You frown, noting Vernon’s large hand covering your laptop closed. He isn’t going to remove his hand anytime soon unless you talk. “Jungkook’s helping Jisoo pack up her half of the apartment this weekend and I don’t want to be there,” you say, short and simple.

“You miss her?”

“Yeah,” you admit honestly. You hate this version of yourself, unable to even look at Jisoo nowadays despite the fact you’re under the same roof for the remainder of the month. It’s hard to believe that the roommate from six years ago finally got under your skin, cancelling out all the years of friendship because of one silly relationship, “sad she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

“Did you talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you reply despondently, “if she cared at all she would’ve to apologize again by now.”

Vernon figures, and his neutral expression doesn’t change as he leads you to the couch, brushing away Hoseok’s things so you two can get comfy. You busy yourself with the remote, exiting the PS4 homepage to scroll Netflix.

“And are you trying to get over him?”

“I mean, yeah,” you have been, but it’s a little hard when you’ve been contentedly pining. It was easy to keep your feelings bottled up because you originally thought Jisoo and Jungkook were meant to be for each other for the past two years. Now you're still pining but ruefully bitter at Jisoo.

“It’s not fair, y’know. She broke girl code, bros before hoes. Or is it chicks before dicks?” Vernon shakes his head at his lame attempt to get you to smile, which works anyway because Vernon’s silly and his sense of humor always gets you a little loose. “It’s your house too, you shouldn’t feel like you don’t belong there.”

“Well I was supposed to help her move out this weekend, and I’d prefer it if Jungkook didn’t know what was going on.”

“What?” your friend furrows his thick brows together, tucking his hands under his knees as he leans into your stubborn expression. “You’re gonna let Jungkook go on with his life not knowing that his relationship is based on a lie. That’s not cool. Even if you’re into him, he’s still your friend.”

Damn, when did Vernon get so good at giving advice? Truth is Vernon’s always been good at dishing advice, you’ve just been privy to what you wanted to reveal to him. The first year or so being together outside of college was always about work, saving each other’s asses to ensure you two got that promotion and aim higher and higher. Now that goal is out of the way, and what better way to reconnect over some shoddy romance straight out of a Degrassi special?

“I know,” you hug your knees tight to your chest, “when I’m ready, okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, because he’s not a pusher, “do you know the best way to get over someone?”

“What?”

“The best way to get over someone, is to get under someone," he emphasizes that point with his hands, sliding one under the other with a wiggle of his thick brows.

You slap him on the shoulder, “Vern, you disgust me.”

“But it works!”

“I’m not going on Tinder to find a fuckbuddy.”

“You don’t have to look on Tinder or Tumble.”

“Bumble.”

“Whatever,” and his eyes flicker to his lap, where his pale fingertips turn red as he grips the edge of a throw pillow. "If you really don't wanna find someone, I can help."

Is Vernon offering himself up? He is offering to fuck your brains out in the hope that you could inevitably fuck out your interest in Jungkook? Your eyes flicker over to Vernon's form on the couch, who's tucked in the couch just as you are.

It’s true that you find Vernon attractive, and to some extent he definitely finds you attractive as well otherwise he wouldn’t have suggested the idea. It’s just that in college you never viewed him in that kind of light, probably because you were always so caught up in Jungkook. But tonight you can’t seem to ignore the eagerness hidden in Vernon’s carmine gaze, and how shiny and touchable his chocolate locks look under the setting sun.

“I don’t want our friendship to change,” you reply slowly, furrowing your brows. “I appreciate it, but I don’t know. It sounds like a temporary fix.”

“Can’t knock it if you don’t try it,” and out of curiosity, you don’t shy away when Vernon leans over to you, squeezing himself between the couch so he can tuck you in his arms. “I want to help you, but only if you want to.”

Maybe it’s the frustration you feel with Jisoo, Jungkook’s ignorance, or the fact that you haven’t felt physical pleasure in such a long time, but you soften into Vernon’s hold. He’s relaxed, nothing betraying him as he waits patiently for your answer. You’ve always admired how much he kept up his “cool as a cucumber” demeanor. He isn’t the type of guy to let life pass him by, but he’s the kind of person who walks along life, embracing the ups and downs like old friends. He’s the ocean waves that crest along the shore, pushing and pulling along without a care in the world.

He’s the textbook opposite of Jeon Jungkook, which is why you give Vernon the okay to lean in and press his lips against yours.

His kisses are soft, and he takes great care in making sure you’re comfortable with this new step in your relationship. It almost feels as if you’re cutting corners, and you can’t help but feel a little guilty that you revel in the way Vernon’s hands trail under your too-large t-shirt.

The pleasure you’ve ached for is there, bubbling low in the pit of your belly. It’s hard to get you out of your mind however, because this man isn’t the one you love. His kisses hold no power, only brief reprieve. Your heart doesn’t palpitate and your palms don’t sweat, you’re just languid.

You’re greedy and selfish, but you remind yourself that it’s okay to allow yourself of these freedoms, even for a little bit. As Vernon finds your sweet spot that has you rolling your hips against his, you find that temporary fix isn’t a bad start at all.

When you trudge back to your apartment that night after much reluctance, your face is still flushed and you think you smell a little too much like Vernon’s cologne. But the fact that still stands is that you're satiated, and you feel a tiny percent closer to moving on.

The television is glowing with a terrible reality TV show, angry brides upset over cake layers or whatever. Jungkook and Jisoo have fallen asleep on the couch, surrounded by half-empty boxes. Jungkook has his arm lazily over Jisoo, her petite body fitting perfectly between his chest and the crook of his neck.

You scoff when you spy Jisoo's bedazzled manicure digging into Jungkook's bicep, as if someone's going to take him away if she doesn't hold tight.

With stiff muscles you spare one look at Jungkook, ignoring the pang in your chest as you weave between boxes to turn the TV off. Barely an iota of your feelings have dissipated since your previous tryst with Vernon not an hour ago. Looking at Jungkook brings it all back, unfortunately. You suppose the feelings will pass with time. The soft hum of the television ceases, and you’re bathed in a room that feels dark and empty, despite the apparent life in the room.

There’s some bleary talk coming from the couch as you walk to your bedroom, and if Jungkook is sleepily mumbling your name in question, you pretend you don’t hear.

“So, where’s y/n? I thought she was going to help us pack.”

It’s an innocent enough question, as Jungkook scans the corner of the living room hallway that leads to the bedrooms. You haven’t come out yet. He knows that you love sleeping in on the weekends, but he hopes the smell of fresh food will coax you to the table. His pan is sizzling in protest, telling Jungkook to quit talking and flip the hashbrowns. He's fried up three, in the hopes you’d be up for some crispy potatoes. He knows how much you love potatoes, especially at 2AM when you’re craving fries and a McFlurry combo.

Instead Jisoo mutters, “You toasted too much bread, you know I don’t eat bread like this,” she’s pulling slice by slice out of the toaster, until there’s a stack of six golden toasts in the middle of the kitchen table.

A little part of him wishes to quell the precursor to the argument there. It would be so easy for Jungkook to say, “the extras are for me” because he’s trying to gain weight, and that would be that.

Instead he continues with his unanswered question and replies honestly, “I made extra toast for y/n, babe. She was supposed to help us pack but I haven’t seen her all weekend.” But he’s pretty sure you came home last night, unless that was his imagination.

Jisoo pulls a carafé of apple juice out of the fridge, pouring the amber liquid into two glass cups. “Ah, she said she had some last minute things to do for work. Y’know, Big Hit always wants a big hit.”

He chuckles, tilting his head as Jisoo gives him a small smile from the kitchen table. Jisoo is always good at cheesy jokes. “She must love her job, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Her articles are really good, too,” the air smells like butter and Italian seasoning, as he places one hash brown on Jisoo’s plate, and two on his. He knows you edit in the Arts & Media section, and loves how you make it a point to include video games and modern graphics when it’s deemed appropriate. “She did a piece on the evolution of RPG and I thought her commentary was really spot-on.”

He brings breakfast over to the table, while Jisoo places two slices of toast on his plate, one buttered and one with strawberry preserves. Breakfast is a quiet, but peaceful affair. Jungkook takes note of how Jisoo takes extra long to complete her meal, her fork creating ribbons in her little blob of magenta jam. He allows himself to complete his first hashbrown and a slice of toast before asking the difficult question.

“Are you and y/n okay?” and he also takes note when Jisoo’s ministrations on her jelly stop, as she looks up at him with her big brown eyes.

“We’re fine,” she insists, “just normal roommate issues, I promise.”

“Maybe I should text y/n,” Jungkook says, pulling out his phone. “Lemme help you fix this, wouldn’t want you and her in a bad place when you’re about to move out.”

“Baby, why are you so concerned about y/n?” Jisoo croons while his thumb hovers over your contact, his screen showing a two-year old selfie you two took during a study session early on in your friendship. He can’t remember the last time you two took a picture together out of spite, one without Jisoo. Jisoo’s hand pulls him away from his phone, rubbing small circles between his palm.

He wants to ask, why aren’t you? But he sees the terseness in Jisoo’s smile, as her eyes fix between the interlocked fingers. He has a feeling he’s hovering somewhere he isn’t allowed to be in. Maybe it really is roommate stuff and it’s none of his business, but he feels a little insulted being left out because you and Jungkook are just as much best friends as you were in college.

Or are you?

This question plagues him throughout the day, and when Jungkook packs enough boxes for the weekend and says he needs to go home, Jisoo for once doesn’t argue. Normally Jisoo would cling to him like a koala, murmur simultaneously adorable and dirty things in his ear and lead him to her bedroom to coop up for hours on end. But Jisoo says she’s tired and needs some alone time, which is also fine.

He doesn’t feel like going home, and instead heads straight to the gym. A couple pumps wouldn’t hurt, and it would clear his head. It’s nearly five in the evening when his body is thrumming with the afterglow of his post-workout, and he decides to take a little cool down in the mall and treat himself to a smoothie.

It must be kismet when he sees you coming out of the bookstore, looking a little winded but no less professional in your beige blazer set and rose gold iPad. Whenever he hung around your apartment with Jisoo and you’d come home from work, he’d make it a point to acknowledge your plethora of multicolored skirt-suits. He never needs to be professional in his place of work, and admires how much effort you put in.

“Hey!” he jogs up to you, and he catches the way your shoulders jump at his voice. “We missed you today.”

Your smile curls into something dry, and you twist your spine like rusty hinges to face him. In turn, his smile dims a little, wondering if he’s doing something wrong. Maybe you’re tired? He catches the line of sweat that glistens your baby hairs, and how your hair is done up but has fallen a few centimeters with some pieces falling out.

“Jungkook,” you exhale, “lifting boxes wasn’t enough of a workout?”

“You know me,” he replies stiffly, hiking his backpack higher upon his shoulder. Why does this conversation feel so awkward? “So, finishing up work? Sucks you have to work on a Sunday.”

“Ah, it wasn’t so bad,” you face relaxes a little as you explain your work, “it was children’s day at the bookstore and they were watching Disney movies. I’m writing a piece on how I believe Ratatouille is Pixar’s magnum opus. Interviewed some kids, I wanted an expert opinion.”

“Ratatouille is the superior film,” he declares with a firm nod, “after all, anyone can cook.” He revels in the small smile he manages to retrieve from you, immediately understanding the inside joke. If he came out of the gym five minutes earlier, he probably would’ve been able to catch you in the bookstore. What a shame, he would’ve loved to see you play around with the kids.

At the mention of food, the mall manages to silence itself enough for him to catch the grumbling coming from your stomach. He laughs when your cheeks heat.

“I was on my way to get some smoothies,” he jabs a thumb in the direction of the food court, “wanna catch up and get a bite?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I have a lot of work to edit,” disappointment pangs in his chest at your easy rejection, but he ignores it, “I kinda wanna save some money too, still not sure if I’m staying in the apartment after Jisoo moves.”

He doesn’t know what compels him to take your shoulders and wheel you in the direction of the food court, much to your protest and whines. “C’mon, explain to me why Ratatouille is the magnum opus—I need to defend why The Incredibles is superior. I’ll treat you to dinner.”

“What? I can pay for my own food—”

“And I can’t treat my best friend to a nice meal once in a while?”

That has you stopping in your tracks, and Jungkook nearly barrels his chest into your head if not for the grippy soles of his Adidas Ultraboosts. He can’t see your face, but his hands note how your muscles cord tightly between the cotton of your blazer.

He doesn’t understand why you’re so tense. Was it because he called you his best friend? Well, you are? At one point he felt that way, early on in college. The position just stuck with you. And when Jisoo told him you weren’t interested, he was perfectly fine with the platonic relationship. It was nice to have someone to talk media and video games to, someone not as chaotic as Jimin and someone not as deterred as Yoongi.

Although, maybe as of late he hasn’t been so much of a friend. It’s no one’s fault, he’s been caught up with work and Jisoo’s move, he hasn’t said so much as a “hey how are you” when you’re around. He can’t blame you.

Suddenly his mind blanks, the mall fading away as he focuses on how small you look as your eyes dart between the parking lot and the food court. Jisoo and Jungkook have been so caught up on each other lately, that he fears you’re starting to separate yourself.

“Um, this place is good,” you tug him by the elbow and lead him to a fast food joint.

When he picks up both your orders and comes over to your saved table, you’re talking animatedly on the phone. You’re laughing, looking at Jungkook as if he’s the one intruding and you’re muttering a hushed “sorry” as you continue the tail end of the conversation.

“Yes, Joonie. Go with section two, I know my shit. I’m your Work Wife for a reason, Umji in PR could never compare,” you’re giggling like you’re five years younger, and Jungkook feels stuck in a timelapse.

He watches you go, throwing around names and terms that he’s so lost on but so desperate to understand. He knows nothing about your life other than the one that’s tied with Jisoo, which is a damn shame. Since when did he inevitably downgrade you from “best friend” to “his girlfriend’s roommate?”

“I’m sorry,” you turn your phone over and push it to the side, giving Jungkook a smile as well, albeit weaker, “let’s dig in!”

To his relief the dinner goes as good as it should be. You have your tray practically overflowing at the seams, all on Jungkook’s dime. It has his heart swelling with pride, he hasn’t seen you eat in a long time. There’s fries spilling out from the corners, and two sandwiches because you couldn’t decide between a chicken sandwich and a burger.

Food gets you amicable, and he doesn’t mind when he does most of the talking. You’re engrossed in his talk, lettuce hanging out of your mouth as you’re rapt with attention as he recalls a story that happened at work recently with Mingyu. You ask questions in all the right places and he sucks up all your attention like a happy pill, and it feels nice to be able to lead a conversation for once.

“Jeez, I’m getting the burger sweats,” you giggle to yourself, and his smile brightens at your positive change in attitude. Food always helps.

When you remove your thick high-collar blazer, that’s when he sees it.

“Seeing someone?” he asks, eyes flickering curiously towards the violet bruises that bloom across your neck.

“What–oh,” you have the audacity to look embarrassed, hands clutching your neck like a shield, “no, just a hookup.”

A messy hookup, too. Unless you had a thing for showing off marks, which doesn’t seem to be the case. “Didn’t peg you for someone who hooks up,” he says more to himself than you, but you catch him on his impulse jab.

Your eyes narrow and your defenses go up, “I’m trying to get over someone,” you snip back, busying your hands by crushing up your greasy sandwich wrappers.

“Am I allowed to state my opinion?”

“Since you asked so politely, no.”

He sighs, “I just don’t think that’s the best way to get over someone,” heck, Jungkook doesn’t even know who exactly you’re trying to get over. He just knows that you’re far too smart and independent to let yourself resort to such matters.

“It isn’t, but it’s really the best option as of now,” you reply curtly.

And his gaze saddens as he sees you fold your blazer over your arm, indicating that your time is up. Jungkook is aware the comment he made is out of line, and it weakens him knowing that you don’t even want to pick a fight with him. He can’t even find it in himself to apologize properly.

He doesn’t know if he’s more sad that you’re pining over someone unattainable or upset at himself for not knowing you’ve been harboring feelings for someone. If you really think hooking up is your only option, you must be really hung about whoever you’re into as of late.

“If it’s worth anything,” Jungkook adds, wanting to leave on a high note, “fuck that guy. He clearly doesn’t deserve you.”

A small, secret smile plays on your lips, “Yeah, I like to believe that.”

“I’m anxious,” Namjoon’s mantra makes the whole energy in the room wobbly, paired with the fact the two of you are squished between cardboard boxes as Jungkook aimlessly moves things around like a Tetris screen.

The only time you feel remotely comfortable basking in your home is when Jisoo is gone. Oh-so conveniently is the Big Hit building undergoing maintenance today, so you and Namjoon have decided to work from home in your apartment. Although you thought by now that Jisoo’s boxes would be long gone and tucked away in Jungkook’s place, instead you’re living in an episode of Ed, Edd and Eddy and the cardboard is practically wall-to-wall. You also thought by now that Jungkook would have no reason to show up unannounced anymore, but apparently that’s not the case.

“I have, anxiety,” Namjoon adjusts his glasses for the nth time this afternoon, brain not fixed enough to focus on the screen of his chrome MacBook, “anxiety, anxiety. I can’t right now. I need my weighted blanket and a pillow.”

“Namjoon, I can get both of those for you if we just send in this last spread,” you coo gently, as if placating a baby. You make brief eye contact with Jungkook from the other side of the room, his lips quirking in amusement as he stacks a box of clothes by the kitchen.

“Do you feel my palms? My palms, they’re like a fucking fountain you need to feel them—” your Wusband approaches you like a zombie, leaning over you and tripping over his criss-crossed legs before he topples over you.

“Blegh, get off of me you sweat giant!” you cry with a good-natured laugh, although the grip of Namjoon’s palms under your shoulders are damp and slimy, “Joon, I can’t get you your blanket if you’re crushing my boobs.”

Namjoon finally relents, untacking himself to rest his chin on your glass coffee table. “Fine.”

“Look over the last column and I’ll bring your blanket, okay?”

Pushing yourself off the ground, you shuffle your way out of the living room through the maze of boxes and into the hallway. It feels like your apartment is less of an apartment and more of a storage space when you’re trapped in-between two lines of boxes, and Jungkook effectively blocking you from entering your room. He was just in the living room but now he’s come from the linen closet, standing between the entrance of your room.

“Sorry,” he pops his head out from a smaller box, one filled with designer costume jewelry.

“It’s fine,” you chirp, barely making eye contact as you shuffle over the boxes.

Your toe drags over the lid of one of the open boxes in an attempt to move diagonally. You nearly crash your face into the hardwood if not for Jungkook’s arm stretching out to catch you. In seconds he manages to catch all your weight in one hand, pulling you to him with your hip pressed against his. Your breath traps itself in your neck. Your subconscious fears that if you speak now, you’ll babble about how attractive it is that he’s able to catch you as easily as grabbing a light sheet of paper.

“Careful,” his voice rumbles in his throat as he regards you with a wan smile.

Your “thanks” is barely uttered as you slip into your room, heaving your weighted blanket and a pillow in your arms to let Namjoon borrow.

The burgundy quilted fabric is hunched over your shoulder, draped around your body so it’s easier for you to carry on your back. You try to eradicate the memory of Jungkook’s arms, lean and strong as he held you to him moments before.

Ugh, you thought messing around with Vernon would stop your silly pining. It seems that it’ll take more than a couple rounds to satiate your curiosity. For such a kind guy, Jungkook seems like a wolf in sheep’s clothing when it comes to the bedroom.

You can imagine him being so kind in the beginning, coaxing you to wan and bend to his every wish and command. And then when you keen a little too hard at the attention, you bet a switch would flip and he’d grab you—

The blanket flops around your back, and you’re sorely reminded that you’re thirsting over a taken man, yet again.

Jungkook makes it extremely difficult for him to be hateable. It’s by nature that he’s just so damn likeable. Heck, he’s pretty much packed seventy percent of the things Jisoo should be packing right now.

Making sure not to trip again, on your feelings and your blanket, you successfully reach a tired Namjoon. You tuck your koala-shaped pillow under your co-editor’s arms, and drape the heavy blanket over him like a cape. He’s giving you a thumbs up and a toothless smile, the previous meltdown overcome as he focuses on finishing the last of today’s work. He’s slipped on some noise-cancelling earphones, presumably filled with generic coffee-house music or rain playlists.

Wordlessly you go to your nook to prepare some tea. It’s getting late and a warm cup would distract you from the impending deadline. Despite the fact that you and Namjoon are 99% of the way done, his previous freak-out has you on live-wire and you could use a little caffeine.

Placing three mugs on the counter you call, “Jungkook, tea?”

“Yes please,” you stiffen when you feel Jungkook magically appear right behind you, his head peering over your shoulder, “with milk and honey.”

Deciding to give Jungkook the beehive-shaped mug because it’s very on-brand for him, you begin to steep the leaves in your kettle while he spoons the honey.

“So,” his words are slow as the drip of honey, the amber goo taking its time to descend into his mug as it falls from the dipper. “Is that the guy you’re trying to get over?”

Jungkook lifts his brows towards Namjoon, who is softcore jamming to his white noise playlist. It’s cute as to how curious Jungkook is about Namjoon. While you try to keep your work life separate, there really isn’t much backstory to your personal life to warrant that kind of divide.

“Namjoon,” you state aloud, watching Namjoon sing badly to himself, “why, are you gonna beat him up for me?”

“I can take him,” you can practically hear Jungkook’s chest pop out.

With a roll of your eyes, you reach to kill the heat off the tea kettle, “No need. He isn’t the guy I’m trying to get over.”

“Oh, he’s your fuck buddy then?”

“Shit!” being caught off guard, you grab at the handle of your kettle without a pot holder, burning your fingertips. In seconds Jungkook’s larger hand encases your own, pulling you over to the sink to soak your fingers in cool running water.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jungkook is chanting like a sinner at church, searching for any sign of pain in your visage, “I shouldn’t have asked while you’re working with a hot stove.”

You suppress a sigh, relaxing your fingers as Jungkook soothes the burn with his gentle hold, “Shouldn’t have asked in the first place,” you mumble.

“I know,” he replies, “guess I’m just feeling a little left out. We don’t talk like we used to. I guess I’m getting a little too nosy for my own good, aren’t I?”

You don’t understand what’s going on with his incessant babbling as of late, but you chalk it up to work stress and Jisoo’s move. Having no answers to his honest reply, you gently untack your red palm from his grip, assuring him that you’re fine.

Namjoon steps into your kitchenette, being surprisingly careful as he takes your potholder to pour himself a cup of tea. If the tea is oversteeped and bitter he doesn’t say anything, only leans against the counter as he regards you two with slow sips. “You alright?”

“M’fine,” you reply stubbornly, avoiding Jungkook’s worried stare.

Namjoon holds out his hand, “Hand.”

“No—”

“Hand.”

His deep voice coerces you, and you immediately slap the back of your palm onto Namjoon’s. Your partner brushes his golden hands over the tiny blister that’s forming over your fingertips. “Can’t have my Work Wife outta commission.”

“Your Work Wife is fine,” you gripe back.

Your co-worker’s eyes flicker over to Jungkook’s for a brief second, Jungkook regarding him in curiosity as he stares at your connected palms. “I have some aloe in my bag for sunburns,” Namjoon offers helpfully, ignoring the weird glances, “I’ll give it to you in a bit. Also, I’ve overcome my sudden bout of stress and I’m ready to email our progress to Victoria. We’re done for the day.”

“Awesome, thanks Joonie,” you exhale, relaxing against the sink, “wanna go eat somewhere?”

“There’s a niche place in Itaewon if you wanna check it out?” Namjoon offers.

Jungkook interjects, “Jisoo ordered pizza if you guys wanna share with us?”

“Pizza also sounds good—”

“We don’t wanna interrupt your alone time,” you gracefully cut in, stepping in front of Namjoon despite the fact that he’s easily towering over you.

Jungkook snorts, “I’ll have enough alone time with her when she moves in, don’t worry. Besides, I ordered three pies because I wanted to try three different flavor combos. I need two additional judges.”

“Thanks Jungkook but,” you stifle a cry when Namjoon jabs you in the back with his thumb. It’s pressing, digging into the small of your back as if he’s trying to telepathically tell you that you’re being rude, “but… I don’t know if I can eat three slices! Namjoon on the other hand, can probably eat enough to fairly judge.”

“Great,” Jungkook’s smile is blinding, causing your grin to stiffen as he looks for his phone to shoot Jisoo a quick text that they’re having dinner for four.

Once Jungkook’s out of earshot, Namjoon tugs you by the sleeve, “The hell was that?” he hisses in your ear, “you look like you’re about to shit and piss your pants at the same time.”

“I just don’t feel comfortable eating with them,” you cross your arms in defiance. You think back to just a week ago where you and Jisoo reluctantly attempted to eat breakfast together one morning. You provided minimal small talk while Jisoo clinged to her phone, replying to you in non-committal clipped tones.

“Do I want to know?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” you retort, “you got me into this mess, you’re gonna stay with me ‘till the end.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, woman,” Namjoon throws his arms out exasperatedly, oolong tea nearly sloshing onto his hand, “just suck it up or I revoke your bragging rights to that snag you got on our spread next Monday.”

“Not my fault you couldn’t get Kim Taeyeon on the spread,” you smirk.

“Well I didn’t so happen to stalk the Sephora she frequents for the past two weeks—”

“I didn’t stalk her I just so happened to need a new Fenty Gloss Bomb every other day—”

“I’m home, Jungkookie!”

Your face contorts, your playful energy melting to the hardwood as your previous banter with Namjoon evaporates into thin air. Work bags in one hand and three boxes of pizza balancing in the other, Jisoo kicks off her heels somewhere across the door and places the pizza on the dining table.

Jungkook immediately appears by her side, and you look away and Jisoo plants a heavy kiss on his lips. She cracks open one eye as she notices you and Namjoon hanging by the kitchenette, “Oh,” she mumbles at her audience, “you’re here?”

Yes, you bimbo. I’m here in my own apartment.

“I guess you didn’t read my text that they’ll be joining us for dinner,” Jungkook cuts in good-naturedly, “we have way too much pizza anyway. Have a seat, guys.”

Jungkook navigates the kitchen as easily as your own, and you slump in your chair while Namjoon exchanges pleasantries with Jisoo. She looks impeccable, hair in a tight chignon and a tight navy dress as she converses with your co-editor.

“I’m starving,” Jungkook announces, making sure to place a slice on Jisoo’s plate. He shuffles through the other boxes, making brief eye contact with you when he decides to put a slice on yours as well, “you like these toppings, right?”

You regard the greasy, hearty piece of cheese and bread with a curt nod. You feel Jisoo’s eyes laser on your skin, “Yeah, thanks Kook.”

Namjoon, Jisoo and Jungkook mostly stir up the conversation, you opting to eat as slow as possible to avoid any conversation. It’s easy to blend back and let them take over, as Jisoo loves to talk about her fashion firm and Namjoon is a great listener.

Jungkook and Namjoon make it a point to direct the conversation to you from time to time, and you let the ball leave your court as soon as it lands. You prefer to keep your responses short and simple, especially when Jisoo is so eager to talk about the new silk drapes she’s installing for Jungkook’s windows.

Your phone buzzes in your lap, and you discreetly look under the table to read the incoming text message.

vernie bernie: would u like to do the devil’s dance tonight

vernie bernie: or a tickle to my pickle?

vernie bernie: beatin ya bean?

You: ohmyGOD

vernie bernie: or y’know, u could just come ovr and chill. Hobi made some bomb tres leches

You: call. Ill come after dinner

“Are you okay, y/n?” your head bounces up to meet Jungkook’s gaze, “you’ve barely eaten and you haven’t talked much.”

“Oh you know, she’s just stressed about the upcoming spread,” Namjoon steps in for you, and you send him a discrete, but grateful smile. He’s always impeccable at reading the room, “she’s just nervous about her interview with Kim Taeyeon, but I think you did her interview justice.”

“No way, the singer Kim Taeyeon?” Jungkook gushes, regarding you with stars in his eyes, “your interviews are always so great, y/n. You ask really good questions. Like that one spread about Lee Yonghwa’s art gallery? Really cool.”

You notice the way Jisoo presses her lips together, a thin line as if she’s trying to seal away words that she’ll regret saying. She’s jealous, and you can’t help the blush of pride that fills your veins as you raise a secret brow at her.

“Right, you got nothing to worry about,” Namjoon squeezes your shoulder encouragingly, as if you’d get his double-meaning.

“Thanks,” you reply, pushing your plate away and standing up, “I’m actually gonna go head to Vernon’s for a bit, though. He wants to double check his work before we email Victoria.”

It’s a bald-faced lie, Namjoon sent the files to Victoria right before dinner, but he isn’t going to argue.

“Okay,” Namjoon thanks Jungkook and Jisoo for the meal, stacking his plate atop yours, “I’ll walk out with you.”

“It’s only been twenty minutes, though,” you see the slight panic in Jungkook’s gaze as he watches you quickly clean up for you and Namjoon. You can’t quite pin why he’s so concerned, after all he has been acting strange as of late.

“Yeah, I’m full,” you reply curtly, licking your lips and avoiding his gaze. You already know what he wants to say, that he’s been in your apartment all day and all he’s seen you eat is stale chips and tea, “but we can do this again.” But hopefully not.

“If you’re coming home late again,” it’s the first time Jisoo has spoken to you directly. You tilt your head to her slowly, watching the plastic smile carefully carved onto her expression. You see the contrived care and concern between her brows, “please try to be quieter next time, the last time you came home late you woke Jungkookie up.”

Snapping your gaze to Jungkook you plaster on a thick smile, “Sorry Jungkook—”

“What? No, it’s fine!” he furrows his brows in confusion, finally able to detect the strange tension between the two housemates, “I barely heard you—”

“Maybe I’ll just stay the night at Vernon’s,” your eyes trail over to the pajama set you immediately switched into when you got home today, “wouldn’t want to disturb you two.”

“Good,” Jisoo’s tone is saccharine and clipped as she tacks on a, “have fun.”

It’s laudable, how much Jisoo wants to make a fool out of you but you won’t have it. You revel in the perplexed expression as Jungkook’s gaze darts back and forth between the two of you, wanting to butt in but unsure of how to approach it. Not giving him the time to, you bid the couple a goodnight and make a fast getaway. Heck, you don’t even take your work stuff with you.

Once you’re out the door, Namjoon wordlessly gives you a hug. You sigh gratefully into his embrace.

The next time Jungkook sees you, he reads the room before anything. You and Jisoo’s apartment is scarily empty, almost clinical. He’s tried texting you a few times after his failed-not-failed attempt at catching up at the mall and his awkward conversation concerning Namjoon, but you always reply back with vague replies and an unpromised promise of meeting up sometime soon.

It dulls him to think that you’ve given up on him as a friend. But can you blame him? He needs to keep an appropriate distance for Jisoo, after all, she doesn’t like it when he gets too close to other women unless it’s strictly professional. Usually Jisoo’s jealousy inevitably works itself out and Jungkook doesn’t pose any problems because he has very few girl friends, but for some reason your friendship with him specifically gets Jisoo stiff in the face. Is it because you and Jisoo are so close? Possibly.

But it doesn’t mean you can’t join the same Valorant server with him at 2AM and accidentally bomb each other, or argue over the magnum opus of each film company. Is that not enough?

Jisoo’s working overtime, and Jungkook suggested last night that he move the boxes to the front of the door for easy pick-up when the moving truck arrives. Jisoo promises to buy Thai food in return, and with a kiss emoji she leaves him to audit fabric budgets.

As he glides down to Jisoo’s room he notes that the pictures along the wall have disappeared, and there’s double the amount of boxes in the hallway. It seems that you’re moving out too. To where, he doesn’t know but he hopes it isn’t too far.

He chides Jisoo remotely when he sees that her room is completely intact, and he makes moves to pack up her things.

That’s when he finds his letter. Not a love letter to Jisoo, but a love letter to you. Deep in the recesses of Jisoo’s junk drawer, is a faded lavender envelope with a pressed cream colored baby’s breath taped up in plastic. The glue is yellow and old, clearly served its purpose due to the fact that the letter is already opened and the contents rumpled.

Hey Pretty Girl–

He immediately stuffs the letter back in its holder, stricken at his messy handwriting from two years ago. It feels like he found a time capsule, another version of Jungkook confessing to you. He used to call you Pretty Girl, not enough for you to catch on to his feelings, but enough for you to understand that he did find you attractive. It was early on in your friendship.

When you first asked him to be study partners for some silly class that had nothing to do with each other’s majors, he gaped like a guppy and pointed to himself. That day he went to class in last night’s clothes and a nest of fluffy strands. “Me?” he felt like absolute trash, and you were probably desperate due to the fact you two were the only seniors in this class, “but you’re a pretty girl… and I’m pretty dumb when it comes to this subject.”

But instead you scoffed and pulled him from his slumped figure, dragging him to the library, with a wink and a “you’re pretty, too.” Those words have burned in his brain since then, as he wasn’t used to getting such off-handed compliments, especially from intelligent girls that wanted more than one night.

For whatever reason you continued seeing his dumb self, even after the semester ended and together registered for one more class for spring.

Whenever you’d go out for ice cream you wouldn’t hesitate to stuff your face and add for extra Oreos and fries, you’d assure Jungkook you’re not normally this much of a slob.

Jungkook would just smile and offer you a napkin and say, “You’re still a pretty girl.”

He fell for you gracefully. There was no regret, no walk of shame, no cliché late night party where you or him could’ve instigated it into the physical. It was all by feel.

However the two of you took your time with your relationship, languidly enjoying the hushed conversations in the library at 2AM, the late night McFlurry runs, the integration of each other’s friends like it was natural. Ergo the lavender love letter. It was a gentle declaration, one he felt pretty confident in.

So color him stupid when you passed him in class with a happy wave, Jungkook dumbfounded at how well you handled his confession. You weren’t oblivious, you just never read it.

But now he knows the declaration was for whatever reason, lost in transit. “I should’ve known,” he whispers in the air, the letter crumpling in his grip. Composing himself, he pinches his brows.

There’s an electronic buzz and a sharp slam of the front door. Judging by the time, you’re home.

You flop onto your mattress, folding an arm over your head to stop the sun from seeping to your eyes. Vernon’s exhausted you, and you barely got away before he could have any say in it. You need a little space, and some time to think.

Just as you close the door to your bedroom, it swings open.

You gape as Jungkook thrusts himself into your bedroom like a deer with horns, looking pale. You follow his gaze, darkened eyes that linger a little too long on your neck again, and you narrow your eyes at him to avert. He looks a little red in the cheeks despite his pallidness, looking like he just got out of bed with messy wavy locks and his signature sweats. Is Jungkook packing for Jisoo again?

Acutely aware that you smell like sweat and sex, you clutch the blankets closer to your body. “Uh, rude.”

He looks uncharastically frantic, waving a letter in his hand, “Did you ever read this?”

“Read what?” you ask, hands reaching out for the envelope.

“My confession letter,” he blurts, having no shame now that all the gears are running through his head. “I wrote you a letter asking you out, because you said you wanted to collect notes like in Letters to Juliet. But I just found it in Jisoo’s drawer, why would it be there?”

And all the pent up frustration that never seemed to escape under Vernon’s sheets, the feelings that never seem to subside, all bubble back to the surface. Now that Jungkook knows, there’s no hiding.

You’re in shock, hands reaching for the letter despite the burn that seeps through your fingertips. Jungkook’s shoulders slump when you do indeed look like it’s your first time seeing this, as if a missing puzzle piece in your timeline has finally been revealed.

“I, I didn’t think you’d write me a letter,” you take the lavender envelope, clutching the letter by your chest like it’s something precious, “that’s so sweet,” you say to yourself.

It dawns on him, “Wait, you knew about this? I knew something weird was going on.”

“Only recently,” you frown.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” he nearly shouts, causing you to flinch, “no wonder why you were being so weird all this time. How could you let me live the rest of my life knowing this? That my relationship is built on a lie? ”

“I don’t know,” you suddenly feel very small in your mattress as Jungkook rounds up on you, pulling your desk chair closer to your bed, “because you love Jisoo, of course.”

“Well obviously that’s not possible,” and while yes a two-year realtionship ending like this is going to hit him hard tonight, he’s focused on you and the fact that you failed to tell him, “somehow I’d find out. Why wait for me to find out on my own?”

“Because I wanted to protect you!”

“Protect me,” he scoffs, crossing his arms and sneering at you. It causes you to tense up, feeling the telltale signs of tears bubbling to the surface, “you don’t even want to be friends anymore, y/n. I’ve tried to catch up to you so many times, but you keep leaving me hanging. I know I’ve been a pretty bad friend and I get it if you just feel awkward that I liked you, then that’s a shitty reason.”

“Have you ever considered that it’s too late to tell you?” you shoot back, sitting up straight, “yes, I admit I should’ve told you earlier and I’m sorry, but it was a lot for me to process to y’know? Jisoo and I haven’t talked properly in weeks!”

“Oh, so you’ve stopped trying to be friends with Jisoo too, huh? Just like you’re trying to stop being friends with me.”

“No,” you pinch your brows, “she stopped being friends with me! She doesn’t care about me because she has you,” conflict burns in Jungkook’s gaze, and you only serve to fuel the fire, “she’s tried so hard to not involve me in your relationship.”

“Just tell me why you’ve really kept this secret instead of saying you want to protect me like a baby—”

“It’s because I’m in love with you, idiot!”

You blink and back up against the wall of your bedroom, as if you can’t believe that the words came out of your mouth.

It’s quiet again. The sour look evaporates from Jungkook’s face as he watches you suppress your sobs on your mattress. The room seems devoid, sucked out of its color as you’ve cleaned up most of your things, the only thing left being some plain grey sheets and a pillow.

Jungkook’s mind is absolutely reeling, playing back memories from a different point of view.

“When Jisoo told me she sabotaged our relationship so she could date you, I was so upset and didn’t know what to think,” you manage to place the lavender note on your wooden desk, making sure no tears could mar it. “And I thought I could move on and eventually stay friends with the both of you, but the next day Jisoo put all her attention on you and completely ignored me or any attempt to salvage our friendship. She only told me to forgive herself,” you’re hugging yourself, wrapping the blankets around you like a weak embrace, “so I thought if I cut myself out of the picture and forced myself to move on like I should’ve, everything would’ve been okay.”

“So, you would’ve rather kept all this pain to yourself?”

“Yeah,” you give him a teary smile, “because I wanted you to be happy.”

And with an equally sad smile he murmurs, “But I’m not happy.”

Your face falls, and you really look at Jungkook. He’s exhausted as well, slumped in his chair. Has he been trying to grapple along the threads of his relationships, while you’ve been trying to loosen them?

“What a waste of two years,” he slumps in your chair, letting the pieces click into place, “a relationship built on fake love. I was really trying, y’know. I thought I was going crazy.”

The three of you have unknowingly been playing a futile game of Cat’s Cradle, a game that no one wins.

Jungkook looks wistfully out the window, noting the pleasant day that fails to present itself in your tiny room. It feels simultaneously satisfying and bitter when it falls into place, your thoughts finally fitting together for the first time in months. “We could’ve loved each other. For real,” he says, and you silently agree.

You’re still crying, shaking like a leaf in autumn. Jungkook’s arms hover awkwardly over yours, his warmth palpable despite the fact that he hasn’t touched you yet. With a timid smile you allow consent, and you melt like putty in his arms.

“Kookie, ‘m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” you murmur into his shoulder, not caring if it hurts when you press your chin into his skin. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

It’s been so long to have him close like this, the friend you’ve always wanted but never needed. Since college you’ve always imagined a life without him doing just fine, but that doesn’t mean you want to live without him, roommate’s boyfriend or not.

“I’m sorry too,” he sighs back, “this sucks right now, but we’ll be alright.”

The two of you sit in your room until it turns dark and the sky muddles into shades of twilight and egg yolk orange. There’s lulls in the conversation, the two of you filling in the gaps and making sense of the mumbo-jumbo that’s been going on in your consciousness up until this point. Your insantities turn sane, and by the time Jisoo’s making her way back inside with the smell of pad thai, Jungkook is ready. With a squeeze to each other and a press of your lips because you don’t know what to say, you tuck yourself in and pretend to fall asleep.

“Messy, messy, messy,” Vernon sing-songs, knocking his heels against the wall.

The both of you are sitting upside-down, butts attached to the wall connecting to his mattress and your feet hanging in the air. Your mint floral organza socks pad against his Pink Floyd poster, while his yellow tube socks are heeling against some old Polaroids from college. There’s no prospect of sex today, not when shit just hit the fan.

Today you and Vernon are just two old friends and very close co-workers.

“Tell me about it,” you bemoan, frowning at the beige wall, “this whole week’s just been a whole mess. It’s like, warm tuna salad.”

“Gross,” Vernon grimaces at the apt comparison, “so what happens now?”

You sit up on your elbows, looking down at Vernon’s peaceful expression, “What do you mean?”

“Like, are you gonna get together with him?”

You snort, flopping back down on his bed. The blankets fluff around you and you inhale the pine scented sheets. “After all that? No.”

“But you still love him?”

It must sound dumb to still love him after all this time. You wouldn’t be surprised if Vernon thought you’re silly to still hold a place in your heart for someone who has fifteen million things on their plate now. After all the physicality and the space Vernon gave you in his home, your feelings haven’t wavered.

Your companion doesn’t bother waiting for your answer, hearing your answer somewhere in the air as he gets up and throws on his denim jacket. Rolling over your stomach you ask, “Where are you going?”

“Some friends down in printing want to meet up for drinks,” Vernon messes up his hair, making the waves part in that little coiff that makes his jawline look sharp. “I heard Yerin really wanted me to come, so.”

You can’t help the little middle school coo that comes from your lips, causing Vernon to giggle and throw a pillow at you. “Yerin’s cute!” you declare, remembering the petite girl in overalls who’s all about pops of yellow and violet, “you're into her?”

“Nah,” Vernon holds up two hats in his hands, gesturing for you to pick one. “Just figured it was a push in the right direction.”

Crawling out of his bed you stumble in your oversized t-shirt, tucking a finger under your chin as you decide between the emerald bucket hat and the red Ralph Lauren baseball cap. You pull out both hats from his hands and set it down on his vanity, opting to smooth out the flyaways and ringing your fingers through his soft curls. “And what direction would my free-flowing friend be going today?” you ask aloud, “you look better with your hair out,” you declare firmly, “makes you look like a fluffy CEO.”

He laughs at your silly comparison, and he gently moves your hand away from his hair when you linger a little too close to him. His gaze is solemn as he regards you with a gentle smile, “Keep your distance, I’m tryna get over someone,” he says simply, and your arm falls limp at your sides.

Your heart thuds in a different direction, your mouth parting but no words coming to the surface. When was the last time you asked about Vernon’s needs, wondered if he was doing alright, making sure you two were on the same page—

“You’re spiraling,” he reads you like a playbook, smoothing down your hair to press a kiss to the crown. Suddenly you feel guilty for not having sparks in your belly, shaming your conscience for not even considering his sacrifices in your self-absorption these past few weeks. “Like I said, I wanted to help you. Stop looking like a kicked puppy, it’s okay to be selfish.”

With transparent tears the two of you pack up and head to your next destination. Hands ghosting between each other you make your way to the exit of Vernon’s apartment, him to meet up with his friends while you have to unpack your new apartment. With a hug you tell each other you’ll see them on Monday, and as easy as that you go your separate ways.

Hey Pretty Girl—

I kinda wanted to tell you this in person but I know how much you liked Mamma Mia and all those other movies that have grand gestures in writing so I thought hey, might as well shoot my shot on paper.

Not gonna tell you all the details, because you deserve to hear it in-person. But mayhaps this letter has something to do with how much I like studying with you, watching movies with you, doing absolutely nothing with you and all of that in-between.

There’s a gift card to our spot attached. Meet me at McDonalds @12 tonight, so I know it’s real 😎

Hopefully yours, Jungkook

P.S. if you haven’t noticed already, I sprayed a little cologne and stole Taehyung’s fancy paper from Muji. That’s how serious I am about you.

“Joon, we live in a bonsai garden. We’re like giants in a forest.”

“Can you—can you stop spitting at them? Let them breathe, dammit.”

“Not my fault they’re so tiny! I literally have to zoom 200% just to get a good look at ‘em.”

The two of you are huddled in what used to be Namjoon’s balcony, now a sunroom for his succulents and bonsais. Your heart feels pink and swollen with affection as you regard Namjoon with interest, absorbing every bit of information you can as he teaches you how to care for his plants. After all, you’re co-parenting now.

Having your Wusband co-sign as your roommate for the next year is probably the best decision you have made this year. Everyday is like a breath of fresh air. With Seokjin gone for the year to tour his restaurant franchises, his room is yours for the taking. The two of you are easy going roommates, filling the apartment with color and vigour whether it be in the form of baking sweets or watching Netflix documentaries.

The only drama you ever have is when you two are having a meltdown over the same work-related issue, as if you two somehow share the same brain cell. It’s significantly less stressful, no need for unnecessary anger when you have someone as mediating as Namjoon.

After today’s plant lesson, you two go back to the living room to finish up your work for the evening. Another perk of living together is that you can go home at normal work times and continue where you left off with the comfort of your couch and eating a whole pizza pie with no shame.

Namjoon’s phone pings with a new email from corporate. “We got the new concept for next month’s spread,” he gestures to you with a grandiose wave of his arm, “drumroll please.”

He pulls up the newsletter from corporate with a flick of his thumb. Your company put out every month’s concept out in an Evite, like every month was a themed party. A stressful, month long work party. In seconds, the page loaded and you’re met with next month’s title bathed in electronic glitter.

The Most Beautiful Moment in Life: Class of Youth

The two of you say silent, absorbing the concept like a cookie to milk. It’s a personal spread this month, a real treat for the team to show off their normal non-professional life. A spread that reveals the masters behind the ink and text. Last year’s personal spread was about the staff’s vacation destinations, but this year’s is much more intimate. You can imagine all the ideas that will be thrown around on Monday’s meeting: pinning down shared ideas like Throwback Thursdays, late night munchie runs, drunk stories, and all the crazy college nostalgia that you’ve been trying to avoid as of late.

But now it’s presented to you in a gold chalice, and while you’re sick of the past you think it’s about time to face it. You’re excited to tackle the dark monster you’ve suppressed since Jungkook and Jisoo’s breakup.

“Did I ever tell you I was president of my university’s Mock Trial?”

“No, I always thought you’d be president of the Comparative Literature Club or whatever. But Mock Trial is equally as nerdy.”

“I’ll have you know Mock Trial got me tons of action,” he winked, “made me very convincing.”

“Gross,” you sneer, “so that’s what your spread will be about? How the co-editor of the Arts & Entertainment section managed to bag with his skills from Mock Trial?”

“Nah, I went on a penniless journey with Jin during spring break. Six days around Malta.”

“That does sound so you,” you sigh, fingers slipping between the cracked screen as you mull over the overly happy Evite, “sounds like a cool story.”

“I know that look,” Namjoon quips, snatching his phone under his nose, “don’t overthink your spread just yet, it’s still the weekend. Now to more important things, what do you want from Taco Bell?”

And because you can’t refuse the combined efforts of nachos and Namjoon’s dimples, you relent for the night and tack the unmade idea to the next workday.

Unfortunately the next workday is just as disheartening. Today’s work meeting is the antithesis of icing on the cake. While your college life isn’t anything remarkable, you didn’t think it was a painfully dull time. With every passing moment and every excited co-worker throwing memories back and forth like ping pong balls, the more you felt inferior by competing with their amazing memories.

“Who can even afford Aruba at twenty-one,” you mutter under your breath, stalking back to your cubicle.

Filling up a whole spread is daunting to you, the thought of Victoria popping her head in your cubicle to ask what you’ve got for the day is practically eating you from the inside out. Maybe your college life was in actuality, super boring? You have no crazy drug trips to tell, any vacations that gave you a life-changing perspective, or an epic love story.

“What’cha got there, partner?”

The third musketeer of your editing team’s caramel eyes peer into your cubicle, causing you to jump in your chair. Vernon wheels around, chair and all to push you into your already cramped space. His gold button up gleams in the sunlight, effectively blinding you.

“If by something you mean nothing, then yeah I got nothing,” you frown, spinning around your chair. “What are you writing about?”

A fond smile melts onto your friend’s face, and you can’t help returning a smile that mirrors his own. You two have fallen back into a good place, as far as you know. He’s still easy, simple, sweet Vernon. When you dropped some boxes off in coloring, you heard that Vernon and Yerin have recently started seeing each other.

“Thought of the idea as soon as the Evite came out. It’s more of a photo spread, but I’m gonna write about my study abroad in NYU,” Vernon ticks a pencil on his forehead, “a self-identity piece talking about how I felt like, not-white around my family n’stuff. And then felt not-Asian at the same time, s’complicated but I think I can make it work.”

“Deep,” you pat his shoulder caringly, knowing that Big Hit is a good outlet for these kinds of subjects, “alright City Slicker, since you’re so full of ideas then tell me what to write about.”

Vernon sits up straight, regarding you with narrowed eyes, “Aren’t you gonna write about your little love triangle with Jisoo and Jungkook?” and it seems like he’s already storyboarded the idea in his head, gesturing to the air as if he’s writing down a timeline, “I can see the headline now: How to Steal a Heart,” he’s grinning, nodding fervently as you cross your arms in distaste.

“Vern, are you suggesting that I exploit Jisoo and Jungkook’s personal lives?” while the journalism business didn’t pride itself on sincerity, it did feel wrong to drag in your personal life to that extent.

“Babe, you don’t understand. You have the perfect slice of life story. Everyone’s writing about expensive vacations and that one time they got cross-faded and ended up in Busan,” he squeezes your hand, “but your story, it’s relatable. It’s romantic. It’s angsty. It has closure. No one’s gonna be able to relate to an impulse spending on daddy’s money to Aruba. But first loves? Unrequited romance and all that ish? Everyone can speak to that. And you’re a beautiful writer, they’ll eat up that story like honey.”

“I don’t know, it still doesn’t feel right.”

“Change up the names, twist the story,” he offers easily, knowing you’d put up a fight, “besides, it’s not like you’re planning on talking to Jisoo or Jungkook ever again,” you open your mouth to retort, but Vernon’s phone beeps to the Star Wars theme song and he’s flying out of his chair. “Shoot, gotta go help Joon upstairs. Just think about it, okay? Good luck!” and he’s kicking his chair out with a brown loafer, leaving you with breathing room in your cubicle.

Five seconds later Vernon is jogging back, pointing a finger at you, “And if you do choose to write it, you have to add that Jisoo copped your McDonalds gift card. Like, who does that shit? Couldn’t she have just given it to you and say it was from her and not Jungkook? Seriously fucked up.”

For the next ten or so minutes you mull. Out of all the memorable college events you’ve participated in, the largest one by far is your (now defunct and debatable) friendship with Jisoo, and your (un)requited love for Jungkook. Reluctantly, you must admit Vernon has a sharp idea, busting in like a hero and offering you the most writable piece on a silver platter.

It doesn’t feel morally right just to start writing, because ultimately you can’t feel comfortable until you get the consent of Jungkook. While you don’t want to touch Jisoo with a ten-meter pole, you do want to start talking to Jungkook again now that the waters have calmed.

Your life has moved gracefully up until this point, and you’d like to start being friends with him again. Decision made, you pull out your phone and make an important call.

“Hey Yoongi,” you say nervously. Min Yoongi is Kim Namjoon’s equivalent, Jungkook’s Wusband and former upperclassmen in college.

Said man hums noncommittally on the other line, “Whaddya want, it’s been awhile.”

You stifle a giggle at his apathetic attitude, knowing he’s someone who wastes no time in getting straight to the point. “I just wanna make sure Jungkook’s address is still the same? I know it’s been a couple months, but I need to send him something and I wanna make sure it gets to him ASAP because—”

“Because last time something was sent, your crazy roommate intervened and Jungkook ended up in a two-year half-toxic relationship? Yeah, let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

“Yoongi,” you say slowly, “where are you?”

“Working in the studio,” he tuts, “Jungkook says hi, by the way.”

Typical, cat’s out of the bag. With a roll of our eyes you reply, “Thanks for outing me, Yoongi. Talk to you later.”

“And y/n? Jungkook says he’s waiting.”

With a stupid smile slapped onto your face, you hang up the phone and pull out your stationary kit from under your desk. You pluck out a vermillion red envelope, a color so bold and begging to be seen, you know it can’t possibly get lost in transit. Feeling a little bit like a high schooler as you pull out a glitter jelly pen, you get to writing.

Hey Pretty Boy...

Jungkook and Jisoo are no longer together, evidently.

Their social media runs in different directions, with Jisoo sporting absolute elegance in her work at her family-owned boutique. Her posts are full of shiny outfits and soulless gazes, betraying any pinch of emotion she may have felt over these past few months. Her profile is wiped of any personal posts, all traces of you and Jungkook evaporated from her page. You must admit that she looks good, like a real fashion mogul, but only at the surface level.

Conversely, Jungkook is thriving. It’s evident. Normally he isn’t the type of guy to post so frequently, his habits being often sporadic and limited to sweaty gym stories. But whenever you scroll, it’s pictures of him smiling. Big bunny teeth broken into a genuine, full-bellied laugh. Cute selfies of him and his co-workers. You notice two familiar co-workers in those posts, Irene and Seulgi, two beautiful women Jisoo always felt intimidated by whenever she ranted to you. You conclude positively that Jungkook doesn’t feel tethered and can hang out with all the friends he wants, female and male alike. Jungkook looks free, and you’re happy for him.

It’s another Instagram-worthy moment tonight at McDonalds, where you and Jungkook proposed to meet each other at 12AM.

This time, the letter makes it to its desired destination. You make sure of that because this time you hand-deliver it, slipping under his apartment door knowing he lives alone and no one would be able to access it except him.

You’re parked in an obscure corner, but you can see that Jungkook is currently having a great time with his co-workers for an after work meal. Yoongi is unbothered on his phone, while Jimin and Seulgi are taking turns throwing fries into each other’s mouth. Jungkook is squished between them, scrunching his nose cutely as he tries not to get in the fray of their fry-war.

Your phone pings, and you laugh at what pops up on the screen.

Yoongi: come inside, u loser.

You: can’t ur friend group makes me nervous stop being so dang cute

You: dw i’ll wait, it’s only 11:50

Instead of replying, Yoongi puts his phone down and resumes eating. In turn you pick a playlist, deciding that “summer time high mix✨✨✨” is a theme you need to subscribe to for the rest of the weekend.

Busying yourself by sending some texts to Namjoon and checking some emails, you relax in your seat as you let your brain turn to sludge for the weekend. You’re tired, eyes glazing over as you watch Yoongi elbow Jungkook harshly, forcing him to look out the foggy window.

Jungkook’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas Eve, but instead of Christmas lights it's your car’s lowlights. The graphic designer pays no mind to his friends as they wish him goodbye and goodluck, throwing on his jacket with a wave.

The night air whizzes by, Jungkook’s floppy black strands bouncing with each step as he bounds to your car. He throws your door open, bringing in the cold air as he regards you as easily as an old friend would.

“Hi,” he chirps, placing his tattooed palms by the air vent, “c’mon, let’s order.”

“You know, you could’ve ordered inside and brought it in here.”

“Yeah but then it would take longer to get to you,” the cheeky grin that Jungkook throws at you is unmistakable, “c’mon, get out the car and let’s switch.”

“Huh?”

“You look tired, you didn’t come back from the office again, did you?”

“I did tonight,” you say, “I just really wanted to get the soft copy of the article done and—”

“Out, out!” Jungkook clicks your seatbelt off and he’s coming out of the passenger side, opening your car and pulling you out by the hand, “c’mon, I’ll drive.”

You shake your head, hiding your smile in your hand as you let Jungkook do what he wants. Normally you’d be insulted that anyone suggests they should drive your car but Jungkook would always drive you around, saying he loved long rides. Above all, if you could trust anyone to drive your car, Jungkook is at the top of the list.

Buckling in, you bite the inside of your cheek as Jungkook easily pulls out of the parking spot one-handed. His jacket is pulled up to his elbows, exposing his veins as he expertly whirls the wheel in the direction of the drive-thru. Since college he’s always looked very attractive driving.

Doesn’t mean you have to act like you’re still in college. You tamp those feelings down, knowing that your article probably has you feeling stuck in time.

“—coming along?”

“Wha?”

“I said, how’s the spread coming along?”

“It’s pretty much done, I think. I’ll send you the hard copy when it’s ready,” you tap your fingers against the dashboard, “but are you sure you’re okay with me writing it? I know I’m using a pseudonym and everything for you two but I still feel weird—”

“It’s fine, I think it’s a good thing,” and you still squirm in your seat when he flashes you a genuine smile, “I mean, it kinda is a funny story and I think it’s good for both of us. Like closure, y’know? Moving on and—hi, can I get two Oreo McFlurrys and a large fry? Thanks!” he pulls out his wallet to scan the total on the e-reader. “I mean, didn’t it feel good writing it?”

“Yeah,” you replied honestly, relaxing in your seat, “like, college was fun and all, but when Jisoo kinda ruined all that… after awhile I didn’t think it was ruined after all, y’know? I still made amazing friends and ended up where I wanted to be. I want to show the readers that shit happens, and that’s okay. And if things are really meant to be, they’re meant to be.”

The summer playlist hums in the background as Jungkook pulls up to the pick-up window. He thanks the worker and hands you the tray, and you make quick work to put the fries in the first cup holder for optimal sharing. He doesn’t park at McDonalds, but instead smoothly pulls out of the restaurant into the direction of his apartment. It isn’t a particularly long drive, but you figure it would be easier for Jungkook to go home first if you’re already parked at his complex.

“What do you mean by that?” Jungkook parks in the driveway of his apartment, taking his McFlurry from your hands.

“Mean by what?”

“If things are really meant to be, they’re meant to be.”

“Well, we’re here now, right?”

Jungkook pops his spoon in, swallowing vanilla and a silly smile through his coral pink lips, “We’re here now,” he repeats.

The night air is cool and your conversation is warm. You promise Jungkook that you’ll send him the final copy of your spread as soon as it’s done, and you two eagerly deviate away from the past and focus on the present.

You can’t help the eagerness that flows between you, as if you’ve never spent time apart like this and it’s only now that you’re reuniting. It must be absence that makes the heart grow fonder, because you swell with affection and you find Jungkook’s presence sweeter than any kind of ice cream.

Are you dating now? Maybe. You and Jungkook are going on dates, everything without the title. McFlurry runs, marathons of HGTV’s Design on a Dime, having lunch at each other’s respective buildings with the Wusbands. Whether these dates are exclusive or not is unknown, but you figure the question will present yourself one way or another.

You’re in a good place right now, potential relationship or not. After all, your priorities are simultaneously positive and in order: family, work, friends, and any potential romantic trysts are at the very bottom. You could kiss the cover of this month’s issue (and trust, you have kissed your own copy multiple times) if it is not for the fact that this specific issue is for Jungkook.

So, romantic trysts and friends have a tendency to flip-flop on your priority list, but only because it’s Jungkook.

Unsurprisingly, there’s no guilt knowing that you’re dating your former best friend's ex-boyfriend.

After a much deserved early work day, Namjoon and the crew arrange a hearty happy-hour filled with good food and enough relaxation to last the weekend. With your combined successes, your team felt like they made the best issue yet. At the heart of it, The Most Beautiful Moment in Life: Class of Youth became a reckoning of each other’s young life. Despite the love and the growth that occurred from your college years up until this point, you’re glad to close that chapter and move forward.

You did not tell Jungkook when the issue would come out, so you think it’ll be a fun surprise for him when he sees it magically show up at his apartment. Bending down you move to slip the issue under his door, one hand pushing it under while one hand braces against the frame to steady your balance.

Just as the shiny cover glides under the door it swings open, and you fall flat on Jungkook’s feet.

Being the little shit he is, he simply giggles at the blunder, looking at you with excited eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says.

“Creepy as hell, Jeon,” you mutter under your breath, brushing the dirt off your aqua pencil skirt. Looking at him from your spot on the floor and his large height, you grimace. “You look like a middle-aged serial killer looking outside your peephole.”

“Now, we know that’s not true.” he finally offers his hand, easily pulling you up to your feet. You follow him into his kitchen, where he’s cutting up fresh fruit. He throws your issue on the counter, gentle enough so it doesn’t slide off the granite. He gestures to himself with both hands, “me, a dashingly handsome late twenty-something in Nike sweats who can bench-press two of you? Totally not a middle-aged serial killer.”

“It’s in the eyes,” you chastise, “you look crazy.”

“Maybe I’m just crazy excited to see you,” he says with a cheeky grin.

You try your best not to choke on your spit at the cheeseball comment, throwing a blackberry in your mouth. Savoring the burst of tart flavor that fills your mouth, you wait for Jungkook to plate the fruit before meeting him on the couch. He’s holding a prettily arranged plate of berries, bananas, and mango with a huge dollop of whipped cream in the middle. In his other hand is Big Hit’s magazine.

Throwing your blazer on the couch’s arm you don’t hesitate to cuddle up next to him, eagerly waiting for him to read your spread.

The cover gazes back at the two of you like a reflection. The entirety of the staff is posed on the cover, made to look like a class photo. Some of you are holding balloons in your respective school colors, many of you grouping up with whoever happened to go to college together. You and Vernon are wearing matching university sweaters with silly grins on your faces. In the middle of the issue is the editor-in-chief, Victoria Song holding a placard that reads: Class of Youth.

Jungkook spares you a glance from the corner of his eye, your head naturally tucked into his shoulder. With an exaggerated sigh, he fiddles through the glossy pages, “Hmm, which one should I read first?”

“Of course you’ll read mine first,” you pout.

“Ah, Namjoon’s looks really fun. Or Vernon’s? New York looks pretty cool,” he flips to a random page, “wait, Yerin’s spread is a Korean cookbook! I definitely want to make some tuna rice...”

“Jungkook,” you whine, “read mine.”

“I don’t know,” he taps his finger on his lip, “I mean, I pretty much know your spread because I’m already in it. It would be kind of redundant to read it.”

“Kook, you’re being mean,” you glower, rubbing your cheek against his soft sweater. He’s just so damn comfy.

“I’m kidding,” he tugs at your cheek, “where’s the table of contents, first page?”

“I’m on page eighty-three.”

You speed up the process like an impatient child, leaning over to brush the pages to the desired spread. You even dog-earred it, a habit that drives Jungkook crazy as he immediately fiddles to iron out the crease.

“Are you gonna read it to me too, mom?” he teases.

“Okay fine! I’ll be quiet, but don’t take too long.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Eyes fluttering, you let Jungkook take his time to absorb your piece. A roommate by any other (rude) name: the lost letter. A cheesy, gimmicky title that Victoria insisted upon that you had no choice but relent to. The rest of the spread thankfully has a very authentic edge to it, your story laced with photos of you and Jungkook, your internship with Vernon, and most importantly, a scan of the lavender letter that got left in the past.

Jungkook’s not silent through his read-through, either. He laughs at all the right parts, fueling your ego as his smile grows at your favorite lines. While he doesn’t directly engage in conversation, his positive energy is enough for you to make you feel like you’ve done your job right. It’s one thing to write about unknown celebrities and unnamed artists, but for people like Jungkook, the validation is personal.

“It’s beautiful,” Jungkook says when he’s read it thrice through, running his thumb over a picture of you. “Really organic. Really, real.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he chuckles, having run out of adverbs. “It’s funny, too. I liked your little internal monologue. I wish I knew how you felt back then.”

“I wish you did, too.”

You’re quietly munching on a strawberry, looking over a polaroid Jungkook took. It was sometime in the beginning of senior year, where you’ve fallen asleep on his mattress, drool drying on your mouth. Normally you’d be opposed to having such unflattering, grainy pictures amongst your writing, but it encapsulates the youth you’ve tried so hard to chase away.

“How do you feel?” Jungkook says, switching out the magazine for the plate of fruit, placing it on his side.

“Feel great, actually,” you muse, smiling to yourself. By no means are you a hero writing some grand gesture in an entertainment magazine, but you feel like you’ve saved yourself. You’ve savored your youth in four thousand words, cutting out the poison and keeping the moment as sweet as it can be.

“I’m proud of you,” he reaches to ruffle your hair, and you don’t even get mad when it tousles out of your pinned style.

Reveling in the attention, you simply close your eyes and feed yourself a handful of blueberries.

“Love that I make money, but I definitely miss college from time to time,” Jungkook stretches, jostling you out of your comfortable position. “Like I remember Taehyung and I would take turns bringing backpacks to the dining hall so we could stuff fruit in it for later.”

“Yeah, but as much as I loved college I wouldn’t go back,” you nod to yourself, “I’m happy where I am now.”

“What about when we stayed up for midnight breakfast? The dining hall was filled to the brim with food. Remember when I tried to eat a whole stack of pancakes?”

“Jungkook…”

“Or when our classes got cancelled and we went to Lotte World? You ate way too much funnel cake and I had to carry you to the car!”

“Jungkook—”

“And that one time we snuck out to the music hall’s rooftop?” words gush out of Jungkook’s mouth like a waterfall, unable to relent, “that’s when I realized I liked you. I liked you so much, I tried to tell you that night but choked—”

“Jungkook!” and he immediately zips up, frowning. You straighten up, on your knees as you reach over to run your hands through his onyx tresses, moving the styled strands to the back of his pierced ears, “Jungkook,” you repeat softly, “I’ve heard all these stories, I was there for most of them. As much as I love the past… can we talk about something else?” you give him a small, tentative smile to show him you’re not mad, but a little uncomfortable at his reminiscing.

He leans into your touch, pressing your palm against the soft swell of his warm cheek. “Okay,” he agrees, resting one hand on your thigh.

You’re roped in his gaze, and you have to force yourself to breathe when Jungkook moves closer to you. He hooks a leg behind his back, and another across his lap. A cool breeze kisses your inner thighs when your skirt exposes your cotton underwear. You should be embarrassed but instead you’re fixated, unable to understand what he’s trying to accomplish.

“Then I’m gonna talk about the future,” Jungkook traps you between the couch, his thumb running hot circles to where your skirt has hiked up. It exposes a slip of the thigh that Jungkook has seen a million times. He’s seen you walking around your apartment in a large shirt, ridden up to your boyshorts. It’s different now, you feel exposed and tingly, thrumming with excitement. “I like you, obviously anticipated news and old news. I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to go on dates with you, re-watch Avatar, grumble when I force you to come to the gym with me,” he bumps noses with you when you scrunch yours, “I wanna be with you. Heck, I’ve even cleared space in my spare room so you’d have closet space for all your fancy designer suits if you ever need it.”

“You cleared space?” you manage to choke out. Visions of a shared apartment roll through your brain. Cooking meals together, having two toothbrushes side by side, and waking up to his face.

“Of course I did. Do you know how financially attractive you are?” he says lightheartedly, “you’re a sexy working woman and it’s crazy to imagine you’d want to settle for me and my little apartment. But I have to try now because if I don’t, it’ll be too late.”

“That’s not true,” you retort, “you’re not someone I’d settle for. I want you, and no one else.”

He chuckles, running a thumb over your cheek. “Then what are we waiting for? Your key’s hiding under the mat.”

“Jungkook…” on the tip of your tongue lays the words you’re going too fast but it doesn’t make its way to the air.

“But do you really think it’s too fast?” he reads your face clearly, “these feelings never went anywhere. They were locked away, sure. And I loved her,” he can’t even say the name, not when you’re warm and flush against him, “but I loved our friendship more.”

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you breathe, letting the cogs in your brain roll until sparks develop.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he concedes, “I just wanted to let you know. Could’ve done the letter thing all over again and let the past repeat itself. I know Namjoon wouldn’t hide a love letter for two years, but if I left another damn letter he’d definitely make a copy and tease me about it.”

You snort, pressing your forehead to his. You’re practically buried in the couch now, tingly and vibrating with happiness. “And I’m not going to leave you hanging. I do want to say something,” and he looks at you expectantly, licking the leftover berry juice on his lips, nearly making you miss your train of thought, “I like you too,” you say, the other L-word is also applicable, but you feel like that phrase is reserved for another time, “I want to show you off on work vacations, bring you along as my date and show them you’re my muse,” you confess, “I wanna play video games with you ‘till 2AM, and eat ice cream in the comfort of our apartment instead of our cars because we’re too stubborn to admit we don’t wanna go home without each other.”

Jungkook absolutely preens at the affection, sending you a heart melting smile that has your stomach doing backflips.

“Jungkook, I want to fall in love with you again.”

Your squeal of surprise is swallowed by Jungkook’s lips, tasting of mangoes and berries as strong hands cup your backside, easily lifting you onto his lap. You plop under his strong thighs, feeling them flex against yours. The both of you are pouring in this kiss, raining with promises and hopes for a future with each other. His taste is concentrated, and you can feel the devotion practically injected in his embrace.

When he pulls away his lips are cherry-red and shiny, looking up at you through clear coffee eyes. “This isn’t a dream, right?” he looks at you up and down, unable to decipher fact from fiction, “because I distinctly remember two wet dreams that involve you looking like this.”

Looking down, you heat at the disarray you’re in. Hair wild and parted in different wavelengths, tired of the day’s efforts. Your slightly sheer dress-shirt is rumpled, the lace collar opened with two popped buttons revealing your cleavage, and your skirt is stretched so tight that it’s ruched all the way up your thighs. Sprawled across Jungkook’s lap, you’re dangerously close to something long and hard.

Emboldened, you clutch at Jungkook’s collar, pulling him closer.

“Show me what happens in your dream,” you whisper into his ear, barely brushing your clothed core against his crotch, “maybe we can make it come true tonight.”

You can’t see his face, but you feel something dark and sensual overtake him. The grip on your ass tightens, a delicious pain that has you pressing your breasts against him and nipping on his ear, your tongue darting sensually through the cold silver hoops that dart through his skin.

Within seconds, he rips you away from his neck and demands, “Open.”

Dazed, you barely get a centimeter of your mouth open when Jungkook presses something cold and sugary against your lips. Whipped cream. You manage to take a small bite of the tart strawberry that he holds by the viridian stem, rolling the flavor between your mouth as Jungkook paints the leftover whipped cream over your lips. Once he’s satisfied he then creates a white trail that leads to your cleavage.

Better than any dream, his eyes drink you in like the last glass of water in a desert. Your lips are swollen and parted like a baby kitten, covered in the creamy confection. “So pretty,” he exhales, his hot tongue licking from your cleavage to your lips, swallowing the flavor of you and strawberry juice, “such a pretty girl you are, and all mine.”

“Yours,” you submit easily, rolling your hips against his.

At that moment you think you’re meant to fall in love this way. You can’t imagine the shy, fumbly Jungkook and your equally confused self waltzing around a relationship when you barely had your lives together. The two of you still had growing to do. The wait is certainly worth it, because as you feel his arms tighten around you, you’re sure this love will stay strong.

It’s difficult for you to find a rhythm at first, what with Jungkook’s strength and need to be satiated, both of you are sloppy but the friction is nothing less than delicious. Your finger reaches over to swipe at the leftover cream on the plate, and you press your finger to Jungkook’s mouth, and he immediately complies. A dollop of sweet cream leaks out of his lips and your panties dampen further when you feel his tongue lick you clean, imagaining how good it would feel if it was your pussy he was licking.

Your mouth waters at the feeling of his dick lining up against your core, as sticky as the strawberry juice that clings to your bodies.

“C-can I make a confession? I—oh, Jungkook…” your mind is all fuzzed up when he snaps his hips against yours, causing you to shamelessly bounce on his length.

“Yeah?”

“I… I like it when you use all your strength like that,” his hips slow as your words sink in, but you don’t mind as it gives you time to make a long drag along the entirety of his member. “Everytime you pull me up when I trip, or you come back from a workout, I like it when you carry me around like I weigh nothing.”

“Do—do you think about it a lot?” he grunts, and you stifle a moan when he does a slow, hard drag against your wet folds. “Tell the truth.”

“It’s, it’s embarrassing,” you whimper, unable to think straight with the amount of stimuli you’re receiving.

“Please, baby.”

“Yes mm—oh! I do,” you try to get the words out as quickly as you can. He stops moving, and you groan in frustration so you just lay it all out on the table. “I, I love it when you hold me in your strong arms. And, ah, uh w-henever you come back from the gym you just look so sexy fresh from the shower. Sometimes I think about how you’re too damn nice for your own good but I bet you’d be so rough in bed.”

“Really?” and then he’s shoving you onto the couch, air brushing against your bare thighs as your back hits the beige throw pillows. He’s hovering, dark eyes starting from the tip of your toes to your damp lips. “You like it when I manhandle you? Throw you around like a little doll?”

“All that strength, and for what?” you try to keep your snappy remarks in check, but it’s hard when he’s pressing his straining dick against your thigh, weeping and needy.

“You’re not gonna be joking about my strength anytime soon, baby,” emblazoned, he easily throws your leg over his shoulder, pushing your panties to the side to let your wetness leak out and onto his fingers, “are you gonna complain or be a good girl?”

“Yes, I’m ah—” you wince when he inserts a finger, “I’ll be good for you,”

“My good girl,” he revels in the way you melt under his touch, your previous sarcasm quickly dissolving into a puddle. You always had an inkling that Jungkook would be a sneaky fox in bed, all that muscle hidden behind a kind smile and a penchant for tea with milk and honey.

Jungkook slips in another finger, stretching you and preparing you for what’s to come. He’s scissoring you at a sensible pace that has you squirming and wanting more. To prevent you from shimmying off the couch he holds you down with his free hand, and you love the way he practically feeds you to the couch, hands dancing over your neck as he shoves you further into the furniture.

“You look so gorgeous,” he says, causing you to moan and keen at his attention, “you’re such a strong, gorgeous woman. Having you sprawled out like this, ready to do whatever I want to you is so fucking hot.”

“I’m—I’m only weak for you Jungkook,” you say honestly, tears pricking when he dips another finger. The stretch burns deliciously, and your folds eagerly swallow him up until you’re filled to the brim. Your fingers or toys cannot compare to flesh, and you sigh in relief when you see his inked fingers pick up the pace once more.

“You’re damn right,” Jungkook husks, and with a grain of love he murmurs in your ear, “I’m only weak for you, too.”

And that’s when he snaps, thumb rolling against your bud as he slams his other fingers against you, going at a brutal pace. You cry out, not caring whether his neighbors hear as he pulls you back and forth through pleasure and pain.

“T-too much, Kookie,” you mewl, your hand warbling to find his, “I, ah, ‘m gonna cum!”

“That’s the plan,” he only goes faster, stretching your band further and further before your desired high is reached. His hand trails up to force your chin straight, looking up at him, “let go for me, baby. Wanna feel your pussy clench around my fingers.”

In seconds, you gush. It has you in a slight panic, drunk on endorphins as you try to lift your head up but Jungkook’s hand is firmly pressing you on your shoulder as he fingers you efficiently through your high, the wet squelching sounds only increasing with your cries. His lap is drenched in your arousal, along with his chin and lips glistening with your essence.

He finally releases you when you’re practically shaking, his hands sticky and creamy. You moan when he shamelessly licks them within your view, making sure to wrap his tongue around his ink-stained digits.

“I,” your mouth is dry when you feel the dampness that hits your bottom, “I’ve never, I don’t remember ever—”

Your babbles are lost between your throat and Jungkook’s tongue, shoved deep into your mouth. Tasting your arousal has you practically vibrating in your place, as you two rut against each other like hungry bunnies.

“God, you’re amazing,” he says between pecks, kissing away your face of any tears you may have pricked, “Amazing, adorable, absolutely beautifulIadoreyousoso—”

“Pleasepleaseplease,” you press your hips up, wiggling for more attention, “please fuck me, Jungkook.”

You can’t help the witchy, satisfied smile when Jungkook’s eyes darken to a thick coal, “Anything for you,” he murmurs, swinging your legs between his arms as he lifts you like a feather.

On his lap again, you soon accept that the way you two mesh like puzzle pieces is one of your favorite positions as it gives you both equal space to ravish each other.

Just when your hand trails to the waistband of his boxer briefs and you’re rolling your thumb over its collected moisture, the moment is shattered when the doorbell rings. You jump in his arms, unprepared for your moment to be interrupted.

He groans into the crown of your hair, and you soften in his relaxed hold, “I ordered us pizza,” he nearly forgot.

Perking your head up to look at him you regard him innocently, as if you didn’t release a waterfall on his sweats two seconds ago. “You got us pizza?”

“I knew you’d be coming over tonight,” he’s pouting into your neck, regretting ever having called the pizza guy if he knew this would happen, “Victoria posted the publish date on Twitter. I just didn’t think,” he gestures vaguely to the mess on his pants, “this would happen.”

“Damn, and here I thought I was being sneaky,” you chuckle, flicking his ear playfully.

He gives you an uncharacteristically subby whine, shamelessly upset he has to let you go so fast after he’s given you your first of many highs. Before he weakens further under your beauty, he unceremoniously shoves you off. “Sorry, pretty girl,” you melt at the easy way his pet name rolls off his lips, “can you wait in my room for a bit so I can pay the delivery guy? I don’t want them to see you like this.”

“But I want to eat pizza,” you declare stubbornly, standing up to button your blouse and pull down your skirt.

Before you could fasten one button or pull down one centimeter, his hand darts out to snatch your wrist away from your body. It doesn’t hurt much, but it causes your body to heat in more places than one. He’s sexy like this, demanding your attention. “No,” he rumbles definitively, “my room. Now.”

“Why?” you throw your hands in the air, yelping when he slaps your ass. He makes sure to make it sting, cupping you fully.

“Because,” he says firmly, “you don’t get to eat until I eat,” you whimper when his hand reaches to cup your sex, panties wet and cold without his warmth as he pushes you in the direction of his bedroom.

Oh, you can’t wait for both of you to eat tonight.

some time later.

“Ohmygod the view is beautiful!” Krystal, who works in advertisement, squeals. “No filter needed!”

“Alright alright, make room Princess,” Namjoon teases. With a bump to Krystal’s tiny hips Namjoon shoves you two across the pavilion, putting his arm around you once he finds the perfect angle, “Umji, can you get a pic of me and my Work Wife? I want this on the Big Hit Instagram!”

You hold your straw sunhat down from the salty wind, smiling beautifully as Umji takes multiple pictures of you and Namjoon from her Nikon. Another successful year under your notch, ending with a successful work retreat.

“Namjoon, can I take a picture with my actual wife now?”

“We’re not married, Jungkook,” you chastise, patting the chest of Namjoon’s floral printed Hawaiian shirt so he can switch. Instantly, Jungkook slides up next to you like a picture perfect stock model piece, and you wrap your arms around his trim waist, “we’re not even engaged.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he pouts, looking over the pavilion and adjusting the both of you so there’s a good amount of you and the resort in the background. The sun may be scathingly hot, but it looks beautiful perched over the crystal clear waters. “Namjoon, you got it easy,” Jungkook says when he hands him your phone, “every angle is our good angle, so you can’t mess it up.”

Being the honest man he is, Namjoon knows better and doesn’t say anything to that. Instead he shoots down whatever pineapple-flavored concoction is offered to him on a silver platter, and starts shooting.

“Is this swimsuit new?” Jungkook murmurs into your ear between shots, flicking your little red number by the strap connecting the back, “because I didn’t see this in the luggage.”

You smile big, pearly whites as Namjoon demands to pop out your butt and work it, pressing your body closer to Jungkook’s. “Tiny enough so I could hide it in my purse,” you reply proudly, voice low for only each other’s ears, “why, surprised?”

“Definitely not prepared,” his fingers dig deliciously in your bare flesh, “would Victoria fire you if she catches us doing it in the cabana?”

Amused that your boyfriend now shares your combined awe and fear of your boss, you twist his nipple lightly. He yelps, and from Namjoon’s guaff he’s definitely got that on camera. “We didn’t come to Boracay to fuck in the cabana.”

“Then the hotel room?”

Namjoon hands you back your phone when he considers his job done, letting you and Jungkook have some alone time. You wave your phone in his face, trying to get him to focus on the task at hand. You wanted to post some cute pictures of you and your boyfriend, one to impress the family back home and the Big Hit interns back in Seoul who are absolutely pining for your position.

“Jungkook, they have the water ski thing where you can flip in the water mid air! Doesn’t that sound fun? Or we can go scuba diving, have Filipino food, or get massages. LIterally, we’re on Big Hit’s dime, and the first thing you want to do is go back to the room?”

“Yes,” he pouts petulantly, leaning into the hollow of your ear and whispering, “got a chub on.”

Discreetly so, your hands brush against his navy trunks and you note yes, he’s half hard. “No!” you shake your head definitively, pushing him out of your arms. You’re not letting sex get in the way of your hard-earned vacation, you’re on company dime and you intend to milk every peso of it. “Namjoon, take him away!”

You blow him a kiss and follow another group who’s decided to go eat, watching your boyfriend get dragged away by Namjoon’s long arms. Krystal, who’s been mildly watching the whole ordeal in-between taking selfies, looks at you in awe, “You got it good, bosslady,” she says, and you happily link arms with her in the direction of the restaurants.

You and Jungkook definitely have it good. You don’t see him until dinnertime, looking utterly relaxed as he sips on a mango-muddled concoction. He must’ve gotten a couples massage with Namjoon, cute. Splitting up was definitely a good idea, by the time your meal arrives the two of you are practically leaning against each other, telling each other what events you need to do tomorrow and events you think will be fun to do together.

“Joon,” Jungkook is throwing an arm over your Wusband’s shoulder, mildly tipsy. The image is adorable, as Jungkook long ago previously confessed that he felt a little jealous of Namjoon’s work relationship with you before you were dating. Now, it feels like they’re best friends and you’re third-wheeling. “What do you think about having halo-halo tomorrow? It’s like bingsu but with a bunch of other good stuffs. There’s red bean, mango, ube, ice cream…”

Just as Jungkook begins his tirade of dessert ingredients, you pull up your phone to check on your social media. You smile back at your profile, seeing your latest Instagram post at the very top of the feed. Not to flex, but the two of you look pretty smokin’ since you’ve been keeping up with Jungkook’s insistence to join him at the gym. Jungkook and you are leaning against the pristine veranda, overlooking the clear blue water and a cloudless sky. The smiles you two sport are genuine and utterly in love.

You scroll down the comments, most of them filled with sweet messages but one of them has you doing a double take.

@sooyaaa__: 😒😒😒 knew something was goin on behind my back… good riddance

The smell of Jungkook’s detergent overtakes your nostrils, and you turn to him. He’s stopped talking, now immersed in whatever’s going on in your phone.

“The nerve of her,” Jungkook scrunches his nose, disgusted at her latest comment. “As if anyone would believe her.”

“Yeah,” you echo, “I feel bad for her, though. She’s probably lonely.”

“Her loss, she put this upon herself. Not us.”

You pout, “I know, but she was my friend at one point.”

He frowns, putting an arm behind your backrest. It would be easy for him to say yeah, and she was my girlfriend and one-up you, leaving it at that. But now he knows better, and that friendship is a much better value than an ill-fated relationship. “Sorry baby,” it’s not his fault, but he sees your disappointment in putting out hope for an old friend. He gives you a little smooch on your temple, “do you miss her?”

“The old her, yeah,” you sigh, clicking on her profile, “but now? I can do without her negativity.”

“Okay,” he takes your phone from your hand, “have you ever blocked a person before?”

“No.”

“Well, today’s the day,” he says it so coolly, you barely have time to think when he clicks the ‘block’ button on Jisoo’s profile, then clicking off his phone to put in his pocket. “No more phone for today,” he proceeds to take your plate that was recently served, taking the time to cut your large vegetables into smaller portions. “Like you said, we shouldn’t waste your vacation time.”

Your heart swells with butterflies for Jeon Jungkook, who’s meticulously cutting your food and telling you to relax and stop dwelling on the past. He’s right, if Jisoo’s not going to stick around for the future and continue to cause negativity in your life, why not keep the positives in the past while it lasted?

“You know I love you, right?”

He ceases cutting, and looks at you to pop a sweet potato in his mouth. “Love me enough to do it in the cabana?”

He’s still on that? “Jungkook,” you warn, pretending to get up, “forget I said anything. I’m gonna go karaoke with Umji.”

“Kiddingggg,” he whines, pulling you back down with an outstretched hand, “you know I love you too.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Only this way because I’d know you’d totally be into cabana sex if we were vacationing by ourselves.”

“Yes, but you’re still terrible,” you giggle when Jungkook steals a kiss, just as easy as he’s stolen your heart.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #gcn23 #goldenclosetnet #btsghostie #jungkook fic #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts fic #bts smut #a big weight is off my shoulders

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sunflowervolvimp3 · 3 years

Text

you’re someone i just want around: X

I will not ask you where you came from,

I will not ask and neither should you.

Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,

We should just kiss like real people do.

Like Real People Do, Hozier

A/N: okay i know i say this every time but genuinely THIS IS MY FAVOURITE PART SO FAR!!!!! and my lil section of this story has come to an end!!! act one is done!!! and the beginning of act two aka part 11 will be coming on andrea’s blog!!!!! thank u guys so so much for all the love and support you’ve given us!!!! we truly cannot believe you guys have been so receptive and we love you all so so much 🦋 as always any and all feedback is deeply appreciated not just by andrea and I but by all content creators!!! seriously we do all of this for free while going to school and working full time and those little messages make our days so much better!!! so do reblogs!!! you should reblog the content you like!!!! leave a lil message in the tags!!! shoot us a message!! anything is truly madly deeply™️ appreciated 💌 thank you all once again for your support!!!! pls enjoy 🦋

ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist : ysijwa playlist II

word count: 37.9k

content/warnings: harry ignoring “bros before hoes” part 45684957, “FUCK FLORIDA!!! ALL MY HOMIES HATE FLORIDA!!!” - xander, fight scene (rap), jefferson x hamilton (friends to lovers), road head ahead?? uhhh yeah, i sure hope so!!!, MUSI 1113: history of classical music, prof. harry styles, sherlock and watson solve the biggest mystery yet, *edward cullen voice* and so the mosquito fell in love with the butterfly

“Are you going to stare at your phone all day, like a bloody tool, or are you actually going to join the conversation?”

Despite the baited question, Harry keeps his gaze on his device as he flicks through his notifications, opening one app after the other in quick repetition before closing the screen. “That depends. Are you actually going to say something interesting?”

From the other side of his couch, Niall flicks up his middle finger with ease, his expression sour and unimpressed. “We are saying something interesting, you prick. I want to get out of town next weekend, but no one—” The Irishman shoots a pointed look to Xander, who’s leaning across the kitchen island with an unbothered expression. “—can agree on where to go.”

“It’s not that I can’t agree, Niall. It’s that your ideas are stupid.” Xander shoots back in an exasperated tone, raising his Bloody Mary (with extra blood, hardly any Mary) to his scowling lips. “No one wants to go to fucking Florida. It’s Florida. Why the fuck would we go to Florida?”

“Because I’ve been alive for two hundred years—”

Adam clicks his tongue from the lounge seat by the window. “I’m not sure if ‘alive’ is the best description.”

“—and I’ve never been to Disney World! I died from a fucking famine. Am I not entitled— nay, am I not owed—” Niall straightens his posture on the couch as he addresses the whole of the room, a determined look set in his icy blue eyes that contrasts the dulled gaze of those watching him. “A warm churro, cold Dole Whip, and a set of over-priced Mickey ears? Huh?”

“That still doesn’t answer the question of why we’d have to go to Florida to get that!” Xander exclaims, rounding the corner of the kitchen counter with his drink in hand. He raises the glass to his lips, pausing halfway to point towards the wall of windows that’s currently letting in the midday Sunday sun. “We could drive a half hour to Disneyland, and get you the exact same thing!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Niall sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth, as if he needs to calm himself down before doing something he regrets. “Xander,” He begins in a controlled voice, tight and tense and on the verge of snapping. “I suffered through starvation, fought in a world war, went through the Great Depression, and then fought in another fucking world war! After all that, why would I settle for Disneyland, when we could easily make it to Disney World and back in three days?”

“You know…” Mitch says slowly, flopping down on the sofa between Niall and Harry, who’s already turned his attention back to his obsessive ritual of checking his notifications. “You can’t keep playing the ‘fought in a war’ card. Harry fought in World War One, too, and I fought in the Revolutionary War. And died in the Revolutionary War. You do realize the majority of our group are veterans, right?”

Niall sighs in exasperation, clutching his beer in his fist to keep it from spilling as the older vampire beside him shifts on the couch. “I don’t play the ‘fought in a war’ card, Mitchell, I play the ‘fought in two wars’ card. And I think that card earns me the right to choose what we do next weekend.”

“And I think you folded those cards the moment you suggested Florida.” Wrinkling his nose, Xander finally enters the living room, and Harry risks a glance up from his phone to eye the dark-tinted liquid that laps at the edge of Xander’s glass with every step. “Why don’t we just go to Disneyland? Or, better yet, why don’t we take a few extra days and go somewhere exciting? I hear Greece is lovely this time of year; I wouldn’t mind trying some Mediterrean food for a week.”

“Florida is just as lovely—”

“That’s a lie, Florida is never lovely.”

“And Adam wants to go to Disney World, too!” Niall finishes triumphantly, taking a large swig of his half-empty beer before wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “So it’s two-to-one!”

“Two-to-two, actually.” Mitch interjects, pursing his lips at the childish grimace that overtakes Niall’s previously cheery expression. “I’m not too fond of alligators, and last time I heard from Sarah, she was in Italy. It’d be nice to have a week with her in Greece.”

Niall rolls his eyes at the sudden tie, turning his gaze past his disappointing friend to his other almost-as-disappointing friend, tone growing firmer. “Alright, then, Harry, it’s up to you. You’re our tie-breaking vote.”

Harry, however, had spent the better part of the last two minutes scrolling through the photos he and Y/N had taken on their date the day before, and doesn’t even glance up from his screen upon registering the utterance of his name. “Hm? The vote on what?”

The frustrated Irishman lobs his bottle of beer at Harry’s head, his pitch powerful enough that it nearly collides with its target a millisecond later. And would have collided, if Harry’s hand hadn’t shot up on a supernatural reflex to capture it perfectly within his grasp.

Keeping his eyes locked on his phone, Harry sighs at his friend’s antics. “Watch it, Ni, I don’t want to scrub beer stains out of my couch—”

“I wouldn’t have to resort to throwing bottles at your thick head if you could get it out of your girlfriend’s arse long enough to participate in our discussion!” The blue-eyed vampire shoots daggers at him, and the lightness of his irises shifts to a dark crimson as Harry’s gaze barely flickers to him. “Oh for fuck’s sake—” Bracing himself against Mitch’s lap, Niall launches over the couch and snatches Harry’s phone from his hands, scrambling back to his seat and stuffing it down his jeans pocket before Harry can react. “You’ll get this back after we finish talking, alright? Now, where do you want to go next weekend? Disney World or Greece?”

Although the urge to tackle Niall and fight for his phone twinges in Harry’s mind, he forces himself to stay seated, settling for just shooting a glare across the couch. He’s certain that Mitch wouldn’t be appreciative of him and Niall biting at each other on top of him, just as certain he is of the fact that attacking Niall won’t exactly make him look mentally stable.

Instead, Harry merely sucks in a deep breath, setting the beer bottle on the coffee table and dragging his jeweled hand through his hair before answering evenly. “First of all, she’s not my girlfriend. And second of all… neither. Y/N and I have plans next weekend.”

A collective groan runs through the room the moment the phrase falls from his lips, and Harry swallows down a smirk at the reaction he receives from his friends. Only Mitch’s face remains free of irritation, and instead sits in a neutral expression that, from his years of friendship, Harry can tell is tinged with concern.

“You have plans with her every weekend.” Xander complains, taking a sip of his Bloody Mary as he sits down next to Adam on the lounge seat, pulling Harry’s attention from the eldest immortal. “How can you sit there and say she’s not your girlfriend when you’ve been ditching us for the last, like, three and a half months to spend time with her?”

That, in all honesty, is a fair question. Harry knows that he’s been spending more and more time with Y/N in the last few weeks at the expense of his friends, and on some level, he does feel bad about it. Except that when he actually thinks about it, he doesn’t feel that bad in the slightest. He has no reason to, given that he spends almost every weekday with his friends, so what’s the harm in saving his weekends for someone else?

In fact, he rather enjoys bracketing off those days just to spend them with her, alone with no one else to bother them, where they can just bask in each other’s company. So no, he really doesn’t feel bad at all.

He has the sudden realization that, on top of having the sweetest, most addicting blood he’s ever had the good fortune of tasting in the last two hundred years, Y/N is just generally fun to be around. Due to this, Harry has unintentionally continued to grow closer and closer to the human girl with every second they spend together. She’s witty, adventurous, and always down to try something new— both in public and in the bedroom. And in the bedroom— a smile unknowingly creeps onto Harry’s face as he recalls the dinner he’d taken her to last month, and what they’d done after.

He also recalls the morning that had followed, in which they had eaten breakfast on his couch together in nothing but their underwear, their bodies tangled against the sofa cushions as Y/N had fed him bites of French toast while he showed her the extensive collection of Polaroid pictures he’d taken the previous night before. He vividly remembers the way she had squirmed at the images of her with her legs spread open for him, of her bare chest heaving and her back arching, and of the wetness dripping down her thighs and staining the sheets. And he especially remembers the way she’d hid her face away in his neck at the snapshot of his hand wrapped around her throat, as well as the picture of her suckling eagerly at his thumb while his array of rings had glinted under the flash of the camera.

It had been so cute watching her eyes brim over with shyness, especially because she had been more than happy to shed her inherent timidness the night prior. He’d teased her about it, of course. How could he not? He’d laid there as she rested between his legs, pointing out every welt and bruise prominent on the photos, and then skimming his icy fingers over her actual body to find them. It had been a very intimate moment, given that they were reflecting on more than just the physical aspects of what they’d shared. It feels like their entire dynamic had shifted slightly, all due to the fact that the roughness and aftercare that had occurred between them were actions that required immense amounts of trust and communication. Harry felt closer to her in a way he hadn’t before, and if the softness behind Y/N’s eyes was any indication, she felt the exact same way.

Their connection felt different now— purer, in a way, now that they’d seen one another in such an exposed fashion, but it still managed to stay within the boundaries Harry was intent on upholding. She’d given him a type of relief he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much, considering he hadn’t indulged in anything of that caliber in years due to certain doubts about his self-control. But somehow, he had managed to keep his supernatural strength and impulses at bay the whole way through, and he’d kept her safe and satisfied, as he promised he would. In return, she’d made him feel more in tune with himself than he had in a while.

With all of those thoughts filtering through the vampire’s mind during their morning cuddle session, he had ducked down and kissed at the tip of her warm nose, sighing blissfully when she had returned the gesture onto the curve of his chin. Then, he’d begun pinching playfully at her sides, not being able to resist the urge to make her smile. He had burst into laughter when she herself had erupted into spontaneous giggles, thrashing against him while squeaking curses between gasps of his name, pleading with him to cut it out or she’d wind up falling off the sofa. It had been a wholesome pastime, up until he’d ended up sucking maple syrup off her fingers with that signature devious twinkle in his half-lidded eyes, and then she herself had ended up licking that same syrup off his abdomen. That had led to him tonguing it off the swell of her breasts, and then she had wound up lapping at something much more interesting than his stomach.

It’s only natural, though, considering that in the bedroom, Y/N is a refreshingly unstoppable force. She matches his every push, pull, and thrust with ease, as if she knows his body by heart. Maybe she does, Harry muses, considering that he undisputedly knows hers from every angle, like the stanzas of his favorite poem. And between all those things, is it really his fault he wants to spend as much time with her as he can? Keeping her happy and content had worked well to sweeten her blood for him thus far, so why should he change his game plan now, when he’s so clearly in the lead?

Last weekend, for example, he and Y/N had driven the scenic route out to Malibu, where they spent the entire day lounging on beach towels and frolicking in the waves. He’d enjoyed seeing her with saltwater hair, her soft skin encrusted with sand and warmed by the sun, almost as much as he’d enjoyed fiddling with the strings of her bikini and coating her body in sunscreen, because “protection from UV rays is a top priority, love. Trust me.” They’d packed a picnic lunch for themselves that consisted of homemade sandwiches, chips and salsa, and fruit skewers, which Y/N had hand-fed to Harry after she’d convinced him to let her bury him in the sand. It had been irritating to shower the grit out from some unsavoury places, but worth it to see the smile on her face and hear her infectious giggles as she molded a sizable pair of sandcastle breasts onto his chest. And doubly worth it after he took her home and fed on her sea-tinged blood.

Yesterday, as well, had been an example of how well Harry is doing with this arrangement the two of them have. He’d picked her up in the early afternoon and taken her to the Museum of Contemporary Art, where they’d spent the rest of the day wandering the exhibits and debating the artistic merits of each piece. Of course, their discussions were less educated and more humour based, as Harry tended to list every painting as reminding him of sex, while Y/N said that every sculpture she saw was a comment on capitalism, but it had made them laugh nonetheless. And while the security guards standing by didn’t seem to think their overheard conversations were amusing— nor how they posed with the paintings, trying to mimic the various expressions depicted in the artwork— Harry could tell that Y/N was entertained. It was obvious in how sugary her blood had been after she’d fallen asleep hours later. And if Harry were a better artist, he would’ve created his own sculpture dedicated to the honey and lavender liquid that he’d become so tied to over these last few months, but it appears his position as a collector is what he was suited for— both for literal artwork and the metaphorical pieces he’d paint on Y/N’s body with his lips.

It’s with all these events in mind that he turns to Xander casually as the man’s question echoes in his head once more. “How can you say she’s not your girlfriend?”

A clear and concise explanation slips from Harry’s tongue without a second thought. “I can say she’s not my girlfriend because it’s true.” Harry slicks a hand through his tousled curls again out of habit, so used to busying his fingers with fiddling on his phone that he has to find some sort of substitute. “Keeping her satisfied keeps her— and her blood— around. And, yes, she’s a sweet girl, and a nice break from you lot—” He nods towards Niall specifically with a jerking motion and a raised brow. “But there…” He just barely hesitates before spitting the words out. “There aren’t any actual feelings there.”

“Oh really?” Niall challenges, his own brow kinking as he shifts on the couch, turning his body completely to face Harry at the expense of Mitch’s personal space. “So all those times I’ve heard the two of you shagging— all those times you’ve called her ‘a dream’ or ‘perfect’— there were no feelings in that?”

Xander wolf whistles at the comment as Adam barks out a laugh, and even Mitch allows himself a reserved smirk at the mention of Harry’s bedroom talk. Harry, on the other hand, straightens his shoulders as a flush works up his spine and onto his cheeks, and instead commands his tone to be as cutting as possible when he forms his reply.

“I don’t think Y/N would be very appreciative to know you’re eavesdropping on us fucking like some type of perverted creep, so you might want to invest in a better pair of plugs before I rip your ears off and solve the problem myself.” Harry threatens lowly, eyes flashing bright red for just a moment before reverting back to their natural emerald hue. “And you can take what I say mid-fuck as a ready-made script, mate, since you have no clue how to sweet-talk a bird into making her cum.”

Niall’s hands reach up to cup his ears protectively due to the other monster’s violent warning, his brows furrowing into a pointed scowl. “Eat shit. It’s not like I have a choice but to listen, given that you two nearly bring the building down while—”

“You know,” Xander chimes in from the lounge seat, his voice taking on an accusatory tone as his eyes narrow at Harry. “I thought a constant supply of blood would mellow you out, but if anything, you’ve grown a bit more irritable. Does this arrangement have an expiration date?”

“Xander…” Mitch begins, caution written into his quiet voice as his eyes flit from Harry to Xander and back again. “That’s not—”

Harry sharpens his voice into a blade as he slashes over Mitch, jaw growing taut as he spits out his retort. “I know a relationship lasting more than one night is a bit of a foreign concept to you, so I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I really don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”

“So you fuck the same person for a couple of months, and suddenly you’re a relationship expert?” Xander inquires with a humorless huff, his tone just as bitter as his eyes as he glares at Harry from across the room. “As if you haven’t had commitment issues since the nineteenth century?” Raising his drink to his lips, Xander takes a slow and calculated swig as Adam shifts in discomfort next to him, his eyes meeting Mitch’s with a nervous glance. “At least I can call shit what it is, while you just delude yourself for weeks on end, pretending that anything good can come out of your attachment to an insignificant human—”

“If I were you,” Harry says through gritted teeth, his fingers curling over the edge of his couch to hold himself in place. “I’d choose your next words very carefully, Xanny.”

“Or what? Are you gonna dig into your Fifty Shades chest and spank me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? What, are you just upset you never got the full treatment?”

A hot flush crawls up Xander’s neck as his jaw clenches. “I never said I wanted it.”

“The jealousy written all over your face suggests otherwise.”

“Alright!” Adam’s voice barks, swiftly slicing through the tension in the air, his eyes glowing crimson as he commands everyone’s attention from the two quarrelling vampires back onto himself. “That’s enough. You’re both being ridiculous. Harry, you can’t be upset with us for trying to understand what you’re doing, mate. We’re just curious, that’s all. But Xander—” The youngest vampire’s snickering is cut off when his name is called sternly. “That doesn’t give you the right to ridicule him for it. Harry knows what he’s doing— he’s a full-grown adult— and he wouldn’t do anything that would put himself, or any of us, into any sort of jeopardy.” With a long sigh, Adam’s gaze slides over the two creatures with a look of parental finality. “Are we good?”

Despite the annoyance still woven around each of Harry’s limbs, he forces himself to nod as he settles back into his couch, inhaling a deep breath through his nose. Beside him, Mitch nudges the back of his hand against Harry’s arm, as if in encouragement, and the motion reminds him just exactly who it is that he’s talking to. These are his friends— of course they have concerns about him. Although they might voice those concerns in unusual ways (like sticking their noses into his intimate life), the meaning behind their words comes from a place of affection.

“Alright.” Adam says again, relief flooding across his face as he turns his attention to the rest of the room. “Now, we still need to decide what we’re doing next weekend. Personally, I think a three day trip to Disney World would be a lot easier than Greece; I say we save that for next month, so we have more time to plan it and actually make the trip worthwhile.”

Xander, still a little irritated from his confrontation with Harry, huffs in response. “That’s all well and good, Adam, except you forgot that I refuse to step foot in that humid swamp-fest. Makes my face break out and my curls frizz up.”

“Jesus Christ, Xander.” Niall groans from the opposite end of the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose like before, nudging his large squared glasses up as he does so. “Can you just get that stick out of your arse long enough to—”

Whatever Niall is about to suggest Xander do seems to disappear from his mind as the Irishman suddenly cuts off his speech, his ears perking up as Harry’s phone begins to chime from his back pocket. Although the sound is muffled from both the cushion and Niall’s trousers, the distinguishable opening motive of “Alexander Hamilton” playing can be heard by everyone, and it only takes one loop of Y/N’s signature ringtone for Harry to launch himself over the couch with his arms outstretched.

“Hey!” Mitch exclaims loudly, pressing himself into the cushions as Harry’s body writhes against his lap in his effort to extract the phone from Niall’s pants. “Jesus, watch your fucking feet! You’re like Gumby!”

Harry, however, is only paying attention to Niall, who is fending off his attempts at snatching the device with one hand while holding the phone over the edge of the couch with the other. “Give it!” He snarls, eyes shading red as he watches an immature simper grow onto Niall’s face, his thumb poising over the answer button. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“Shh!” Niall hisses at him, but his voice is lit with delight as he clicks on the green phone icon and raises the device to his ear, lowering his voice into a relaxed drawl. “Hi there, you’ve reached the Styles residence! Para español, por favor oprima el número uno. This is Niall speaking, what can I help you with today?”

“Oh—” Even through the tiny speaker, Harry’s highly tuned ears have no trouble picking out the gentle cadence of Y/N’s voice. “Hi, Niall! It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N!” The younger immortal grins at Harry as he dodges his attempt at swiping for the device, setting his palm between Harry’s eyes and shoving him back roughly as he clambers up off the couch. He dashes across the living room to hide behind the lounge seat, sticking out his tongue and wagging it at his very peeved friend. “Lovely to hear your voice, darlin’! How are you doing on this lovely Sunday afternoon?”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Harry hears her response as he pounces off the sofa, barreling across the room to chase after Niall. The shorter man is stealthy, and manages to duck and weave past Harry without a single issue, escaping under his left arm. He scrambles towards the glass stairs, holding back giggles as his opponent circles around the furniture to go after him, unhinged aggravation written all over his handsome features. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m just delightful.” Niall laughs airily, taking a sharp turn away from the staircase to confuse Harry’s impulses, snatching a throw pillow off the nearest couch and aiming it at the brunette’s head. Like the beer bottle, Harry catches it easily, throwing it back at Niall’s stomach with a harder hand. Niall avoids it by a hair. “What can I do for you?”

“Uh, I just wanted to talk to Harry— I had a question for him. But if he’s busy…”

“Yeah, he’s a little indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid.” Niall races into the kitchen, bracing himself against the marble island with that shit-eating grin still on his face, shuffling erratically from side to side to sike out the other creature across from him. “But I’d be happy to take a message from such a gorgeous girl as yourself.”

“Oh, um, that’s very kind of you—”

Harry rounds the corner of the marble island with a growl, snatching his phone from one hand and smacking Niall upside the head with the other. “Bloody prick.” He hisses over the other vampire’s snickers, eyes colder than his touch as he delivers another blow to Niall’s shoulder. “Fucking annoying, is what you are—”

“Niall? Are you there?”

After heaving an exasperated sigh and sending one more glare to his friend, Harry raises his phone to his ear, doing his best to lighten the irritation in his voice. “Sorry, love. Niall just wants to be a bit of a bother today, it seems.” He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth as he turns away from the Irishman, wrapping his free arm around his middle as he leans his lower back against the island, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. He picks at a loose thread on his copper tartan trousers, voice coming out honeyed and delicate, as it always tends to get when he regards her. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He can hear the smile that spreads across Y/N’s face upon hearing from him, and the tone sends a flood of warmth through Harry’s chest. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, sweetheart, never. I’m always free to talk to you.” Harry sends a cautious glimpse towards the living room, knowing that the four vampires sitting in his living room (Niall had slinked his way back to the couch now that his ridiculous charade had come to a close) are hanging onto his every word. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, just… I had a question, but if you’re busy—”

“No, not busy at all! I’ve just been lounging around with the boys all morning. S’nothing serious.” Harry replies a bit too excitedly, straightening the hem of his fitted red and black striped t-shirt, which had gotten mussed during his tussle with Niall. “What d’you need?

Over the phone, he can hear Y/N clear her throat delicately, and a picture of her sitting on her couch in her living room plays across the front of his eyes, her thumb wedged between her lips as she chews on her nail, as she always does when she gets nervous. “Uh, well, I was also just relaxing this morning, and I was playing on my phone, and I kinda came upon this cute little bookstore called Verbatim Books. They have a bunch of really cool used books— and records, too, which I think you’d like— and they have this really neat, like, labyrinth layout—” Harry’s lips twitch as Y/N continues to ramble, “—and I’ve been looking for a replacement copy of Wuthering Heights because I dropped mine in the bathtub, remember? And I wanted to get a new copy of Romeo and Juliet, as well—”

“Alright, slow down, pet. Can barely understand you when you’re going a mile a minute.” Harry chuckles boyishly, absentmindedly carding a jeweled hand through the soft curls along the nape of his neck. Just the sound of Y/N’s innocent dialect ringing in his ear manages to somehow soothe his entire body. “You want to go to this bookstore, is that it? Because we can.” He flicks his eyes back over to his friends, who are already rolling their own in response. “Just give me an hour or two to finish up with the guys, and I’ll come pick you up—”

“Well, the thing is…” He pictures Y/N chewing on her thumb some more, timid uncertainty pouring into her usually clear irises. “Verbatim Books is in San Diego.”

“San Diego.” Harry repeats back to her, his free hand settling against the cold marble of the island behind him as he quirks an eyebrow in mild shock. “As in the San Diego that’s a two hour drive away? That San Diego?”

Y/N’s anxious laugh tinkles through the receiver. “Yeah, that San Diego. But if you have plans with your friends, I completely understand. We can go a different day.”

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth wearingly, Harry glances at the digital clock blinking above his stovetop, reflecting back the time 12:53 P.M. “When do they close?”

“Five, I think?”

The vampire calculates the route to San Diego in his head, his sculpted brows creasing as the time frame appears in his mind. “If we left now, we’d probably get there between three and three-thirty. Would an hour and a half be enough time for you to explore and find what you need?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you are unbelievable,” Xander mutters from across the condo, but Harry pays him no attention other than raising a blue-lacquered middle finger to flip him off.

“I mean, yeah, I think so, but—”

“Alright, darling, then just give me a few minutes to grab my things and kick everyone out.” Harry says firmly, pushing himself away from the counter to begin searching for his car keys.

“No, Harry, it’s not so important that we have to go today, and I don’t want you to kick your friends out. In fact…” Y/N’s voice becomes thoughtful as a new idea pops into her head, and she hesitates for a moment before suggesting it on the grounds of not wanting to come off as pushy. But in the end, her curiosity bests her. “Why don’t we save Verbatim for another day, and I could just come over and hang out with you and your friends? I bought all the ingredients for this really yummy guacamole recipe I saw on Tasty the other day— we could do, like, an impromptu movie night or something. I’ve been craving one of your margaritas all week.”

“Yeah, Harry!” Niall chimes in as Harry re-enters the living room, obviously ignoring his friend’s earlier threat against eavesdropping. “I could go for some guac and a marg— not blended, though. Tastes like shit that way.”

Harry stares at him in disgust as he snatches his keys from the coffee table. “You’re a fucking twat.”

“What?”

“Oh— not you, babe!” Harry hurries to reassure her as Niall cackles in taunting satisfaction. “Sorry, I was talking to Niall. No, it’s… it’s alright. You want to go to this bookstore, and the boys were on their way out anyways—”

“Were you on your way out?” Adam asks Xander sarcastically, and Xander raises his half-full Bloody Mary as a negative response, making a mockingly sour face in return. “Okay, I thought so. Neither was I.”

“—so it’s all fine. I’ll leave in a few minutes, yeah? Probably be at your place within fifteen?” Harry checks the time on his Rolex as he estimates his arrival. “Does that sound good?”

“I— sure. Yeah, that works.” Y/N says slowly, her voice a little softer than it was a moment before. “I’ll see you when you get here, then.”

“Alright, doll. See you soon.” Harry hangs up his phone with a tap of his finger, sliding the device into his back pocket as he turns to face his friends. “So that was Y/N—”

“Oh, really? I had no clue!” Xander deadpans, rising from the lounge seat and setting his condensation-covered glass on the coffee table, deliberately avoiding the coaster Harry always insists should be used. “See you later, Harry.”

Adam matches the motion, a smirk jolting across his scruffy cheeks as he stands from his seat and claps Harry over the shoulder as he passes by. “Have a nice drive, man. We’ll do a movie night with Y/N another time.”

The promise plants a seed of unease inside Harry’s stomach, but he doesn’t allow it to show on his face, choosing to smile easily at Adam’s innocent comment instead. “Yeah. Another time.”

“Yeah, have a nice drive, H.” Niall mutters as he passes him, his face set in a petty surrendered frown. “A nice, long drive. Preferably off a very short cliff.”

“I would, Ni, but you’d miss me too much.” Harry grins at him jokingly, bumping the vampire’s shoulder with his own until his irritated expression softens into a slightly less irritated smile.

It’s Mitch, however, who makes Harry pause the most as he goes to leave. He halts in the doorway of Harry’s flat with a somber look in his eyes, appraising his younger friend with a curious gaze, which settles into trepidation as he sighs reluctantly. “You okay, H?” He prods gently, the question heavy as it falls from his mouth.

While Adam’s words were lighthearted and Mitch’s are anything but, they still leave the same feeling of uncertainty curling through Harry’s belly. And, like Adam’s words, Harry plasters the same reassuring smile across his features, doing his best to dampen his best friend’s concern. “‘M peachy keen, Mitchell. Don’t need to worry about me.”

“Are you sure?”

Harry only hesitates for a split second before urging himself to respond. “AB positive.”

///

If Y/N doesn’t say something to him, Harry is going to go absolutely insane.

It’s not that they haven’t had silence fall between them before, because they have. They’ve had comfortable silences as they lay in bed at night, Y/N wrapped within Harry’s inked arms as her breaths align with his. They’ve had quiet lapses in conversation during their usual breakfasts as they watch reruns of Y/N’s favorite crime show, or as they’ve wandered up and down the Santa Monica pier, or walked to and from casual dinners on warmer nights. Despite the lack of words flowing between them, Harry would always know what Y/N was thinking as he slipped his light denim jacket over her bare shoulders, capturing her hand within his own once more as he pulled her to the inside of the sidewalk so he could walk closer to the traffic. Silence is nothing new to them, and has even been the host of some of Harry’s favourite moments between the two, given that being able to hold a comfortable pause with someone is such a beautifully rare occurrence. Silence has typically been his friend.

But the silences that linger in their past have never felt quite like this.

From the moment Harry pulled out of Y/N’s apartment building parking lot and into the busy traffic of L.A., the mortal girl had grown quiet, and seemingly immune to Harry’s inquiries about how her day had been since he’d dropped her off at her apartment the night before. Although she first answered him with short snippets— no more than a few words long— by the time he’d peeled them out of the hustle and bustle of the city and onto the highway towards San Diego, even those answers had come to a faltering halt. Instead, Y/N had propped her chin up on her hand, rested her elbow on the ledge of the car door, and turned her pensive gaze at the scenery whizzing by the window, which she watched with a contemplative crease between her brows.

And the infuriating thing is that he’d asked if something was bothering Y/N the moment she’d begun to clam up, and his question had only received a small jerk of her head and a barely audible, “No, H. I’m fine.” No gentle caress of Harry’s hand against her leg or soft squeeze of her palm had granted Harry any more clarity on the subject.

She’s allowed to have secrets, of course. Everyone does. Harry himself certainly has his own fair share locked away in his chest, free from prying eyes and curious minds. But the thing is, she hasn’t held any from him. Any question Harry’s asked, she’s always provided an open and honest answer, even if there’s been a beat of hesitation before the words fall from her pretty lips. But her answer today, of being fine, is so clearly the opposite of that, and her insistence on hiding it means that she doesn’t want Harry to know that she’s upset. Which means— Harry’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he rounds the curve of the road— that Harry’s part of the reason she’s upset. He’s not sure how, or why, or what he’s done, but he’s done something. Otherwise, Y/N wouldn’t be refusing to give him even a fraction of the warmth she’s usually so willing to gift him.

Another sigh heaves from Harry’s chest as he lets one hand fall from the leather wheel onto his thigh, tracing the pattern of his plaid trousers absently. He wants to ask again, just to see if her stubbornness has dwindled by the slightest degree. And it easily could dwindle with just a breath of suggestion from Harry, but he refuses to do that, no matter how badly he may want to. If Y/N is really mad at him for something, how can he convince her that she should forgive him if he’s using supernatural powers to make her admit what’s wrong. Even more, how can he convince himself that he’s justified in earning her forgiveness?

Harry casts another concerned glance at Y/N before shifting in his seat to extract his phone from his trouser pocket. With a quick swipe of his thumb, he unlocks it with ease, his eyes flicking from the road to the phone and back again as he opens Spotify.

“You’re not supposed to text and drive, y’know.”

The sweet cadence of Y/N’s voice, despite its quiet tone, uplifts the corner of Harry’s lips and mills a gentle chuckle in his chest. “I’m not texting. And I’m an excellent driver, sweetheart.” He glimpses at her from the corner of his eye before returning to his search through his playlists. “Got good reflexes.”

The human girl gives a hum of acknowledgement rather than another retort to his comment, and Harry’s newborn grin quickly melts into a frown as Y/N’s attention returns to the window. Harry finds comfort in another sigh as he selects an album from his library, clicking the shuffle icon in the corner and tucking his phone back in his pocket.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Music begins to roll out from the speakers that Harry installed in his car the year before, producing a hip-hop beat and the voice of Christopher Jackson as George Washington. “You could’ve been anywhere in the world tonight, but you’re here with us in New York City. Are you ready for a cabinet meeting?”

Harry taps his fingers to the beat against the steering wheel as he steals a sly peek at Y/N. Although she hasn’t turned to him again, he can see her eyebrows pricking up with curiosity as to what Harry’s doing. That’s all the encouragement Harry needs.

“The issue on the table: Secretary Hamilton’s plan to assume state debt and establish a national bank. Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir.”

The vampire bites back a triumphant smirk as he turns his gaze back towards the road, feigning a lack of interest in Y/N’s response as he begins to rap along to the Hamilton score. “‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’. We fought for these ideals; we shouldn’t settle for less. These are wise words, enterprising men quote ‘em,” He cocks his head to the side, allowing his grin to fully light up his face as he captures Y/N’s attention within his. “Don’t act surprised, you guys, ‘cause I wrote ‘em. OWWW!”

Although Y/N’s expression stays neutral, he can see a twitch in her cheek at his loud exclamation, and Harry begins to exaggerate his actions even more as he gestures towards her with twinkling emerald eyes. “But Hamilton forgets! His plan would have the government assume state’s debts. Now, place your bets as to who that benefits.” Harry taps his chin symbolically, feigning thought, and then points towards Y/N with dramatized realization. “The very seat of government where Hamilton sits.”

Keeping her own eyes locked on the road ahead of them, Y/N gives a quick yet defiant shake of her head, the corner of her lip raised just a fraction more than it was a moment before. “Not true!”

“Ooh, if the shoe fits, wear it.” Harry’s simper continues to grow with the warming attitude Y/N’s beginning to display, and he shakes his head in return and raises his free hand in a questioning manner as he continues to rap along. “If New York’s in debt, why should Virginia bear it? Uh, our debts are paid, I’m afraid.” He lifts his fingers into his curls, running them through his roots and pretending to fluff the ends poshly for a haughty effect. “Don’t tax the South ‘cause we got it made in the shade.” Tapping a jeweled finger against the dashboard, Harry emphasizes the beats of his next line. “In Virginia, we plant seeds in the ground. We create; you just wanna move our money around. This financial plan is an outrageous demand, and it’s too many pages for any man to understand!” He pretends to flip the endless pages of an imaginary novel, and then snaps his wrist dismissively with a cocky smirk, deftly guiding the car around the curve of the road with his other hand.

“Stand with me in the land of the free, and pray to God we never see Hamilton’s candidacy. Look, when Britain taxed our tea, we got frisky—” Harry rolls his chest to the rhythm of the song, his dimples deepening in his cheeks as he reaches over towards Y/N and pinches at her side playfully, warmth erupting across his veins when she squeals in surprise. “Imagine what gon’ happen when you try to tax our whiskeyyyy.”

“Thank you, Secretary Jefferson.” Washington says through the speaker as Y/N smacks his hand away and purses her lips, appraising Harry with a raised brow. “Secretary Hamilton, your response.”

For a moment, Harry waits with bated breath, thinking that Y/N won’t rise to his challenge. She’s too angry with him, for some reason he can’t fathom, and when she opens her mouth, he assumes she’s just going to tell him off for—

“Thomas, that was a real nice declaration. Welcome to the present, we’re running a real nation. Would you like to join us? Or stay mellow doin’ whatever the hell it is you do in Monticello?” Y/N rolls with the music just as Harry had, his rainbow cardigan slipping from her shoulder as she gestures towards him with ridicule. “If we assume the debts the union gets a new line of credit, a financial diuretic.” She lists off each subject on her fingers, making a sour face at Harry. “How do you not get it? If we’re aggressive and competitive, the union gets a boost—” She slaps her hand down against her thigh passionately, as if his side of the imaginary argument appalls her. “You’d rather give it a sedative?”

Harry barks out a laugh as Y/N’s expression grows more incredulous, mocking him in character as if they were really on a Broadway stage, and not his ‘67 Cadillac driving down a highway in California.

“A civics lesson from a slaver.” She snorts, reaching across the seat and tapping her knuckles against Harry’s head with a light touch. “Hey neighbour, your debts are paid ‘cause you don’t pay for labour.” She mimics his voice, right down to the slight British tinge that had made it into his Virginian twang, throwing up her hands and shaking them in an overexaggerated motion as she quotes him. “‘We plant seeds in the South. We create’— Yeah, keep ranting. We know who’s really doing the planting.”

One of Harry’s hands shoots up towards his mouth and forms a fist, which he presses against his lips in fake astonishment at her dig, joining the background vocalists in howling. “Ooooh!”

The mortal gestures towards him with renewed fervor in her eyes that barely hides the amusement lingering in her irises. “And that’s another thing, Mr. Age of Enlightenment. Don’t lecture me about the war; you didn’t fight in it!”

Harry bites back the jesting retort of “No, but Mitch did.” that nearly rolls from his tongue.

The minimal restraint goes unnoticed by Y/N, who continues her scathing attack on Harry’s alter ego as she points over her shoulder with her thumb. “You think I’m frightened of you, man? We almost died in the trench,” She pinches together her index finger and thumb and brings them to her mouth, and the ease at which the mimicry of a joint comes to her makes Harry wonder if she’s ever actually smoked one. “While you were off getting high with the French! Thomas Jefferson, always hesitant with the President. Reticent— there isn’t a plan he doesn’t jettison. Madison, you’re mad as a hatter, son, take your medicine. Damn, you’re in worse shape than the national debt is in!” Gesturing theatrically, Y/N lowers her voice, keeping her intensity as she points to Harry. “Sitting there useless as two shits. Hey, turn around,” she makes a small twirling motion in the air with her forefinger, and then juts two digits upwards as if to stuff them somewhere, “bend over, I’ll show you where my shoe fits!”

Harry bursts into laughter with reckless abandon, wrapping his free hand around his stomach as he bends over the steering wheel. Reaching towards the stereo dials, he turns down the volume, letting the rest of the track fade to background noise before turning his gaze back to Y/N.

Just like him, the mortal girl is bent over with fits of belly laughter, and the sound echoes around the Cadillac in the sweetest way. Harry would take that over the Grammy-winning soundtrack any day.

“That was good, love. You’re a proper Broadway starlette, aren’t you?” Harry says between giggles, rubbing at his dimpled cheeks before settling his hands back on the steering wheel. “Didn’t realize you’d been holding out on me so much.”

“I wouldn’t call that holding out.” The mortal girl counters, fixing the slouching shoulder of Harry’s cardigan as she rests back into the passenger seat with a satisfied air. “You’ve heard me sing all the parts to ‘Non-Stop’ at once.”

“Well, yes, but…” Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, Harry shoots a cheeky grin at Y/N as he drums his fingers against the leather wheel. “This time you were actually good.”

An indignant scoff falls from Y/N’s mouth as she reaches across the car and smacks his arm. Harry can sense that she puts a lot of her force behind it, but the action feels as forceful as a fly landing on his shoulder, and he fakes a jostling of his body as he pouts. “You can’t hit the driver!”

“Then don’t insult my Broadway-worthy performances!” She remarks, crossing her rainbow-clad arms over her chest with a defiant air. “I think I’m quite talented— ready to take over the role of Hamilton himself, even.”

The creature rubs over his arm in an attempt to feign soreness, but the simper that’s still dimpled across his face gives him away. “I’m not sure if I’d go that far, peach. I think I’d give you a chorus role, at best.” He snickers as Y/N’s mouth drops down into a disgruntled frown. “If anyone would be playing Alexander Hamilton, it would be me.”

“Uh, I don’t fucking think so.” She shakes her head adamantly, her brows drawing together in petty disbelief. “They wouldn’t cast a fucking Red Coat in an American Revolution play.”

Harry wedges his plump lip between his teeth at the tauntingly insulting nickname as his mind flickers to Mitch once more. He’d be amused, Harry thinks, at how this girl seems to so easily mimic the attitude of those who have known Harry for decades.

“I can do a flawless American accent, love.” Harry’s emphasis on the consonants in his response only highlights his native tone of voice. “But that’s not why I’d be picked to be Hamilton over you. It’s because I just fit the role of the main character better.”

Y/N sputters in her seat for a moment, jaw dropping open at the assured statement. “Are you kidding?” She demands, pressing her palms flat on her thighs as she narrows her eyes. “Like, are you actually fucking kidding?”

“Not one bit.” With his voice dropped to a serious tone, Harry keeps his eyes locked on the road as he replies.

“That is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. I can’t believe you really—” Y/N sucks in a deep breath through her nose, as if she needs to calm and center herself in order to form a coherent answer, and her playful eyes slowly drift shut. “I grew up in a small town, dated the same guy for five years, was left behind while he went to university, where he then cheated on me, and then I moved from the town I’d never left before all the way across the country to Los Angeles, California.” Opening her eyes once more, Y/N turns her determined gaze back to Harry, collapsing her hands in front of her for emphasis. “I literally followed the ‘smalltown girl moves to big city’ trope. There are dozens of LifeTime movies that follow the exact same plot. If that doesn’t say ‘main character,’ I don’t know what does.”

“Mm, I’ll tell you what does.” Harry counters, wagging a ringed finger at the human girl while keeping the rest wrapped securely around the steering wheel. “‘Following the life of a handsome, rich British bachelor with a mysterious past, a great fashion sense, and who happens to be very well endowed.’”

“Oh, please. That says ‘one of two love interests from a Hallmark Christmas movie,’ at best.”

The vampire gasps with faux offense, clutching a hand to his dormant chest as he flickers his eyes to the scoffing girl. “A love interest? You think that’s all I’m entitled to?” He asks, brow furrowed as he clicks his tongue. “Did you miss the part where I said I had a mysterious past and a huge dick? Girls would foam at the mouth for me.”

“No, believe me, I know all about those two things.” Y/N snorts, brushing back a loose strand from her eyes before she rolls them. “Unfortunately for you, those are all key characteristics of a protagonist’s love interest.”

A smug smirk overtakes Harry’s face as he flicks on his turn signal, glancing over his shoulder before passing a car that has been going a bit too slow for his liking. “Huh. Well, I suppose as long as you know that I have those key characteristics— particularly that last one— then I guess I’ll settle. S’the most important of them all, I think.”

He expects his joke to receive a rolling laugh from the human girl, or a noise of acknowledgement at the very least, but all that echoes from her is an empty hum from the back of her throat. When Harry glimpses her way again, he finds that she’s resumed her previous expression of quiet contemplation, brow creased in thought as she chews on her bottom lip. Concern begins to weigh heavy in Harry’s chest once more.

“Speaking of mysteries, though…” She fiddles with her fingers, twisting one of her rings around a digit the same way Harry does when he’s anxious, and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might take pleasure in the fact that she’s picked up one of his mannerisms. “There is something I’ve been wondering. About you, I mean.”

From her closed off body language and sudden shift in mood, Harry knows that this has something to do with the guarded and upset expression she’d had when he’d first picked her up. And, from her lead in, he knows that his assumptions were right: her unsettled demeanor has something to do with him. Although the possibilities leave a feeling of unease in the pit of his belly, Harry’s curiosity and his need to satiate her wariness wins out, and he forces himself to nod and ask, “What is it, dove?”

Y/N opens her mouth, but no question falls out. From the corner of his eye, Harry watches as she closes her mouth again, as if she’s decided against asking whatever it is that she wants to. Harry is just about to encourage her to make her inquiry when a surge of confidence suddenly overtakes her body, and she’s spitting it out in a quick and confused voice.

“Why haven’t you introduced me to your friends?”

Out of all the causes for her guarded demeanor, the topic of his friends had been the farthest from his mind. The question catches Harry so off guard that he, for what feels like the first time, doesn’t have a quick response already formed on the tip of his tongue. Instead, his own mouth falls open in surprise, and he casts a quick look at the girl from the edge of his emerald eyes before turning back to the road in front of him.

He knows the answer to her question, of course; it’s the same answer that he’s given to his friends every time they’ve asked him to invite Y/N to a bar trivia night, or a weekend barbecue, or a club outing. And, truthfully, it’s a question that’s been floating more at the forefront of his mind for the last few weeks as he and Y/N have continued to spend time together, gradually becoming a constant in each other’s lives. However, he didn’t expect it to be at the forefront of her own, as well.

And the answer, really, is quite simple: if Y/N were to spend time with Harry’s gang of friends, there would be a larger possibility of her realizing that there’s something off about all of them. Like how they all have a specific jeweled accessory that they’re never without, or how none of them seem to ever grow weary, or how they all have the same cold skin and slight shadows around their eyes. Surely her keen eyes would catch how, despite the copious amount of shots and number of pints they throw back, none of them seem to become inebriated as easily as normal people would, and they can walk out of a club with their heads held high, free of stumbling or exhaustion. It’s with careful planning and—truthfully— sheer luck that Harry’s managed to present himself with a halfway-human appearance, and he has no doubt that it would be ten times harder to keep up that charade when the chances of her discovering what he is quintuple.

“Uh…” His brow furrows while searching for a valid response to give to the mortal beside him— one that would avoiding hurting her feelings, while still sounding believable. “I-I dunno, really. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

The quiet “oh,” that slips from Y/N’s downturned lips alerts Harry that, no matter what response she was expecting, that wasn’t the right one. She tightens her cardigan-clad arms around her middle as she nods tightly, keeping her gaze fixed pointedly on the passenger window.

Harry rubs his bottom lip with his ringed index finger— another nervous tic of his— as he tries to remedy the tension that’s been brewing between them since she first stepped into the car. “I mean… this whole thing—” He gestures between the two of them, and although the urge to take her hand makes his fingers twitch, he returns his grasp to the steering wheel instead of allowing himself to try and extract her palm from the fabric it’s hidden beneath. “— has been between just the two of us, so I didn’t really think… it mattered.” He finishes lamely, knowing that his justification is just making things worse. “Does it need—? I mean, did you want—?”

“Well, it’s just…” Y/N lifts and lowers her shoulder in one quick motion, the cardigan once again sliding down to reveal the strap of her tank top underneath and a path of smooth skin that Harry yearns to touch. “It’s kind of like a— I don’t know, a marker? Like if something is going… well…” She spares him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the passing scenery. “You tell your friends. I’ve, um, I’ve told mine about you— like, my friends back home, over the phone— and if they weren’t so far away, I know they’d want to meet you, so I guess I—”

“You’ve told your friends about me?” Harry cuts over her, the shock laden in his voice raising it from its usual low drawl. “What did you tell them? What did they say?”

An anxious flush begins to creep up Y/N’s neck and onto her cheeks, and Harry suspects that it’s not from the warm wool of the cardigan. “I did, yeah. A couple weeks ago. They called and asked how I was doing, if I had made any interesting friends yet. And, well— I’ve pretty much only got you right now, so I kind of had to say something.” She lets out a weak laugh, more air than anything substantial. “I just said that we, um, we were seeing each other, kind of. Like, mostly we’re friends, and we hang out, and—”

“We do more than hang out.” A grimace tugs at Harry’s own lips at her simplified explanation of their complicated relationship, and he risks an elongated look at the girl beside him, trying desperately to read her expression with no success.

“I know that, but— like, we’re not dating, right? It’s not… that was the best explanation I could give. I don’t think there’s a proper label for what we are— not that we need one.” Although Y/N’s laugh holds more substance this time, Harry can still detect an undercurrent of tension in the sound. “Either way, they said they wished they could meet you, so I was just wondering— your friends know about me, obviously. We’ve met a few times quickly, but we’ve never, like, had a proper introduction, you know? I met Xander and Niall in the hallway, and Mitch briefly when we were having a movie night at your place… you talk about Adam a lot, too, and I’ve never even seen him in person.” Turning her head towards Harry with slow hesitation, Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth, her expression so frighteningly open that it makes Harry’s stomach turn. “Do they not… do they not want to meet me?”

Despite the quiet and cautious cadence of Y/N’s voice, and the way it twists around Harry’s unbeating heart like a vice, the question draws a soft laugh from the vampire. Shaking his head adamantly, Harry rakes a hand through his curls before it goes to tap against the steering wheel decisively. “No, sweetheart, that’s not it. They’re actually quite eager to meet you. As of late, I haven’t been able get through five minutes without Niall asking about you. He pries like a gossipy nan and s’been getting on my nerves, honestly.”

Relief spreads through Harry as the admission brings a gentle upturn to the corners of Y/N’s soft lips, but it’s short-lived as another thought pops into her mind, and her cautious tone returns at the realization that—

“So you don’t want to introduce me to them, then.” She states quietly, a clear degree of hurt present in both her tone and her eyes as she twists her body beneath her seatbelt to face him head on. As certain as she is in her assumption, the cautious shadow that sweeps over Harry’s face serves as confirmation of her statement, and it creates a hollow pit in her belly that grows with each passing moment.

Y/N is aware that their relationship— or whatever it is, because they still haven’t put a title on it, and that’s a whole other complication that she can’t dive into right now— is about as far from normal dating as they can get. She’d fucked Harry before she knew his last name, he’d told her to take him deeper before he’d even told her where he was from, and he’d asked her on a date two months after they’d met, mostly out of territorial jealousy; everything that they’ve done has been out of the traditional order. But still, she thinks, picking at her nails as the strain between them becomes palpable in the worst way, there are certain things that you do when you’re interested in someone. Certain milestones that indicate that a relationship is viable and can be sustained for an extended period of time. Meeting someone’s friends usually comes around the two month mark, and by Y/N’s calculations, that means they’re nearly two months overdue.

Which is fine, Y/N tells herself, dropping her gaze from Harry’s stormy sea glass eyes as she chastises the self-pity coursing through her veins. Everything about their relationship has been done out of order; why should meeting Harry’s friends be any different?

Except it is. As much as she hates it, it just is, because it’s not even that she hasn’t met them. It’s that Harry, with his guilt-ridden eyes and darkened demeanor, clearly doesn’t want her to.

“Y/N,” His gentle utterance of her name draws her from her thoughts more than his hand crawling across the leather seat does. It’s not until his cool fingers weave through hers that her fidgeting stops, and she even notices that he’s moved. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them, I just—”

“It’s fine, Harry.” She insists softly, despite the tightness in her statement making it obvious that it’s very much not fine. She pastes a thin smile onto her lips as she shakes her head, trying to appease him as best she can. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Harry squirms in the driver’s seat, tightening his hand around the steering wheel as he heaves a sigh through his nose. Y/N might be saying that, but the look in her eyes tells a different story. Does she really think that she can look at Harry with such a wide, wounded expression, and he won’t bend over backwards to make things right? The thought, although scathing, rings true in Harry’s mind as he worries his cheek between his teeth. Does she not know the lengths he’s willing to go to just to make her feel better? For fuck’s sake, he’s making a four hour round trip just to take her to a bookstore in San fucking Diego. Somehow, without Harry noticing it, this human has managed to influence him in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine anyone ever would again. Is he supposed to believe that she’s unaware of that?

Shaking his head tersely at her previous reply, Harry squeezes her fingers in his own, clearing the newly formed lump from his throat. “Yes, I do.” He says firmly, looking at the girl from the corner of his eye. “I can tell where your mind is going, love, and I promise you, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Oh, yeah?” Despite the hurt still splashed across her irises, there’s an echo of a challenge in her tone. “So you just hide all of your… hook-ups from your friends, then?”

“You know I don’t have hook-ups, Y/N. There’s no one else, there’s just— there’s you. I only have you.” Harry makes his words as plain as can be, without any joke or teasing to downplay the sincerity of what he’s saying— or attempting to say, because his throat feels so tight that he can barely choke out a single syllable. “And that’s why I haven’t introduced you yet. I… I like what we have. This—” He raises their clasped hands, bringing the back of her knuckles to his lips so he can plant a chaste kiss over her soft skin. “I like it. We’ve spent these last few months in a bubble, just you and me, and it’s been…” A smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips, nervous and shy, but tinged with hope. “S’been amazing. And I’m just… not ready to give that up yet. I…I don’t know how to word it, really. I’m not good with, um—” With emotions, he thinks to himself. He’s not good with expressing any of this, but he forces himself to try. “It just feels like what we have is something I want to keep private, because it’s special. It’s kind of like when you were a kid and you got a new toy, yeah? And you didn’t want anyone to touch it because you liked it so much, you wanted to keep it all to yourself. It was something so personal, you didn’t want to share it…”

Harry trails off to look over at Y/N anxiously, and then comes to a sudden realization of the unintentional mistake he’d made by using such a materialistic analogy. His voice comes out rushed and apologetic. “And I’m not saying you’re an object or anything! I just wanted to explain it better and that’s the first thing that popped into my head. Did that...make sense? It probably sounded a bit dense. Or very dense. I’m sorry.” Harry knows he’s babbling aimlessly now, and with a surrendered sigh, he lowers their hands to the seat, still keeping Y/N’s fingers locked tightly with his. “I don’t want to share you, petal. That’s what it comes down to, really— just me being selfish. I like having your attention all to myself.”

Y/N listens attentively to Harry’s explanation as a new wave of blood boils to her cheeks, warming every inch of her body. As much as she still has her doubts— about his reasoning, about their whole arrangement— she wants to believe him. She wants to believe him more than anything in the world.

So do it, she tells herself, grazing her lip between her teeth as her gaze remains glued on Harry’s (ridiculously attractive) side profile. Believe him. He’s never given you reason not to.

“Okay.” She finds herself saying, and she decides that it’s her turn to raise Harry’s knuckles to her lips for a kiss. His skin is cool against her mouth, as always, and she lingers against him before lowering their intertwined hands to her lap. “I get it. I like what we have, too; I don’t want it to change. Plus,” She can’t resist tacking on a dig, glancing at Harry with a sly look. “From the brief interactions we’ve had, I think Niall and I are pretty compatible, so I don’t blame you for wanting to keep us apart.”

Although Harry barks out a laugh, he barely manages to hide the flash of crimson that streaks through his eyes at the suggestion. “Please,” He shakes his head as he strokes his thumb over the back of Y/N’s knuckles in a possessive manner. “I’m not worried about Niall. If I was going to be concerned about you leaving me for any of my friends, it would be Adam.” Y/N shoots him a curious look, and his dimples pop out of his cheeks as he elaborates. “Good sense of humour, attractive, and arguably the most sane out of all of us, present company included. But he can’t perform in bed like I can, so I think that’s a solid deterring factor. And I doubt he’d drop everything to drive you to a bookstore you found out about through— where did you say you heard about this place again?”

“Uh,” Y/N drops her gaze from Harry, turning her head straight back to the road as she shifts in her seat. “I, um, I saw it on TikTok.”

The vampire snorts obnoxiously, pulling his hand from Y/N’s to rake his fingers through his rouge curls. “Jesus Christ, of course you did.”

Y/N matches his scoffing with ease, crossing her arms over her chest with a defensive air. “Don’t give me that tone! This is exactly why I didn’t tell you! You know, you can actually find a lot of valuable information on there—”

“Yeah, because filming yourself doing the Renegade is a really great use of your time.”

“I didn’t say— wait—” The mortal girl quirks an eyebrow as she regards him with disbelieving eyes. “How do you know about the Renegade?”

“There’s a reason we blocked the app from Niall’s phone.”

///

Much to Harry’s relief, the drive back to Los Angeles begins a lot smoother than the drive to San Diego had.

The bookshop had been extremely similar to the antique store they’d been to a while back— it had the same rustic, messy aesthetic that gives a cozy, homey vibe, and it had sprouted a seed of nostalgia in Harry’s chest. They’d wandered around for a bit with their fingers intertwined, rarely breaking away from each other for too long for the sake of maintaining their buddy system. The pair had filtered through the extensive array of titles and knickknacks, walking under archways built out of novels and winding through tall shelves full of vintage collectibles. Y/N had entertained herself with grazing over the spines of all the different books they’d passed, her eyes glazed with a form of childlike wonder he’d grown so fond of seeing. And while Y/N had been losing herself in all the old treasures the shop had to offer, Harry had found himself losing his thoughts to her dreamy smile instead.

Satisfied with her purchases of Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet, as well as a used copy of Jane Eyre (“Look, Harry, it has little notes in it from the previous owner! Isn’t that neat?”), Y/N had settled into the passenger seat with ease, a light smile on her face as she buckled her seatbelt. Harry’s own mood is considerably brighter than it had been on the previous drive, but his shift in energy had only partially been caused by his purchase of a new Simon and Garfunkel album. Truthfully, Harry thinks, as he watches Y/N thumb through her new second-hand annotated book (the irony of her affinity for literature written from Harry’s original time period is not lost to him), his attitude is merely a mirror of the girl next to him. It’s much more difficult to be in a good mood when she’s in a sour one, but on the flip side, it’s nearly impossible to be grumpy when she’s showing such a sunny disposition.

Her inquiries from their drive to the bookstore are worrying him, of course. He knows that he’ll have to introduce her to his friends eventually, especially if he wants to keep this agreement between the two of them up. He also knows that it’ll be ten times harder to do so with Niall running his mouth, Xander making sly digs, and Mitch and Adam watching him with parental-like concern. Perhaps it would be easier to just call this all off right now, before things continue to progress. It would certainly be better for Y/N, he’s sure of it. Y/N, who gets excited over annotations in her books. Y/N, who sings along off-key to the radio even when she doesn’t know all the words. Y/N, who innocently presses tender kisses to his throat in a manner that draws an obsolete warmth from every limb of his undead body, and who smiles at his stupid inappropriate jokes and returns them with her own, and who fits into his arms like she was made for the sole purpose of filling them perfectly.

Y/N, who is reaching between the two of them, intertwining their fingers together with a practiced motion, and—

“Thank you for taking me to the bookstore.” The human girl murmurs, her lips grazing the back of Harry’s knuckles as she speaks. “I really do appreciate it, although I’m sorry I pulled you away from your friends.”

Harry’s woes melt away as she pecks across his icy skin, and a grin begins to jolt his lips as he brings her hand to his own mouth. “Don’t be sorry.” He smears a kiss to the back before dropping their tangled palms to the seat between them, his thumb caressing over her velvety flesh. “You’re much better company than the four of them. And much prettier.”

“You’re such a flirt.” Y/N rolls her eyes at the comment, but leans further towards Harry in her seat. “And a liar. We both know that Mitch is prettier.”

“Mitch?” Harry’s emerald eyes widen in appalled surprise, the corner of his lips twitching once more in amusement. “Out of all of my friends, you think Mitch is the prettiest? What about Xander? He’s quite the vain one, don’t you think?”

Y/N shrugs one shoulder in a light manner. “I like Mitch’s hair. The long style works for him.”

“Ah, it’s the hair. That makes sense; it’s always the hair.” Nodding sagely, Harry allows his lips to pull into a full grin. “So you like it long, hm? Suppose I should keep growing mine out, then?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sherlock.” Y/N shoots him a smirk that’s much more mischievous than his own. “I said the long hair worked for him, not you. Who’s the vain one now?”

Despite the jesting tone of her voice, jealousy twinges in the back of Harry’s mind as his eyes darken from emerald to forest green. He forces his lips to stay upturned as he offers a response that’s only half a joke. “Ouch, Watson. S’not very nice, especially considering how I’ve driven you to San Diego and back today. I think I deserve a bit of praise, don’t you? Instead of you mocking me—”

“I’m not mocking!” Y/N’s protest is muffled around the entertainment in her voice, the rainbow cardigan once again slipping from her shoulder as she shakes with suppressed laughter. “Making one little comment isn’t mocking! It would be mocking you if I acted like you do when you get in front of a mirror— you make this one specific face, like you’re trying to pull a Blue Steel, and—”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Harry huffs as he yanks his hand away from Y/N’s, swiping it through his loose ringlet before clamping it back around the steering wheel. “Ungrateful little wench, aren’t you? I have half a mind to pull over right now and—”

“A wench? I’m a wench?” Y/N’s laughter grows louder, filling the entire Cadillac with the unabashed sound that, despite his act, warms the pit of Harry’s stomach. “Alright then, Merlin. What, are you going to put me to work in a labour house? Is that what a wench does these days?”

“First of all,” Harry quips, giving her a flat glimpse, “I’d be Arthur, not Merlin. Main character complex, remember?”

Y/N rolls her eyes grandly, proceeding to lower her head in a dramatic bow. “My apologies, sire. How could I forget?”

“And second of all,” the vampire states slightly louder, talking over her sarcasm, “no, because apparently, all wenches do nowadays is just make fun of the men who volunteer to spend four hours in a car with them without so much as a ‘thank you.’”

The mortal girl’s upturned mouth drops open in amused disbelief. “What—? I said thank you! Literally three minutes ago!”

“Did you? I don’t recall.” Harry sighs airily as he smoothly guides the car around a bend in the road. “All I remember is you saying you think Mitch is sexier than I am.”

Snorting loudly, Y/N crosses her arms over her middle as she gives a small shake of her head. “Alright, I think that’s a bit of a stretch. I just said he has nice hair. And, while we’re on the topic—”

“Watch it.”

“— his mustache is cool, too. It suits him.”

“You know, I could grow a mustache if I wanted to.” Harry can’t help the pout that plumps his lips, nor can he help the whine that creeps into his voice when Y/N giggles at the sight. “It’s true! I could! I just choose not to. And, really, you should be thanking me for it, because it saves you from getting a carpet burn between your thighs.”

“So I should be thanking you for driving me today, for not growing facial hair…” Y/N ticks off the items on her fingers with a ridiculing gleam dancing through her eyes. “Anything else we need to add to the list?”

Harry tuts as he thinks, pursing his lips in consideration before letting out a sharp exhale as a sly smile carves his dimples into place. “That cardigan you’re wearing. You could thank me for letting you borrow it— although ‘stealing’ might be a more accurate term.”

A miffed expression rises to Y/N’s face just as a flush does. “I didn’t steal it! I’ve just been borrowing it, like you said.”

“Mmm. Alright.” Harry hums in the back of his throat as he glances at the girl beside him, kinking a brow expectantly. “And when can I expect it back?”

“Fairly soon, actually. It—” Y/N’s cheeks boil with more heat as she drops her attention to her lap, clearing her throat gently before continuing. “It, um, it doesn’t really smell like you anymore, so…”

Silence falls between the two as Y/N’s voice drifts off, leaving behind only the sound of Fleetwood Mac gently drifting through Harry’s speakers to cut through the thickening tension that fills the vehicle. It’s only the faint sound of Y/N’s own shallow breaths that reminds Harry that he needs to fake his own, and he sucks in a deep gasp of air, his throat burning as her thick honey and lavender scent settles on the back of his tongue.

“Well,” He begins cautiously, gauging her reaction from the corner of his eye while keeping most of his gaze glued to the road. “You can always steal it again after I get it back, yeah? It’ll be good as new.”

Harry nearly heaves an audible sigh of relief when he sees the edge of Y/N’s mouth twitch. “Not steal. Borrow.” She corrects, her voice as tentative as his.

The heavy atmosphere in the car begins to dissipate as Harry rolls his eyes with fondness. “Agree to disagree, dove.”

Y/N lets out a sound of dissent as she rubs her palms down her legs, drumming her fingertips against her knees with finality. “Thank you for letting me borrow it, H. And thank you for not growing a mustache.” She giggles out, throwing a coy smile his way before her expression grows more gentle. “And thank you for driving me today, although I’ve already said it. I’ll have to think of a way to repay you.”

“Oh, I could think of a few.” Harry says with a suggestive smirk, thrumming his ringed fingers against the steering wheel. “How do you feel about spending the night? We could order dinner from that Thai place you like, take a nice bath, and I could spend a few hours between your thighs while you make those sweet little noises I like so much. Sounds relaxing, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Y/N agrees, keeping her voice as light as she possibly can at the mention of Harry’s skilled tongue working her over. “But that doesn’t seem like much of a thank you on my behalf. Shouldn’t I be the one giving you something?”

Harry casts a look at the mortal girl with a raised brow. “Shouldn’t I get to choose my own reward?”

The fact that he sees the action of eating her out as a reward makes Y/N’s tummy froth. She really doesn’t know how she got so lucky, truly. “You should, but I can think of something better.”

The creature licks his lips once at the promise of something more enjoyable than her taste on his tongue. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a blowie in the bath.”

“Actually…” Y/N tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she casts Harry a sideways look through her lashes, twisting her body beneath her seatbelt to angle towards him. “I was thinking of something more immediate.”

The question of what she means by that dies before it can make its way out of Harry’s mouth, stopped in its tracks the moment Y/N’s fingers travel across the leather seat between them. She rests her palm on his thigh for a moment before beginning to massage the muscle beneath his trousers, her delicate fingertips just brushing over his inseam as her hand works its way higher.

A choked groan is all Harry can manage when her touch travels over his suddenly-growing bulge, and it takes all of his focus not to veer the car off the road. “Y/N,” He says, his accent low and thick with warning. “‘M driving, sweetheart.”

“I know.” Her voice thrums darker than normal as her palm presses flat against him, moving in a slow circle over the plaid fabric with insistence. “I didn’t ask you to stop, did I? You can keep driving.”

The laugh that rolls from Harry’s lips is breathless and strained. “Yeah, except I can’t when you’re— fuck—” Y/N squeezes along his hardening shaft, and Harry tightens his hands around the steering wheel with nearly enough force to bend it. “‘M gonna crash this bloody car if you keep doing that.”

“No, you won’t.” The mortal girl smiles sweetly at him as her nimble fingers pop the button of his tartan slacks, grasping his zipper and tugging it down so slowly that it’s almost painful. “You can multitask, can’t you?”

“Not like— God—” Clenching his jaw, Harry casts a pained glance at Y/N, only allowing himself a moment of looking before forcing his attention back to the road. What he sees in that moment, however, is a mischievous glint in her eyes that’s hidden beneath set determination, and the combination would send a shiver down his spine even without her soft hand creeping beneath his trousers. “This doesn’t feel like a reward, pet. Feels like torture.”

Y/N shrugs lightly, continuing to rock against Harry over his boxers as her free hand reaches for her seat belt and clicks the release button. “Maybe it is. Maybe I want to see if you can stay just as focused as I did when you made me cum on that ladder. Remember? Right in the middle of that antique mall?”

Harry watches as her seat belt retracts, a flash of worry striking through his body. Before he can voice his concern for her safety, her hand is dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Y/N,” He strains to get her name past his lips, his abdomen tightening as she grips him snuggly, and her palm feels like agony and salvation all at once. “If you make me cum in my pants with an hour left in our drive, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Or maybe…” Shifting across the seat, Y/N leans into Harry’s ear, her breath hot against his cool skin as she pumps him slowly and ignores the comment he’d moaned. “Maybe I just feel the way you did that day. Maybe I want to tease you a bit.” She uses the precum that’s begun to steadily leak from his tip as lubricant, twisting her hand around his length to elicit a hiss from Harry’s clenched jaw. She takes the shell of his ear between her teeth, nibbling at it just to feel him writhe in response. “What was it you said to me, H? When you slid your fingers inside me in that little music room?”

Harry offers no response other than the short puff of air that leaves his nostrils as he clenches the wheel harder beneath his palms. He keeps his eyes locked on the road, knowing that if he looks down and sees Y/N working him beneath his slacks, he won’t be able to restrain himself from yanking the car to the side of the road and throwing her into the backseat. And however wonderful that sounds— because it does sound incredibly wonderful, especially when Y/N swipes her thumb teasingly over his bubbling tip— he can’t let himself give into her.

Y/N, however, doesn’t seem to accept defeat so easily, and begins to drift her lips down Harry’s jaw and neck. While the area had previously been a sensitive spot for Harry in the worst way, he’s repeatedly come to find that the sensitivity he feels when Y/N caresses him there to be an entirely new and pleasant sensation.

“You said you wanted to have fun, remember?” She licks over the curve of his throat, her own breathing growing heavy when she feels Harry’s Adam’s apple bob beneath her tongue. “Now it’s my turn, don’t you think?”

“Thought—” Harry swallows thickly again, his hips unconsciously thrusting up slightly into Y/N’s hot palm. “Thought this was about thanking me, wasn’t it? Not getting even.”

Y/N pulls away from his skin with a coquettish look in her wide eyes, her brows raised and lips parted into a small pout. “Are you saying that my mouth isn’t enough of a thank you?”

“Your—? Oh, fucking hell—” Harry nearly swerves the car into the other lane of traffic when Y/N frees his length from his trousers, the cool temperature of the air-conditioned car sending a shudder down his spine. The sensation only increases when Y/N dips her head down and extends her tongue to tease his cherry tip with the textured surface. “Y/N.”

“That’s what I thought.” The human girl says smugly, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips even when she wraps her mouth fully around his head and sucks gently, just enough to draw a breathless whimper from the man above her.

With one hand still grasped tight around the steering wheel, Harry threads his other into Y/N’s hair, roughly tangling his fingers between her silky locks. He doesn’t guide her head as he usually does, but the idea of being able to move her if he wants allows him to feel a semblance of control.

Y/N clenches her thighs together as she bobs her head down further, heat pooling inside her belly as she feels Harry tug on her hair with the lightest pressure. She trails the tip of her tongue down Harry’s expanse, following the prominent vein that pulses underneath her touch. “Do you still want me to stop, baby?” She asks softly, looking up at him through her lashes as she pumps him in a slow motion, batting her lashes sultrily.

“No.” Harry whines the word as he presses his head back into the seat rest, his neck flexing as he forces his gaze to stay pinned on the road. “No, love, just— fuck, just keep going.” He grits his teeth when he feels her nose smudge along one of his fern tattoos, his next phrase coming out as a barely contained growl. “You’re down there already, so you might as well.”

Tucking her loose hair behind her ears, Y/N takes Harry back into her mouth, pushing herself further and further down his cock at a pace that’s nearly agonizing. Harry twists his hand within her roots to create a makeshift ponytail, holding the locks out of her face so that she can focus better on the task at hand. He feels the mortal girl smile around his length, her tender fingertips drawing a little heart along his exposed pelvis as a cheeky thank you.

As the highway straightens out, Harry risks lifting his hand from the steering wheel for a quick moment, and his deft fingers quickly find the volume button of the stereo to lower it to a quiet lull. He wants to hear every sound of Y/N’s throat opening up for him, and the muted noises she releases at the taste of him in her mouth.

Of course, all of that is nearly overpowered by his own sounds of pleasure, and he struggles to keep himself quiet as he grips the wheel with renewed force. “Fuck, doll, look at you...I just…Christ.” The last word comes out as an elongated groan, his eyelids fluttering as her tongue massages down his extent in slow and even strokes. “Just like that, darling. God, you’re so good. Such a pretty mouth with such a filthy fucking tongue, hm?”

Harry throws a haphazard glance over his shoulder as another vehicle passes them, and a flash of territorial protection runs through him at the possibility of someone looking into the car and seeing Y/N touching him like this. The sight of her acting like such a bold little minx is for his eyes only, and that thought combined with her slow, blissful motions pushes him to inch his foot towards the gas. Harry wants to put a bit of distance between them and the other traffic on the highway, which will insert some much needed privacy into the situation.

His acceleration, however, is interrupted by a particularly rough bump in the road, and his body jerks in his seat as they drive over it. He hears the sound of Y/N gagging before he registers the searing sensation of his cock hitting the back of her throat, and he risks a peek downwards to see Y/N’s watery eyes blinking up at him in disorientation.

“Baby—” He tugs her head up from his lap, concern mingling with the pleasure in his voice as he evaluates her well-being. Her expression is hazy from her ministrations, and she blinks tears from her irises, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around his length as the other wipes away the wetness at the corner of her eye. “‘M sorry.” Harry gulps thickly as he smooths his thumb over Y/N’s scalp, trying to soothe any discomfort he may have caused. “Are you alright?”

Y/N nods in a jerking motion as her mood darkens lustfully, and she swipes her thumb over the glistening tip of his cock before answering. “I’m fine, H. Just caught off guard. Don’t worry.” The rasp in her voice is evidence of her actions, and Harry hates how the sound goes straight to his throbbing length in her hand. Undeterred by the harsh thrust that had choked her a few moments earlier, Y/N leans down once more to smear more sloppy kisses to the head of his prick, rubbing the slit against her bottom lip to elicit a cracked gasp from Harry’s lungs. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

“You—You are. God, you fucking are.” The praise falls easily from Harry’s raspberry lips as her mouth returns to its previous distraction, fully suckling on the leaking head as her hand continues to work him in a practiced manner. “Feels like a dream, sweetheart, t-the way you take me down your throat like that.”

The mortal girl keens at the validation, and uses it as fuel to push herself further down his shaft again. She makes sure that she’s mindful of how deep she’s taking him, keeping her hand wrapped firmly around the base as a buffer in case they hit any more rough patches of road. With that worry eased, she allows herself to focus on massaging his pulsing prick with her tongue, alternating movements with strong sucks to his sensitive tip. She twists her wrist at a rising pace, matching it to the tempo she’s established with her mouth, working him over messily and swimming in the strangled noises that pour out above her.

Y/N sniffles lightly, talking over Harry’s thick cock to the best of her ability, her voice garbled and raw. “You’re so fucking big, Harry. And so pretty, too.” She moves her hand lower down his expanse, carefully cupping his heavy balls and fondling them between her fingers, preening at the fractured grunt that filters from her lover’s taut throat. “And so full.”

“Please, baby…” The immortal’s quiet plea sends electricity coursing through every cell in her body, his grip on her hair tightening to the point where blots of color speckle her foggy vision. “Don’t stop. Just please don’t fucking stop.”

“I want it.” She whispers around him, the warm breath of her words puffing down his prickling skin and sending goosebumps across his clammy thighs. “I want you to fill my mouth, Daddy. Want every last drop.”

The creature sucks in a rattling breath through the cracks of his teeth, waves of pleasure erupting along his cheeks and down the knobs of his spine, all because of how erotic her delicate voice sounds as it expresses such explicit confessions. “You’re fucking ruining me, dove.”

The girl tugs at Harry’s balls gently, rolling them around her palm again as she gives a particularly harsh suck. He can’t stop the loud whine that tumbles down his tongue in response, his hips bucking upwards a tad in unrestrained need. “I want you to give it to me, H. Please? Want you so bad.”

Harry throws his head further back against the headrest of his seat, his jaw dropping open in a silent moan as his heavy eyelids lull over his rolling irises, tears blearing his vision until he can barely make out the road in front of him. “Gonna—Gonna give it to you, pet. Gonna give you every last bit, all for my sweet girl.”

Y/N hones her blurred sight above her onto Harry’s face, more warmth flooding the area between her thighs. He looks gorgeous as ever, with his prominent features slack in ecstasy, his clavicle cutting into the sweaty skin visible along the collar of his fitted tee, and with his unusually dark eyes framed by his long lashes. His chest is heaving wildly as he tries to keep his composure, his cross necklace glimmering in the sun with every rapid rise of his defined muscles. His sharp jaw is wound taut, the tendon along the structure ticking as he gazes at her drunkenly from above his sculpted cheekbones. His chestnut curls as matted along his temple and over the nape of his neck due to the heat of the moment, his thick brows are knitted together in pleasurable gripe, and his teeth-swollen lips are parted in aroused wonder at how skillfully she’s taking every last inch of him without any hesitation whatsoever.

Y/N watches him intensely, drinking up every twitch of his expression and every soft groan he tries to stifle, her tongue lapping at him with more excitement than before. Harry locks eyes with her through his foggy haze, the corners of his flushed lips jolting upwards into a cocky open-mouthed smirk when he sees just how fucked he’s got her, despite the fact that he’s barely lifted a finger through the entire process. He slowly tongues over his chapped lips, glimpsing back up towards the highway for a split second to make sure he’s avoiding any other oncoming cars. He then returns his attention to the human, giving her head a playful tug and feeling the tip of his cock nudge along the roof of his mouth, resulting in a low hiss streaming past his condescending simper. “Why don’t you take a picture, princess? It’ll last you longer.”

Y/N gives a quick squeeze to his balls, sly satisfaction weaving its way into her chest when she feels him jerk in response, a whined curse of, “Fuck me.” slipping through his defenses. “Maybe you should watch your tone while I’m down here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at her challengingly, his palm grasping the back of her head with more intent and forcing her down, her nose smearing over his tummy as he hits the back of her throat deeper than before. He holds her there for a second, reveling in the way she constricts around him as soft gagging sounds bounce off the walls of his Cadillac.

After a few seconds, he pulls her back up his cock to a more reasonable length, humming smugly as she shudders and coughs dryly, her eyes twinkling submissively. His voice comes out strained, but its dark and accented tenor holds its usual unyielding authority, as well as arrogant chiding. “And maybe you should learn not to talk back to me. Guess I’ll have to pull the paddle back out sooner than expected, huh?”

A shiver coils down Y/N’s spine at the reference to that night. It happened a few weeks ago, but the memory is fresh in her mind as if it’s only been hours. It’s nearly impossible to forget, given everything Harry had put her through, and she often finds herself thinking back on it whenever she needs some relief and doesn’t have his company as help.

The human murmurs her next sentence shyly, her watery eyes regarding him with a certain type of wistfulness that makes his balls ache. “Maybe you should.”

Harry lets out an airy chuckle at her eagerness, which slowly molds into a gravelly moan when she returns to dipping her head with faster, sloppier strokes. A few strands of hair have escaped the ponytail in his palm, and he takes great care in tucking them back behind her ears with his index finger, which then trails across her cheek affectionately. “Maybe I will. But right now, you just worry about finishing me off. Then, we’ll see if I’m feeling up to it some other time— if I feel like you deserve it.”

Y/N nods her head obediently. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“‘Course, darling. Anything for my proper little slut. Especially when she’s taking me down her throat like such a good fucking girl.”

Y/N’s only reply is a broken mewl, and she allows herself to become immersed back into the action of giving Harry the orgasm she so desperately wants to deliver.

She can taste precum as it dribbles onto her tongue, a precursor to Harry’s impending climax, and the flavour makes her center throb. She has half a mind to remove him from her mouth and beg him to pull over so that she can properly ride him, but she doesn’t doubt that doing so would add hours onto their travel time. There’ll be time for all that once they’re back at his place, she reminds herself, pulling off of him just enough to lick her lips before lowering herself again. Right now, there’s just one thing she wants above all else, and if the sounds Harry is making are any indication, she’s fairly close to getting it.

“So fucking close, angel.” Harry pants, his abdomen contracting over and over again as he struggles to keep the car moving at a steady and consistent pace. “Gonna make me cum, aren’t you? Want Daddy to pump that pretty mouth full?”

Y/N hums around Harry as he yanks on her hair again, more for the sensation than to actually guide her. Still, she pulls up from his prick with a pop, looking up at him with doe-like eyes as she replies. “Mhmm.” She hums again, giving him a particularly hard pump and delighting in the groan that rolls from his tongue. “Wanna taste you.”

“You— fuck, darling, that’s fucking it.” Harry’s words echo from his throat in a ragged gasp as he twists his jeweled fingers around her locks once more, straining his head back against the seat to keep himself from looking down again as she retakes him down her throat. “I’m gonna fucking— Oh my God, baby, please—”

Y/N digs the nails of her free hand into Harry’s pelvis, scraping over his plant tattoos as she feels his toned tummy tighten beneath her touch. It only takes one more squeeze of her hand around his balls and one last determined suckle to draw his orgasm from him, and she lifts herself until just the head of his cock is in her mouth as he spills onto her tongue. Her own eyes flutter shut as she whines at the salty taste, swallowing it down without a second thought. She keeps her lips locked around him, wanting to capture every aftershock that spurts into her mouth, feeling ropes of cum splatter across her taste buds as Harry squirms against his seat, whining in encouragement.

She continues to milk him for everything he’s worth, repeatedly prodding the twitching vein protruding along his prick and scraping his sputtering head against the inside of her cheek, wanting to urge every last drop out of him. She only pulls away when the young man whimpers from above, shakily tugging on her hair to alert her that he’s crossing into more sensitive territory.

“Fucking shit…” He murmurs weakly, his breathing erratic as he eases off the gas pedal to reduce the car to a slower pace, rather than keeping the accelerated speed he’d fallen into as he came. He combs his fingers through Y/N’s mussed locks as a faint, exhausted chuckle rolls from his lips, his thumb ducking down to collect a bit of the mess that had seeped out of the corner of her mouth. He pushes the digit past her swollen, colored lips, his breath catching as he watches her clean it off without a single hitch. “God, minx, I’m gonna need a little warning the next time you decide to do that. Thought I was gonna crash the car a few times.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Y/N reassures him quietly, looking up at him with a fond smile before turning her attention to his softening prick. She licks up one stray bead of cum from his tip, delighting in the strangled sound the action draws from Harry. She then proceeds to carefully tuck him back inside his trousers, buttoning and zipping them up with ease. She even takes care to tuck his red and black striped shirt back inside the waistband, but only after she presses a gentle kiss to his still-tensed abdomen, nuzzling her nose across his happy trail and feeling butterflies flutter in her belly when he lets out an appreciative mewl.

Harry inhales deeply as he watches her sit up from the corner of his eye, his hand slipping from her hair to his own to fix the disheveled curls. “No, I suppose not. I have precious cargo. Speaking of—” He reaches over Y/N’s body, and with one hand still on the wheel, fumbles to fasten her seatbelt back across her chest and lap. “Y’gotta keep this on if you ever do that again, alright? S’not safe to have it off for so long.”

A fond smile tugs at Y/N’s lips as Harry sews his fingers over her thigh, squeezing lightly over her jeans before massaging the muscle. She’s noticed that he’s grown more and more touchy and protective each time they’re intimate with each other, and it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy it. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s fingertips stutter over Y/N’s leg for just a moment, and the twitch of his sensitive cock beneath his slacks nearly causes Harry to swerve the car again. “Fuck, don’t say that right now.” He mumbles brokenly, his voice much more raw than he’d like it to be. “Don’t think my poor dick can handle it.”

Laughter bursts from Y/N’s chests, and the contagious sound draws a giggle from Harry’s own body as she settles her fingers over his, twisting them together in an instinctive motion. “Too sensitive?” She teases, lulling her head back against her seat rest while keeping her eyes focused on him, sweetening her voice down into a babying drawl. “You poor thing.”

A bright pink blush sears itself onto Harry’s cheeks as he clears his throat, tightening his hand around the wheel again to ground himself. “Yeah. I only really like overstimulation when I’m the one administering it, not the one receiving it. And you—” He squeezes her thigh as punctuation. “—are much too stimulating, especially when you’re looking at me like that.”

Another honeyed giggle falls from Y/N’s strawberry lips, and the corners of her eyes crinkle as her smile continues to grow. “I like seeing you like this.” She says decisively, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she reaches over and affectionately twirls one of his loose ringlets around her finger. “All flustered. It’s cute.”

“Are you seriously calling me cute after deep-throating me while I drive?” Harry asks incredulously, a snort echoing from his throat as he shifts around in his seat. He’s already uncomfortable in his trousers again, both from the wetness she’d left on him and the way her words are making him stiffen again.

“Mm.” Y/N thrums in agreement as her free hand reaches for the stereo, dialing up the volume again so the sounds of The Kinks can be heard without strain. “I think you’re cute— very cute, actually. Even moreso when you get all blushy. Am I not allowed to say that?”

Another layer of warmth soaks itself across Harry’s small ears and stinging nose, and he tries to play off his childish reaction with a casual scoff. He can’t deny the way the compliment makes him feel, though. It’s different from the praise she usually gives him, which tends to be sexual and in the heat of the moment. But this is much more intimate in such a sweet and tender manner, and he hasn’t received that type of innocent attention from someone in much too long. He likes it, he decides. Especially when it comes from Y/N.

She makes him weak, and though he’d normally seethe at the idea of anyone ever making him weak again, he comes to find that the softness she coaxes from him is something so different from the mainstream definition of that dangerous word. She makes him weak, yes, but not in a destructive sense. This girl— this simple mortal girl with bones made of glass and skin of fine velvet— makes him weak in the knees, and in the pit of his stomach, and in the cement walls he’d built around his phantom heart. She makes him vulnerable in new places that have been entirely foreign to him for the last twenty decades, if the glowing warmth surging through him is any indication. And for the first time in a while, he’s beginning to think that maybe— just maybe— that’s not such a terrible thing.

The vampire comes to the sudden epiphany that being weak for someone is unorthodox to him because it’s a human trait. Allowing yourself to form a deeper connection with someone— with a person completely the opposite of what you are— requires compassion and understanding. It requires willingness and empathy, as well as trust and pure intentions. It requires humanity. And that’s what Y/N is doing, Harry realizes. She’s taking that last wilted shred of humanity he possesses and is urging him to use it. Even though it’s not intentional on her behalf, and even though she has no idea of just how small that fragment of humanity is, it’s somehow miraculously working; just her being the caring soul she’s always been seems to be enough to awaken that part of him.

Despite the fact that the immortal would normally laugh at such a stupidly cringey and cliche concept, there’s no denying that at this point in their little LifeTime movie crossover, it’s true. That’s why it feels so utterly weird— she’s bringing out a side of himself he hasn’t shown in literal centuries. She makes him feel the one sensation he didn’t think was possible for him to ever experience again: She makes him feel alive.

Oh.

…Oh.

Harry snaps himself out of his inner turmoil, sucking in a shaky breath and exhaling slowly, releasing all his consuming thoughts. Relying on his supernatural impulses to focus on any oncoming hazards, the creature allows himself the indulgence of shifting his hunter eyes onto Y/N for a lingering glance. The sun is just beginning to set outside the car window, ducking over the cityscape and washing the distant buildings in mellow shades of soothing pinks, cozy oranges, and buttery yellows. The colors cast a golden light through the glass of his car, and it settles onto Y/N’s soft features like stardust, highlighting her flyaway hairs, the gentle slope of her plush lips, and the dreamy tinge in her captivating eyes.

If Harry didn’t know any better, about both what she is and about not believing in such ridiculous tales, he’d think she was an angel. Not that an angel would ever be seen with the likes of him.

“Y’can say that, petal.” He murmurs after a lengthy pause, reluctantly returning his attention to the long stretch of road in front of him, his palm still secured over Y/N’s denim-covered thigh. If he focuses enough, he can feel her pulse through the fabric, and the steady thumping sends a strange prickling through his hand and into the rest of his body. “You can say whatever you’d like, and I’d listen.”

“Oh, is that so?” She pokes at him with a cheeky grin, using her nail to absentmindedly trace the blood red daylight crystals embedded into the eyes of his lionhead ring. “So you’re actually offering to listen for once, instead of making your cocky little comments?”

The edges of the vampire’s lips jolt with endearment. “Just this once, yeah.”

Except it’s not just this once, Harry thinks to himself, adding on the words he will most likely never have the courage to speak aloud. I’d listen to anything and everything you have to say. No matter how small and insignificant it may be, or however random and useless you might think it is. I’d listen. For you, always.

Harry doesn’t express his private thoughts, but he pretends that he has, and he pretends that the smile Y/N is gifting him at the moment is her heartfelt response to his silent confessions.

He adores it more than he should, and how could he not? It’s so blinding, he thinks it could very well burn him.

///

It’s not that Harry is nervous for tonight, because he’s not.

Spending his Friday nights with Y/N has become as regular as clockwork, and Harry knows that it’s overdue in their routine for him to cook a dinner for her, given that she’d had the courtesy of doing it for him. He’s already picked up her favourite red wine to accompany the gnocchi recipe he’d sweet-talked Vincenzo into sharing with him (Gnocchi al Vostro Gusto— the one she’d enjoyed on their date at Bella Vita), as well as snagged all the ingredients for the lavender lemonade cocktail he planned to make her when she first arrived. He’d even gone so far as to freeze a few petals from edible flowers into his cubed trays earlier in the day, just to up the ante on his already stunning presentation.

He’s already set out shining dinner plates along his kitchen island, tidied and dusted his entire condo, and made each of his friends promise to leave him alone for the night. He’s prepared everything that’s been within his power into sheer perfection; nothing could possibly go wrong. So he’s not nervous, because everything is fine and because he never gets nervous. Being nervous is for morons, and he’s far from being one, so he just isn’t. It’s that simple. There’s absolutely no reason to be nervous.

Except that he can’t manage to get his mahogany belt to lie properly against his waist (he’d searched in vain for his black Gucci belt with the logo buckle, but hadn’t been able to find it), the woven leather tail twisting repeatedly whenever Harry tries to tuck it beneath the rest of the belt. And while the rational part of his mind knows that this doesn’t matter, and that he can just guide the tail into a loop along his olive trousers, the irrational part of his mind— which, unfortunately, just happens to be in control at this very moment— knows that tucking it in won’t look nearly as chic as folding it just right to lay the excess along the length of his thigh.

He’s already crafted the rest of his outfit so carefully, spending almost an hour deciding on the red and black patterned vest to pair with the trousers, and an additional forty-five minutes choosing which short-sleeved button up to layer beneath it. He’d ended up picking a yellow top with indigo swatches along the collar, proceeding to tuck the shirt sleeves up along the sleeves of the knitted vest to give the fit a stylish flare. Harry thinks he looks good (although, to be fair, he always does), but he knows that if he turns his attention back to it for too long, he’d end up tearing it off and starting all over again. However, judging by the clock that’s ticking from his bedside table, Harry knows that isn’t an option. It’s 5:42 PM, and Y/N had said she’d be here by 6:00, and if Harry isn’t ready by the time her delicate knuckles rap against his front door, then she might just decide to turn on her heel and leave, and Harry won’t ever get the chance to ask her—

The creature stops short in his tracks, his fingers freezing over the leather of his belt that he’d just managed to settle into place. He’s not asking her that, he reminds himself, loosening his limbs just enough to nervously twist his mother’s ring around his pinky. He’s already decided that— and undecided it, and decided it again— after his road trip epiphany the previous weekend. It doesn’t matter just how weak, or warm, or alive, or just plain human Y/N makes him feel. He knows what this is, and has known since the beginning, and there’s just no way that he can bring himself to ask Y/N to be his—

Harry can’t even force himself to think of the word.

He makes long strides towards his dresser, picking up the string of pearls lying on top of the varnished wood and fastening them around his icy neck. What meaning could that word even hold for him, anyways? He’s a vampire, and though Y/N makes him feel the complete opposite, there’s no way he could ever feel so human as to give into the notion of having a girlfriend. A girlfriend leads to a fiancée, which leads to a wife, which leads to the expectation of a family, and Harry knows that none of those things are compatible with the immortal afterlife he lives now. If Mitch, who is— by any accounts— ten times the man Harry could ever be, hasn’t even managed to lock Sarah— another vampire— into a solid relationship after three years, how could Harry delude himself into thinking that he could do that with a human?

And even if he, with all his commitment, abandonment, and trust issues aside, could have a relationship with a mortal— not any mortal, he reminds himself, but the only mortal that’s ever managed to capture a sliver of his genuine attention— that doesn’t mean he actually wants one. Why would Harry ever want to be tied to one place, or one person? Why would he ever want to have to phone someone before going somewhere, or have to check in on them when they’re doing the same? Why would he want to deal with having to manage someone’s emotions, problems, and life? He’s traveled the circumference of the world and back again, and seen more changes to society than any human could ever comprehend. He loves being reckless, and untethered, and not responsible for anyone other than himself. He enjoys being impulsive and not having to worry about his actions falling back on anyone else’s shoulders other than his own. It’s who he is— it’s who he’s been for a while now— and it’s who he had imagined he’d continue to be for another two centuries.

It’s like that one country song that tormented his radio in the early 2000s— the one about life being like an endless road and about how people should enjoy it while it lasts. He believes the exact words are, “Life is a highway, I want to ride it all night long” or something of the sort. Horrendous song, but it held a pretty decent message.

So with all of this taken into precise consideration, why would he, in his right mind, ever chain himself to one geographical location, and one single fleeting soul?

The answer floats to the forefront of Harry’s mind as he casts a glance towards his half-opened dresser drawer, where a pair of Y/N’s pastel blue sweatpants are folded neatly on top of his own pairs. She’d left them there a few weeks ago, and while Harry had washed and dried them for her with the intention of giving them back, he’d decided it would be a better idea to keep them here in case Y/N ever ended up staying the night without planning to. Just so she’d have something comfortable of her own to put on before falling asleep in Harry’s bed, on the side that he now keeps made up just for her.

Why would Harry ever tie himself to one person? Because that person is Y/N, and she’s not just a person. She is— in every way except officially— Harry’s girl.

Harry can’t even bring himself to deny that fact as he fixes the collar of his shirt and strides out of his bedroom, dimming down the lights before making his way to the glass staircase. Every issue he’d brought up, every fact that he’s tried to use to convince himself that he doesn’t want a relationship, can’t even be considered an issue when it comes to Y/N. He already does all of those things— checking in on her to make sure she’s alright, letting her vent about her stress, listening to her problems with an attentive ear, holding her hand whenever they’re together, kissing her forehead while she lays against his chest, switching her to the inside of the sidewalk to ensure her safety, moving strands of hair out of her face so they don’t become a bother— and he does it all gladly. He’s come to adore the soothing comfort he receives when he walks Y/N to her door after a date, or double checks the locks after she’s inevitably invited him inside. He delights in calling her during her lunch breaks to inquire about how her day is going, and to remind her that “iced coffee isn’t a substitute for water, peach. You’ll feel a lot better on your shift if you drink a glass, alright?” And even when her voice is strained and laden with anxiety as she curls into his side after a particularly rough day, it still sounds like the most beautiful melody he’s ever heard, and the weight and warmth of her body against his own acts like a relaxant to Harry’s cold limbs.

He rolls his shoulders now as he skips the last two stairs and lands squarely on his leather Gucci boots (they’re one of his favorites, and though they’re a simple black, they have a rainbow impression along the lip that he thinks is quite chic). He releases a long breath as he absentmindedly studies over his art wall, his eyes landing on the painting of a deconstructed sunflower. The abstract piece reminds him of the night Y/N had come over to his condo for the first time, and he begins to feel that annoying yet familiar knot between his shoulder blades that always seems to form when he’s away from her. It’s something he hadn’t even noticed until a few days ago; how his body grows rigid and stiff whenever they’re separated, like he can’t allow himself to exhale until she’s beside him again. He supposes it’s a strange vampire tendency— something carnal and territorial inside of him that thinks it’s his job to protect Y/N, the decadent and intoxicating center of his strange obsession, and when she’s not around, unease threads into his muscles until he can be sure his primary source of blood is alright.

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s something deeper inside him— some other reason to keep her out of any harm and an arm’s length away. However, he refuses to indulge that unsettling mystery right now. It’s too fucking complicated to dwell on.

Ambling into the kitchen, Harry begins to dig through his lower cupboards for the apron he hadn’t bothered to slip on when he was cooking earlier. Pushing aside the white cover with the words “World’s Best (pancake) Tosser” stamped onto the front (it had been a gift from Niall, delivered with a sly grin and a cheeky comment about how the apron was too accurate to pass up), Harry selects the butcher’s apron printed with the phrase “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’!” He slips the loop over his head and ties the straps behind his toned back with a quick motion, the edges of his lips quirking at the pompous joke. He knows Y/N will make a comment about it.

He hadn’t bothered with the apron before when he’d been preparing the gnocchi simply because his loungewear isn’t necessarily that important, but now that he’s changed into something much nicer than the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d previously worn— and after he’d struggled with deciding on the outfit for so long— the last thing he wants to do is splash sauce onto himself as he navigates his kitchen.

Harry’s mind continues to race with nearly incomprehensible thoughts as he gathers the last of the ingredients needed to finish the meal, his nimble fingers easily peeling the skin from a clove of garlic before he begins to mince it with practiced skill. Maybe that’s the cause of all his confusing feelings, he muses as he tosses a knob of butter into his preheated pan, scooping the garlic onto his knife and adding that to the mix as well. Maybe that instinctual feeling to protect is the root of all his fantasies of a relationship. He can’t possibly want— can’t actually believe that he’d...

Except he does.

Sighing grimly as he snags a wooden spoon from a kitchen drawer, Harry nudges the cabinet shut with his hip before beginning to stir the sizzling concoction in his pan. Somehow, against all odds— against all reason— he’s become attached to Y/N. So attached that he’d spent an hour begging Vincenzo for this specific recipe when he could’ve so easily googled a different one and recreated it to near perfection. So attached that he’d driven to three different liquor stores to find her favourite brand of red wine, which he’d set to chill in his fridge hours ago, because even though a cabernet sauvignon is supposed to be chilled for forty-five minutes at most, Y/N likes it icy cold. So attached that he’d taken care to freeze individual flower petals into ice cubes, just so he could make her a cocktail flavoured with honey and lavender, the exact same way she is. So attached that, for the first time in twenty decades, the concept of a relationship doesn’t draw a disgusted gag from his throat and doesn’t send a ghostly spike of pain to his neck.

“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters the words out loud to himself, as if speaking them audibly will reinforce their meaning. Opening the fridge with a rough tug, Harry nabs the quart of cream he’d purchased earlier that day, bending the mouth of it open and pouring it smoothly into the saucepan and giving it a stir. It doesn’t matter if he wants a relationship, because there’s no way that Y/N does.

A bitter laugh tears its way through his chest as he reaches for the bowl of gorgonzola cheese he’d shredded earlier, scattering the ingredient into the saucepan and slowly mixing it in. He’s arrived at the same point he has all week when he’s had this argument with himself. The same fact that’s stopped him in his tracks each time he’s dared to think that— if he should ask— Y/N would say yes to him becoming a more permanent fixture in her life. She’d say yes, he thinks. Or he hopes, at least. She’d say yes, until she wakes up in the middle of the night to Harry caged over her with crimson irises, terrifying shadows below his waterline, black veins webbing out from his eyes, and a blood-soaked mouth bared to reveal his dagger-like fangs. Then, she’d be gone.

Not gone, he amends in his head, the thought somber and acrid in his mind as he reduces the sauce to a simmer. He’d have to go after her, of course, but not in the way a man usually goes after a woman. Despite how they’d joked about it casually, Harry most definitely doesn’t belong in a LifeTime movie. No, he’s from a much darker genre— less leading man, more malicious creature that lurks in the night— and the only thing he could do when he chases Y/N down would be to wipe all traces of himself from her mind entirely. That’s the ending they’d be destined for if he let himself buy into his romantic delusions. It’s better not to put a label on anything. No labels keep a degree of separation between their two lives— at least, that’s what Harry tells himself. And as much as it pains him, a degree of separation might be exactly what they need.

And yet, when Y/N knocks on his door two minutes later, just as he’s sprinkling various ground herbs into the sauce and setting it onto the back of the stovetop to wait until they’re ready to eat, Harry can’t help the giddy grin that immediately decorates his dimples. He hurries to untie his apron and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs lined against his kitchen island, dragging a ringed hand through his purposefully tousled curls as he nearly super-speeds to the front door of his condo. He trips on his way there, spewing curses as he barely saves himself from face-planting the ground like an imbecile. He straightens himself out with a petty huff, slowing down slightly and being more mindful of every step he takes. His smile has already returned before he even yanks the door open.

Y/N— his Y/N, he allows himself to think affectionately— is dressed from head to toe in his own clothes. Well, almost head to toe, he corrects, casting a sly glance at the way her black jeans hug the curve of her hips too perfectly to be his own pair. But he recognizes the black and white speckled short-sleeve button up that’s french-tucked into the high-waisted denim, and shrewdly notes the addition of a Gucci belt looped around her waist— the very one he’d been searching for earlier. She’s even styled the shirt the same way he does, with half the top buttons undone. However— Harry licks his lips unconsciously as his eyes hover over her exposed chest— she’s paired the top with a delicate looking black lace bralette that catches his hungry gaze the moment he spots it. Even the black ankle boots she’s wearing are reminiscent of his own fashion choices.

“Y’know,” Y/N’s amused voice cuts through his stupor, drawing his attention back from the obvious canvas of her body and up to her glittering eyes. “It’s not very gentlemanly of you to check out my tits before even saying hello.”

Harry’s mouth crooks sheepishly in response as he reaches out to her, looping his muscled arms around her waist and pulling her inside the condo and against his body with ease. “Hello.” He murmurs obediently, thumbing at her waist over the silky fabric as a teasing yet fond cadence sews its way into his voice. “So this is where my clothes keep disappearing to, hm? I searched for that belt for an hour today.”

“Shouldn’t have left it at my apartment, then.” Y/N counters easily, curling her hands against Harry’s chest. He can already feel her heat beginning to web through his entire being, warming him in a manner nothing has in the last two hundred years. “And you said tonight’s dress code was casual formal— which makes zero fucking sense, by the way— so I figured the best way to conform to that would be would be by wearing your own clothes.” A drop of hesitance begins to colour Y/N’s tone as she casts her gaze towards his own, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tries to read between his teasing words for any hint of actual annoyance. “Is that… okay?”

“Perfectly okay, angel.” Harry soothes the worry lines that have formed between her eyes by stamping a kiss onto her forehead, allowing himself to linger for a moment to inhale her familiar scent of sugar and flowers. It seems more powerful today than it usually is, almost bowling him over right there in the foyer, and he takes a step back to regain control of himself under the pretense of closing the door. “Honestly, I’m a little miffed that you look better in my clothes than I do.”

“‘Miffed’?” The mortal girl laughs as she reaches down to retrieve something from the ground, and it’s only then that Harry realizes that she’d had an overnight bag in her hand before he’d tugged her into his grasp and caused her to drop it. “Who says ‘miffed’? Are you a sixty-seven year old woman named Betty?”

Although he allows a chuckle at her incredulous question, Harry’s attention has focused in on the bag inches away from her outstretched hand. Cursing himself for being too wrapped up in her appearance to notice the item she’d been toting, Harry quickly fetches it from the ground before she can, carrying it further into his apartment before setting it down on one of the island chairs, as if the small distance could make up for the initial lack of manners he’d displayed.

“No, I’m not. I’m just British.” He should bring the bag up to his bedroom, he thinks, just so Y/N doesn’t have to wonder where her clothes are when she’s fraught with exhaustion later. But that would mean having to leave her side, and the grip her fragrance has on his senses right now won’t allow him to do so.

“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot.” Y/N lilts with an exaggerated air, another giggle rising from her petal-like lips as she leans against the marble countertop on her elbow, propping her chin up in one hand and resting the other on top of the stone. She regards him with all the affection that he doesn’t deserve, and yet always seems to crave, and it takes all of Harry’s willpower to not grasp her chin in his hand and sift their lips together just to taste her laughter. “Along with ‘pip pip’ and ‘cheerio,’ right?”

“Yes, those phrases are definitely at the top of my vocab list. You’ve heard me say them a million times.” Harry rolls his eyes playfully, shaking himself from his distracted thoughts as he steps back behind the counter to effectively put a little bit of much needed space between him and the mortal girl. His restless hands are already outstretched to his bar shelves before he even asks, “D’you want a drink, darling?”

Y/N watches with innocent curiosity as Harry sets two lowball glasses down on the counter before reaching into his cupboard for a jar of honey, which he spoons onto an awaiting plate. He rims the glasses in the syrup before dipping them into sugar, sparking confusion in Y/N as she tries to decipher what cocktail Harry is making her. Her befuddlement only grows as he extracts a bottle of clear liquid that she assumes is vodka and a purple concoction that she can’t identify. “What are you making?”

“Lavender lemonade.” Harry answers swiftly, reaching into a drawer for the small double-ended measuring cup tool that Y/N still can’t remember the name of, as well as his crystal cocktail shaker. Y/N observes with wide eyes as he fills the shaker with ice and vodka before picking up the mysterious liquid. “This is lavender syrup. Not homemade, unfortunately, but I do buy it from a little organic grocer I know at the farmer’s market. Adds a nice floral note to the drink, and mixes well with the lemonade.” He caps the container and shakes it expertly (the way his muscled arms ripple with effort doesn’t go unnoticed by her, as it never does) before setting it down on the counter and making his way to the fridge freezer. “S’where I get my honey, too.” He chances a look over his shoulder just in time to see Y/N dip her finger into the honey pooled on the plate and pop the digit into her mouth, and Harry has to force himself to tear his eyes away as she sucks lightly on her fingertip, her cheeks just barely hollowing. “Do you like it?”

“Mhmm,” Y/N hums around the digit as she keeps her eyes shamelessly glued to Harry’s ass while he bends down to open the cooled drawer, retrieving a tray of cubed ice and coming back over to add one large block into each lowball glass. “Are there flowers in there?” She asks in wonder after retracting her finger from her mouth with a pop, leaning over the table more to observe the decorative ice that has filled the cups.

“Mm.” Harry matches her hum with a more pleasured undertone, both from her noticing the small detail, and from the unobstructed view of her cleavage that her new position allows him. He picks up the shaker and strains the light purple lavender and vodka mixture into the glasses, topping off each cocktail with a can of sparkling lemonade that he’d also retrieved from the fridge. “S’pretty, isn’t it?” He asks, stirring the drinks with a spoon before holding up one of the glasses to the light and handing it to Y/N. “My own creation. You’re the first person to try it.”

Their fingers graze as Y/N accepts the glass from him, sparking electricity up her entire arm, and she can’t help the irreverent moan that thrums in the back of her throat as she brings the glass to her lips, tasting the honey and sugar first before the lavender coats her tongue. “This is so good, H.” She praises, licking a lingering dab of honey from her mouth between her words. Twisting the glass in her hands as she regards the lilac drink, Y/N eyes him over the rim of the crystal, pupils blown wide. “I didn’t think honey and lavender could ever taste so good.”

“You know, I used to think that, too.” Harry’s mumbles knowingly as his own eyes drift a shade darker. He watches the human girl’s neck strain with her swallow, as if she knows he’s trying to keep his gaze away from there and she’s beckoning him back. “But it’s my favourite flavour combination now. Can’t ever seem to get enough.”

The comment goes right over the mortal girl’s head, just as Harry knew it would. His expectations of the cocktail in his hand are also met from his very first sip; although the concoction is delicious, it pales in comparison to the fragrance wafting across the island from Y/N. He may as well be drinking water, honestly. But he knows he’ll end up repeating the recipe a few more times at the very least, just because Y/N tells him that it’s her favourite drink he’s ever made.

“You say that every time I make you a new drink, dove.” Harry can’t help but quip coyly at the repeated compliment, setting his crystal tumbler against the counter with a quiet thud. “Am I supposed to keep believing it?”

“Obviously. Especially when each drink keeps getting better and better.” Y/N licks a drip of honey from the rim, her tongue delicately capturing the sugar crystals before her lips settle back onto the edge to take another sip. “You would be an amazing bartender, but we’ve already talked about that before.”

“We have, yeah.” Harry smiles softly as he recalls the conversation they’d had weeks ago, where she had said his drinks were better than anything she’d had at a club, and he had responded by saying he doesn’t have the patience to be a bartender. That conversation feels as if it happened a lifetime ago, and considering how much closer they had become since, it quite literally could be. “But refresh my memory, will you? Why is it that I’d make such an amazing bartender?”

Y/N gives Harry a jokingly flat glance as a response to his smug tone, but decides to humor him, nonetheless. “Well, you obviously have the mixology skills, and I don’t doubt that the whole thing you have going—” She nods her head to him over the island with a teasing smirk. “—would get you endless tips.”

“My whole thing?” Harry repeats the phrase with an air of faux confusion. “What do you mean, my whole thing?”

He knows what she means, of course. But he won’t deny himself an opportunity to hear Y/N feed his ego with sweet-spoken praise.

Y/N doesn’t buy his innocent act for a minute, but still indulges him, yet again. She likes to see Harry preen under her compliments just as much as he likes to receive them. “You know…” She casts her eyes over his figure slowly, picking out every detail she can comment on as she wedges her bottom lip between her teeth. “Your whole look— the tattoos, the muscles, the dimples, the sparkling green eyes, the shiny curls… all of that would have any drunk customer draped over the bar for you. And even if you couldn’t get by on looks alone, you’re absolutely charming. To the point of ridiculousness, honestly, but,” Y/N eyes him suspiciously, and while her words are mostly in jest, she can’t deny that she’s seriously thought them at some point in time. “I’m not entirely convinced it’s genuine. Although being able to fake that kind of attitude would serve you well in a crowded bar.”

Whatever Harry was expecting to hear among the praise, an accusation of dishonest behaviour wasn’t it. His brow furrows deeply as his lips turn down into a displeased grimace, and he drums his ringed fingers over the marble countertop as he cocks his head to the side. “What d’you mean?” The question is earnest now, no longer a coquettish teasing remark, and the warmth the mortal girl had provided him with begins to subside as a flash of icy doubt digs shards through his chest. “Not genuine? Does it seem like I’m faking it or something?”

Y/N teases her lips with her tongue, unable to stop the nervous tic as she hears the displeasure that clearly strains Harry’s tone. Setting her own glass down on the counter, Y/N lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I just mean, like… I don’t know. I don’t really think that now, but in the beginning…”

“What?” Harry prompts her with more intensity than he’d meant to, but he’s spent so much of this past week analyzing their every interaction while wrestling with his own thoughts that he’s already on edge; he needs to hear what Y/N had thought of him when they’d first met. His own recollection of the memories has made him flinch multiple times, particularly the times when he’d thought that Y/N was as boringly ordinary as humans come. He can only imagine what her take on the situation is. “Did I— was I rude, or—?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” She hurriedly assures him, shaking her head hard enough that her loose locks bounce around her shoulders. “You weren’t rude at all— the opposite, actually. I don’t know, it just seemed… like it was too good to be true, y’know?” Her voice grows impossibly softer as she traces her finger over the rim of her glass, her eyes dropping from Harry’s like it hurts her to hold them. “Like, there was no way that someone could be so attractive, so funny, so good in bed—” Harry can hear blood creep up the nape of her neck against her will, beginning to pour into her cheeks. “—and so charming. Something had to be an act.”

Despite the urge Harry has to justify his actions, he knows there’s nothing he can say that could prove Y/N’s original perception of him wrong. And, in all honesty, he has no right to. As much as he’d like to argue the fact, and as much as he did genuinely come to enjoy being around her, Harry can’t deny that from the first moment he’d approached Y/N in that club, he’d dialed up his charm as he always did without a second thought. He’d flattered her, flirted with her, done everything he could to convince her that she should take him home so he could indulge in the two things he’s always manipulated people for: sex and blood. And when that worked, he did it again, and again, and again, until they’d fallen into the pattern they have now. He’d never lied, of course, and he prides himself on that— every compliment he’d paid her had been rightly deserved. But even that justification doesn’t stop the shame that’s twisting its way through his limbs and making his head heavy.

She had thought something had to be an act, and she had been right. Harry himself was an act, in every aspect of the term— stretching the truth about his past, opening himself up just enough to make her open herself in return, setting her up so that she’d become dependent on their relationship. And all so he could sink his teeth into her neck without a second thought.

He can’t exactly pinpoint when all that had changed— singing “Non-Stop” in his kitchen? The jealousy he’d felt when he spotted her on a date with that insipid idiot, Jacob? Seeing her in that yellow sundress when he picked her up for their first date?— but the fact that it had changed doesn’t erase how it had started. It doesn’t erase the cruelty he’d hidden beneath his calculating words, intricately-placed caresses, and dirty promises.

“Harry.” He’d been so caught in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Y/N had moved until she’s standing right in front of him, one of her velvet hands twisting into his own as the other tucks a loose curl back from his creased forehead. “I don’t think that now. You know that, right?” Even after securing the ringlet, she keeps her palm pressed against his cheek, and Harry can’t help but lean into the burning heat her touch provides. “I just— I’d never met anyone like you. There was no one like you where I grew up. I didn’t think someone could be so…” Y/N worries her lip between her teeth again, and Harry wishes he had enough in him to smooth the bite mark with a touch as soft as her own. “I didn’t know you yet. But I do now.”

The vampire inhales a shaking breath as if he needs it to live, lifting his own free hand to wrap over the palm Y/N rests against his cheek. Weaving his fingers through hers, he drags her hand lower until her skin is secured over his lips, and he smudges a gentle kiss against her handprint. There’s something so tender in her words— no one could ever accuse Y/N of being disingenuous. But he needed to hear this, he thinks as he presses his mouth repeatedly to her palm, the throbbing of her pulse in her wrist catching against his cheek. He needed to hear how she thinks she knows him. It’ll serve as a reminder that he can’t allow himself to succumb to the weak thoughts he’d battled earlier in the day. As much as Y/N assumes she knows him, there’s things that she’ll never understand— things he would never allow her to understand, because she doesn’t deserve such a terrifying burden— and how could he keep up that pretense while allowing her to call him her boyfriend?

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Harry mutters the words into her fragile skin, inhaling her intoxicating aroma deeply until his throat burns in agony. It’s a small price to pay for what he’s put her through. “It’s alright. I don’t blame you for doubting it.” The smirk he forces onto his face is nowhere near believable, but he manages to keep the strain out of his voice enough to sell it. “I’m pretty hard to believe, y’know? Especially when you grew up with people like Cucumber Dick.”

Successfully diffusing the moment, Harry’s comment tugs an irritated groan from Y/N’s chest, and she takes a step back from him as her hand falls from his face, despite her other fingers still remaining tied with his own. “You can’t just keep calling him Cucumber Dick, alright? He has a name!”

“Yeah, Bradley.” Harry says in distaste, his nose wrinkling as he shakes his head slowly. “S’honestly worse than Cucumber Dick. I’m doing him a favour— a bit of charity work.”

Y/N hums in the back of her throat thoughtfully as she steps back around the kitchen island, Harry’s arm extending over the countertop as she tugs his hand along with hers. “Then don’t do me any favours like that, alright? Can only imagine what you call me when I’m not here.”

A few names pop into Harry’s mind— dream, darling, angel, and countless others that he’s murmured to himself in the privacy of his condo— but they’re tainted by the memory of his friends confessing how they’ve talked about her when he hasn’t been around to hear it. How they’ve compared her to different foods, used that to reference her, as if that’s all she is to him. As if she isn’t the only person who has managed to make him feel something in over two lifetimes.

In the rational part of Harry’s mind— which, once again, is sadly not the part of his mind that’s ever in control— he knows that he can’t blame his friends for thinking that. It’s his own fault for being so insistent on that fact over the last few months. How many times had they questioned his motives behind his daily phone calls to her, or how often he found himself dropping everything just to spend some time with her? How many times had he rolled his eyes at their assumptions that he wanted more from the mortal girl than he’d ever admitted? How many times had he asserted that there was nothing more that she could offer him than her body and her blood? They’d only listened to what he was saying, despite knowing that Harry’s reassurances were false. Did any of them suspect that things had changed for him now? Or did they still think that Harry’s only motivations behind his relationship with Y/N are primal?

Harry pushes the badgering thoughts from his head as best he can as he reaches for his apron that’s still lying over the back of the chair. He can’t dwell on those thoughts now. If the turmoil twisting inside of him hasn’t subsided by the end of the night, he’ll call Mitch once Y/N is fast asleep under the extra blanket he keeps on his bed just for her. Although he doesn’t relish the thought of admitting he was wrong to the likes of Xander or Niall— he knows their teasing and taunting would never end— he can talk to Mitch about it without the worry of judgement.

“Why don’t you put a record on, petal?” Harry asks absentmindedly, nodding his head towards the record player set up in the corner of his living room as he slips his apron back over his head. “I just have to boil the gnocchi, and then—”

“Wait, wait wait,” Y/N cuts over him with an increasingly gleeful expression, rounding the edge of the island again to tug on the strap of Harry’s apron. “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’?” She repeats, unable to bite back the giggles that are rising through her throat. “Please tell me you didn’t buy that for yourself.”

His troubling mindset disappears the moment laughter falls from her lips and echoes around the kitchen. “‘Course I did. And why wouldn’t I?” Harry simpers as his deft fingers easily secure the ties behind his back in a neat bow. “I’m Mr. Good Lookin’, and I’m cookin’. S’only the truth.”

“Your vanity is astounding. Truly.” Y/N trails her finger from the strap of the apron to the pearls around Harry’s neck, stroking the silky stones with the lightest touch. “Like, borderline narcissistic.”

Snaking his arms around her waist, Harry easily pulls the mortal into his body, securing her against his chest just as he had done when she’d first arrived. It’s comfortable for him to have her pressed against him like this. The steady rising and falling of her chest and hummingbird beat of her heart against his own unmoving organ keeps him centered, like his own personal lifeline.

“Is it so wrong to be confident in my appearance?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his dimples pop from his cheeks, and he slides his hands from Y/N’s back to her ass, cupping and squeezing firmly in appreciation. His smirk only grows as Y/N’s cheeks begin to boil from the suggestive contact. “How can you contradict me when it gets such a reaction from you?”

“I think that has less to do with your looks and more to do with where your hands are.” She quips dryly, and yet her nails dig into Harry’s exposed collar bones with the slightest of pressure, a surefire sign of just how much his touch affects her.

Harry leans forward as the girl’s breathing grows more erratic, and he nuzzles his nose along hers while keeping the smallest of spaces between their lips. “Either way, I’m getting what I want, aren’t I?”

To his immense pleasure, Y/N’s words are breathy and strained when she replies, a side effect of the shallow inhales her body draws against his. “Which is?”

“You. More specifically, you melting under my touch like you just can’t get enough of it.” Harry drags his lips across Y/N’s for no more than a second before continuing his path up her jaw, only stopping when he can feel the flushed shell of her ear beneath his mouth. “You should indulge your vanity a little more often, sweetheart. S’quite fun, honestly.”

Y/N shivers beneath Harry’s touch, her eyelids fluttering as his cool breath rolls over her ear and down her neck. Turning her head to the side, she locks her half-lidded gaze with his own before slotting their lips together to indulge in the lingering taste of honey and lavender that sits on his tongue.

Despite his instinct to draw her closer while curving her body into his own, Harry separates their lips with a gentle nudge of his forehead against her own, his breathing growing just as erratic as Y/N’s. Control, he reminds himself as heat prickles along his icy skin from the tender pads of Y/N’s hands. This isn’t like their first meetings, when he could invite her over under a pretense and take her against the counter before they’d even finished their drinks. This is different now. She’s different now.

“Why don’t you go put a record on?” He says again, his voice noticeably deeper than it was when he first made the request. “And I’ll finish getting dinner ready. Sound alright?”

Y/N manages to nod without removing her forehead from his, but that seems to be the only movement she makes; her palms remain pressed firmly against Harry’s tattooed biceps, even after he reluctantly releases his hold on her body. She can’t help it— it feels too good to be so close to the young man to allow herself to willingly walk away. Something in his presence is so calming, so steady to her, even when he’s whispering obscenities in her ear.

But outweighing the need to be next to him is her desire to make him happy, and if he wants her to pick out a record… “Alright.” She nods once more as her hands slip from his skin, trailing down his forearms and grazing his wrists before falling to her sides. “Any record?”

Harry drags a ringed hand through his curls, his lithe fingers tugging on the locks before falling to his side in a loose fist. “Any record.” He confirms as he reaches for a kitchen drawer, tugging it open to extract a long metal spoon. “Anything you want to listen to.”

He watches as a serious expression paints itself over the human girl’s face, as if the task he’s given her is of the utmost importance. She turns on her heel and marches out of the kitchen as if on a mission, and as Harry turns towards the now-boiling pot of water on his stove, he knows that his own face reflects a look of fondness. It’s too easy to let his guard down with her, he thinks as he ladles his homemade gnocchi into the rolling water. When she looks at him, there’s such an openness in her expression that he can’t help but allow himself to be seen.

But being seen doesn’t always feel so sweet, which Harry remembers the moment he hears Y/N’s melodic voice ring from the living room.

“When did you get a piano?”

Harry’s hand freezes mid-scoop, the few gnocchi that had been dangling on the edge of his spoon falling into the boiling water. A bit of the liquid splashes out and lands on his arm, but quickly fizzes to room temperature once it meets his freezing skin.

“Uh—” He clears his throat as he tries to refocus on his task, but his actions are much more frantic than careful as he finishes filling the pot with gnocchi. “I’ve had it for a while, remember? I mentioned it to you before. At the antique mall.”

When his explanation receives no response, he gives his own frustrated sigh, and sets down the polished spoon to retrace Y/N’s steps out into the living room. As he expected her to be the moment he heard her question, he finds her with a reverent hand tracing the edge of the matte black Steinway grand piano that’s occupied a space in nearly every home he’s had since he purchased it in the 1920s. Seeing her nimble fingers drift over the hand-crafted edge brings back a hazy human memory to Harry’s mind— a flash of sharply manicured fingers and a strangely pale hand, adorned with an opal ring as they danced over the pianoforte in an opulent sitting room. The sound of tinkling laughter that rang like a bell, pitched almost high enough to make his ears ache, and a soft, hypnotizing voice slathered in the most delicate accent he’d ever heard.

Harry has to blink a few times to bring himself back to the present.

“What was that, darling?” He hopes his voice isn’t nearly as strained as it feels when he refocuses his eyes on Y/N’s waiting gaze. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said that you told me it was in storage.” She glides over the intricately carved music stand, the digit dancing across every twist and curve of the decorative panel. “Why did you bring it out?”

“Uh, I dunno, really.” An uncomfortable itch settles onto Harry’s skin, his stomach turning as Y/N takes a seat on the creaking piano bench set in front of the instrument. “I just, uh, figured it should be displayed somewhere, instead of gathering dust in a storage unit. It’s a vintage Steinway, y’know? Those need to be taken care of.”

In truth, the vintage instrument had rung Harry quite a high bill over the last few decades, not only in the price it cost to keep it in permanent storage, but in the services he’d had done to it once a year to keep it in its nearly pristine condition. Despite keeping it out of sight to keep it out of his mind, he couldn’t seem to allow himself to let the instrument fall into disrepair, just in case he ever decided to display it again. Or sell it, as he’d been leaning towards doing over the last few years— a genuine Steinway piano in condition as good as his had quite the high price tag. But he’d never been able to force himself to part with it, as it looked too similar to the one he had originally learned to play on. Even though those memories were tainted with the usual pain that came with thinking about his human life, it was still his life, and he ached to hold onto some part of it. It’s why he had his mother’s ring, and his sister’s earring, and his father’s cross and pocket watch. It’s why had a small wooden box hidden away under his bed with memorabilia from his first life. As much as it hurt to remember— and it did, in ways he can’t possibly begin to describe— remembering seems better than the alternative.

“Well, if you want to show it off…” Y/N’s fingers are trailing down the fallboard now, inching their way towards the ivory keys with a daydream-like purpose. “You shouldn’t hide it away in the corner of the room. It would look gorgeous in front of the windows, don’t you think? A proper centerpiece.”

It would make a beautiful centerpiece, and he originally intended it to be so after the delivery company had dropped it off at his condo a few days before. After bribing Adam and Niall with the offer to buy out their bar tabs for an entire month, the three of them had spent the afternoon rearranging the furniture in his living room to display the Steinway in the center of the room. He’d thought that, knowing how excited Y/N had been to hear him play the piano in the antique store, she’d like to hear him play in his own home, on an instrument he knows like the back of his hand. He’d even begun kicking around the idea of teaching her a few songs, but those musings had quickly turned sour as the instrument brought back more memories of his foggy human life. In the end, he’d decided to restore his living room back to its original state with the addition of the Steinway thrust into the corner, where the ghosts of his past could plunk the keys quietly without drawing too much of his attention. He’d done his best to ignore the instrument over the last couple of days, and in his hurricane of thoughts that had centered around Y/N, he’d nearly forgotten about its existence completely.

He can’t be mad that Y/N is asking about it; after all, he’d brought it out of storage with her specifically in mind. But seeing the newfound object of his affections with her fingers poised over the keys brings back a rush of emotions he’d been repressing for the better part of two hundred years.

“It—” Harry clears his throat once more, trying to rid himself of the lump that is rising up like bile. “It took up too much space in the center of the room. Wasn’t very cohesive.”

“That’s too bad.” The mortal girl’s words fall from her mouth in a murmur as her gaze remains locked on the keys, almost as if she’s in a trance. Her finger begins to press down on the ivory with a slow and meticulous motion. “It seems like such a shame to—”

“Let’s— Let’s not get into that now, sweetheart.” Harry says hurriedly, his fingers catching her own before she can trigger the instrument to make a sound. “Dinner’s almost ready, and you—” He forces a grin onto his lips. “—still haven’t picked a record out.” Threading her fingers through his own, Harry gently tugs the human girl up from her seat on the piano bench. “Would you rather I do it instead?”

As he expected, Y/N wrinkles her nose with distaste as she rises to meet his emerald eyes. “No.” She scoffs as a quiet snort rises from her throat. “I don’t need to listen to some weird experimental 60s music while trying to eat dinner.”

While Harry would normally bite back at her dig, he just responds to her with a thin laugh and a smile without dimples. “Exactly. So why don’t you pick something out,” He jerks his head over his shoulder to where his record player and vinyls sit neatly on a shelf lining the wall, ignoring the ghastly spike of pain that twinges his neck as he does so. “And I’ll plate dinner, yeah?”

“Alright.” She agrees, and Harry nearly breathes a sigh of relief before she finishes her phrase. “But you’ll play for me later tonight, won’t you?”

The phantom pain grows until it extends down Harry’s entire spine, filling every nerve in his body with a sense of anxiety and trepidation. The last thing Harry wants to do is move his fingers over those weighted keys, and with the burning sensation now shooting through his fingers, making his hand twitch around Y/N’s, he’s not even sure he can.

But he is sure of one thing, and that’s the fact that he can’t ever seem to say no to Y/N.

“Yeah, dove. Of course.” Keeping his voice even, Harry pulls her away from the extravagant instrument as inconspicuously as he can. “Later tonight.”

///

There are so many things that Harry has done over the last two centuries that have both angered and confused him.

He’s held grudges against himself over the way he’s acted, the people he’s surrounded himself with, the people he’s allowed himself to trust, and the blatant disregard for human decency he’s allowed himself to succumb to. In the last twenty decades, Harry has amassed enough vendettas for fifty lifetimes, let alone the one endless life he’s been given. And yet, even with all of those missteps in mind, the fact that Harry ever looked at Y/N and deigned her an ordinary human might be one of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made.

It’s so clear to him now— sitting across from her at his kitchen island, the few scented candles flickering between them doing almost nothing to cover her sugar and flower scent, her eyes reflecting back the burning flames and something else that Harry can’t quite put a finger on— that he’s not sure how he ever missed it. How had he once leaned against the counter in her own kitchen, looked into those very same eyes, and managed to convince himself that it was only her blood that drew him to her? How had he listened to her sweet and sensual voice murmur delicate phrases about her day and her emotions, and not realize that he was inching closer and closer in order to hang on every word, as if she had the supernatural ability to compel him as he did her? How had he seen her in the smokiness of the club, with her fragile skin practically luminescent under the pulsing strobe lights, and thought that she was so utterly unmemorable and unnoticeable that he could easily take her home for one night without anyone wondering about her whereabouts? How had he convinced himself that it would only be one night?

There are so many things that Harry will always be angry about, will never forgive himself for, and his initial perception of Y/N is one of them.

If he has any redeeming qualities, he thinks as he watches the mortal girl spear a bite of gnocchi onto her fork over the rim of his wine glass, it’s that he can, at the very least, admit when he’s wrong. He can admit to himself that this girl— this self-assertive, stubborn, vivacious, kind-hearted mortal girl— is the most interesting and most intriguing human he’s ever met. And as terrifying as that is, it’s also a little thrilling; it’s been so long since Harry has felt a pull to someone like this. The sensation, while unfamiliar and something he’s severely out of practice with, is just as electrifying as he remembers, and now that he’s had a taste of it, he can’t stop chasing that high.

It’s that undeniable pull which drive Harry to murmur an unauthentic apology about not having a dining table (he’d chosen a larger living room over a dining area when he moved in, and his friends just settled for eating at Niall’s when they wanted to sit down somewhere) because he’s secretly pleased that he has an excuse to sit next to Y/N. It’s that pull that makes him hang on her every word about her day like she’s relaying the plot of a Greek tragedy, his facial expressions perfectly mimicking hers as she describes the customers she dealt with. It’s that pull that sends his fingers forward of their own accord to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the soft melody of Hozier’s “Like Real People Do” floats between them like a comforting lullaby. It’s that pull that, when she inquires about the entrée he’d prepared for them, causes him to proudly admit that he’d recreated the recipe from Bella Vita after wrestling it from Vincenzo. It’s that pull that urges him to scoop up one of his own gnocchi and bring it to Y/N’s lips to feed her the first bite of the meal, his hand cupped delicately under the utensil to catch any sauce that might drip onto her shirt (which is really his shirt, and that fact alone delivers so much more pleasure than he ever would’ve thought possible).

It’s that pull, that adrenaline rush, that indescribable sensation, but underneath it all, it’s her. It’s always been her, since the moment they’d first met. From the moment he first laid eyes on her. How is it, Harry wonders, that his first sighting, enhanced by his supernatural senses, had managed to make him so blind? How is it that he’d had this girl in front of him all along, and he’d managed to delude himself into thinking that he’d be able to stop himself from becoming vulnerable for her? And maybe, he wonders slowly as he clears Y/N’s empty dinner plate from the marble island to the sink, he’s still deluding himself, because for some strange reason, being vulnerable for the mortal girl doesn’t seem to be as terrifying as he thought it would be.

The vampire suddenly recalls a specific day all those weeks back, when Y/N had stayed over and they’d taken their first bath together in his jacuzzi. He thinks about how he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable for just a fraction of a second, when he had admitted to her that she often caught him off guard. She had returned the sentiment, and he remembers the words he'd uttered to her amidst the warm steam and quiet splashing of the water. He had said that he found her influence on him— the influence they had on each other— to be scary, but exhilarating. And now, after spending so much time together and allowing himself to grow closer to her than he ever could’ve imagined, he’s come to find that his attraction to Y/N is no longer incredibly scary. Yes, there’s still a sliver of fear in him at the notion of opening himself up to her, but it’s only natural— there isn’t one person in existence who isn’t scared to strip themselves emotionally bare for someone else. However, his genuine excitement soothes his hesitations, and it startles him in a pleasant manner he can’t quite decipher.

Setting the dirty dishes into the sink to be dealt with later, Harry risks a glance at Y/N over his shoulder. He watches as she wipes the corner of her mouth on a napkin before raising her stemmed glass to her lips, delicately draining the last of the crimson liquid before placing it back down with a clink. When he catches her sparkling eyes, Y/N shoots him a smile that, even with only one corner of her lips lifted, manages to dazzle him from across the kitchen. Harry can hear the fresh flush of blood that overtakes her cheeks, as if the wine itself is settling beneath her fragile skin.

Yes, vulnerability should petrify him. Vulnerability means danger. It means giving someone the ability to break you, and Harry knows this from firsthand experience. Harry might be the only monster in the room, but in this moment, Y/N is the ominous threat. She’s the vague silhouette that hides in the shadows, the mysterious mass circling just beneath the waves, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But now that he’s dipped a toe in, Harry can’t stop himself from diving headfirst into those dangerous depths.

“D’you want another drink, love?” He asks, turning back around and leaning his hip against the marble counter as he cocks his head to the side in a questioning manner. “Some more wine before dessert? Or another cocktail?”

Y/N glances at her multiple empty glasses in front of her, but shakes her head slowly. “No, I’ve had enough to drink. But I’d love a cup of tea, H. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. A cup of tea, coming right up.” Harry reaches for the sleek kettle that he keeps set on the backburner of his range, flicking on his tap with his other hand before settling the hollow object under the stream of water. “You know, I think this is the first time I’m actually making tea for you. S’a real treat, isn’t it?” He flashes a toothy grin at the girl before placing the now-full kettle back onto the burner and twisting the knob to high. “A proper cup of tea made by a proper Brit. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N rolls her eyes playfully as she circles her finger around the rim of the empty wine glass, her motions just starting to get heavy with the liquor. “It’s just some dried leaves and water, Harry. Don’t get too full of yourself.”

“I think you’re the one who’s usually full of me, aren’t you, pet?” Although his back is turned towards the stove, Harry can hear the effect his words have on the human girl by the small, nearly imperceptible gasp that leaves her lips. “‘M not sure you’re allowed to make that observation.”

Despite the choked feeling that’s welled up in her throat at his comment, Y/N quickly clears it out with a small cough, capturing Harry’s sea glass eyes with her own to stare him down stubbornly. “I’ll make any observations I want.” She says firmly, crossing her arms over her exposed chest in a mockingly angered pose.

A fond laugh rolls from Harry’s stained lips as he opens his cupboards and extracts two tea cups that are painted with vines of wisteria flowers. He’d found them a few years back at the very same antique mall he’d brought Y/N to, included in a china tea set that he hadn’t been able to resist buying. The hand painted violet flowers had caught his eye from the moment he’d glanced at the china cabinet they’d been locked inside, and he’d barely been able to tear himself away from the glass case to retrieve the key from an employee.

He’d always had a soft spot for wisteria; there had been a wisteria tree outside of his childhood home, and he and Gemma used to collect the bunches of blooms and bring them inside for their mother. That had been a long time ago, of course. When they were children. Harry can’t quite remember at what age they’d stopped digging through the garden for flowers— it might have been when Gemma turned eleven, which would’ve made him…. Seven? Harry frowns at the uncertain memory as his grip tightens around the delicate china cups. Yes, he reminds himself, he would’ve been seven. His sister had been four years older than him, and it was around age eleven when she’d declared herself a lady, and said that it wasn’t ladylke to dig through a garden and walk around with dirt under one’s fingernails, and Honestly, Harry, you must wipe your feet before stepping into the house, or else you’ll track mud everywhere—

With trembling hands, Harry sets the wisteria tea cups down on the marble counter, flexing his fingers to get rid of their shakiness before reaching for the respective saucers. It seems that Y/N’s ability to make him feel more human isn’t just resurfacing the manners and emotions he’d long suppressed, but the memories, too. How long had it been since he’d heard his sister’s voice ring in his head as clearly as that? How long had it been since he’d thought of the tiny foyer of his childhood home, which he’d tracked mud into countless times as his mother and, eventually, his sister clicked their tongues at him? Is the tree still there, he wonders as his thoughts continue to spiral. Or had it been cut down in the two hundred years since he’d last seen it, long after his family had all…

Harry places the saucers carefully down against the marble before bracing himself against the edge for just a moment. Barely thirty seconds have passed since Y/N’s retort, and although his enhanced mind had begun to spiral, it’s not too late for him to give a half-sane response.

“I know you will, sweetheart.” He finally murmurs, hiding his face as he pulls open his fridge to extract the carton of oat milk he’d purchased last week. Y/N, he’d come to learn over the last few months, prefers milk over cream in her tea, just like she prefers sugar over artificial sweeteners.

Harry can feel the burn of her eyes into his back as he extracts a teaspoon from his kitchen drawer and the kettle begins to whistle. Focusing and relishing in being the object of her attention, Harry removes the kettle from the heat, flicking the stove off before reaching for the canister that stores his tea bags. In an effort to fully distract himself from the troubling thoughts of his past, he begins to hum the tune to the Hozier song that had been playing earlier, before the record had spun to stop just before they’d finished their entrees. With the near murmur of the melody reverberating through his throat, he spends a moment debating on whether or not he should use the matching wisteria-adorned teapot that sits on the highest shelf of his cupboard, but quickly decides against it— it’s too formal for the occasion. But tossing two separate tea bags into the two teacups, he finds as soon as he does it, doesn’t feel right either; after all, he’d told Y/N that he’d be making her a proper cup of tea. That fact settles the manner in his (moreso than usual) changing mind, and within a few moments, he has the two teabags deposited into the teapot before pouring in the boiling water to steep the satchels of dried leaves.

Halfway through his preparation, his ears had perked up with the distinct sound of Y/N rising from her chair, which had been followed by the muted pattering of her feet against his hardwood floor. Not bothering to ask where she’d been going, Harry had instead decided to wait for his suspicions to be confirmed. Sure enough, just as he’s stirring the sugar and oat milk into Y/N’s cup of tea, he hears the quiet press of one of the keys of his piano. C4, if his aural skills are still as tuned as they used to be.

Setting the two cups of tea onto their respective plates (Y/N’s with milk and sugar, and Harry’s plain), the vampire easily balances both cups of tea in his hands and makes it to the living room without spilling a single drop.

Just like before, Y/N seems entranced by the piano, plunking out different notes and letting them ring into the open air. Harry can’t help but wince slightly as he approaches— as talented as Y/N seems to be at some things, music theory does not appear to be included.

“Christ, love, a tritone?” He protests, his voice hinging on a whine as he approaches the piano bench. “What, your fingers couldn’t make it a perfect fifth, hm?”

The answer to his teasing question comes in the form of Y/N’s entire body jumping as her fingers stutter over the keys, an audible gasp falling from her mouth while her hand clutches to her chest and her head turns to stare at Harry over her shoulder. “Jesus, you scared me!” She says breathlessly, her palm massaging over her the area where Harry can hear the rapid pulsing of her heart. “Have you always creeped around like that?”

A playful grin tugs at the immortal’s lips as he extends an arm out, handing the china saucer and cup to the human girl. “Only when I’m carrying boiling tea. Scooch over, will you?” Nudging his way onto the newly unoccupied space of the bench, Harry nods his head towards the keys she had been previously playing. “Was that an original composition?”

“Beethoven, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize it.” Y/N blows gently over her tea with pursed lips before taking a small sip. Harry knows that his sister would have condemned the action, along with the following slurp, by calling it unladylike, but the inelegant manner leaves a fond feeling buzzing through his body once more.

Raising his own teacup to his lips, Harry chuckles quietly over the rim of the cup. “I wouldn’t have pegged it for the classical era, actually. Sounded more atonal to me.” He takes a small sip of tea, the liquid scorching down his throat in the best way. “You said you took lessons when you were younger, didn’t you? Do you remember anything?”

“Twinkle twinkle little star, maybe.” Y/N takes another small gulp before setting the cup back down on the saucer. “I was, like, eight. Nursery rhymes were as far as I got.” Her gaze drops to the caramel coloured tea with a curious gaze; Harry had remembered exactly how she takes it, despite him only having seen her make a cup of tea once a few weeks ago. “But you, on the other hand… Mr. Good Lookin’...” Her lips jolt into a teasing grin as her eyes flicker to the side to capture his own. “You’re quite the musician, from what I remember. And you promised to play me something.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Harry’s smile grows imperceivably tighter as he takes another drag of the boiling drink, his throat growing thicker with every swallow. “And you still want me to?”

Brow furrowing at his reluctance, Y/N cocks her head to the side in bewilderment. “Of course I do, H. I loved listening to you play for me at the antique mall.”

Harry thinks back to that day, when he’d stuttered his way through a Chopin piece before his stumbling fingers had given up entirely. “I’m just a little out of practice, love. It’ll be a bit messy.”

“I didn’t ask for perfection; I asked for you to play.” Her warm fingers find Harry’s upper arm, massaging the tattooed muscles just underneath the tucked sleeve of his shirt as she regards him with wide, curious eyes. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but if you’re nervous because you might mess up… Well, you heard me play.” Her light laugh rings through the cavity of the piano, reverberating off the highest strings in a way that only Harry’s immortal ears can pick up. “I won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Despite his reservations, a half-hearted smile finds its way to Harry’s lips over the rim of his tea cup, which he sets down on the living room side table after taking one last sip.

Flexing his ringed fingers, he repositions himself on the piano bench, moving more towards the center of the seat as Y/N moves down to the edge to give him full access to the piano. For a brief moment, his hands hover over the ivory and ebony keys as he evaluates the repertoire he knows he can muddle his way through without too much trouble. He’s already played a few Chopin pieces for the human girl, so that composer is out. Liszt doesn’t seem to fit the mood, either, as his pieces are much too ornamented for their quiet living room ambience. Debussy is out before Harry can even consider him; the last thing he wants to do is invoke any more memories of sitting at a piano with the much too familiar composer. And Beethoven and Mozart seem too contrived for this setting, as well.

With a frown on his wine-stained lips, Harry spares one glance at Y/N, whose own eyes are glued to his floating fingers. She reaches out with a tentative touch of her own, gliding them across Harry’s tensed knuckles with a pressure so soft that, if not for the heat of her skin, Harry might not feel it at all. The cautiousness of the motion is not lost on him— it’s almost as if Y/N is worried that she’ll spook him out of playing, like any sudden movements could break him. It reminds the creature of the awareness he has whenever he touches her; how he always carefully evaluates the amount of pressure he uses whenever he glides his fingers over her vulnerable skin.

As if she were a butterfly, he thinks, not for the first time. His butterfly.

Harry doesn’t remember making the conscious decision to start playing. He doesn’t even recognize the piece that’s tentatively ringing from the piano until the repetition of the first motive, when Y/N emits a satisfied breath and her warm hand falls back to Harry’s thigh, rubbing gently over his olive trousers with that same delicate touch, almost as if he were a butterfly.

The creature’s fingers continue to glide over the ivory keys, his phrases growing smoother and more confident with every passing moment. He pays careful attention to the dynamics of the piece, trying his best to recall the sheet music that he hadn’t looked at in decades, but it only takes about thirty seconds for him to realize that it’s easier to just let himself feel the music. With Y/N’s hand continuing to dance over his thigh in time with the tune, Harry lets himself play around with the score, peppering in crescendos and decrescendos as he sees fit. He draws out some of the minor phrases, hoping to wrench on his obsolete heartstrings the way he had when he first learned the piece in the early 20th century, and hovers his fingers over the bass notes as he uses the pedal to make them ring out into the living room.

Halfway through the composition, Harry realizes that he’s breathing with the phrases, timing each inhale and exhale of his lungs with the musical lines. It only takes him another two measures to realize that Y/N is doing the same, her body leaning into Harry’s as Harry leans into the instrument. And that, he finds as his jeweled fingers slide over the keys, tugs on his heartstrings more than any melody ever could.

As he approaches the end of the piece, he softens his touch, his fingertips almost ghosting over the keys as he gently presses the final notes. Harry keeps his foot hovered over the pedal, allowing the quiet cadence to fade to silence in its own time, and as it does, he can feel his body coming back into itself— which is strange, considering he hadn’t noticed the trance-like space he’d slipped into.

Y/N, however, must have noticed, because her voice is hushed and hesitant when she speaks again, waiting until the final notes have completely faded to silence, as if she’s afraid that she’s interrupting something.

“That was so beautiful, H.” She praises, her hand still rubbing over his clothed thigh. The motion would normally drive Harry mad, but for some reason, all it does to him in this moment is bring a strange lump to his throat. “What’s it called?”

In his unfamiliar haze, it takes Harry a moment to find his own voice. “Uh, Papillons.” He says through his thick accent, clearing his throat subtly as he lowers his hands to his lap. He hadn’t even realized they were still lingering over the last notes. “It means—”

“Butterflies.” The mortal girl nods in recognition, a thoughtful look over her face as she taps a finger against his trousers, her tone slightly jesting as she murmurs her next sentence. “I know enough sixth grade French to understand that. Is it a French piece, then?”

“No.” Harry jerks his head in the negative, only remembering to soften the agitated motion after it’s happened. He raises his keen eyes to meet Y/N’s, a reminder of where he is. And a reminder of who he’s with. “It’s the fifth movement in a suite by Robert Schumann— the “Polonaise,” in B-flat major. S’one of my favourites.”

“I can see why.” Y/N murmurs, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “It was wonderful, really. ‘Out of practice,’ my ass.”

Even with the residual anxiety still coursing through his veins, Harry manages to force out a chuckle at her teasing. “Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are. But Schumann has always been a favourite composer of mine—” Harry takes Y/N’s teacup from her, noting how her eyes had flickered to the ground, as if she was looking for a place to set it, and she sends him a thankful grin as he sets the cup next to his own on the end table. “—along with his wife. They were both incredibly talented musicians.”

“His wife?” Intrigue threads through Y/N’s voice as she props up an elbow on the piano, resting her chin on her loose fist as she turns her body towards Harry. “She was a musician, too?”

Harry hums affirmatively as he cracks his knuckles, flexing his fingers in his lap to loosen them from the buzzing sensation that’s still prickling his skin. “She was, yeah. They had a pretty passionate love story, y’know. That’s why his music is so beautiful— he wrote it all for her.”

Y/N doesn’t miss the reminiscent tone that seeps into Harry’s voice, and she threads her fingers through his own as her eyes widen with a gentle plea. “Will you tell me about them? Schumann and his wife?”

“I—” Hesitating at her request, Harry squeezes her hand tightly, half in affection, half in warning. “It doesn’t have much of a happy ending, darling. A bit of a tragedy, that one.”

“I want to know.” The human girl nods her head stubbornly as her eyes flash with determination. “Just because it has a sad ending doesn’t mean it’s not worth knowing.”

Harry pauses for a moment, allowing her words to fully sink into his mind and spark the beacon of hope that’s sat coldy in his head for so long. “I suppose that’s true.”

He mulls over where to begin, thinking back to all the newspaper articles he’d read about a child prodigy in Germany in the 1820s, who was the daughter of—

“So the story really begins with Friederich Wieck.” Harry’s voice falls into a smooth cadence as he begins, thumbing over Y/N’s warm knuckles absentmindedly as he recalls the information. “He was a music teacher, most known for piano, but what he really wanted to be known for was raising a child prodigy. He had a few children, but the one who filled that description was Clara, his second oldest.”

As Harry begins to spin the tale, Y/N can’t help but focus on his expression. Although his eyes are set on their linked hands, she can tell that his gaze is far away, as if he’s seeing the scene play before his eyes as he tells it. It’s fascinating, she thinks, seeing him focus so intently on something as niche as an old love story between musicians, but more than that, it’s new to her. This is a new side of him that she hasn’t seen before— not cocky, or charming, or playful. This side of him is intent, as if he wants to make sure that every word he speaks is the truth. His expression is almost as interesting as the story itself.

“Clara’s parents, Friederich and Mariane, didn’t really get along very well, and Clara had a lot of trouble when she was young; she didn’t really speak until she was four. But music always came easily to her, which made sense, considering her parents.” Harry’s free hand drifts back to the ivory keys, just resting over the lacquered surface. “Her mother was a musician, too— an accomplished singer. But after her parents split when she was five, when Mariane had an affair with a family friend, Clara was left with her father. And her father wanted to focus on her music career. He gave her hour-long lessons every day, and made her practice for two hours on top of that. She made her performance debut when she was just nine years old, in 1828, at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig.”

“Okay, wait. Pause.” Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she waits for Harry’s faraway eyes to refocus on her confused expression. “What does playing in Leipzig at age nine have to do with a love story?”

An amused laugh slips from Harry’s lips at Y/N’s impatience. “I’m getting there, sweetheart. A little bit of patience would be beneficial to you, I think. And a little bit of trust in me, yeah?”

Although she huffs a little bit, Y/N relents, squeezing Harry’s hand in acknowledgement at the phrase he always seems to end up repeating: Trust me. She vaguely wonders why it’s so important to him. “Alright, fine. Continue.”

“Thank you.” Harry swipes a hand through his tousled curls before settling it back down on the keys, running his fingertips over the smooth surface absentmindedly in the same rhythm he’s swiping over Y/N’s knuckles. “Okay, so… She played in Leipzig a few times that year, and once was at a private music party at someone’s house, where she met Robert Schumann.” At the mention of the name, Harry shoots Y/N an ‘I told you so’ look, which she meets with a roll of her eyes. “He was a gifted pianist, and was so inspired by Clara’s playing that he got permission from his mother to quit his law studies in order to study piano under Clara’s father, Friederich. So in 1830, Robert moved into the Weick household as one of Friederich’s students, and—”

“Sorry, I— pause again.” Brow furrowed, Y/N’s eyes narrow in suspicion as she mulls over Harry’s words. “So— if Clara was, like, nine—”

“Eleven, actually. It’s 1830 now, remember?”

“Alright, eleven. If Clara was eleven… You said Robert quit law school to study music.” Y/N’s narrowed eyes widen as she regards Harry, as if asking him to contradict her suspicions. “How old was Robert?”

“Around twenty, I think.” Harry says casually, lifting his shoulder in a light shrug. “He was born in 1810, so— yeah. He would’ve been twenty.”

“Twenty?” Y/N yanks her hand from Harry’s as she fully twists her body to face him, as if just hearing the horror in her voice isn’t enough. “He was twenty? I thought this was a love story?”

“It is! It’s just—”

“No, it’s not! It’s gross!” Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Y/N shakes her head harshly, her loose hair spilling over her flushing cheeks. “A twenty year old shouldn’t—”

“He didn’t! Nothing happened until they were older, love.” Harry captures Y/N’s hand within his own again, smoothing over her knuckles as he hurries to reassure her. “And it was the nineteenth century… a nine year age gap in a relationship wasn’t exactly uncommon.” For a brief moment, Harry wonders what Y/N would think if she knew just how much older he really was than her. Would she react with the same horrified expression she had now? Yank her hand from his again as she had just done?

“Yeah, well…” Y/N’s appearance is still bristled as she shoots Harry a condemning look. “There’s a difference between a nine year age gap and a child—”

“Nothing’s happened yet, sweetheart.” Harry bites back the involuntary laugh that bubbles through his chest at the indignant tone of her voice. “Now can I continue? Or do you want to yell some more?”

Although her response is grumbled, the mortal girl mutters, “Fine. Continue.” as Harry lifts her knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand.

“Thank you.” He lowers her hand back down to his thigh, smoothing it over his trousers before continuing where he’d left off. “So Robert studies under Clara’s father and stays with them for a year. And although Clara and Robert were just friends, Friederich could tell that they were becoming close, which he didn’t like. And before you say anything,” Harry watches as Y/N’s lips twitch into a frown. “It wasn’t because of Robert’s age. Friederich didn’t want Clara to fall in love with anyone; he just wanted her to focus on her music. He still wanted his child prodigy, you know? So he began to take her on tours through Europe. But by the time Clara was sixteen, it was clear that she and Robert had feelings for each other. They wrote countless letters to each other, signed them ‘your special friend’... And when Clara turned eighteen, Robert asked Friederich for his permission to marry his daughter. And Friederich said no, because that would ruin his plans for Clara’s music career.”

Despite her hesitation at the relationship, Y/N still mutters a quiet “Harsh.” at the story.

Harry’s hands return to the keys, but this time, they do more than hover. He begins to press a few notes slowly, letting one ring out completely before moving to the other, and it takes Y/N a few moments to realize that he’s playing an actual melody, albeit a deconstructed one.

“Because Clara wasn’t twenty-one yet, they needed her father’s permission to marry, so Robert took the case to court. And it was…” His fingers stutter over the keys for a moment as his face twists up, remembering how the story had decorated the society pages of newspapers back then. “Messy. Really messy. But in the end, Robert won the case, and he and Clara were married. And they wrote all this beautiful music together…” Harry’s left hand joins his right over the piano, moving with more intention now as he adds a quiet harmony to his slow melody line. “They weren’t good with words, but they were good with music. That’s how they communicated with each other. You can hear the love in everything they wrote, the devotion they had for each other. Listen,” He says in a hushed voice, the melody of the music becoming unbearably sweet. “D’you hear it?”

“I do.” Y/N nods softly, her fingers massaging Harry’s thigh muscle as he continues to play. It’s not a lie, either; there’s a sincerity in what Harry’s playing that twists within her chest.

Or maybe, she thinks, her eyes trained in the profile of the man beside her, it’s just Harry.

“Didn’t you…” Y/N hesitates both in her words and her motions over Harry’s leg as a new thought tugs at her mind. “Didn’t you say the story had a sad ending? That all seems good, isn’t it? Clara and Robert got married, wrote music together…”

Harry’s fingers begin to slow down, returning to the reduced melody he’d been playing previously, as if weighed down by the knowledge he’s about to share. “Uh, yeah. Robert had a lot of problems— mental health issues. Later in their marriage, he became manic, had episodes where he saw angels and demons… and he was worried he’d hurt Clara.” Harry says quietly, risking a glance at the girl beside him, who’s watching him with such wide and trusting eyes that he almost can’t bear it. Harry knows what it’s like to fear hurting the ones you care for. “He tried to kill himself, and when he was unsuccessful, he asked to be taken to an insane asylum. And he never went home again. He died there, just a few days after Clara was finally allowed to visit. S’like…” Harry’s fingers pause over the piano once more. “S’like he was waiting for her. Before going.”

Detecting the emotion in his voice, Y/N raises her hand from his thigh, smoothing back a few loose curls before gently setting her palm over the curve of his neck. “That is a bit of a tragic story, I’ll admit. To have fought so hard for each other for so long… And then to lose all of it like that…”

“Yeah.” Harry clears the lump from his throat as subtly as he can. He’s certainly no stranger to loss, to feeling helpless at being unable to save someone you love… He knows that pain all too well.

As if she can sense the darkness in his mood, Y/N rubs a comforting hand across his shoulder and down his arm, drifting over his inked skin with a warm touch. Her comment, however, is more lighthearted than her caring caress.

“I still think the age gap is a little weird. How do you go from writing letters about being ‘special friends’ to falling in love?”

Harry rises to her baited joke, doing his best to shake himself from his introspective thoughts as his fingers begin to drift over the keys once more. He focuses on just his right hand now, playing out an absentminded yet tender tune as he speaks. “So if I started to call you my special friend, you wouldn’t like it?”

“God, no— that sounds awful.” Y/N scoffs, her own hand drifting to the ivory keys. “We’re sleeping together, not making mud pies in a kindergarten class.”

Harry’s laugh is more genuine as he begins to slow down his playing, plucking only single notes that Y/N echoes in the lower register of the piano. “Alright, fine. Not special friends, then.”

“There’s just so many cooler historical ways to say we’re having sex, y’know? None of that ‘special friend’ bullshit.” Y/N continues to match Harry’s notes as best she can, wincing every so often as she plays a dissonant key. “Like… ‘lover.’ That’s a good one. Nice and simple. Or—” Her eyes light up with mirth as the thought pops into her head. “Courtesan to the queen. Not as simple, but it certainly rolls off the tongue.”

Harry quirks a brow at the suggestion. “And you’ll be the queen in question, I presume?”

“Of course. Do you have a better idea?”

“‘Paramour’ is a neat little name, don’t you think?” Harry asks, his fingers pressing down a simple perfect fourth on the piano to punctuate his question. “Sounds pretty elegant. Understated.”

“If you want understated…” Y/N matches the top note of Harry’s interval, already knowing she wouldn’t be able to match the actual notes without hurting both of their ears. “We could do what historians do when talking about ancient queer couples. Say we’re just good friends.”

The creature hums in acknowledgment at the back of his throat. “We could, yeah. Or we could be mistresses. Is there a word for a male mistress?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his lips pull into a quizzical frown. “A master?”

“Jesus Christ, never refer to yourself as a master again.” Y/N groans loudly, her fingers slipping from the keys as she feigns a shudder. “That just sounds creepy. Even creepier than a special friend. How about…” She tries her best to stifle a wry grin as a more vulgar alternative pops into her head. “The Whore of Babylon?”

“Fuck’s sake, what did I say about slut-shaming me?”

“I just thought it’d fit! It has a nice ring to it! But if it really irks you that much— Oh, wait—” She quirks her head to the side, a new wave of amusement lighting up her eyes as she thinks of her next step in their game. “What about ‘special advisor’? You know, like we’re in a historical drama, and I have a kingdom to defend from oncoming war, and you’re my most trusted advisor, and when my husband is away with the army, you and I sneak off into my chambers…”

Although he giggles boyishly at the suggestion, Harry can’t ignore the twinge of jealousy that shoots up his spine at the mention of Y/N’s— albeit imaginary— husband. He doesn’t like being referred to as her side relationship, even in an imaginary world of queens and wars. Even then, he wants to be Y/N’s first choice.

Because she’s his, he realizes, his fingers continuing to pluck out single ivory notes as a way to deal with the impending ball of tension that’s growing inside his abdomen. Even in a game, in an imaginary world, in any way imaginable— Y/N is his first choice.

He just— he wants her, in every sense of the word. And he knows all the reasons he shouldn’t— he knows how reckless it is to allow a human to get so close to him, how he’ll never truly be able to be honest with her, how he’ll always be using her for her blood, how he can’t give her the human relationship she deserves. But he can’t stop from thinking about Robert and Clara, who fought for each other from the very beginning, who persevered through every challenge thrown their way, and who still only got sixteen years together before circumstance tore them apart.

Harry is here. He is— for all intents and purposes— theoretically alive. And the girl he wants more than anyone else is right next to him. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’ll be difficult, but does he not owe it to those who ran out of time to try? At the very least? Does he not owe it to himself to fight for the happiness he’s spent so long evading, all out of fear?

He can manage that. He can manage his cravings around Y/N enough to take only what he needs, and never anything more. He can manage his double life and keep her from falling victim to the darkest corners of his mind. He can manage his strength enough to treat her as delicately as he’d treat a butterfly. He can manage the most monstrous parts of himself. He can do that for Y/N.

But only if she wants him to.

It’s that hesitation that brings a tremor to his hands as they pause over the keys, poised over the lacquered surface that he can barely tear his gaze from. “A special advisor sounds fun, yeah. Or you could…” Harry clears his throat roughly, sweat pooling across his brow as he fiddles with the opal ring on his pinky. He twists it back and forth around the digits, only managing to spare one look from the corner of his eye at Y/N’s quizzical face before dropping his stare back down to the piano.

“Or you could, um… you could just… call me your…” Say it, the voice in his head practically yells. It’s just one word. It’s not that hard. “Boyfriend. You could just call me your boyfriend.”

A heavy pause fills the air in the large room, and Harry feels like he’s being suffocated. His voice grows fainter when he detects the sudden hitch in Y/N’s breath, but nothing else. He finds himself wanting to fill the empty space between them with something, or else he might pass out from the nerves. “If you… If you want, that is. It would just keep it simple. Plain and simple.”

Plain and simple, Y/N thinks as her hands curl together in her lap, slotting between her thighs as if the pressure of her clamped legs can keep her from feeling how they shake. It would keep it plain and simple.

But when has their relationship ever been simple?

It should’ve been simple, and the mortal girl knows this. Two consenting adults, calling each other every once in a while for a bit of release— that’s simple. That kind of relationship doesn’t have any pressure. There’s no need to try and impress one another, or to meet any expectations. That kind of relationship is no muss, no fuss, and no strings attached. That was how they had started, and it had been simple. It had been easy. It had been uncomplicated.

And it also hadn’t been that way for a long time.

Y/N’s known for a while now that the line between two friends having sex and being in a committed relationship has become increasingly blurred; that was all but confirmed when Harry nearly pitched a hissy fit when he saw her coming home from her date with Jacob. But even with all of the dates, the gifts, the phone calls during her lunch breaks, the homemade dinners and drinks and desserts, even with all of that— Y/N never thought that they’d actually arrive at this moment. This moment, in Harry’s apartment, their bodies pressed together on the small piano bench, his fingers fidgeting nervously as hers are pressed between her thighs, with the word boyfriend dangling over their heads like a sword.

She can’t pretend she hasn’t thought about it, because she has. And she can’t pretend that her thinking about it doesn’t usually lead to her daydreaming about it, because it does. It’s why she spends the majority of her downtime wrapped in Harry’s rainbow cardigan, and why she’d picked out his button down shirt to wear tonight. It’s why she’s talked about him to her friends, why she’s begun to speak about him casually to her coworkers, instead of hiding in the storage closet when he calls her on her break. Because even though they aren’t together— even though they’re friends in the least and seeing each other at the most— it had been nice to pretend that either of them were capable of being more.

Y/N is no stranger to heartbreak, and she’s spent long enough studying her own commitment issues to be able to recognize them in someone else. Harry had pretty much told her in the beginning that relationships weren’t his thing, that he didn’t want to be defined by a label that could so easily be broken. And Y/N, who hadn’t opened herself up since Bradley, had been inclined to agree. Relationships are messy, and labels only bring expectations that would eventually not be met. Seeing each other is easy. Seeing each other is breezy. Seeing each other leaves room for interpretation, for allowances, for excuses to be made if one of them suddenly changes their mind. Seeing each other is plain and simple.

Boyfriend.

The truth of the matter is that Y/N shouldn’t be so terrified of such a simple word. In all forms and fashion, Harry practically already is her boyfriend— he literally calls her his girl during sex, for fuck’s sake. They do everything that a normal couple does, and have been doing it for a while now. She’s fairly certain that calling Harry her boyfriend instead of the guy she’s seeing wouldn’t actually change their relationship that much. But if she’s honest with herself, Y/N knows that it isn’t their present day situation that’s sending a cold sweat down her back. Boyfriends, from her limited experience, lead to fiancés, which lead to husbands, which lead to children and a white picket fence in an unassuming suburb. That was the exact life she’d come to L.A. to escape— how could she willingly fall back into it?

And then she hears Harry exhale shakily, his thumb fumbling with the opal ring on his pinky, and she knows exactly how she could willingly fall back into it.

This is Harry. Harry, who tells her the stupidest jokes that can somehow still make her laugh. Harry, who gives her all of his attention every moment that they’re together. Harry, who listens to every story about rude customers without complaining once, hanging onto her every word as if what she says matters more than life itself. Harry, who makes her believe that it does. Harry, with entrancing emerald eyes, shining chestnut curls, intricately inked skin, and the most comforting arms she’s ever been held in. This is Harry. Not Bradley. Bradley wanted the wife, the white picket fence, the house filled with children. Harry— as far as she can tell— just wants her. And she just wants him.

Plain and simple.

Y/N extracts one of her hands from between her legs, snaking it over Harry’s, where she captures one of his fiddling hands in her grasp. Intertwining their fingers, Y/N fixes her gaze onto his opal ring as she hesitantly swipes her thumb over his cool knuckles.

“Yeah,” She whispers the word, as if speaking any louder could break whatever it is that’s brewing between them. “Yeah, that could work. I’d really like that.”

The human girl watches from the corner of her eye as Harry’s lips, which he’d been gnawing on nervously while waiting for her response, slowly curl into a hesitant grin, as if he’s nervous to show how anxiously he’d been waiting for her to answer. He keeps his sea glass eyes glued to their tangled hands, his own fingers contracting to test their grasp.

Harry knows that it’s selfish of him to be so happy that the girl he cares for is entering into a relationship with a monster. But seeing as how he’s the monster in question, he can’t make himself feel guilty for it. All he feels is the elation that’s slowly spreading through his entire body, and the determination that’s chasing it. He can do this. He’s strong enough. He can be strong enough for her.

“Can I…” His voice is just as quiet as hers, nearly cracking at the end when he finally lifts his gaze to her heated cheeks, wide eyes, and stained lips. “Can I kiss you?”

A tender laugh falls from those stained lips as Y/N combs his curls back over his ear, dragging her thumb over the sharp lines of his jaw. “You do that all the time, so the answer is obviously yes, isn’t it?” She thumbs down the muscles in his neck, until her palm settles over the collar of his shirt to fist the fabric between her grip. “You don’t even need to ask anymore.”

“It never hurts to ask. And this time…” Harry worries his bottom lip back between his teeth before he soothes the bite mark with his tongue. “It’s different. We’re different.”

“Not too different.” Y/N leans forward until their noses nudge against each other, their mouths kept apart only by an inch. She cards her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting the locks around her digits in a way that’s so much softer than Harry thought possible. “Still us, yeah?”

The taste of honey and lavender is so thick on the back of Harry’s tongue that he’s almost choking on it, but he’s never felt less thirsty in his life. He has this under control. He can tame this. He can.

“Yeah.” He inhales deeply through his mouth, as if he were relishing the bouquet without tasting the wine, and slots their lips together with ease.

Although they’ve shared countless kisses over their months together, this might win the record for the gentlest that they’ve ever shared. There’s no rush, no animalistic need to pull Y/N closer and tighter against his body. There’s only her burning warmth, her silky skin, and her sugar and flower flavour washing out the black tea that had been lingering on his taste buds. Harry has never felt closer to being human again than he has in this moment. Right now, they’re not a predator and his prey; they’re simply two people who, against all odds, have managed to find each other. And Harry is owed this happiness. He knows he is.

The rest of the night passes in a blissful haze of comfortable domesticity. They eat dessert on Harry’s couch, feeding each other bites of raspberry sorbet in between giggles and banter. It’s something they’ve done countless times before, but there’s something different about it now; maybe it’s the fact that Harry knows that Y/N isn’t going to push him away now. She wants him. She wants him. She’s leaning into his touch every time he brushes his knuckles over her cheek, laughing at his poorly-timed jokes, gazing at him through her lashes in a way that stirs desire in the very pit of his belly. They’re comfortable together, and for the first time, Harry is realizing just how wonderful that is.

It’s the only thing on his mind as they stand side by side in front of his double vanity in his en suite, his gaze tilted to the side to watch as Y/N removes her makeup with some wipes she’d packed in her overnight bag (Harry makes a mental note on the brand so that he can pick them up the next time he finds himself near the drug store). He’s never had such casual comfort and ease with someone like this before; the last time he’d found himself in a relationship, it had been in a time where maids were required to help lace and unlace corsets and valets prepared him for bed. There was never a chance to watch as someone he cares for ties their hair back in a loose ponytail before rubbing cleanser into their skin. He never got to observe the quiet, intimate moments of someone’s bedtime routine. In the early days of their relationship, Y/N had never had a chance to properly take her makeup off before Harry was tugging her into bed, her lipstick smeared across his face as much as hers. This is his first time really witnessing that transition, and he likes it more than he thought he would.

There are, however, a few things that he knows Y/N likes before bed, and he gives her a moment of privacy to change into her pyjamas while he makes the quick trip to his kitchen to fill a tall glass with cold water. He doesn’t need to grab an extra blanket this time— he’d already made sure to toss the knit afghan onto his bed before Y/N arrived, and he finds it draped over her body when he returns to his bedroom.

“You look cozy.” He comments with a fond smile, handing the mortal girl the glass of water as he pulls back the other half of the blankets. He climbs underneath the covers, propping his elbow up on his pillow as he lies on his side to watch as she takes a sip of the drink. “Y’alright, love? Need anything else?”

Y/N shakes her head as she sets the glass down on the bedside table and settles back into her pillows, stifling a yawn into the back of her hand. She always gets sleepy after she has a few drinks, something she’d explained to Harry— much to his amusement— a few weeks prior, after a movie night at her house when he’d made his famous margaritas. They’d been having a Harry Potter marathon, and they’d barely begun the second before her eyes had started to flutter closed.

“I’m good, I think.” She tugs the blankets up to her chin, tilting her head to the side to find Harry already staring at her with a soft expression. “Actually…” Extending a hand to him, she lifts her covers off her body enough to indicate what she wants. “C’mere.”

A boyish giggle falls from the vampire’s strawberry lips, and he flicks off the lamp before crawling towards Y/N in the enveloping darkness. He folds himself right into her side, opening his own arms for her to slide into, but is surprised when her hand finds his shoulder and tugs him closer to her.

Harry takes the hint and hesitantly settles himself onto her own body, allowing the mortal girl to rest his head along her collarbones, his ear finding a home just above her beating pulse. One of her hands knots itself in his hair, delicately detangling his messy curls as the other finds a home on his naked shoulder blade, rubbing over his defined muscles with the hottest touch Harry has ever felt.

It’s a vulnerable position, one that Harry hasn’t been in for decades. And yet, instead of feeling the usual mix of fear and trepidation, all Harry can feel is comfort. The combined sensation of Y/N playing with his hair and massaging his shoulder is more pleasurable than he ever could’ve assumed. A month ago, that would have confused him. But now… he exhales softly as Y/N’s nails lightly scratch along his scalp. He can be vulnerable with her. He trusts her. And, to his extreme luck, she seems to trust him.

A few minutes pass with nothing said between the pair, the silence around them punctuated with only the sound of their breathing and Y/N’s lone heartbeat. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think that Y/N had fallen asleep, but his sharp senses know that’s not true; her pulse is still a few beats faster than it normally is, and her breathing hasn’t completely evened out yet.

Sure enough, Harry’s suspicions are confirmed when Y/N whispers into the darkness a moment later, as if she could hear him mentally assessing her body language. “Harry?” Her voice is gentle, halfway between a whisper and a murmur, as if she’s afraid to be any louder. “Are you awake?”

Harry bites back the smirk that threatens to overtake his lips. “Mhmm.” He hums, nuzzling his head further into Y/N’s caring touch. “Still awake.”

She matches his hum of acknowledgement, the pads of her fingers pressing deeper into the knots of his back. “I was wondering…” Her voice thickens with hesitation. “Would you, um, would you sing for me?”

Without completely lifting himself from her chest, Harry raises his eyes to meet her own, her fingers pausing their motions through his locks as he does so. “Sing?” He asks, taken off guard by the out-of-the-blue request. “Y’want me to sing?”

Although there’s a shadow of shyness across her face, Y/N nods slowly. “I heard you humming earlier today, while you were cooking, and it sounded nice, so I was just thinking about it…” She clears her throat nervously, and Harry can hear the wave of blood that rises to her cheeks. “But you don’t have to. I know it’s late—”

“No, petal.” Harry hurries to ease her, a frown settling onto his face as he hears her breathing grow shallower with anxiety. “S’fine. No need to get shy.” Harry is amazed at how smoothly the reassurance falls from his lips. “Yeah, I’ll sing for you. Any requests?”

Despite him telling her not to be shy, Y/N just shrugs her shoulders in response to his question, her eyes locked on the ceiling above them as if she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze. Harry plants a kiss along her clavicle before settling back into her plush chest, mentally running through the catalogue of songs he’d been humming earlier. He should pick something soft, he thinks. Something like a lullaby.

Y/N resumes her gentle combing through Harry’s locks, mostly to distract herself from his thoughtful silence. She shouldn’t have asked him to sing something— he’d made it clear earlier that playing the piano for people was something that made him nervous. They’d sung together playfully multiple times, and Y/N could tell that Harry has a pretty voice, but half-singing, half-rapping along to the Hamilton soundtrack is so different than singing to her in the darkness of his bedroom. She shouldn’t have asked. In fact, she should tell him to just forget it, and—

“I had a thought, dear, however scary, about that night, the bugs and the dirt.” Harry’s low vibrato echoes around the previously silent room, his voice no louder than a murmur. Y/N can feel the vibrations of his vocal chords against her chest, a quiet hum that soothes her like nothing else ever has. “Why were you digging? What did you bury, before those hands pulled me from the Earth?”

Harry clears his throat quietly between the stanzas, his own eyes drifting close. He’s never been one for stage fright— he’s always been eager to show off his vocal skills, and there’d been a time when all he wanted was to sing on stage in a smoky speakeasy. But this— singing in the quiet of his bedroom for an audience of one— is more intimate than he’s used to, and he knows if he catches Y/N’s observant gaze right now, he’ll lose his nerve.

“I will not ask you where you came from; I will not ask and neither should you.” Harry tunes his ear to the steady pulse of Y/N’s heart, using the rhythm as a makeshift metronome to keep his time. To keep himself steady. “Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss like real people do.”

Harry feels a spike of warmth against the top of his head, and it takes him a moment longer than normal to realize that it’s Y/N’s lips pressing against his hair. As he continues to sing, she times her caresses of his ringlets with the beat of his words, which he keeps timed with the beat of her heart. They’re in a cycle, he realizes as he quietly sings the second verse into her skin. She’s lined up with him as he lines up with her. They’re locked together, steadying the other while relying on them to keep them steady in return. For the first time in two hundred years, Harry feels truly in sync with someone.

“Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,” Y/N’s mouth smudges against his temple once more as he nudges his nose along the base of her throat, allowing himself to press his own lips against the satin skin of her chest, just over her heart. He feels like he could stay in this moment forever, which means something given that he truly does have forever. He’d spend every second of the rest of eternity frozen in this instant, if the world allowed it. He’s content, and relaxed, and cradled in his duvet with the one other soul who has somehow managed to thaw the coldness from his stony heart. For the first time in too long, he feels like an actual person again. He isn’t bogged down by his carnal instincts, or by the fear of losing his composure, or by the fact that he doesn’t have a thumping rhythm behind his ribs.

He doesn’t need all of that because he has Y/N, and she makes him feel more real than all of those aspects ever could.

“We could just kiss like real people do.”

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