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gloomwitchwrites · 3 months ago

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Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Three

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, dubcon showering, dubcon nudity, power imbalance, sexual tension, brief description of canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.4k

You and Ghost shower together. He answers your questions. The reality of your situations comes to light.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Carapace nest. Gator teeth. Swamp water.

Survival. Survival. Survival.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

Empty words. Nothing more than a tree hollowed-out by rot.

You slap Ghost’s hand away, uncaring if the action will draw his anger. The brute doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Don’t touch me,” you growl, forcing yourself to hold eye contact with him.

With a soft snort of amusement, Ghost’s head tilts slightly, gaze assessing. You won’t be the first to blink—the first to look away. Glancing down is a show of submission, and you refuse to bow out and make yourself appear weak. It hurts though. A deep pain like a drill to your skull.

Rolling his shoulders, Ghost retreats a step.

It’s a small thing, and you should feel victorious. Yet it’s more like permission, as if he’s allowing this behavior by the grace of his sincerity. The urge to break eye contact flares hotter—bites deeper—and Ghost’s refusal to drop his gaze only makes it that much harder.

Backward step after backward step. A languid sway until he reaches the chair. He slowly eases down into it, sighing loudly, stretching his legs until he’s spread out and comfortable. Relaxed and unhurried, Ghost begins to remove his gloves, absently tossing them onto the floor, revealing tattooed knuckles. Flexing his fingers, Ghost forms a fist, and then relaxes the tendons, repeating the process a few times.

Leaning forward, Ghost starts to unlace his boots. There is no hurry to it. The fact that he’s completely comfortable grates at your patience. He slips off one boot and moves to the other. He reaches for his weapons next, removing his pistol and knives.

“Enjoying the show, love?” he asks dryly.

You roll your eyes and remain mute.

This power dynamic is frustrating, and you’re sick of him pushing your buttons, forcing you into corners. Only moments ago, Ghost was telling you to strip down and shower, to give him something to watch.

No. You’re not playing this game.

If he’s so goddamn adamant about you dipping under the hot water, then so fucking be it. If he wants you to shower—you’ll fucking shower. He wants to see you naked and dripping wet? Fucking fine.

You’ll put on a goddamn show.

Bending forward, you reach for your boots, unlacing then kicking them to the side. Ghost notices, his gaze drifting upward yet he remains silent, his movements staying steady and unhurried. It’s when you wrench your jacket off and start lifting your shirt that Ghost begins to slow. The dirty, blood-drenched shirt crackles as you pull it up and over your head. You drop it onto the floor without giving it a second glance.

Ghost has his hands on his belt, but it’s almost like he’s not moving at all. His gaze lingers on you, and though you pretend not to notice, his chest heaves slightly. Reaching behind your back, you pop the clips on your bra. The flimsy material slides away. Behind the skull mask, Ghost’s eyes grow wide.

You don’t allow yourself space to linger on what you’re doing or if this is a radically poor decision. As the bra hits the ground, you’re already undoing the front of your pants, shoving them down along with your underwear, revealing everything.

You unfurl slowly. Full frontal and bold.

Ghost is motionless. All you can see are his eyes as they dart around, taking in your nakedness. You retain that eye contact, daring him to say anything, to give himself a good look since he wanted it so badly.

Those brown eyes of his roam up, connecting with your gaze. He stills. Coughs. Clears his throat. Glances away.

Fucking men.

You extend your arms out slightly like you’re presenting yourself for his inspection. “Are you?” you counter before placing your hands on your hips.

Ghost keeps his gaze averted, unspeaking.

With victory singing beneath your skin, you turn right, striding toward the shower. The promise of hot water is tantalizing. Not that you don’t have hot water where you’re from, but it’s not automatic. It’s not available with a simple turn of a handle. That’s a luxury from before, and it shouldn’t exist. Yet it apparently exists here.

The promise of a hot shower nearly overtakes whatever adrenaline-fueled nonsense that drove you to strip down in front of Ghost. Now, you’re naked and vulnerable and trapped in a room with him. There is no place for you to flee to. No chance for escape. No privacy.

With your back to the room, you place your hand on the knob below the showerhead. It gives easily under your palm. There’s a rattle—a clanking coming from behind the wall—then water shoots out.

You gasp, stepping back.

It’s ice fucking cold.

The bastard lied. He lied.

Your nipples harden, and your skin pebbles. Instinct kicks in, and you cross your arms over your chest, covering your breasts in a protective gesture.

But just as you’re about to turn away from the icy spray—to curse the skull-faced fucker out—the chill dulls into a lukewarm ache.

You pause. Wait.

The water is warming. It’s actually warming.

“Oh my God,” you sigh as the water heats further. “Oh God.”

Cupping your hands under the spray, the water pools in your palms. You bring it up to your face, eyelids closing as you splash it over your skin. A little giggle escapes you, your smile so wide it hurts your cheeks. Standing directly under the water, you allow it to run all over you, warming you everywhere until you’re almost bouncing on your toes.

Opening your eyes, your gaze scans the wall, and the small nook nestled there. You lean in, and read the labels. There’s shampoo, a bar of soap, and—you blink, shaking your head as if your eyes deceive you. Reaching out, you snag the second bottle and turn it.

It’s conditioner. Fucking conditioner.

Absurd. Ridiculous. How do they even have this?

Back home, shampoo and soap are handmade. Flowers are dried and added to give scent, but that’s only ever for part of the year. They’re usually unscented. Conditioner is unheard of, and if someone needs to give their tresses a lift, they might use a few drops of oil warmed in the palm and applied to wet hair.

Placing the bottle back, you reach for the soap.

A large, muscled arm covered in tattoos appears to the left of you. It extends forward, palm resting firm and flat against the wall. You stare at it, surprised, but it’s fleeting. A solid body bumps into you from behind, forcing you forward. The hot water no longer rains down on you but on the man directly behind you. The very naked, very large man.

His other arm appears to your right, that hand also pressing flat against the wall. You’re caged in. Trapped.

Ghost groans with contentment as the water rushes over him. “Told you there was hot water,” he sighs. He shifts, and you feel all of him, including a hardening appendage that pokes you in the hip.

Seriously? This asshole couldn’t wait?

Glancing over your shoulder, you give Ghost a scowl, only for your stomach to flip upon seeing him. Beneath the skull mask, you weren’t sure what you’d find. Not like you thought about it in any decent capacity. Curious, sure, but also cautious.

What you weren’t expecting was someone attractive. Handsome. Not in the traditional sense, but in the ruggedness of his features. Strong but also scarred.

Goddamn it. Fucking shit.

You should feel nothing for him. He’s taken you hostage, intending to take you somewhere for…processing. Whatever the fuck that means.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you ask with as much venom as you can muster.

“Showering,” he replies with a sigh. Ghost runs his hand over his face and then his head, slicking back his blondish-brown hair. The eye black is smudged now, running away in little rivers down his face.

“That’s obvious,” you retort. “But you couldn’t wait until I was done?”

Ghost shrugs. “Hot water is limited.”

“Oh.” You snort. “How fucking convenient.”

With a slow roll of his neck, Ghost lifts his head and stares directly at you. “I’ve been out in the bloody wilderness for over a month. Same unit. Same blokes. Breathing the same air. Spending all goddamn day together. Forgive me for wanting to enjoy a simple comfort.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “Is that why your dick keeps stabbing me in the side?”

Ghost chuckles and runs his hand over his mouth. “Just told you I’ve seen the same ugly mugs for over a month.”

“And?” you counter. “That’s an excuse?”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “It’s a natural fucking reaction when I haven’t seen a naked woman in over a month.” You try to move away from him, and only end up bumping into the shower wall. “What would you like me to do about it?”

“Great question.” You shrug. “You could stick it elsewhere.” Ghost’s eyebrows rise with a hint of a devilish smirk. “I mean—”

“I can think of a few places,” murmurs Ghost.

“Fucking—shut up. Just don’t let it…poke me.”

“Fucking hell,” he chuckles. “Hand me the soap.”

“No.”

Ghost reaches for it. You slap his hand away.

“Oh, love,” he chides. “If you want my friend to stop poking you, being adorably stubborn isn’t going to help things.”

“You’re a disgusting pig.”

“Then hand me the soap. I clearly need it.”

You do not give Ghost the soap. “If you’re going to force this,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Then at least answer some questions.”

Ghost nods like that’s a reasonable request. “And what do I get for answering your questions?” he asks, straightening slightly.

“Soap,” you deadpan.

“No,” he laughs. “I want a scrub down.”

“You want—” You pause, startled, and then quickly cover. “You want what?”

“Suds me up. Scrub me down. I’ll answer your questions.”

You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not. Ask for anything else.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Ghost grins, and you know you’ve messed up. “All right, love. Fine.” He pushes off from the wall, the water falling between your bodies. “Now that the mask is off, you want to try that kiss again?”

You scoff. “I’d rather not touch you at all.”

“Kiss,” says Ghost. “Or a scrub down. You pick.”

“Neither.”

“Those are the two options.”

“And I hate them both.”

“Then I don’t answer your questions.”

You lick your lips, looking away from Ghost’s piercing gaze. Stalling. You’re stalling. You don’t want to choose either option, but he’s offering to answer all your questions. Regardless of what’s transpired, Ghost hasn’t lied to you or been dishonest. Flirty and forward? Yes. Pushing your boundaries just to rile you up? Absolutely.

The kiss would be quick. One and done.

“Fine,” you reply after a few moments of deliberation. “I choose kiss.”

Ghost smirks. “You want to kiss me?”

“Didn’t say want,” you correct.

The smirk lingers, and you suddenly doubt your choice.

“Too late,” he says with a brief shake of his head.

“Too—too late?” you exclaim. “What do you mean too late?”

Ghost shrugs. “I want both now.”

“Oh,” you laugh, blowing raspberries. “Go fuck yourself.”

“My hands no fun,” he muses. “But I’ve made it work the last month or so.”

“Fuck this,” you mutter, turning around.

Ghost’s hand if on the front of your throat in an instant, forcing you back around to face him. “What’s you decision?”

Your heart thunders in your chest. Ghost’s hold is firm but not breath-stealing. This is a show of dominance—a clear signal that he’s the one in charge.

“Is there one?” you ask, even though you fear you already know the answer.

Ghost remains quiet, but his hand on your throat loosens, lingering for a few seconds before dropping away.

The last thing you want to do is give this man any room. And if you agree, what else might he ask for? There’s still the whole night ahead of you, and a singular bed that you’ll be forced to share with him. What can you do in a situation like this?

“I’ll scrub you down,” you murmur. “But I won’t kiss you.”

Ghost nods. He reaches past you, retrieving the bar of soap. He offers it. “Ask me your questions.”

You take it from him, and Ghost straightens to his full height, looking down at you with a neutral expression.

Between your palms, you rub the bar of soap until it lathers. Reaching out with one hand, you pause just before you make contact with his chest.

“Ask me a question,” murmurs Ghost.

He speaks so gently to you that a hint of flustered nervousness arises. You lick your lips, exhaling deeply to absolve the tension. There’s so much you want to ask. Question after question pops into your head, but you’re unsure of which to grab on to.

Clearing your throat, you close the distance, your soapy hand splaying wide over his right pectoral.

The beginning. Perhaps you should start there.

“Why were you after those men?” you ask, moving your hand in a circle.

“They’re terrorists,” he replies blandly.

You rinse your hand. Start lathering again. “That’s all I get?”

Ghost cocks an eyebrow. “You want specifics?”

“Yes.”

Ghost’s gaze briefly flickers away from you. There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s unsure of what to say next.

“Those men were part of a larger group. A group that likes to paint themselves as revolutionaries. Resistance fighters.”

You move up to his shoulder, scrubbing there before descending down his tattooed arm. “It’s common to paint an opposing group as the enemy.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

“They want to live differently, and that’s perfectly fucking peachy. But they go out of their way to try and free others through violence.”

You shrug, scrubbing at his forearm. “Doesn’t sound much different from how you treated me.”

Ghost grasps your wrist, stilling your hand. You glance up at him, finding that his demeanor has completely changed. There’s a look of sheer desperation and anger on his face, but it doesn’t feel geared at you.

“If those men had taken you hostage, they’d have taken their turns. And if you were somehow alive after that, they’d take you to wherever they call home, and keep going until you died or became pregnant.” You go to yank your arm away but Ghost holds firm. “They’re evil, disgusting monsters.”

A little wave of fear rises, swirling to seize your stomach, turning it into a tumultuous storm. “And what you’re doing to me now is kinder?”

Ghost doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch under that question. “We were hunting this group down because they kidnapped a few of our littles. Do you know how they returned them to us?”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“They strapped bombs under their clothes before reuniting them with their mothers.”

“Stop.”

“You asked for specifics,” he replies. “I’m sure you can figure out what happened next.”

The corners of your eyes sting, tears threatening to spill over. All you can think about are Ben’s two little girls and the children you read to during story time. Imagining any of them disappearing like that, only to be reunited in such a gruesome way brings misery to the forefront.

Ghost’s grip on you eases. You withdraw your hand, vigorously rubbing the soap until the bubbles overflow and drip toward the floor.

“They deserved worse than an executioner’s bullet,” murmurs Ghost, his voice firm yet full of grief.

Placing the soap back on the ledge, you gently lift his hand, scrubbing the suds between and over his fingers. His words linger, hanging in the air until you have to ask.

“Were any of them yours?” you ask, voice a near whisper.

Ghost gives a quick shake of his head.

“I’m sorry,” you reply, turning his hand over to reveal his palm. “That’s terrible.” You make slow circles with your thumb. “What will happen to the three you brought back?”

“They’re probably wishing we killed them,” he replies. You nod, swallowing, reaching for the soap again. “Anything else you want to ask me?”

“The emblem on your uniform.”

“What of it?”

You start on his other arm. “What does it mean?”

“The flag of England?” he asks, perplexed.

“No,” you smile, shaking your head. “The other one. With the olive branches. It’s familiar but I can’t place it.”

“It’s the emblem of the United Nations.”

You glance up, hands stilling against Ghost’s muscled arm. “The United Nations,” you exhale, a disbelieving laugh falling on the end of it. “But they don’t exist anymore.” You sound desperate. A bit insane. “Nothing exists anymore.”

Ghost’s gaze narrows. “What do you remember?”

“I remember when we withdrew from NATO. How eastern Europe started to collapse first.” You take a moment, lathering up the soap again. “I remember how country after country declared war. The rationing. The constant threat of a nuclear attack.” You shake your head, scrubbing at Ghost’s skin to distract yourself. “Endless fucking war. And for what?”

“I fought in that war,” says Ghost.

“Good for you,” you mutter, scrubbing harder.

“You’re upset.”

“How observant.”

You keep going, and Ghost takes your wrist again. This time, he’s gentle, stepping closer to you, the water rinsing away some of the residual soap from his skin.

“Ask me something else,” he softly urges.

“How does the United Nations still exist?” you continue. “What’s happened since the collapse?”

Ghost’s expression is grim, and you want to scream.

Did Zac know? Did they know and not say anything? You believed the world to be nothing more than desolation, poisoned from nuclear fallout and disease. Is it all a lie? Or is the destruction not as widespread and extensive as you were led to believe?

“I think you should ask me something else,” Ghost urges again.

The water is starting to cool, and you haven’t even washed your hair.

“I think I’m done,” you mutter, returning the soap to the nook in the wall. You reach for the shampoo, but Ghost grabs it first.

“Allow me,” he says, squirting some into his hands.

You reluctantly turn around, giving him your back. You stay still, and then his fingers slide over your scalp, gently scrubbing. It’s refreshing—relaxing. You sigh, shoulders lowering as the tension leaves your body. Ghost massages the shampoo in, lathering it up.

The two of you fall into silence.

Ghost rinses the shampoo from your hair, and then does his own as you run conditioner through your strands. It’s a quiet back and forth, the two of you moving in and out the water to rinse and repeat.

He reaches for the knob, but you block his forward momentum.

“The water is growing cold,” he says.

“I know,” you murmur. “But you still have black around your eyes.” You gesture at your own face, indicating where there are still smudges on his.

Ghost starts to rub at his face. You step up to him, reaching out to grasp his hands and pull them away from his face.

“Allow me,” you insist, adding a bit of soap to your hand.

With one finger, you swirl it around the suds in your palm. Bringing it up to Ghost’s face, you lightly rub at the faded smudges.

“Have any more questions for me?” asks Ghost. You nibble on your bottom lip. Nod. “Go on then. Ask away.”

Using the tip of your nail, you lightly scratch at a few flecks of black. “What’s the mandate?” Ghost grimaces, and you inwardly flinch. “Is it something bad?” you ask tentatively.

“No. Just—” Ghost sighs. “When someone is found outside the designated safe zones, it’s mandated that we bring them back for processing.”

“That’s what your captain said. That you’re to take me for processing. But I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s reintegration.”

A deep dread forms in your stomach, turning it to lead.

“To what?”

“Society.”

You drop your hand from Ghost’s face. “But I have a home. People that love me. That are waiting for me. I don’t need to reintegrate into anything.”

Even as you say it, you know there is no negotiating. There is pity on Ghost’s face, and you hate it because he knows he’s ripping you from your life, upending everything for some arbitrary rule.

“I won’t go,” and this time your voice is firm. Steadfast.

Ghost turns the knob, shutting off the water. The air rushes in, cooling your skin where the water touches.

“I can’t take you back.”

“You can,” you insist. “You absolutely can.”

“I can’t,” emphasizes Ghost. “In the morning, we’re going home. To the nearest safe zone.”

“No,” you gasp. “I won’t go. I refuse.”

Ghost takes a step forward. Instinct has you stepping back, but it only pushes you up against the wall. “You said you’d behave. That you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“Refusing to take me home isn’t winning you any favors.”

“You’re already on base,” growls Ghost. “There is no going back.”

You smack his chest. “You bastard. You selfish fucking bastard.”

“Don’t,” he warns.

You smack him again. Harder. “Do you get some kind of bonus for bringing me back? An award?” When Ghost doesn’t reply, you form a fist, beating it against his chest. “Or is it something worse?”

Ghost takes a step back but you move forward, raising both fists. You’re ready to swing. Ready to fight.

“Don’t,” he repeats, but you’re seething.

Anger is like a lustful tide, swallowing you down into its depths. “Tell me, Lieutenant Riley. What do you get for bringing me back?” You shove at him, but he hardly moves. “Is it me?” you laugh. “Am I your war prize?”

“Final warning,” he growls, but you ignore him.

“Will they make me your whore?”

The question is a taunt. Airless. Empty. It’s a push. A verbal shove. And it sends Ghost over the edge.

Ghost surges forward, a wall of brute strength and muscle. You stumble backward, only to be shoved up against the wall. His arms rest on either side of your head, his own head bent down, making the space feel small.

“Listen to me,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm and even.

A small voice inside your head tells you to comply, to hear him out. But there is another voice—this one louder and more insistent. It tells you to cause trouble, to put up a fuss.

“Fuck off,” you reply sharply.

Water drips off the tip of Ghost’s nose. It falls onto your breast, rolling toward your nipple. His gaze follows it, and you promptly strike him across the face. The crack is loud. It echoes against the tile wall.

Ghost mouth drops open, skin reddening where you hit him.

Shit. Oh, shit.

With a growl, Ghost pushes off from the wall, lifting you into his arms without effort. You scramble for purchase, surprised by the sudden movement. He takes three steps and then tosses you onto the bed. You bounce as you hit, one arm shooting out to steady yourself, fingers pressing against the wall as you wobble.

You’re fuming now. Raging.

“Going to have your way with me now?” you mock. “Is that part of the mandate?”

Ghost ignores you. Turning away, he heads back to the shower. He grabs two towels off the rack.

“Let me make it easy for you,” you continue, not backing down. You lean back onto your elbows, chest pushed out, legs extended and bent at the knee in front of you. As Ghost steps around the dividing wall, you spread your thighs, revealing your pussy to him. “You can slide right in. I won’t make a fuss.”

Ghost stills, staring down at your naked body. Your chest heaves, nipples hard and erect. It roams over you, and then he’s staring you down, clearly unamused by this outburst.

“You think I’d take advantage like that?” he asks.

“You joined me in the shower,” you counter. “Doesn’t give me much faith.”

Instead of replying, Ghost throws a towel at you. “Cover yourself,” he mutters, turning away, using the other towel to start drying off.

You hold the towel against your chest. Drawing your legs up, you close them, using the towel to cover the little it can. Ghost is still naked, and he appears in no rush to cover himself. You watch him, observing every movement, expecting him to circle back.

But he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even look in your direction. Even when he discards the towel, standing bare in the middle of the room, Ghost continues to ignore your existence.

He strides over, and your cheeks flame as his cock bounces with every step. You look away, staring at the wall as he takes a knee beside the bed. Grunting, Ghost tugs on something beneath the bed. You turn your head just enough to watch.

Ghost tugs again, and out comes a trunk.

He pops the tabs, opening the lid. The first thing he removes is a pair of clean boxer briefs. Ghost stands up, and you have to pretend you’re staring at the ceiling and not what’s swinging between his legs as he puts them on.

He goes down on his knees again, shifting through whatever is inside. As you start to lean forward, curiosity getting the better of you, you’re met with fabric to the face.

“Put this on,” mutters Ghost as he shuts the trunk.

You hold out a shirt, something far too large to fit you properly. Slowly, you tug it over your head, wiggling it down until it comes to mid-thigh. Ghost snags the towel off the bed, taking yours and his back to the dividing wall. He hands them over the side.

“Be honest with me, Lieutenant Riley.” Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. “Please.”

This time, he turns, and you have no idea what he might be thinking. His features are passive. Neutral. You want to dig around, crack him open, figure out the inner workings of his mind. You’re angry, but you’re lost.

A sparrow in a dark forest.

“This mandate. Bringing me back to a…safe zone. When I come out of processing, am I yours? Do I belong to you?” He stares, and a sinking feeling emerges. You need answers. You desperately need them. “Please,” you say, voice cracking.

He takes a step toward you.

Another.

He comes to a stop at the edge of the bed, staring down at you. Fingertips brush against your bare arm. A shiver runs through you.

“No,” he answers. “You don’t belong to me.”

It’s out there. Hanging.

But is it the truth?

“Scoot over,” he murmurs. “Sleep is calling my name.”

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bratbarzal · 6 months ago

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Let It Happen (LH43) 1/3

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

WC: 17k

If you're ready, all I mean is we could go, I've never craved someone's attention as much as yours.

General Warnings: an almost unbearable amount of sarcasm and snark, even more idiotic shenanigans, many affectionate empty threats of murder/violence, fluff, mentions of golf 🤢, cursing and I'm pretty sure that's it for this half

A/N: in line with the general consensus lmao this has been split, part two will be posted as soon as it's finished (lol) but it's best read as one whole fic, it isn't a multi-part situation really!! it was originally supposed to be my submission for the eras tour fic challenge (hence the graphic I'm too attached to to change) but took a different direction to the song I was given, and I missed the deadline, and I pretty much listened to the secret of us exclusively while writing this whole thing. also dropping an overwhelmingly summery fic in december might actually be my brand. keep your eyes peeled for a christmas fic in july.

very special shoutout to shea @sleepretreat I made a random comment one day that luke gives seth cohen energy, and she fanned that flame like a full time job. ily shea!! I hope this lives up to any expectations and I owe a lot to your instigating!!

AS ALWAYS!!! never proofread!! I'll probably get around to it when the thought of a spelling mistake keeps me awake at night. and also!! please let me know what you think I am like a teeny tiny little plant that can only thrive under the constant shower of validation and you don't want me to wither and die do you? (I’m kidding) (I’m not)

You kind of, sort of, think you might hate summer.

You haven’t always felt this way, though. Growing up, it had always been your favourite time of the year.

No school? Check.

Going on vacation, sometimes multiple, all expenses covered by your parents? Double check.

Getting to do all the cool things you don’t have time for in the school year with all your friends? Concerts, festivals, beach days, bonfires on the evenings. Check, check and check again.

But 4 years ago, your whole world as you knew it was torn apart, and summers have never been the same, since.

A season that was once filled with light and companionship, never ending plans and joviality, became darker - isolated, getting yourself out of the house even if everyone else was busy, driving just to drive and making the best of your own company.

School ended up becoming your escape, especially since you had started college - your studies and the chaos of Greek life distracting you from the calamitous state of your home life, making new friends that became like family and sticking to them like glue, where possible, clingy and possessive to the point of ruin, almost - and so the lack of it in the summers now actually sends you into some sort of warped spiral.

It’s manageable in the winter and spring, the breaks no longer than a few weeks at a time, but going home for summer is somewhat of a nightmare.

It’s hard to go back, hard to ignore the mess your mind has become when it’s just you and your mother - or, you, your mother and whatever bottle of pinot she’s 3 glasses deep into at any given time of the day - and you’re sat in a house that’s a cold reminder of the warmth that once filled it.

But when Ellie - your best friend since moving to college, the girl who took the sister part of sorority sister to the next level at all possible opportunities over the years - found out you’d put your name down to be the caretaker for your sorority house instead of going home, she had put her foot down on your summertime sadness session.

Which is how you end up moving into her family home - spending the first few weeks integrating yourself into their routine while trying to grip desperately onto some form of your own - trying not to get too used to the feeling of such a big family when you know it won’t be forever.

You braid her little sister’s hair everyday, kick a soccer ball around with her little brother when he needs someone to stand in goal, wash the dishes with her mom, talk sports with her dad, and before long, you blend like a chameleon into their dynamic.

You pick up a summer job at the country club to cling back onto your independence. Your commute provides the solitude and quiet you‘ve grown accustomed to in the years before, a bus journey through town with headphones on, watching the scenery and admiring the greenery until you get to work, donning your navy blue polo and tucking your little notepad into your hip apron as you serve tables at the clubhouse restaurant and bar.

It’s a much needed escape from Ellie, if you’re honest.

You love that girl with all your heart, appreciate her housing you more than you’ll ever be able to say, but if you have to hear her sit and mope about how hopelessly in love she is with Jack Hughes for even a second longer, you’re going to vomit. Or scream. Or both.

Jack and Ellie grew up together - their families close, Ellie’s dad best friends with Jack’s uncle, or something - and she’s been into him since he had teeth missing - a point she loves to hammer home when it comes to you always listing that as one of his (many, if it’s up to you) cons. Considering his job, and the fact he already lost one, not too long ago, a toothless boyfriend seems like a massive ick, if you’re honest.

But Ellie is beyond reason when it comes to him. She worships the ground he walks on - talks about him non-stop, messages him every day, regales you with stories you, awfully, but realistically, couldn’t care less about - and it’s the only real problem about living with her.

Even beyond the summer, you two had shared a room your first two years in college, still live in the same house - and it’s a year round problem.

But being unable to escape, having your days tied to close to hers, and knowing that it’s bound to be worse with proximity, Jack back in Michigan for the summer, himself, she’s starting to drive you up the wall.

It wouldn’t bother you if you had never met Jack, but the two of you don’t exactly get along. He’s rude, and self-absorbed, and had looked down on you the first time he ever laid eyes on you, and you really shouldn’t let it get to you, but you do - the thought that your best friend is in love with an asshole, and that she won’t let you hear the end of it.

Won’t stop whining about how he’ll never feel the same, or that she can’t handle another summer of biting her tongue, of being around him, feeling the way she does, and not being able to do anything about it.

She deserves better.

Ellie has a heart of gold, and she deserves someone who handles it with care. If Jack Hughes doesn’t like her back, that’s his loss - but you’re kind of getting sick of telling her that.

Getting through a whole summer of it is going to be hard, you think, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than being entirely alone. So you put on a brave face, use work as your escape in the same way you usually do with school, and avoid blowing your top for as long as you can, suffering through the late nights and heart to hearts where Jack is the sole topic of discussion, and bask in the good stuff.

In the chaos of her siblings, in the closeness of her family, and the way they’ve welcomed you with open arms.

This summer could be okay, you’ve just got to give it a chance.

Luke Hughes loves summer.

He loves being back home in Michigan, spending his days out on the lake, or making the trip out to parade around Ann Arbor, catching up with all his college buddies, making the rounds at all the UMich sporting events he now gets a VIP pass to thanks to his last name.

The routine of it all is familiar, and warming, and it restores a sense of normality that playing in the NHL for the past year has so brutally ripped from him, already.

He had enjoyed starting his summer overseas - making the team for the world championships and competing beyond the abysmal end to his rookie season - had enjoyed the time away from his brothers, if he’s honest. Quinn and the Canucks making it a few rounds into the playoffs, and Jack back home recovering from getting surgery on his shoulder - and it’s the latter he needed the reprieve from.

He does love living with his brother.

Jack looks after him in ways he’ll never really be able to make it up to him for. He always has, Quinn has too, but ever since Luke got drafted to the Devils, Jack has helped him adjust to the chaos of his career without much fuss or hardship.

And he really is grateful for that.

But, God, can he be annoying.

Especially when it comes to his infatuation with his best friend, Ellie.

Jack and Ellie have always been close - despite the fact she’s Luke’s age - and grew up thick as thieves, spending summers together, especially when the family moved to Michigan, and Ellie’s family were just on the other side of town.

He’s always been obsessed with her, even if it hasn’t always been love - but these last few years have been different. Like a switch flipped in his head when Jack saw what Ellie was like when he came to visit Luke in his freshman year of college.

A version of Ellie that was no longer just his - no longer exclusive to their summer bubble, and lived in a world beyond lounging by the lake and hanging out with the Hughes family.

A version of Ellie who liked partying, liked schmoozing and charming everybody she came into contact with, liked being the centre of everyone else’s attention, not just Jack’s.

And it’s that version of Ellie that has driven Luke’s brother crazy, which has, in turn, started to drive Luke crazy. He talks about her non-stop, and it was those much needed weeks away in Czechia that almost had Luke forgetting just how stupid his brother has gotten about the whole thing.

Until he came home to Michigan, and Jack, in all the commotion with his shoulder, with ending his season early and starting his summer off alone, has worked himself into such a stupor about the whole thing that merely a week into his return, he has driven Luke up the wall.

He’s grumpy, all the time - which leads to him being snarky, all the time. He huffs and puffs around the house so much Luke is starting to think he might need an inhaler, and he really can’t take any more.

Not when he’s making such a show of his irritation, stomping around with heavy feet and slamming doors that don’t need to be shut in the first place.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Luke frowns as he follows Jack into the kitchen upon his return from therapy, holding out for the doors he swings open with a little too much vigour so that they don’t swing back into his brother’s slinged-shoulder. “I thought the physio is going alright?”

“It is,” Jack huffs, storming over to the fridge and yanking it open, the jars and bottles in the door clanking together in a way that makes Luke cringe. “I’m fine.”

“Tell that to all the hinges you’re testing the limits of.”

“Don’t start with me, Luke, I’m not in the mood.”

“You just said you’re fine.” Luke rolls his eyes as he starts to scroll through his group chat with his friends from college, trying to check who said they might be free today to get him out of this vicious circle.

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly not.” It’s interactions like this that confirm to Luke just how annoying Jack has become - because what reason does he have to be so evasive? Luke is handing him the opportunity to air out his grievances on a silver platter, and he’s rather slam cupboards and create creases in his forehead from frowning 24/7.

“Fine, it’s Ellie.”

Luke wishes he never bothered asking, although he has been wondering why he’s been seeing way less of her already this summer. He had figured Ellie was away with family until he saw her at the gas station the other night - had watched from the car as Jack had what seemed like a heated conversation by the entrance.

“She’s refusing to hang out with me.”

“Has she said why?” Luke asks, although he doesn’t really care. He’s just asking to get it out of the way in the hopes that Jack talking about it might lighten the load, might make his own life a little easier.

It’s the bitter muttering of your name that captures Luke’s full attention, his neck audibly cracking at the speed in which his head shoots up, no longer caring what could possibly be going on with the boys in the group chat.

“She isn’t going back to whatever fiery hell pit it is that she comes from for the summer, and she’s staying with Ellie’s family, therefore Ellie isn’t staying with us.”

Luke hasn’t heard your name in a while. Not since he left college last year, not since he got caught up in the whirlwind life in the NHL, when a schoolboy crush on a girl he interacted with once in his entire college career became the least of his worries.

But one utterance of it has his spine straightening, just like it would have done just over a year ago.

You’re in Michigan. You’re at Ellie’s, on the other side of town. You’re barely two degrees of separation from him.

“Why can’t Ellie bring her here?” Luke asks, throat dry and voice breaking so subtly that he hopes Jack doesn’t notice. That could be fun. Would make up for the hell his brother has been putting him through since he got here.

Maybe a little glorious sunshine might finally get you to notice his existence. He wouldn’t mind third wheeling Jack and Ellie if you were there, too. It would give him the perfect opportunity to prove he’s worthy of your attention - too shy and too scared to do so, back in college, but he’s different, now. Confident, almost. More sure of himself.

“She hates me.” Jack huffs, “Last time we met she was giving me the stink eye all night.”

And of course it would be his brother to ruin his plans, yet again. You’ll probably hate him, too - a hatred so strong for Jack that it seeps through his entire bloodline, because Luke of all people knows he can be annoying like that.

“Trust me, she probably doesn’t care enough to hate you,” Luke scoffs, not realising the spool of information he’s just given Jack to unravel.

“You know her?”

“We had a class together. I know of her.”

Not the truth, but not exactly a lie.

Luke knows a lot about you. It’s borderline creepy, the observations he can still remember, even after so long.

He knows you like only like coffee if it’s iced, had seen you with too many clear plastic cups to count, had watched plump lips chewing at straws by the time you had finished the drink. He had even, one time, tried to zoom in on a picture of your order printed on the side in one of his many states of delusion where he had been trying to build himself up to ask you out.

He knows you can hold your own in an argument, had watched you debate with the best of them in your business comms class, has watched you shoot down most guys that approach you with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit, and has watched you take down a frat guy or two, usually in defence of your sorority sisters - who Luke noticed you’re the most protective of.

He knows you match your perfume to the colour of your outfit, had notice you smelled citrusy like lemons in yellow, floral like roses in pink, sweet like candy in purple, and clean like fresh cotton in blue.

He knows the pieces of hair that frame your face curl when wet from the rain. Knows you used to volunteer at the pool on the weekends it was open to the kids of the community, would teach them how to swim. He knows you listen to Taylor Swift and has heard you humming just about every song of hers he knows.

But he doesn’t really know you - not on the level Jack is assuming, when his eyes widen and hope flashes across his crystal irises.

“You know how I’m your favourite brother?”

“No,”

“And I let you live with me all year?”

“My name’s on the lease.”

“Maybe you could talk to her for me?”

Luke sighs, shoulders heavy and eyes rolling practically to the back of his head. “I already told you, I don’t really know her like that.”

“C’mon, you could at least try! I’m dying here, Luke! She’s hogging all of Ellie’s time, and she won’t give me the time of day if I try!”

If only Jack knew how much time you’d ever given Luke, he wouldn’t be asking him such an absurd request.

You’re so out of his league, it isn’t even funny. He probably couldn’t convince you to light a candle in a power cut, much less to give his annoying brother a shot to prove himself.

“You’re wasting your time, Jack,” Luke responds, “I’m gonna meet Dylan at the club. No, you can’t come.”

And by the time Luke makes it out to his car, he’s relieved to have ditched that conversation, entirely. He knows what’s waiting when he gets home, what his brother is going to be like for the next few months to come, but a temporary relief is all he needs.

He had already been planning on getting a few late morning holes in at the club, and meeting up with Dylan had been a white lie, needing some alone time away from Jack’s incessant whining to think about how he was going to survive the summer - and seeing you on your break, perched on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard by the clubhouse bar, basking in the sun and talking with your co-worker, he feels like he might have just struck gold.

Since when do you work here?

He supposes since you decided to spend your summer with Ellie’s family - it only makes sense. Ellie doesn’t live too far from the club - not as close as the lake house, but closer than Ann Arbor, at least. She’d worked in the club shop last summer, even when Jack insisted he’d pay for whatever she needed while she was staying with them - had said it was nice to pass the time with something else while they all went off doing whatever - and he assumes you’re doing the same.

It’s the first time he’s seen you in a while, outside of coming across your pictures on his Instagram feed occasionally, or the flash of your figure in Ellie’s stories.

He had thought that, after the year he’s had, he’d be over schoolboy crushes like this - would be over the way his breath catches just at the sight of you, over the way the hairs on the back of his neck prick up and stand to attention, over the way his throat goes dry as he watches your eyes crinkle from afar, watches your lips curve up into a heart-stopping grin.

But it’s like he’s picked up straight from where he left off at the end of his college career, pining after you from afar with hearts in his eyes and feet that start to shuffle at just the thought of approaching you.

If he’s going to do this, though, he needs to be clever about it, he thinks.

Approaching you on your break, limited to the amount of time he can use to put his point across, wasting yours, doesn’t seem like something that will work.

Which is how he finds himself bypassing you completely and walking straight into the bar, offering a friendly nod to the guy stood at the front of house, and letting him point him toward the right section to be served in.

It isn’t long before you’re in front of him, sidling up to his booth, and he had almost forgotten how pretty you are up close. Hair clipped up with loose strands framing your face, chewing at your plump bottom lip as you scribble on your notepad to get your pen to work. And your honeyed voice settling deep in the pit of his stomach, warmth spreading throughout as you introduce yourself, like he has no clue who you are, and tell him you’ll be his server, “What can I get for you?”

“Five minutes of your time?”

The Luke that spent his college years obsessing over you might have stuttered - his voice might have broke, squeaked or choked in your presence - but while his throat does feel a little dry, he’s able to maintain his cool now, even when you look up from your scribblings to meet his eye. Maybe he can do this. Maybe he has matured.

His heart might jump in his chest, his mouth might tingle, his spine might stiffen, but he holds your gaze, hoping if you see a reflection of confidence that you might give him the time of day.

He’s seen you interact with guys before, has familiarised himself with the ten-foot walls you have in place, has seen others fold and try find a long way around, but he thinks that maybe matching your energy is the way to break through.

Who doesn’t love a shortcut?

Your eyes narrow back at him as pouted lips form around a response, looking him up and down before tilting your head, and coming back with, “I all of a sudden feel the need to inform you we do have security here,” you point the tip of your pen to the entrance, where he was greeted on the way in. “I meant a drink.”

“Water’s fine,” his gaze flickers to the movement of your wrist as you click the other side of your pen, not even writing it down. “Maybe with a side of conversation?”

“I’ll go get your water,” you offer a smile, and the insincerity of it does little to cool his bravado, even if you head off with mutterings of why do I always get the creeps?

He watches you as you make your way over to the bar, not creep-like whatsoever, and he channels the nerves that sneak up on him, now that you’re distanced, through fiddling with his fingers on the table, pinching at the tips of them when you glance back over your shoulder, probably telling the girl behind the bar just how lucky you were to once again get the weirdo in your section.

It surprises him how little he cares, possessing more of your attention now than he ever has before, and if he could tell the Luke from two years ago, who spent every shared Principles of Marketing class ritualistically watching you chew on the end of your pen, that he’d be able to make eye contact without dribbling and breaking out into full body sweats, he’d have lost his mind.

He embodies a strange level of dislocated arrogance that manifests itself in his body language, sinking into the booth with arms outstretched across the back, a dangerous smirk teasing the corner of his mouth when you return, placing a pitcher of water down on the table and a glass with ice.

“I’m Luke,” he tells you, placing a hand on his chest and doing his best to ignore the thudding he feels beneath it. “Hughes. Jack’s brother,” and when you look back over to him with a raised brow, he adds, “Ellie’s Jack.”

“And who’s Ellie?” You ask with a tilt of your head, your voice dripping in teasing sarcasm.

“Funny,” he quips, biting back the urge to call you what he actually means. He can hardly call you cute, you’d probably pour that water straight over him. “I went to UMich, we had a couple classes together.”

Your eyes narrow again, and he knows it’s an intimidation tactic, a way to make him feel smaller than he’s acting, shrinking him down to a version of himself you can stamp your authority on, but he finds himself being resilient for once, carrying on like he isn’t affected.

He is. Massively, in fact. Just not in the way you probably want. Your indifference drives him in a way that presses into his spine, an inner voice pleading, notice me, I’m breaking through!

“Bauman’s class, Business Comms, you sat in the second row, I sat in the third, you dropped your pencil one time and I-,”

“I know who you are.”

So he’s been yapping on at you for no reason? Fantastic.

He can’t let his momentum slip, though, so he forces the corners of his lips into a victorious smile, and counters, “So you know I’m not a creep.”

“You literally memorised my seat in a class from 2 years ago, so…”

“I have a good memory,” he’s quick to defend, fighting the urge to let his eyes linger on your pouted lips.

“Right,” you roll your eyes, “What is it you want, again?”

“I came to talk about Jack and Ellie.” He nods to the other side of the booth, and has to roll his shoulders so that his chest doesn’t inflate with misplaced hubris when you shuffle into the seat with a huff, discarding your notepad to the side as you level him with another raised brow.

“What about ‘em?”

“About how they’re hopelessly in love with each other and doing nothing about it.”

“You got hopeless right. What’s that got to do with us?”

Us. Oh, he likes that.

“I’m thinking they need a little shove in the right direction. And maybe we could be the shovers.”

You presses your lips together in faux-apology, a lopsided, patronising, adorable frown taking over your expression. “No can do, I don’t shove, I’m a pacifist.”

“A nudge, then?”

He isn’t giving up easy, no matter how much sarcasm you try to throw his way. You wouldn’t have sat down if there wasn’t something about this situation that irks you, too.

If Ellie is being only half as annoying as Jack is, he knows that you’re having a bad time of it. And you’re supposed to spending her summer with her - it can’t be easy, having your friend constantly pining over someone and refusing to do anything about it, if anything, making it your problem.

“Are you here to eat or annoy me?”

“Both,” he smiles, “I just figured a problem shared is a problem solved, and all.”

“How profound.”

“C’mon, you sat down, you at least agree they’re into each other, and I know you’re staying with her this year, so I know you’ve been getting the same grief I have.”

“I’ve been on my feet 4 hours, I wouldn’t look too deep into me sitting down.”

“Jack’s been moping around about her for years, I can’t listen to it anymore, he’s all, she’ll never like me back, this, and, I’ll never find a girl like her, that,” he whines, imitating his brother’s voice in the most annoying, high pitched tone he can muster, “I can’t take one more breakdown of her snap stories, especially not if it’s all summer if she’s not gonna be staying over, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“How supportive,” the sarcasm in your bite does little to hide the beginnings of your smile, your glare softening into what he hopes is the start of some sort of bond, a shared feeling of exasperation. Finding your footfall in common grounds.

“It’s relentless, we can’t go a single conversation anymore without him bringing her up,” he sighs, slumping into his seat, finally giving in to all the ways this is starting to grate on him. “I don’t get why neither of them do anything.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, too, relenting a little. “She talks about him so much it kind of makes me nauseous.”

“How supportive,” he mimics, nerve endings set alight when your eyes meet his over the table, and narrow in a different way, almost appreciative, almost respectable.

“Can it, Hughes,” you scoff, “Me even entertaining this conversation right now is support enough, I’ve had it in my ear for months about how she doesn’t know how she’ll make it through another summer.”

“That’s what I’m saying. If we can get them together this summer, then we’re both better off. No more whining or crying or earaches for either of us.”

“I’d hope you didn’t make your way out here with the mere promise of no more earaches, Luke.” He tries not to preen at the way you say his name. “What’s in it for me?”

“You and Ellie can stay at our lake house.” He suggests, straightening up before he leans onto the table, elbows extending so that he can rest on them, “It’s closer to the club than her family’s place, it’s gotta be better than having her siblings running around you all the time, I can even drive you to work when I’m free, if you want?”

You blink at him slowly, as if to say, and? “So I can stay at your glorified frat house, and you can be my chauffeur?” You ask with an unimpressed raise of your brow, before letting out a humourless scoff of, “What more could a girl want to do with her summer?

“What do you want?” He asks, leaning further forward.

“To go back to work and not worry about strange guys propositioning me, funnily enough.”

Luke laughs, a deep, breathy laugh that rises from the depths of his chest and comes alive in an almost-bark, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker to his mouth when it comes out.

This is fun.

There’s no way he’s letting you leave this table without agreeing - just the thought of one more singular interaction keeping him on his toes.

“Why don’t we make it interesting, then?”

“It’s about time you tried.” The quiver of your lip tells him everything he needs to know - and that’s without the entertained glint in your eye that accompanies it. You’re enjoying this, just as much.

“We could make a competition out of it.”

“A competition?” You ask, with a curious tilt of your head.

There it is, he thinks. Interest: piqued. He practically has you in the palm of his hand. Who would ever have thought, the way to a sorority girl’s heart would be a friendly little wager?

“Whoever actually gets them together, wins.”

It’s all he can think of in the moment - petulant and part-planned, but it seems to be enough.

“Wins what?” You lean onto your elbows, your gaze levelling his as he mirrors your positioning, having to slouch a little further forward in his seat to meet your pretty eyes.

“Whatever you want.” He doesn’t intend it to come out as low as it does, doesn’t realise how close the two of you have gotten over the table, but he sees the flicker of something cross your features as your head tilts again, eyes still locked on his as yours begin to narrow, still just as pretty even when they’re glaring at him.

“It’s what you want that concerns me.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he jibes, watching the way your lips part in preparation of another witty comeback. “What do you say?” He asks, not giving you the chance, seeing the way it makes your skin crawl that you weren’t quick enough, for once. “Are you in?”

You heave out a sigh, shoulders slumping - a tell-tale sign that you’re about to acquiesce - and Luke starts to feel his chest puff out in victory. This feels like a shut-out. It feels like the best performance of his life.

“You’re gonna make me regret this, aren’t you?”

“Oh definitely,” he smirks, eyes tracking you as you lean back into the booth, retreating from him in defeat, a hand running through your hair as he promises, “You’ll warm up to me soon enough, though.”

“I can’t see that happening.”

“I can,” he shrugs, leaning back too. “I’ve been told I’m inevitable.”

Luke can remember, like it was yesterday, the first time he ever saw you.

Freshman year, the week he moved into his dorm at Michigan, Jack had sent him across campus to check in on how Ellie was getting on. He had arrived with some extravagant gift basket in tow, plastic wrapped, a giant blue bow tied around the top and an assortment of snacks inside, and was left knocking for at least five minutes before you showed up.

“Please tell me you’re not another stripper-gram.”

If his throat hadn’t gone so dry all of a sudden, he thinks he would have had more wits about him to have questioned the use of another - a concept that had stuck in his head for weeks until he caught wind of a story of pledges for Pike being sent around campus and forced to lure girls to their house through way of humiliating song.

But God, you were pretty.

Siren eyes narrowed toward him, glossy lips pouted pensively, long lashes blinking impatiently as you awaited some kind of response that didn’t come in the form of an open, drooling mouth.

“I’m Luke.”

“Right.” You had sighed, pretty eyes rolling at him. “You’re blocking my door."

“Oh, I’m-,” he stuttered, immediately stepping to the side for you to come forward and insert your key into the lock. “Does Ellie live here?” He asked, confusion etched into his features as he watched you swing the door open, turning in your place to look him over again.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m Luke.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I know her.”

“Clearly.”

“This is her basket.”

“Does she need to sign for it?”

“No, I-,”

“I’ll make sure she gets it, thanks, Lu!”

And when you had taken the basket from his hands, he had been too distracted by the way your skin brushed against his to properly respond, or worry if you had called him that as a nickname or had already forgotten his name, entirely.

He then spent days thinking about you, looking for you - at parties, in the campus coffee shop, online, despite not knowing your name - trying to commit to memory the way your eyes had sparkled when looking his way, until his first Business Communications class.

He had been a little early, first week nerves playing out and his constant craving for positive validation coming to the forefront, and was watching the door waiting for the professor to arrive. He had been slouched in his seat, chin in the palm of his hand, foot tapping rhythmically against the floor, and he had almost given himself whiplash when you walked in.

He learned your name from there, learned a lot just from watching you in that class, but never really captured your attention.

And if the Luke that has been driving you to work every few days, who has been living with you for the past two weeks - who sits around the same dining table, laughs at the same jokes cracked when you’re all lounging around the house, sits out under the same sun, drinks from the same carton of orange juice in the morning - could tell the Luke that sat pining after you all that time, all the little ways in which he’s captured your attention lately, he’d probably have an aneurysm.

When you and Ellie moved in, Luke had been the only one allowed to touch your stuff - and there’s a part of him that knows it was mainly because you enjoyed watching him work like a packhorse, hauling your cases up the stairs and dropping them in front of you with a huff, but there’s a larger, more delusional part that thinks you preferred him to the others, maybe even trusted him.

He’s taking credit for how quick you’ve adapted to the dynamic of the house, too. Of all the different faces coming in and out - Quinn’s friends, Jack’s friends, his friends, sometimes even his parents. If you’re around, you’re pleasant. You abide by house rules, some of them stupid, but set by the brothers so long ago that they just work now - like no phones outside of your rooms so that you can be more present. You insert yourself comfortably into conversations, you form your own relationships with everyone - you and Quinn trade book recommendations, you and Jack bicker while Ellie mediates. You do your fare share of chores - laundry, dishes, cooking, even.

And he’s so caught up in just sharing space, just being around you, even, that for those first couple weeks, he forgets why you even agreed to be there in the first place.

At least, he forgets the incentive part - because he watches mindlessly as you interfere in Jack and Ellie’s dynamic, without a care in the world for the fact that it means he’s losing.

He watches you push one of them out of the way to claim whatever seat at the table or in the car forces them to sit beside each other. He watches you taunt Jack to just the right point where Ellie interferes, coos at him protectively and he melts into her affections. He watches you agree to plans he knows you wouldn’t in a million years follow along with, just to get them together - and all he can do is admire how easy you make it seem.

He admires when you come out wakeboarding with the group, when you let him fasten you into a vest and don’t flinch when his fingertips brush against bare skin. Watches you bite your tongue over the fact you just got your hair blow dried - a fact you have no problems relaying back to him when he drives you to work the next day, and you’re muttering in his passenger seat about lake water giving you frizz - just so you’re not dampening the mood.

And when you agree to tag along to the golf course on your day off, despite the fact it’s so close to work if could be considered triggering, and you stick by Luke’s side so that Ellie can feign some sort of incompetence until Jack takes it upon himself to correct her form.

You stand by Luke’s side, the two of you watching with mirrored expressions of almost-disgust as Jack wraps his arms around Ellie’s body, and send a shiver down his spine when you lean in for only him to hear as you say, “I’d ask if you’ve put any more thought into what you want out of our bet, but I so have this in the bag.”

The bet.

Luke hasn’t thought about it since that day in the restaurant, if he’s honest, but he had known what he wanted then.

He’s hardly going to tell you, now, though.

If he’s ever going to take you out on a date, he doesn’t really want to force your hand - not that he has a chance, he’s fallen so behind with this Jack and Ellie thing that it isn’t even funny.

He needs to up his game, if only for the fact that you’ll no doubt catch on to his lack of efforts, soon.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he taunts, because it’s what he does best, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“And how long do you plan on keeping them up there?” You call him out so easily, tilting your head when his eyes meet yours, mischief highlighted by the sunshine that speckles in your irises.

“Maybe I’m luring you into a false sense of security,” he shrugs, “Maybe I’m letting you do all the heavy lifting so I can swoop in when those weak arms get tired.” He pokes at your side, basking in the way you scowl like you pertain any sort of threat to him.

He has you figured out, by now.

“I didn’t have you pegged as being lazy, Hughes.”

“You spend a lot of time thinking about me, huh?”

“You wish,” you scoff, shoving when he dares to get too close, and it’s when Luke is biting back a full-blown grin that Ellie comes back over.

“This sun is crazy, I think I left the sunscreen in the locker room and Jack’s nose is going all red, would you come back with me?”

You smile sweetly at your best friend and agree, only glaring at Luke over Ellie’s shoulder when she’s distracted with saying her brief, temporary goodbyes to Jack, and once you’ve turned and made your way over to the cart, he lets his eyes linger on your figure as you retreat.

The soft sway of your ponytail, the expanse of smooth skin along your legs, he’s completely hypnotised, and he needs to pull himself together, he thinks.

He tries to regain focus as he and Jack work their way through the next couple of holes, caddying their clubs around without the cart, and chatting mindlessly until Jack sighs heavily, like he’s been waiting to bring something up.

“I want to take Ellie out on the boat tomorrow,” He states as Luke tees up, resting on his club as he squints against the sun to watch his little brother, “Just the two of us, so we can talk about stuff.”

“Sounds riveting,” the disinterest in Luke’s tone is amplified by the lack of attention he’s giving overall, looking out across the green and trying to measure his swing before he takes it. “Have fun.”

“I was thinking I’d need your help for it to work.”

“I’m not being your boat-butler again,” Luke scoffs, mind immediately going to all the times their parents would make Jack take Luke out with him and his friends, and all the times he was made to wait on his older brother hand and foot to make up for crashing his hang-outs.

“I’m not asking you to tag along,” Jack scoffs, “You third-wheeling would be the ultimate buzz-kill. I thought you could be of use elsewhere.”

“You’re making whatever it is sound so fun.”

Luke takes his swing, driving the ball and watching it soar to his desired point with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Jack watches too, stepping to Luke’s side to measure how far from his own ball it lands.

“Nice,” he mutters appreciatively as the two of them load their clubs into their stand bags. “I need you to keep Regina George busy, distract her or something, she’s stuck to Ellie like glue, it’s beyond annoying.”

If only he knew, Luke thinks, a worry in the back of his mind about how his brother owes more to you than he even realises.

“You worried she’s gonna make her see sense?”

Jack swats at his arm and rolls his eyes.

“I’m worried she’s gonna ruin the good vibes like she usually does and I won’t be able to bite my tongue from saying something and looking like the asshole.”

Distracting you isn’t the worst thing he could be doing with his time, Luke thinks. It’s not like he has to go all out, you’ll no doubt be hanging out around the house and the two of you can hang together. All he has to do is keep you off your phone. Shouldn’t be too hard. You’ve adapted pretty well to mimicking the guys when it comes to staying off theirs.

It ticks off the box of trying to fight for a scrap of your attention. With no one else around, you’ll have no choice but to entertain his company.

And it puts him in front of your little race - lending a helping hand to Jack’s plans to talk to Ellie is surely the same as getting them together. It’s all falling so perfectly into his lap. He isn’t being lazy.

But he can’t let Jack know that, so he heaves out a sigh and offers a slow shake of his head for dramatic effect. “Fine,” he groans, “But you owe me. Big time.”

You’re starting to find it harder and harder to pretend like you don’t want to be at the Lake House.

If you’re being honest, you don’t entirely know why you’re even trying to keep up pretences, but using your disinterest as armour has become like second nature over the years, and you’re hardly going to stop now.

Even if there are already so many little things about being there that are starting to wear you down.

Quiet, early mornings, for one - birds chirping just outside your open window, sun rays pouring in through sheer curtains that flow in the slight breeze, that light feeling that blows through your chest when you’re sat out on the deck behind the house with a fresh cup of coffee, looking out over the still lake and basking in the peace of it all.

And even when it’s not so peaceful, when the kitchen is full of bodies swerving around each other to try and throw together some sort of breakfast spread - pastries and fruit, bacon and eggs, various boxes of cereal on the counter. Quinn had even made a whole batch of pancakes one morning, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t come down every day since hoping to see him donning that same frilly apron that Cole had draped around his waist and working his magic with a pan.

You’ve never really been a part of such a full house. You had been an only child for so long - and by the time your parents split, and it was just you and your mom, on the days she wasn’t already at work when you got up - and were so ingrained in your own routine in the morning that you think you might actually need the chaos to function better. The rush of bodies, the arguments over who drank the last of the juice, the bickering over who’s turn it is to do the next grocery run - it’s a kind of entertainment you haven’t been privy to in a long time.

Being kind of disconnected from everything else isn’t as bad as you thought it would be, either. You’re not attached to your phone, checking socials to see what everyone else is doing, to see if your dad has sent any messages yet this summer, and you find yourself connecting a little more with the people around you and leaving your family stress on the back burner. You’re more focused on what’s in front of you, and your relationships with other people. With Ellie, with some of the guys in the house, with your friends at work, even.

And it’s nice to be closer to work too. You don’t have to rush around trying to make the bus - Luke has been keeping his word and driving you to the club most days, and where he can’t, either somebody else has offered, or you’ve just ridden one of the bikes in the garage that the boys said were free to use - the helmet hair is an easy fix when you have access to the locker rooms.

It’s an adjustment, for sure, getting used to being in a full house. Especially this one - with a constant revolving door of faces, friends of the brothers switching out week by week to come and stay, departing just as you’ve started getting to know them with a promise of dropping by again soon.

So far, you’re almost at double-digits for the names you’ve had to memorise. Some of them you were already familiar with, guys from Michigan who you already knew or knew of, but others were more Jack or Quinn’s friends that you’d never had the pleasure of meeting before now.

Cole Caufield being one of them.

He had arrived a couple of days after you and Ellie moved yourselves in, closer to Jack than the other two brothers, you had noticed, and was going to be staying longer than any of the other visitors - having his own designated room in the house, similar to you girls.

You like Cole - he’s good fun, can take a joke unlike his supposed best friend, and has the kind of smile that almost gives you a buzz whenever it’s flashed your way. Your first few interactions with him were seemingly pleasant, despite Jack constantly in his ear with a hardened glare pointed your way and no doubt unsavoury words uttered. Cole would just shrug him off, laugh, meet your eyes and drop a wink your way - a gesture you’d usually squirm and cringe at, but Cole kind of pulls it off.

He joins in when you chirp Luke, too - which, if your honest, is your main source of entertainment since arriving, so your interactions with him grow day by day.

You haven’t really spent any one-on-one time with Cole yet, though. You were hoping to, before he left to visit home for the weekend - for no other reason than to get the scoop on something you’d happened upon at work last week - and had planned on asking him to hang out on your day off. But with Cole now gone for a few days, Jack and Ellie off doing god knows what, Quinn and Luke working out wherever, you have no choice but to spend your free Sunday lounging around the house, trying to find something to suppress your growing boredom.

You start with your nails, painting them a summery orangey-red and doing your toes to match, then do your laundry, abiding by house rules that you rotate the loads between the machines, and fold out whoever’s clothes were last in the dryer and place them in the hamper on the side.

You’re hoping you haven’t had to fold Jack’s underwear but you decide to live in blissful ignorance - trying to identify the load based on the rest of the clothing in there is impossible when they all share, so it kind of works in your favour.

You FaceTime your mom for almost an hour, getting an update on what she’s been up to with work, and giving her updates on how your summer is going, trying to focus on your time at the club and Ellie so she doesn’t worry too much again that you’re spending your summer in a house filled with boys.

And by the time Luke and Quinn come back from their workout, you’re in the lounge, 50 pages deep into a book you really couldn’t care less about, but there’s something in you that refuses to beg one of them for company, so you suffer in silence.

Even when Luke does join you, throwing himself down onto the opposite side of the couch you’re occupying and pushing your feet off his side like it’s his sole purpose just to annoy you.

“I was comfortable there, asshat,” you frown, lifting your feet back into their previous position and using one to give him a light kick to his thigh.

“Yeah, well, I hardly want your feet all up in my business while I’m trying to relax,” he sighs, sinking into the cushions with hands clasped behind his head, biceps flexing and tightening the arms of his t-shirt in a way that momentarily catches your eye. You’re thankful for his closed eyes, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you divert your attention back to the mundane words on the pages in front of you.

“And yet here you are when there are 2 other couches.”

“Yeah, well, I know how much you like to be near me.”

You try to ignore him, pulling your feet a little closer to your body and focusing back on the book, but it’s hard when Luke has such a presence. You feel the little looks he keeps sending your way like a physical touch, and the couch shifts with every slight movement he makes, so when he constantly shuffles, you start to think he wants your attention.

Of course he wants your attention. This is Luke Hughes.

“Are you just sitting down here to annoy me?”

He lights up, like he’s just been waiting for you to ask, and shuffles in his seat to face you, fully, bouncing in place like a puppy being teased with a tennis ball.

“I’m actually trying to distract you, if you must know.”

��Bold of you to assume you have enough of my attention to be distracting in the first place,” you scoff, trying not to react to the way he smirks in your peripheral, the words in front of you all blurring together. If you were actually focused on them, you’d have lost your place, already.

“I think you pay more attention to me than you’d like to admit.”

“That’s some ego you’ve got on you, Hughes,” you narrow your eyes as you look above the edge of your book, “Is that what you spend that big NHL paycheque on, charisma classes? How to flirt for dummies?”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing? Flirting?”

Damn. You walked yourself right into that one.

Sometimes biting back at Luke comes like second nature, words first, thoughts after - and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it that way. It’s easy, the back and forth, and you can’t really think of an instance with him where you’ve sat in a lingering, awkward silence. You’ve really grown to hate silence, lately.

“You wish.”

“You think I’m charismatic,” he teases in a sing-song voice, knocking at your knee and wiggling his eyebrows when you glare at him.

“I think you’re an idiot.”

“You’re not gonna ask what I’m distracting you from?”

“I don’t really care,” you lie, eyes darting back down and diverting the attention he so desperately craves away from him.

“Jack wanted to take Ellie out on the boat.” He says, ignoring your attempts to ignore him - pushing your buttons like a full time job. Like an operator for your last nerve.

“Good for her.”

“Alone.”

“No shit.”

“To ask her out.”

“Whoop-de-doo.”

“Whoop-de-,” Luke straightens up, like a whack-a-mole with his head positioning itself over the top of your book, and you kind of wish you had one of those soft mallets right about now. It would be so satisfying to bonk at his head, you think. “What do you mean, whoop-de-doo, is this not what you agreed to be here for? To get them together?”

You scoff, flicking to the next page of the book in feigned disinterest. “He isn’t asking her out today.”

This is the exact something you had wanted to talk to Cole about - whispers in the staff lounge at work earlier in the week doing the rounds would imply otherwise, but your main source is kind of a gossip, and you’re not entirely sure of their reliability, despite the few degrees of separation to the subject at hand.

Mutterings of Jack and Cole and their little country club connections.

You can hardly ask Luke of all people if his brother is as much of a man-whore as everyone is making out. Cole was a safe bet - he’d probably just tell you straight up what they’re up to, wear his pride like a shining gold medal. He’s upfront about his promiscuity, at least. Luke is more protective. Of himself, of his family, you’re not entirely sure. There haven’t been as many whispers about him.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because he’s a spineless idiot,” you retort, eyes flicking up momentarily to take in his furrowed brow. “No offence,” comes out of nowhere, and you surprise yourself with the instinct to lessen the blow of your words for the first time in forever.

“None taken, he’s only my flesh and blood,” Luke huffs, “You’re just jealous I’m winning our bet.”

“Sure,” you drawl, eyes widening to emphasise the sarcasm as you make a point of angling your head to the next page, like you’ve taken a single word in for the past five minutes. “He’s been talking to one of the girls from work. There’s no way he’s doing that and asking Ellie out, unless he’s completely brain dead.”

And when you look back at Luke, that furrowed brow has shifted into a full blown frown, pouted lips and eyes cast down as if he’s trying to figure everything out in his head.

It’s probably the pout that has you cushioning your words, once more.

“Again, no offence, I doubt it’s in your DNA.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m no bio student but I don’t think there’s a genetic marker for being a fuckboy.”

“No, about him talking to one of the girls at the club. He didn’t tell me that.”

Why does he have to sound like that? Let down and unsure, quieter than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s like the tone he carries goes straight to your fingers, clasping the book closed without marking your page - because what business do you have carrying on that charade?

“Do you guys tell each other everything?” You ask as you throw the book until it lands on the coffee table with a gentle thud, shuffling until you’re sat against the arm of the couch with knees bent in front of you, giving him your undivided attention and feeling guilty that it might not be enough.

“I thought we did,” he scratches at the back of his head, nervously, “He literally told me yesterday he was taking her out to talk about stuff, why would he make a point of asking me to keep you busy if he’s not serious about asking her out?”

“You don’t want to hear my answer to a question about your brother not being serious.”

“Who’s the girl?” He asks, ignoring your comment despite the slight ghost of a smile you see flash into the corner of his mouth.

“Jessica, she works at the pro shop, apparently they’ve been texting all summer.”

You know for a fact that since you’ve started paying attention, you’ve seen Jack on his phone a lot for a guy who chirps you for your own screen-time, and who has enforced the house rule of no phones outside your room like a prison guard yells out no touching at visitation. So it sort of checks out. You’ve tried to sneak a peak, but he’s protective of his stuff like a yappy little dog with attachment issues at the best of times, so you haven’t really put too much effort into it.

“There were a few people talking about it in the lounge at work the other day,” you shrug, “One of the girls talking about it is Jess’ best friend, so not exactly from the horse’s mouth, but I don’t think she’d be spreading lies about her friend around like that.”

“Can you find out?”

“You ask that like I haven’t been trying.” That gets a full smile, a small chuckle that lifts his shoulder, even, “I was gonna grill Caufield about it but he’s gone. But I know you guys have plans when he gets back tomorrow, so if you want to take Cole I’ll hack away at the grape vine at the club?”

“Does this mean we’re teammates?”

“No. It absolutely does not.”

Hacking away at the grapevine is really a lot more like plucking absentmindedly at an overgrown patch of grass when it comes to workplace gossip.

By the end of your shift, you’re leaving the club with a fist clutched full of loose blades, fingers stained green from the amount of information people were willing to ‘fess up.

Liam who works behind the bar had overheard a conversation where Jack had mentioned Jessica, but could only give you useless tidbits, like how he had to stop by the shop for a new putter, and Jess had been the one to ring him up.

Hardly incriminating, but you had a feeling it would be a small piece of a way larger puzzle. That, and guys are notoriously useless at gossiping, there’s definitely more to that story than Liam could even comprehend in his tiny man brain.

Cassidy who works at the front desk had seen Jack and Jess talking in the main lobby last week, definitely flirting, she had said - with hair flips and giggles galore - and way too familiar to be new.

Much better.

Paola who has the alternative shifts in the pro shop was more than willing to take up ten minutes of your time ranting how Jess’ work is never fully done when it comes to a handover, and she spends half her time on her phone. Kiran, who works the bev cart every Monday, said Jack is always one of the most charming in their golfing group, so it’s no surprise if he is exchanging texts with girls from the club.

You get dirt from most corners of the place, and it leads you all the way back to your station, to reservations set for the restaurant, where tonight’s list - unfortunately a shift you’re not set to work, although you very much question the serendipity of that - has Jack’s name down at 7pm. A table for 2 in the back corner, shielded from prying eyes and intimate.

And if it weren’t for the fact you’ve already worked a full shift, you would consider staying just to get the full scoop.

You know Ellie isn’t going to be the one sat across from him, she’s been sending you pictures all day of her various hauls for her quiet night in. New paints and pencils, a sketchpad, some candles - she has all intentions of working on her watercolour technique.

So it has to be for him and Jessica.

Imagine his face, you think, picturing wide, panicked eyes as you roam up to his table to take his order. He’d actually crap his pants.

But, it’s another set of eyes that you picture when you start to enjoy the scheming a little too much. The sad, teary eyes of your best friend, when she finds out the guy she’s been hung up on for half her life, who she has all but convinced herself isn’t interested, and is - absurdly - ‘far too good’ for her - yeah, right - is dating other girls while taking her out on not-so-platonic boat dates only the day before. A boat date that she had come back to your room, flung herself onto her belly on the bed, and kicked her feet as she gushed all about it.

So you make your way back to the house after a long day, and resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to, yet again, get all your information on Jack’s date second hand.

You primed Cara, your colleague in the restaurant, to keep an eye out, and she promised to send updates on her breaks, and you have been holed up in yours and Ellie’s shared bedroom trying to keep her busy when there is a persistent knock at the door, and a mop of soft, curly brown hair pokes in before his eyes meet yours.

“Hey, Luke!” Ellie chimes, cheery and all too blissfully unaware of the potentially horrific circumstances you’ve stumbled upon. “You need to borrow my conditioner again?”

You scoff from your position on the bed, watching a slight pink hue flush up Luke’s neck.

“What? No,” he denies, running a hand through his hair and seemingly frowning a little at the way it feels. “I’m going to the store, wondered if either of you needed anything?”

“Nah, thanks, we’re good,” Ellie smiles, attention diverting straight back to where she’s drawing in her sketchbook, missing the way Luke widens his eyes and tilts his head as if to encourage you to take him up on his offer.

“Can I come with?” You shuffle from your position on the bed, swinging your legs out from beneath you and over the side as Ellie looks back at you.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted something.”

“Someone’s got to show the poor guy what’s what on the haircare aisle, El.”

And you’re thankful that Ellie has settled herself in for the evening already by 6:45, showered, pyjamas on, otherwise she might have tried to tag along, too, just for something to do.

You swipe her phone before she can notice and hide it under your pillow before you leave, thinking it might reduce the risk of her getting bored and texting Jack, or, worse, checking his location.

A trip out gives you the chance for you and Luke to debrief each other on your findings of the day - or, as it turns out, just you, because Luke Hughes might be the worst information-gatherer on planet Earth.

Finding his life’s niche in hockey is fortunate, because he definitely wouldn’t cut it as an investigator.

“He just said he didn’t know anything,” Luke shrugs of his earlier encounter with Cole, and you try not to gape at him in disbelief as he fiddles with the screen in his BMW, scrolling through the interface in search of the nearest store.

You swat his hand away with a scoff, typing in a destination, “And you believed him?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“You’re about as useless as a chocolate teapot, Hughes. What is it with guys and gossip, are you all really that dumb?”

“That’s the address for the club,” he points out, ignoring your jibe as he starts driving.

“Well done, you can read.”

“Why?”

“Because, thankfully, one of us is a good detective.” You snark, “Jack’s there.”

“So?”

“He’s on a date.”

“No he isn’t,” Luke frowns, attention momentarily taken from the road as he looks over at you. “I’ve been with him all afternoon, he would have told me if he had a date, tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d he say he was going when he left, earlier?”

He hadn’t been home when you got back from work, but that had been around an hour ago. You figured if he was sneaky enough to book into the restaurant when you’re not working, he’d have his wits about him to avoid you, entirely. Whenever the two of you cross paths, you can’t help but try get on his last nerve, and he’s hardly going to want to start his evening in a foul mood.

“To get his hair cut.”

Jesus Christ, you think, he’s so lucky he’s cute.

“You’re so clueless. He’s at the lounge with Jessica, the girl I told you about yesterday.”

“And what are we supposed to do about that?”

“We’re gonna supervise. And maybe interfere, if necessary.”

You don’t really have a plan, but it seems like the right thing to at least get a look in as to what the hell Jack thinks he’s doing, especially if you’re going to carry on with this whole plan of getting him and Ellie together. If he’s seriously entertaining other girls while making out to Luke that he only has eyes for Ellie, your plans might have to change. You’re not sure if Luke will be on board with the new path you’re willing to take, but you’ll be happy to kill his brother on your own.

“Interfere?” Luke’s eyes are wide, but he keeps them on the road, fingers flexing against the wheel. “I just came out for chips to make nachos, not play spies!”

“Cara’s working tonight, she said she’d keep an eye on them for me. I bet if I cover her hosting shift on Friday she’d sabotage their date. We’d just have to sit back and watch.”

“Oh,” Luke’s brows furrow, as if it’s taking any consideration at all to mess with his brother. “You really are an evil genius.”

You try not to think too hard about who’s been spewing that rhetoric already in his ear, and instead you smile when he casts his eyes your way, proud and pleased.

“Thank you.”

It takes another 15 minutes to get to the club, considering Luke’s best Driving Miss Daisy impression, so their date is already underway by the time Cara is ushering you to a booth in the far corner, where you can see Jack’s table, but he shouldn’t be able to see yours, and agreeing to play along.

“Can I get you guys any drinks?” She asks as she hands over two menus, and you’re too interested in trying to gauge the vibe at the other table while Luke looks over his.

“Two diet cokes, shaved ice, no lemon,” he says, and you can’t help but frown at the way the specificity of that order rolls so easily off his tongue. That’s your order.

“Any food?”

“Could we just get some nachos, please?” You ask, sliding your menu across the table without even looking, not wanting to give Luke too much of a chance to peruse his own out of fear you’ll be here all night. “And extra picante on the side.”

“Extra guac, too,” Luke adds as Cara scribbles the instructions on her notepad, “And some of those chicken tenders, and extra ranch. And maybe some fries. Yeah, chilli fries. And breadsticks.”

You level him with a glare, already proven right in your decision not to give him too much time to think about what he wanted. He’ll order every appetiser on the menu, if given half the chance.

“Thanks, Cara, that’s everything.”

“Sure thing, should be around fifteen minutes. They only just ordered,” she points her pen back to Jack’s table, where Jess is leaning onto the table and Jack is leaning back in his seat - heavy on the distance but even heavier on the eye contact. That little shit.

“Does he have any allergies?” You lean onto your own table to ask Luke, quirking a brow up when his eyes darken in response, mischief swirling in his emerald irises.

“Absolutely not,” Cara interjects, “I’m doing this so you cover my job, not make me lose it.”

“Let me guess, he ordered the steak, medium-rare?” Luke asks, and she nods, hesitantly. “Char it.”

“Won’t he complain?”

“He’ll just grumble to himself about how tough it is. It’ll put him in a bad mood. That’s what we want, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, nodding your head to ease Cara’s worries despite what you really want is for Chef Michael to poison the cut, entirely. If Jack Hughes wants to play with your best friend’s heart, you’ll play with his gut. But you can settle for burnt meat. Luke can work some sort of magic with that, you think, convincing Jack of all people that any first date that resulted in him coming home all sour-puss and sulky should never result in a second. “Bad mood. Bingo.”

“Fine,” Cara grumbles, “But if he even thinks about asking for a manager, you’re covering my next 3 Fridays.”

She storms off to the kitchen, and you and Luke simultaneously sink into your seats, attention immediately diverted back to the table in the opposite corner of the room.

“We should have kept the menus,” Luke mutters from across the booth, “Could have hidden behind them.”

“What are we, children?” You snark, “You can’t think of any more creative ways to stay hidden?”

“I heard PDA makes people pretty uncomfortable,” he leans onto the table, dropping you a wink when you glance over out of the side of your eye, “We should make out to throw everyone off the scent.”

“In your dreams, Hughes.”

Luke sort of envies the charm you hold over people.

The way you can convince people to do your bidding with a mere flutter of your eyelashes or a flash of pearly teeth and a glimmer in your irises.

He has trouble, sometimes, skirting around his honesty or hiding his intentions - and he knows that’s not a bad thing, knows that being clear and truthful is an admirable trait, if anything - but the way you persuade others to bend to your whim with intricate white lies based on observations you’ve made or intel you’ve gathered is a praiseworthy level of genius.

It had taken such minimal effort for you to get Cara on side, to convince her that being a little clumsy is hardly grounds for her termination, and spilling a little of Jack’s drink close to the edge of the table - close enough that it drips onto his pants and Luke can see the steams of frustration exuding from his brother’s skin from all the way on the other side of the restaurant - or bumping her hip on the edge of their table every time she passes are really just harmless irritations, not likely to cause actual complaint.

You had used the mere tone of your voice to convince Liam from behind the bar to squeeze a little lime in Jack’s water, knowing just from observing him back at the house that he hates the taste, face curling in disgust at even the slightest hint of it, and Luke had watched your eyes gleam in delight every time Jack took a sip of his drink and tried not to spit it back out, seeking much needed reprieve to swallow down the world’s toughest steak cut.

You’d even worked your magic on him, pouting your lips when the food had arrived at the table, and he had initially declined to share his chicken tenders with you - your grumblings at him ordering enough to feed the five thousand fresh in his memory, but so easily wiped away by the soft, sad look in your eyes, and your whining of, “But I didn’t realise how hungry I’d get. Plotting and scheming is hard work, Luke.”

You ended up eating half, but he could hardly complain - you were doing the heavy lifting out of the two of you.

He was sitting back and enjoying the show - enjoying your company, if he’s honest. Enjoying the way his gangly limbs would sometimes knock into yours under the table, enjoying the way he kept getting little nuggets of information out of you while you were distracted, sipping at your coke and making little comments about yourself, about your life, without even realising you’re doing it.

And an unplanned, pseudo date ends up being the first time he thinks he’s had a glimpse at the real you.

The you who knows more about hockey than you’ve ever let on before, who comes back to his stories with contextual questions about the game, even has references to a few games of his back at Michigan, and keeps the conversation flowing despite your feigned disinterest, and a constant gaze cast his brother’s way.

That would usually drive him crazy.

He’s experienced it so often that he has come to expect it, people only entertaining his company to acquire the attention of his brothers, but that’s not what you’re doing. Not really.

You pay more attention to Luke than you’d ever let on.

You ask him about his time in Ostrava at the beginning of summer, even though he’s only mentioned being overseas once while you��ve been staying with him - an offhanded comment from Quinn at breakfast that you must have taken on. Ask him about all the food he tried while out there, when he mentions he doesn’t like picante, and you use it as a springboard to talk about what sort of spices he does like, or if he’s the type to try things or stick to what he knows.

You ask him about being the youngest sibling, and it stems from an offhanded comment Luke had grumbled about always being the last to be clued in on stuff, about how Jack had probably confided in Quinn about his extracurricular activities at the club, and didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the fact he’s going out on dates. You ask if he usually figures things out himself before he’s told them, if that’s what makes him so good at observing and analysing stuff, and he hadn’t ever realised he was particularly good at those things before you brought it up. But then you reference a day in class one time, where he had picked up on something in a textbook that you never would have figured out in a million years, and his heart leaps at the praise you don’t even realise you’re giving him.

You sandwich your perceptions in your usual snark, but he doesn’t miss the slight curve of your lips anymore when he bites straight back, knowing now that there is some part of you that feels the nip of his teeth, that acknowledges his existence beyond him being a speck of inconvenience in your peripheral.

And he gets a little carried away in that acknowledgement - stops paying attention himself to what is happening on the other side of the room and tries to focus on what’s in front of him; the girl he pined after his entire college career, sat sharing nachos and pretending not to know him at a level you so clearly do.

You must get carried away, too, because neither of you notice Jack’s date wrapping up until Luke catches him hand his card over to Cara.

He’s lost count of how long the two of you have been at the club, now - way longer than it takes to get chips from the store, that’s for sure - and all he does know is that if Jack catches either of you two here, after a night of mishaps, bad food, spilled drinks and Cara’s incessant clumsiness, he’ll know who’s to blame.

“We better get out of here before he sees us,” Luke sighs, not entirely wanting to wrap up his time with you but knowing he doesn’t really have a choice.

“I’ve just got to pick something up before we head back,” you reply, edging out of the booth at the same time Luke does, “I’ll meet you out front just give me two minutes?”

“Be quick,” he tells you before you scurry off, and he flags down Cara, who tells him you already put your bill on your worker tab. He tells her to switch it to his, and that he’ll drop by tomorrow to pay it off, promising to leave her a good tip for her stellar services for the evening.

He waits where you asked him to, making sure to stick to the side of the entryway where he can duck for cover if his brother makes an appearance - but you show up first, skipping out from the staff lounge with a bag of tortilla chips in hand.

“Let’s go, Lukey boy!” He follows you out like a puppy on a leash, all the way to where his car is parked, almost bumping into you when you stop and turn without warning, stretching your hand out to him. “Give me your keys.”

“Are you crazy?” He snorts, “You’re not driving my car!”

“I know a shortcut!” You reason, stepping forward and making a grabby motion with your fingers, “We gotta beat Jack home, I just paid another server $20 to spill a whole drink on him before he leaves and he’s gonna be pissed. I want to see the meltdown back at the house and you drive like a nun!”

Luke doesn’t know why he gives in so easy - it could be the proximity, the way you’re so close you have to look up at him, eyes twinkling softly under the moonlight, voice carrying over to him like a siren song, or it could just be because he’s weak - but he hands his keys over with a roll of his eyes and climbs into the passenger side, sliding the seat back with a huff to accommodate his long legs and watching as you adjust the driver’s side, cringing at the way he’s gonna have to figure out exactly how he had it before.

You drive like a maniac, to the point where Luke has to screw his eyes shut as you use some back road, can hear the squelch of mud beneath his tires and squirms at the thought of having to take it to the car wash, tomorrow.

But you make it back to the lake house much quicker than if he were driving, he’ll give you that. So quick that you feel comfortable enough to turn to him once you’ve pulled up, in no rush to unbuckle and get out to get inside before Jack gets home.

“Just so we’re clear, this is a point under my name. You’re not claiming tonight as a win.”

Luke chuckles, turning in his seat to face you, features illuminated by the dim overhead light that turns on when the engine switches off and a slight flush of exhilaration to your cheeks. There’s no pretending you haven’t enjoyed yourself, not tonight. “But the steak thing was my idea?”

“If it weren’t for me, you’d be sat watching baseball and thinking he was getting a 3 hour haircut, you can’t seriously be trying to steal this from me, I thought you athletes had integrity!”

“You’re really keeping score?”

“You’re not?”

If Luke’s honest, he hasn’t really thought about your whole wager all night. He’s been too wrapped up in the idea that his brother had lied to him. Twice. And now his whole plan for the two of you all summer has potentially been messed up. But hearing you mention it, hearing you talk about it like it hasn’t been flushed down the toilet by his brother’s idiocy sparks something in him - excitement, anticipation. He doesn’t want to let this go.

“I actually think we made a good team back there,” he shrugs, eyes meeting yours to gauge your reaction to the thought of doing this together.

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re gonna lose,” you retort, eyes sparkling with those same sentiments he had just felt.

“Probably,” he acquiesces, “Also ‘cause you kind of scare me a little after tonight, last thing I wanna do is go up against you when you have the power to turn half the country club against me.”

You smirk, and his eyes are drawn to the plush curve of your lips, watching them as they form around the softly spoken words, “God forbid you can’t go a round of golf without your caddy breaking down.”

“Exactly.” He mutters back, glad to see your gaze is still zeroed in on him when he meets it again. He can feel the thump thump thump of his pulse in his ears, and takes a deep breath before proposing, “Partners?”

He cocks a brow and holds his pinky out over the centre console, and you eye the digit, sceptically, narrowing your eyes into a glare before raising them to meet his. “Fine,” you grumble, then hook your little finger through his and tighten it to shake, a slight yelp of surprise filling the car when he tugs, your lax arm giving way until your knuckle touches his lips and he kisses it.

“Ew,” you whine, snatching your finger back as he fills the space himself with a hearty chuckle, wiping it on his hoody in disgust. “That’s gross!”

“No take backs,” he smiles, victorious, with his chest puffed out, primed for you to swat at with the flex of your hand, and the two of you are only pulled out of the moment by the sound of tyres pulling up on the gravel behind you, both of you stumbling to unbuckle yourselves and climb out of the car.

Jack is exiting his own vehicle behind, and stomps down the driveway, shouldering past you until he realises who he has passed, turning back and looking at you with suspicion cast across his features.

“Where have you twobeen?” Jack asks, glancing a curious eye between the two of you before meeting Luke’s gaze, levelling him with an inquisitive glare.

“We went to the store for chips,” Luke holds the bag up, the crinkle loud enough for Jack to hear, and he feels an insurgence rising within him, spurred on by the way his brother is looking at him like he’s the one who should be ashamed of his actions. “Nice haircut.”

Jack runs a hand through his hair, surprise crossing his features in a brief flash at the call out, like he had never even expected Luke to notice his hair looks no different to the last time he saw him mere hours ago, like he would never even need to question his alibi.

“Oh, yeah, I got the day wrong. Went out for dinner instead.”

“On your own?” You ask from beside him, your presence giving Luke the kind of back up he very much needs right now, a new target for Jack’s narrowed eyes that takes the heat off of him a little, lessens the burden of lying to his brother - despite Jack being the one who started it, it doesn’t make Luke feel any less bad, doesn’t quell the need to word vomit and admit to all the ludicrous things he had done to ruin Jack’s night. “You end up having a little accident there, bud?”

Luke tries not to outwardly laugh as his attention is diverted to the wet patch that still soaks up the front of Jack’s pants, lips quivering as he presses them together, oblivious to the steam pouring out of his brother’s ears as he immediately gets riled up.

“One of your esteemed colleagues at the club apparently lacks hand eye co-ordination. Plus, some of us like our own company,” Jack scoffs, “Some of us can go an evening without the need to annoy anybody else.”

“It’s not news to me that you’re in love with yourself, dude,” you retort back, entirely unbothered by his jibes. “Bet you’ve got all sorts of riveting thoughts swirling around that ginormous head of yours, must keep you busy for hours on end.”

“At least I have thoughts, at least I’m not some airheaded-,”

“Hey,” Luke’s tone is authoritative when he calls out, stern and demanding, “Cut it out, Jack.”

“She started it!”

“She asked you a question,” Luke frowns, disappointed with how quick his brother had taken to escalating the situation, all in an attempt to deflect the attention from his own deception. He knows you don’t need him to protect you from Jack’s sharp tongue, knows you can very much defend yourself, but he needs to vent his frustrations, somehow, without causing a bust up on the driveway. “You could have just give her a straight answer without biting her head off.”

He feels like you’re a little closer, all of a sudden, and he doesn’t know it’s the slight brush of your arm against his or if it’s something else, something less tangible - but it warms him, all the same. Steadies the static thump of his heart in his chest at the thought of starting an argument with his brother out of nowhere.

“Whatever,” Jack rolls his eyes, “I’m going to bed.”

And as Jack turns, Luke sees your lips part, ready to send him off with the last word until a large hand clamps itself over your mouth, and your wide eyes meet his over the sides of his fingers.

He’s not sure why he did it, why he all of a sudden feels comfortable enough to cross the boundaries of purposeful touch, but he doesn’t entirely regret it.

Plush lips press mid-word against his palm, and your skin is soft, cheeks warming ever so slightly beneath his hand.

“You gotta let him go, there’s no use fighting with him tonight, it’s better to drag it out. Didn’t think I’d have to teach you about the beauty of the long game,” he says, voice low as he watches his brother retreat to the house, waiting until he’s safe inside to retract his hand. “Not like this, anyway.”

“Your brother’s an asshole,” you grumble, “Full offence.”

“No arguments from me,” Luke concedes, holding his hands as if surrendering to the fact, himself. “What are you gonna tell Ellie?”

“Nothing.” You sigh, stepping a little down the drive and toward the house before turning back to him. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, partner.”

There have only been a handful of times in your life you’ve ever been thankful for work coinciding with huge plans, but when the group had decided that they wanted to go see Zach Bryan play Ford Field, you had thanked your lucky stars you had been put down to work a full shift at the restaurant and wouldn’t be able to go.

Not only for the fact that he isn’t really your thing, but for the fact that you’re finally getting a full evening to yourself.

So far, in your time at the house, most evenings have been spent with everyone else - group dinners, game nights, movie nights, even a couple of girls nights with just you and Ellie scattered in there, but nothing on your own, yet.

You can’t wait. And with an empty house, you have a full pamper night planned. You’ve been stocking up odd bits on your trips to the store over the past couple of weeks - sheet masks, aromatherapy candles, you’ve even picked up some flower petals from the spa at the club, in the hopes that you might even treat yourself to a relaxing soak in the bathtub. You can play whatever music you want, make whatever food you want, sit wherever you want in the house, out on the deck, overlooking the lake with a book in hand and no chirpy voices in your ear all night.

You can’t wait.

The only downside is not having a ride home, but you haven’t finished too late. The sun will still be up for a couple of hours, and a walk in the simmering heat back to the house doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.

Your feet carry you with ease down the back roads, and you even make the journey without your headphones on, taking in the scenery, the blissful peace of your surroundings, so lost in the tranquility of it all that the sight of Luke washing his car on the drive when you get home dampens your mood as quick as a torrential downpour of rain, flash floods coursing through your evening and wrecking your plans entirely.

“What the hell are you doing?” You can’t help the bite in your tone as you approach, sneakers crunching against the gravel as Luke pauses the hose, looks over at you with the sun in his eyes, and you have to remind yourself he’s just ruined the one night you have for yourself before you get distracted by the fact that he’s shirtless.

“Washing my car?” he calls back, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Detroit right now?”

Luke shrugs, and you have to will your eyeballs not to move any lower than his neck to watch his shoulders lift and drop, lest you get too caught up in the broad expanse of his chest and do something ridiculous like drool.

“Wasn’t feeling it.”

“You weren’t feeling a concert you guys haven’t shut up about for weeks, but you were feeling washing your car?”

He’s dead. When he’s finished with his car and he retreats to his room, you’re gonna smother him with a pillow and discard of his body in the lake. You’re not even gonna let him shower, first. That’s what the lake’s for.

He’s crapping all over your plans because he wasn’t feeling it?

“It needs cleaning,” he shrugs again, and you swear you’re gonna jump in and run him over with the damn thing, “In fact, you really should be helping me.”

There’s a small part of you that feels like the thoughts of violence are worryingly aggressive, but then a larger part of you realises he must have a death wish.

“How’d you get to that conclusion?”

“You’re the one who drove us through a swamp,” he scoffs, a pointed hand flung toward the body of his car, where the sides are lined with a thick layer of dried dirt from the other night, “You get it dirty, you clean it up.”

“As much as I would absolutely love to fulfil your pervy car wash fantasy, I have much better things I could be doing with my time.”

Or you did, until Luke rained all over your parade of solitude.

“Like what?”

“Literally anything but this.” You gesture at the show he’s putting on. The suds dripping from the roof of the car, the hose in his hand, the buckets scattered around the perimeter. “I need to shower, I just walked from the club and I-,”

A death wish might actually be an understatement.

Luke wants you to murder him in the most gruesome, horrific way you could possibly muster - he has to, because there’s no other explanation for why he’d turn the hose on, point it straight at you, and drench the front of you, entirely.

You can feel the fabric of your t-shirt dampening and sticking to your chest, and you scrunch your eyes shut to stop droplets of water slipping into them, thankful that when they open again, his own are looking back at you, and not any lower.

You’d really have a reason to kill him, then.

“You did not just do that.” You growl, glaring back at him with a clenched jaw as the fucker beams back at you, pressing the trigger once more in a short burst that fires straight at your chest, again.

“What, that?”

“You’re so dead.”

You drop your bag and launch for him, aiming to take the hose from his grip, but he fires it again out of sheer panic, the water spouting out from between your splayed fingers, cold and pressured, and it soaks the both of you, raining down as you grapple for the head and Luke remains unrelenting.

There are squeals and yelps called out into the misty air between the two of you, and you get to a point you can’t tell what sounds are coming from who, but you manage to wrestle the hose from his grip and point it straight at him as he jets away with a laugh that rumbles straight from his belly.

It’s the kind of laugh that elicits another, and you don’t realise until he’s circling back to you that the laughter is coming from you - giggling, even, as the two of you engage in a water fight like misbehaving children - and it isn’t long until all aggressive thoughts wash away with the suds that slip to the gravel, forgetting why you were even annoyed in the first place.

It shouldn’t be as fun as it is, but after the long day at work, and the tiring walk back, letting your guard down and engaging it a little mindless chaos seems to wake you up a little.

Your childish game gets Luke what he wanted, anyway, the two of you working together to clean his car when you realise he’s only running in front of all the parts that actually need hosing off and relying on you having bad aim to get the job done, and you figure getting your hands a little dirty is harmless when you’re already soaked through and in dire need of a shower.

And your pamper-plans of a bubble bath and self-care don’t entirely come to fruition, but Luke promises to make up for his petulance by ordering pizza and sticking a movie on, so you bite your tongue to refrain from voicing your initial complaints, and decide to just go with the flow, for once - he hasn’t exactly led you astray, yet.

You take a little longer in the shower than normal, with no one around to complain about hogging the bathroom or worry about them barging in unannounced, and you suppose that’s a small victory - one little luxury you get to cling to as you bask in the steam, letting all the tension slip from your aching muscles after being on your feet all day.

And once you’re out, hair dried just enough with a towel that it isn’t going to drip or soak your t-shirt, and you’re dressed in your pyjamas, you make your way downstairs, where Luke has already set up a plethora of snacks in the living room.

Nachos, popcorn, candy and drinks scattered across the coffee table as he relaxes on the couch, hair extra curly after his shower and an old Michigan t-shirt stretched tight across his now much-broader chest.

“Thought I’d wait for you to pick a movie,” he chimes up from where he’s sat, gesturing with a lazy point to the wall of blu-rays beside the TV.

“Did Netflix never make it to the Hughes household?” You scoff in disbelief as you take them all in properly for the first time. You’d seen them in your peripheral when you’d been hanging out down here, before, but actually looking at them up close, reading all the titles, seeing the sheer volume of how many there are, it kind of surprises you.

“We can look on Netflix if you want. They always take stuff off, though.”

You know. All your favourite movies get taken off of streaming, and you only ever find out about it when you’re really in the mood to watch them. As soon as you realise the wall is alphabetised, you know exactly where to look.

“That’s alright,” you shrug, stepping to the side as you track backwards, through M, L, K and J. “You guys are pretty analogue, I’ve noticed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The board games, the DVDs, the whole no phones around the house thing.”

“No phones around the house is common courtesy,” he chuckles, “But I guess we’re a little weird about the other stuff.”

“It’s pretty cool,” you shrug, spotting the DVD you want and sliding it out to assess the case. “It’s old school. Probably better for the brain. My little brothers can’t really function without an iPad and they’re 5, it’s freaky, like they’re haunted by the capitalist ghost of Steve Jobs or something.”

“I didn’t know you had brothers,” Luke frowns where you almost expect him to laugh, and you spin on your heel to face him. He has this look about him like he should have known that - like the two of you have ever conversed in anything other than sarcastic quips and scrunched up faces, or whatever attempts at flirting have been on his part.

“Technically they’re half brothers,” you shrug, “They live out in Philly with my dad and step mom, I don’t really get to see them much.”

“Didn’t know you were from Philly, either.”

“I’m not, my dad moved out there when him and my mom got divorced.”

It’s not something you really love talking about.

The few times you’ve tried, you’ve been shot down, patronising tones scoffing at how your biggest trauma is the separation of your parents, as if your whole world didn’t crumble down with the demise of their relationship, the demise of life as you knew and very dearly loved it.

“You don’t see him even in the summer?”

“Him and his family are on vacation in Europe for 6 weeks. England, France, Spain, Germany, the boys are into soccer so they’ll be out there until the Euros.”

You don’t miss the way Luke’s face scrunches at how you call them his family, and you’re not sure you’re ready for him to start pitying you, so you throw the DVD case toward him before you can second guess your choice.

Interstellar.

You hope he doesn’t pick up on why it might be one of your favourites. Especially not considering the topic of the conversation at hand. Something about the crippling regret Cooper has for leaving Murph behind plucks harmoniously at some unidentifiable strings deep within you, but you’re hardly about to admit that to Luke, of all people.

“I love this movie,” he smiles, almost surprised, as if he expected you to throw The Notebook his way. Maybe next time - he’d probably love that movie, too, if he gave it a chance.

“Me too. I love space movies.”

“Like Space Jam?” He asks as he pushes himself up, going toward the TV to set up the movie with the DVD in one hand and the remote control in the other.

“No, like movies about Space,” you say, throwing yourself down onto the same couch he just vacated and tucking your feet beneath you to get comfortable. “Although I guess Space Jam would technically fit into that bracket.”

“I didn’t realise that was a genre,” he chuckles.

“Not the scary ones, though, I don’t wanna be freaked out by space.”

“Is that like a thing? You just like any movie set in space?”

“I like anything about space, period. Movies, documentaries, books. Thinking about it makes me feel really insignificant.”

“Insignificant? Is that not a bad thing?” He asks as he makes his way back, settling into his side and angling his body toward yours.

“Do you ever think about how big the universe is, Hughes? It’s humongous! If I ever feel anxious or panicky I think about just how big it is and how I’m not even a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. If I’m so tiny, how big can my problems actually be?”

“I guess that makes sense,” he seems to mull it over in his head, the thought of him even considering it and not making you feel stupid warms your chest - makes you forget just how much of yourself you’ve shared with him in the last couple of minutes alone, makes you worry less that you’re sharing too much. “I think I might be the opposite, though. Probably the youngest brother in me, I only feel better if I feel bigger.”

You think that might be why he’s always trying to one up you - sassy comments and inappropriate jokes galore. Not that you mind any of it, not really.

“What about you? What movies do you like?”

“You’re gonna be so shocked.”

“Sports movies?”

“Look at you, knowing me like the back of your hand.” He coos, nudging at your knee with his hand. “I’ll watch anything, though. We should take it in turns, whenever it’s just us,” he says like the thought of spending time alone with you has only just crossed his mind. “Picking a movie to show each other.”

You think there’s a lot of yourself in the media you consume. The movies you watch, the music you listen to, and sharing those things with Luke feels like giving him the only other key to a high security vault. It’s something you’ve avoided so far - letting him play his songs in the car, avoiding making any sort of pick in the group movie nights. It’s daunting, and it’s a lot of pressure, and so you don’t know why you agree with so much ease - a shrug, and a casual muttering of, “Sure, why not?”

The pieces of your dynamic slowly start to slot together, and you start to realise why you’ve been entertaining his company so often, lately. Why your mood so quickly de-escalated itself, earlier. Why you’ve found yourself curled up on the same couch as him, instead of literally anywhere else in the house, doing anything other than this. Why you’re so quick to agree to letting him access all these unseen parts of you.

And why you think he might be able to read your mind, after he asks, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Only if I get to ask one back.”

“What were you gonna do tonight, if you were on your own?”

Thank God, you think, your heart jumping at the thought of anything else he could have asked.

“I was gonna do a sheet mask and steal the bottle of wine Quinn stashed behind the laundry detergent.” You admit with a nonchalant shrug, the plans you had been looking forward to all day seeming mundane in comparison to this. “Why’d you stay behind? You love Zach Bryan.”

“I love sheet masks and stolen wine, too.”

Your lips curve up before you get the chance to huff at his non-answer, and you feel your throat go a little dry at the way his curve, too - the way his green eyes darken when they meet yours, and you feel like he’s looking straight through you.

It’s around half way through the movie that you realise how much you’re enjoying yourself - when you look over at Luke, and the light from the screen is still bouncing off the sticky white sheet plastered to his face, only just able to make out his round eyes through the little slit in the fabric.

You sip at your wine to hide your smile, and turn your attention back to the TV until Luke nudges at your feet with his, and your eyes meet over the tops of your bent knees.

“You tell anyone I did this, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Your laugh ripples through every inch of your upper body, rumbling up from your belly and manifesting itself in shaking shoulders, your smile wide and your sheet mask slipping out of place. “You can’t threaten me with a good time, Hughes.”

You spend the rest of the night trying not to think about how there might just be a tiny door in your heart, eking it’s way open for him to squeeze his gangly limbs into.

>PART TWO<

another a/n: I don't want to put a timeframe on when the next part will be posted bc as soon as I do that, my brain will revolt and it won't happen, but I'd love to know your thoughts in the meantime!!! I have a lot of the rest actually written, and what I don't have written, I have drafted, so it shouldn't be too long but!!! like I said no timeframe!! I've had a lot of fun with this dynamic, and hearing any opinions would mean a lot to me!!

this was my first time writing reader insert if you saw any instances of she/her where they shouldn't be, no you didn’t. I tried as best as I could to avoid using Y/N because it takes me out of it I don’t even remember if I put it anywhere but sometimes it's hard to get around I did my best ok!!!

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #luke hughes fluff #my hearts going pitter patter pitter patter like I could throw up #need to post this before I fall asleep lmao #*writing

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senriii · 8 months ago

Text

I heard an explanation for "serving cunt" that actually made it fine and "slutty waist" is kinda hot and funny so I don't think I fully agree with this post but I share the perception of it as borrowing too much from violence and making violence casual, especially violence against women

God I hate this generation's language... he gagged me he has me on a chockhold step on me sir he's serving cunt he has a slutty waist kill me sit on me he can hurt me bitch daddy malewife twink

#ok so this is why I was bothered the other day about the “submissive” dog or “facefuck” in humorous posts #casual violence

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sknyuz · 1 month ago

Note

I really like your works

If you are taking requests could you make one where you are bakus sister and dating baek jin secretly and then when he finds out all hell breaks loose but like w fluff and angst

#submission

still, i choose you | na baekjin

synopsis — the city’s colder now, but baekjin still looks at you like summer never ended. but when baku finds out, he’s ready to burn it all down.

pairing — baekjin x baku’s sister!reader

genre — alternate universe/non-canon, brother’s bestfriend, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, f2l, open ending-ish?

cw — violence && gang elements, protective older brother behavior (baku), mentions of past abandonment, angst, smoking (once, for the vibe)

wc — ~2.5k

note: this got wayyyy longer than i had anticipated... this originally at 1.2k words then before i realized it, i ended up with 1k+ more ToT this is another fic thats been in the drafts for a while that i couldnt get around to posting lol enjoy

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

you used to follow baekjin around like a second shadow.

back then, when things were simpler and summer days stretched too long to keep track, you, baekjin, and your brother were inseparable. a little trio of scraped knees and spare change joined to share a single serving of tteokbokki, and racing back home in your little uniforms, backpacks rattling with stationery. you always ended up at the park near your old apartment, the one with the broken jungle gym and weeds tall enough to hide in.

“let’s play house,” you’d announce, bossy even then.

baekjin would smile like he already knew his role. “i’ll be the dad.”

“i’m mom,” you’d grin, grabbing a stick and pretending it was a broom.

and baku would scowl, arms crossed. “why do i always have to be the dog?”

“because you bark the loudest,” baekjin teased, and you all laughed and played until the sun dipped low.

back then, baekjin still tried to protect you. even when his nose was bleeding or his eye already bruising, he’d shove you behind him with those tiny fists up like he was invincible. he gave you his sleeve to wipe your nose, even if his own was dripping. when kids teased you, he stood in front with shaky legs and that same proud tilt to his chin, like he dared them to try.

baku was the loud one—your shield and baekjin’s, yelling and swinging while baekjin threw himself in with blind punches and more heart than strength. the two of them were a mess of scraped knees and stubborn pride, and you were the kid sister they never let out of their sight.

and then, soon enough, baku couldn’t stand watching baekjin take hit after hit like that—so he taught him to fight. said he had to, if baekjin was gonna keep throwing himself at people twice his size. he refused to teach you, though, said it was "too dangerous" with a scrunched-up nose and crossed arms. but baekjin would sneak you little updates when it was just the two of you, whispering about the stances baku showed him or how he finally landed a clean hit. eventually, the two of them were unstoppable—baku loud and wild like a storm, and baekjin quiet but sharp, always backing him up without missing a beat. and you were still there, watching them grow into a force no one dared mess with.

until their momentum was stopped on the day that baekjin disappeared. one day he was walking home beside you, shoulder brushing yours, and the next, his desk was empty. like he’d been swallowed up by the world without a trace.

no explanation. no goodbye. just gone.

but somehow, you felt like your older brother knew more about baekjin’s sudden exit from your lives than he let on.

the next time you saw baekjin, it didn’t feel real at first. it felt more like a memory that hadn’t faded properly.

you saw him before he saw you—head low, hair longer than you remembered, standing across the street outside that run-down bowling alley where rumors always clung like smoke, grunts and cries of pain could be heard from inside. your heart stuttered. the world didn’t stop—but you did.

he looked different. older. meaner. like life had moved too fast for him to keep up.

but his eyes—when they finally lifted and locked with yours—were the same.

like no time had passed.

like you weren’t strangers again.

you didn’t speak the first time, you could only stare at the tall figure. and then, he looked away and broke the gaze you shared first, walking back inside like it hurt too much to hold.

you kept seeing him after that—in the background. behind buildings, in passing cars, once on the rooftop of the cram school across from your own, cigarette burning down to the filter, eyes fixed on nothing. it was like the city was trying to show you he still existed. still breathed.

and then came the underpass.

you hadn’t meant to take that route. it was just late, and you were tired, and it had been a long day. you thought you could handle it—you weren’t a kid anymore. you could fight. baku finally taught you. baekjin taught you, too, just by existing.

but those boys—the way they leered. the way they used baku’s suspension as leverage against you.

and then him.

he didn’t even raise his voice. just said “that’s enough,” and it was like gravity remembered what it was supposed to do. the boys scattered like dry leaves. and you—god, you didn’t even realize you were shaking, fists already up and your stance ready to throw them at the boys that surrounded you just a second ago, until he stepped closer, brow furrowed, voice low.

“y/n… you shouldn’t be here.”

you wanted to yell at him, hit him, maybe even hold him.

you did none of that.

you walked home in silence, his presence beside you heavy like a storm cloud. at your door, he paused—hands still buried in his hoodie, the lamplight softening his jaw.

“you grew up,” he murmured.

“you didn’t say goodbye,” you replied.

he winced like that hurt worse than any punch.

but when you hugged him tight and whispered “don’t disappear again,” the only thing baekjin could do was nod.

after that, it was slow, cautious. like learning to walk across glass barefoot.

he never touched you first or let his hand linger—except that one night it rained so hard the streets blurred into silver streaks, and you forgot your umbrella.

you were trying to wait it out under a bus stop, shivering, soaked halfway through—when he appeared beside you, quiet as ever. didn’t say anything, just pressed a black folding umbrella into your hand like it was obvious he’d been looking for you.

“you’ll get sick,” you said, blinking.

“i’ll be fine,” he replied, stepping back into the storm without waiting for a thank you.

and the way he looked at you before he left—like he couldn’t believe you were real, like this was some dream he didn’t want to wake from—that’s what really started it.

a glance turned into a habit.

a walk turned into a routine.

late nights turned into a secret.

one evening, you found him waiting on the rooftop of an old building near your school, knees drawn up, a book balanced across them. his hair windswept, and he was squinting against the wind to read.

you laughed. “you’re such a nerd.”

he looked up, brow raised. “you still let your heart do the stupid stuff first.”

“and you still act like you don’t have one,” you shot back, sitting beside him.

that night, he kissed you.

that was the first time baekjin kissed you, he said your name like it was the only thing holding him to this world.

you weren’t a kid anymore. and neither was he.

but neither of you were ready for baku to know. not after everything baekjin has been through and is tied to now. you knew it was dangerous, but it was a risk you were willing to take.

and after that—well, you stopped pretending there wasn’t something between you.

even if it meant keeping it from baku. even if it meant dodging questions, meeting in alleyways, changing contact names and never walking too close in daylight.

even if it meant lying.

because what you had with baekjin—it wasn’t just a childhood crush or some thrill in the shadows. it was real. and it felt like it was yours.

something worth protecting.

you thought you were careful.

you were careful.

no texting unless it was code. no eye contact when baekjin stopped by the café you worked part-time in after closing just to catch a glimpse of you. no lingering touches, no flinching when you saw each other when you would walk back home from your own cram schools. baku didn’t suspect a thing.

until he did.

you didn’t even know he’d seen baekjin’s text, didn’t know he’d followed you out that night. you thought it was just another quiet moment, the first few drops of rain starting to fall—baekjin waiting for you by the convenience store, back leaned against the wall, eyes flicking up like they always did when you arrived.

you smiled. he smiled back, barely there, soft and crooked, and only you got to see it.

and then he reached out, thumb brushing a raindrop from your cheek. his touch tender, familiar.

you didn’t even hear baku coming.

just the sharp sound of footsteps—fast, angry—and then crack.

baekjin’s head jerked to the side from the impact, the sound of the punch echoing off the concrete like thunder. he stumbled but didn’t fall, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth.

“baku!” you gasped, stepping forward in instinct.

but your brother’s hand was already on your arm.

“let go—!” you cried, trying to yank free, but he wasn’t listening.

his grip was tight—furious—and the next thing you knew, he was dragging you across the empty street, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt to speak.

“you’re coming home,” he snapped.

“baku—stop—” your voice caught in your throat as your shoes scraped against the asphalt. “you’re hurting me!”

he didn’t let go.

not because he wanted to hurt you—but because he didn’t know how else to stop you. everything in him was burning. you could feel it in his grip. his silence. the way his shoulders trembled with each step.

behind you, baekjin didn’t follow. he didn’t call after you. he just stood there as the rain started pouring heavier, watching.

you looked back only once.

he was holding his chest like it ached, blood smeared across his lip, eyes locked on you with something devastatingly soft.

but he didn’t move.

not even when you disappeared around the corner, your brother’s hand still wrapped around your wrist like a leash.

the walk home was silent—if silence could be loud, teeth-bared, vibrating with fury. baku didn’t look at you once. not when the rain soaked through your clothes, not when your breath hitched from trying not to cry. but the second the apartment door clicked shut behind you, something inside him snapped.

“what the fuck were you thinking?” he exploded, voice rough, cracked from holding it in too long. “are you out of your goddamn mind?”

you flinched. he didn’t notice. or maybe he did, but he was too far gone to stop.

“him? him?” he shouted, pacing now, hands raking through his hair like he needed something to tear. “after everything—after he left, after he ghosted both of us, after he joined them—you thought that was okay? to sneak around with baekjin?”

“baku—”

“don’t,” he snapped, pointing at you. “don’t even try. you don’t get to play stupid now.”

the apartment was too small for his anger. it filled every inch of it, clung to the walls like smoke. your father wasn’t around—was never around—but even if he had been, baku wouldn’t have cared. he was beyond reason, seeing red, heart pounding like it wanted to burst through his chest.

“he’s dangerous, y/n,” he shouted, voice breaking for real this time. “you think i don’t know what he’s capable of? you think this is some romance? it’s not—it’s not safe. it’s not right.”

his chest heaved, breath ragged. and when he looked at you—really looked—it wasn’t just rage in his eyes. it was fear. worry. the kind that ran deep, that made his voice crack not from anger, but from something more helpless. something more brotherly. out of love.

“you don’t know what you’re getting into,” he muttered, quieter now, but no less sharp.

you opened your mouth to speak—but he shut that down before you could.

his chest rose and fell like he couldn’t catch his breath. and when he looked at you, really looked, it wasn’t just fury etched into his face—it was fear. raw and rattling, buried beneath every word he couldn’t say right.

“baekjin isn’t the same kid we knew,”

your fingers tightened around your phone.

he noticed.

his eyes flicked down to it, then back up to you. and this time, his voice didn’t rise. it sank—low, tired, final.

“i’m not gonna force you,” he said. “but if you’re keeping him... if this is what you’re choosing—then choose. tonight.”

and then he turned, walked away, the air between you thick with everything he didn’t say.

and you just stood there—phone still in hand, your heart stuck in your throat—knowing, without him saying it, that whatever you chose tonight... would change everything.

not just with baekjin, but with your own brother.

and all you could do was stand there, dripping rain onto the floor, feeling like a kid again. like no matter how much you’d grown, you’d never be more than his little sister.

later that night, long after the door slammed behind you and baku locked himself in his room, you sat on your bed with your knees pulled tight to your chest. your phone buzzed once.

you stared at the message. your wrist still ached from how hard baku had pulled. but your heart ached more.

you didn’t answer right away.

but you opened your drawer, dug through old notebooks, and pulled out the umbrella—the same black one he gave you that night it rained.

you still hadn’t returned it.

your fingers brushed over the fabric, tracing the edges like they held answers.

you thought about the way he looked at you—always like he wasn’t sure you were real. like he didn’t believe he deserved to be near you but couldn’t stop coming back anyway.

you thought about the silence he kept between you, not because he didn’t care, but because he did too much.

you thought about how he never pushed. never asked for more than what you gave. never made promises he couldn’t keep—but still showed up when it mattered.

he was here now.

in his own quiet, stubborn way—he chose you.

and the thought of losing him again, of watching him disappear without fighting to keep him this time—it felt like a second heartbreak you weren’t sure you’d survive.

your thumb hovered over your screen.

a thousand ways to say i’m sorry, or this is too much, or i can’t.

but none of them were true.

so you typed back slowly, quietly.

you pressed send, watching the messages pile up, delivered. and for the first time all night, you breathed.

whatever came next—whatever fights, secrets, screaming matches waited—you weren’t gonna let baekjin fade away from your life.

not again.

you were willing to argue, to plead, to fight your brother if you had to—but you weren’t going to lose baekjin twice.

note: i edited this bc it wasnt proofread when i posted it lol, plz bare with me i fixed repeat paragraphs i forgot to edit 😭

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ weak hero class ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @loserlvrss @nanamiswifesatorusgf @hateateez @slytherinshua @winnie-bunnie @rexxiiia @mrgzzarella @ilyhachii @youmeshii @actuallynarii @midnight--raine @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @trasshy-artist @crowneve @juicyjam @xh01bri @onyourlisa345 @triciawritesstuff @prettywhenicry4 @dripoftheseus @rosieparkk @gacktsa @sopitadearvejas @satorustorm @mirwors @sqacewalkr @l5byrinth @sarcastic-cookie @v3n0m35 @vitaminbtob @armani78 @bbangbies @snowflakemoon3 @kibtsuji @yuuuumii @slovesyouuu @f1-lh44 @hajunz @snowflakemoon3 @hoe4wonwoo @pluslandminun @bleedingwhiteroses222 @dahlia-blossom @reiofsuns2001 @yuuuumii @feralmaneater @fandomout @ilovethe141 (ask to be tagged or removed)

50 people on the taglist.. holy shit might need a pt 2 soon

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iimplicitt · 3 months ago

Note

🐴 ooh okay I’m here to infest your blog with max requests then. I come from Anna’s blog.

I have been wanting spy!max. What if reader gets caught in the crossfire as an innocent and Max had to intervene to save the reader. As a result he had to protect her and somewhere along the way he ended up falling for her

ENJOY THE SILENCE | MV1

pairings: spy! max verstappen x fem! reader

a/n-warnings: violence, blood, mentions of su!cide, criminal underworld, spy/government organizations, charles runs a crime syndicate, language, sherlock! inspo, slightly suggestive themes, hea!, if typos i apologize i’m out of it, collab with pookie @theonottsbxtch

wc: 9.9k

Leclerc.

A name whispered by few and not known by many unless they were involved in work God would frown upon.

Max leaned back in his chair, orchestral music swirling in the air along with light conversation and rich laughter. The banquet was still buzzing even though the hour began to run late. His fingers thrummed on the tablecloth, eyes flickering over the crowd.

Guards were posted at each entrance.

His eyes danced up to the terraces above. The police had men patrolling as well.

The night was still young and vulnerable.

Leclerc was a known terrorist. Or businessman. Same thing these days.

He was just a name. An idea. A phantom that lurked in shadows. Pulled strings. Swayed the market. Played a dirty hand in elections.

No face or even a voice could be attached to him.

He was like a Boogeyman, but far too real with drastic consequences.

Leclerc.

Men he had taken down over the years had screamed the name after Max had all but beat them into submission. Nearly half of them committing suicide right after. Fear for the infamous criminal greater than any other alternative.

A man who liked to play games. Toy with people.

Max had landed on his radar.

It seemed as if every big assignment he was put on, there were traces of him everywhere. Ties. Strings. Deaths all leading back to one man.

He swallowed the last dregs of his champagne as he watched the Prince of Monaco being escorted out of the ballroom. His instructions simple. Keep an eye out. Clear the trail.

Keep it clean.

Max stood, rolling his shoulders slightly as his suit adjusted around him. The smells of rich colognes and whiskeys wafting in the air, glittering diamonds winking at him from the chandelier lights.

He lingered off to the side as he existed, the cool night air hitting his skin and the heat from the earlier summer sun was still warm on the pavement. Max leaned against the wall, watching as a sleek car pulled up and the door was opened for the Prince.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a lighter and a cigarette, the sharp sound of the flame igniting greeted his ears and warm light bathed his face as he placed the tobacco between his lips. Breathing in, the rich nicotine provided a blanket over his nerves as he watched the car slowly roll away.

Max was about to walk off to get his bike to follow when something on top of a nearby building caught his eye. It was quick. A glint of something metallic. His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the darkness. He never ignored his intuition.

Slowly, he walked towards the building, sticking to the shadows and smoke slowly plumed into the air, pouring out of his nose as he kept a steady pace. Stalking. Each step careful.

When he saw the shadow quickly dart against the roof, he didn’t hesitate.

Tossing the cigarette, he made quick work down the street, his dress shoes sharp against the stone lined road, eyes following the figure.

Another glint of metal.

He darted to the side, the silent sound of a bullet biting through the air next to him not a second later. A silencer. Gunman. Hopefully only one. He could work with that.

Only issue is why hadn’t they taken the shot when the Prince was–

“Shit,” he whispered as he took off in a run again.

Another bullet grazed the air.

Max quickly rounded the corner of the building, he knew the angle would be difficult, If he could just get inside.

He ducked beneath windows he passed, about to turn under the awning when he ran directly into someone. Their startled scream knocked him slightly askew.

Worse, alerting the gunman where he was.

His eyes flicked down, taking note of the woman he had knocked over. Civilian by the looks of it, in a work uniform. His mind was running a mile a minute, reaching a hand down to quickly help you up and keep moving.

“You should leave,” he muttered, about to breeze past you and through the door.

“That’s what I was doing until you practically ran me over-”

A bullet ricocheted off the ground, shattering a window.

You screamed again and he tried his best not to roll his eyes as he took hold of your arm and yanked you inside of the building.

“What the fuck–”

“Be quiet,” he snapped, darkness swallowing them up in the hallway and he struggled to listen for any approaching footsteps over the sound of your rapid breathing.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Are you incapable of shutting up?” He bit.

You balked at him. “We were just shot at-”

“And we’re going to be again if you don’t be quiet.”

Even though it was dark he could read your expression easily. You wanted to slap him. He hoped your annoyance would overshadow the fear of the current situation, making you more compliant.

“Come on,” he whispered. Looking for somewhere you could hide. The last thing he needed was casualties.

Max was about to reach for a door handle to what he assumed was a closet when another bullet flew past him. He yanked you down, realising he wasn’t being that gentle but surely you wouldn’t care given someone was out to murder you both.

“Get inside,” he managed to say before he quickly got up, a person appearing from the shadows like a phantom deciding to finally make an appearance,

He dodged a punch, his own arm swinging out and managing to land a blow in the assailant's side.

Max barely resisted the grunt as his fist connected, already pivoting on the balls of his feet to avoid the counterstrike. The assailant recovered fast, swinging a knife in a tight, brutal arc. Max twisted, feeling the blade whisper past his ribs, slicing fabric but missing flesh.

Close. Too Close.

He liked this jacket, pity.

He grabbed the bastard’s wrist, yanking them forward, using their own momentum against them. A sharp twist. A pained snarl. The knife clattered to the floor.

The other man struck out in desperation, a wild jab aimed for Max’s ribs with another smaller knife he hadn’t seen. The glint of the blade flickering as it caught the light. Max deflected with a swift parry, stepping in close- too close. He could smell the sweat and gunpowder, see the flicker of uncertainty in the assailant’s eyes just before he drove his knee hard into his stomach. The man reeled back, breath stolen, shoulders heaving. He barely had time to blink as the man threw the knife with such force he could hear it rip through the air, lodging itself into Max’s thigh.

He grunted, clenching his teeth and ripped the knife out. It wasn’t deep but he’d need stitches.

Max didn’t give him time to recover. A sharp kick to the chest sent him crashing into a stack of wooden crates, the impact splitting the air with a satisfying crush. He began to get up, but Max rammed his head forward, headbutting him with years of practise. The bastard slumped. Unconscious. Thank fuck.

He stalked forward, quick on his feet and he kicked the man again for good measure. Mostly to make sure he was actually unconscious. Once satisfied, taking in the steady rise and fall of his chest through tactical gear, Max reached down and yanked the balaclava up.

He couldn’t help but smile as he took in the man's features.

“So that’s who…” he whispered.

Max exhaled slowly as he stood, rolling his shoulders, the tension in his muscles easing. He wiped the blood from his knuckles against the front of his jacket, then-

Shit.

His haze snapped to you. You were still standing there, standing frozen in the doorway, eyes blown wide, breath uneven.

Of course you were. He should’ve known nothing was ever that simple.

“Right, move,” he said, already striding towards you. Ignoring the way warm blood was beginning to soak into his trousers.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“We’re leaqving.”

“No, we’re not. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Max let out a slow breath, patience hanging by a thread. He could hear sirens in the distance. Time was short.

“You’ve got two choices,” he said, voice flat. “Walk, or I carry you.”

Your expression flickered with outrage. “You wouldn’t dare-”

He grabbed your wrist.

You fought him, really you tried, heels digging in, but Max was stronger, faster and had far less interest in arguing. With barely any effort, he hoisted you over his shoulder, ignoring the flurry of fists against his back.

“Put me down, you absolute-”

“Later.”

Max strode down the alley, barely registering the way you kicked and struggled against his grip. His focus was on getting the hell out before someone else decided to have another go at killing him.

He reached his sports bike - sleek, black, and built for speed - and dumped you onto the seat.

You immediately tried to slide off.

His hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist. “Stay.”

You glared at him. “I’m not a bloody dog.”

“No, but you’re a pain in my ass.” He leaned in slightly, voice low and edged with irritation. “That man back there wanted me dead. He’d want anyone who witnessed that dead.” He watched the fight in your eyes, the defiance, the disbelief. Then his gaze dropped to your uniform-blue scrubs, a name badge slightly askew. “Do you want to live another day to work at your…” He tilted his head “Your veterinary?”

You swallowed. Hard.

“Yes,” you muttered.

“Good.” He yanked a helmet over your head before you could argue, pulling the strap tight under your chin.

You smacked his hand away, “Get your hands off-”

“Hold on.”

“What?”

The engine roared to life as he revved the throttle.

“Hold. On.”

You barely had time to react before he twisted the grip, the bike surging forward, tyres screeching against the ground. You yelped, arms snapping around his waist as you two tore through the streets, wind whipping past you.

Max’s lips tugged back.

Sassy or not, you were holding on for dear life now.

The city blurred into a mess of neon and streetlights as Max weaved through traffic with the kind of precision that came from years of needing to be faster than the people trying to kill him. You clung onto him tight, despite all your earlier defiance, self-preservation had finally kicked in.

He kept the smirk to himself.

Good.

You tore through backstreets, out onto a motorway, and then further still, into the countryside where the roads were empty, dark, and winding. The roar of the engine echoed through the trees as he pushed the bike harder, faster, leaving everything behind in a blur of tarmac and moonlight.

You didn’t say a word, not that you could over the wind. He could feel you tense against him, probably still weighing up whether you had made the right decision getting on the bike in the first place.

Didn’t matter.

You were too far out from the city now to turn back.

The road narrowed, the air thickening with the scent of pine and earth. The stars were brighter out here, uninterrupted by streetlights. The bike tore though the last stretch of road, tyres crunching over gravel as you approached a villa nestled in the woods.

It was an old house, sprawling yet quiet, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in the Italian countryside rather than where you were. Ivy climbed the stone walls, warm lights glowed behind shuttered windows, and the scent of night blooming jasmine hung in the air.

Was this a safe house?

Is this what they looked like? If they were, the movies portrayed them incorrectly.

Max cut the engine. Silence crashed in.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then, slowly, you peeled yourself away from him, yanking the helmet off. Your hair was a mess, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

“What the fuck,” you breathed.

He swung a leg off the bike, shaking out his hands, rolling his shoulders like they hadn’t just spent the last however many kilometers nearly breaking the sound barrier.

You stared at him, then at the house, then back at him. The blood.

“What- Where- How-”

“Not a fan of full sentences, are you?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Where the fuck are we? Who are you?”

Max ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the house before looking back at you. “Safe.”

You let out a sharp laugh, disbelieving. “You just kidnapped me at God knows what speed, drove me to some random place. What even is this? Some murder house in the middle of nowhere?” You threw your arms out. “Where even are we? This isn’t even the same country anymore, is it?”

Max didn’t answer. He just walked past you, up towards the door.

“Hey! I’m talking to you, arsehole!”

He stopped at the entrance, casting you a glance over his shoulder.

“Are you coming in, or do you want to sleep in the woods?”

Your jaw clenched, “How do I know you aren’t going to kill me–”

He let out an exasperated breath. “I just saved your life, or did that escape your notice?”

Your jaw ticked, arms crossing over your chest. He tried to understand how confusing this probably was, but after so many years the effects of how dangerous his job actually was lost on him.

He continued to stare at you, sighing. “We’re in northern Italy. This is a safe house. You’re fine.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Considering him. “Who are you?”

“I can��t tell you that.”

You huffed, the puff of air making some of your hair fall in your face.

Slowly, like a wounded animal approaching, you made your way towards him, eyes flicking down to his leg. “Do you need help?”

Max raised a brow. You couldn’t seem to make up your mind. Half of you was terrified, the other sympathy towards his wounds.

“I’ll be fine.”

You raised your own brow, ever defiant as you came to a stop on the step right below him. The moonlight caught in your eyes as he stared down at you, seeing you properly for the first time.

You raised your chin, eyes dancing from his legs to his face. “I have medical training.”

“On animals, maybe.”

You sighed through your nose. “Fine, bleed out. Super glue your flesh together.” You shoved past him, entering in through the door with caution thrown in the wind.

He followed you inside, watching you carefully as you looked around. The interior was simple. Lightly decorated. Giving the impression it was lived in, but clean. A holiday home, maybe. In case anyone came looking.

Your fingers traced along the edge of an ornately carved table, catching his eyes in the mirror hung above the mantle of the fireplace. He was leaning in the doorway of the living room, arms crossed over his chest. Critiquing.

“Are you taking me back tomorrow? I have a life you know, people are going to wonder–”

“Sorry, but that’s not happening anytime soon.”

You paused, muscles coiling in tension. You then looked at him over your shoulder. “What am I then? A hostage?”

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “No,” how to word this? “Listen. that man we just encountered is more dangerous than you can even imagine.”

You turned. “Who is he?”

“You know the bombings that happened last month?”

You nodded, eyes going slightly wide. “That person was responsible? I thought it had been a suicide bombing?”

“It was made to look like one. But that poor man was a victim like everyone else. He was a pawn. A puzzle for the government to solve. Bombs strapped to his chest, and they’d be set off if we failed.”

“So, you work for the government? And you what? Failed? Failed what?”

“That’s the thing, we didn’t fail.”

“I don’t understand.”

Max walked over to the kitchen attached to the room, sitting himself down. He knew he needed to close the wound soon. Adrenaline was wearing off. “There was an earpiece the man was wearing, and he had been on the phone with us. We figured it out, what he wanted. The man was just supposed to tell us where he was so a bomb squad could get him but then…” he rubbed at his eyes. Exhaustion creeping in. “He started to describe him.”

Slowly, you approached. Eyes flicking down to his leg again. “Do you have a medical kit?”

Max debated for a moment, he wasn’t fond of people touching him. The most contact he got these days was dealt in punches. The pain pulsed, though, making him relent and he gestured to the cupboard under the sink.

When you came back, he felt a strange jump in his stomach. Like a rope was being yanked as you kneeled in front of him, your eyes focused on the contents of the box as you rummaged through it.

“What’d he say?” You asked, making him snap out of it.

“Not much. Didn’t even say what he looked like. Didn’t give a name. Just said his voice sounded so soft– and the line went dead.”

You paused as you slid sanitary gloves on, eyes going up to his and a crease formed between his brows. “Why’d the government put out a terrorist statement? Surely his family knows–”

Max shook his head, reaching his hands down to tear a large rip into his pants so you could get better access to his wound. “No, no one is supposed to know what’s actually happening. The real threat. Leclerc has been causing chaos across multiple countries' governments for years now, he’s just getting louder. He’s bored.”

“Leclerc? Is that his name?” You leaned, in, your warm breath softly brushed against his thigh, the dried blood feeling cold against his skin and he fought back as shiver as you pierced his flesh with the needle.

“Not many know of him. Barely anyone even knows what he looks like.”

You paused, looking at him. “But now we do.”

He nodded. “Thus, the safehouse.”

“What have you dragged me into?”

He smiled at her, though it wasn’t friendly. “Trust me, if I could be rid of you, I would leap at the opportunity.”

You yanked the wound closed a little harder than necessary and he winced. “The sentiment is shared, you prick. I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” he stood up, watching you lean back while you were still down on your knees. “You were in the way.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stared up at him. A challenge. Seeing who would cave first. His eyes traced the contours of your bent throat, up across your lips, to your angry gaze.

He sighed. “We’re stuck with each other, lieve. For the time being. He knows we’ve seen his face. He won’t be letting that go.”

“So, we just wait here?”

“No, we’re leaving tomorrow.” He stepped around you. Finally breaking the eye contact and he made his way down the hall, hearing you follow after him and cursing under your breath.

“What? But what about my–”

“I’ll have it handled, but we can’t stay here. Or anywhere for a long time, for that matter. Leclerc is powerful. He doesn’t just have money, he has blackmail. That’s enough to make any government topple.” Max turned, watching as you froze, eyes wide. Disassociating. Not being able to come to terms with your new reality.

He felt bad. A little, as much as he could manage. But this is what happened when people stumbled into his life. Everything gets ruined. Upturned.

‘What am I supposed to do?” You whispered, mostly talking to yourself.

Max walked up to you, his steps light. “Right now, you need to rest. There should be toiletries in the bathroom.”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a scoff. “Such a nice host.”

He bowed his head in mock virtue. “You’re welcome. I’ll wake you up.”

With that he turned, disappearing down the hall and shutting his door behind him. He needed to call Christian and let him know.

He was compromised.

–

You didn’t sleep. How were you supposed to? Your mind was spinning. Thinking about everything and nothing. Pacing the room in the dark, the moon glinting at you through the window. You had no idea what time it was. There was no clock, and you had lost your phone in the chaotic events that unfurled earlier.

You kept staring at your scrubs that lay in a neat, folded pile on the bed. Now adorning a too big shirt and baggy boxers you’d found in a drawer. You felt nauseous, a sense of foreboding as you stared at your work uniform with your name stitched onto the front packet. It felt like you were severing something. And maybe you were. Your life. Any sense of normalcy.

It didn’t feel real.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and you jumped, half expecting the strange man to barge in. It occurred to you that you never asked for his name. But after a few seconds passed, you realised he was waiting.

Swallowing thickly, you reached for the door handle and took a breath before opening it.

There he stood, mouth opening to say something but his eyes quickly took in your appearance, and if your mind wasn’t playing trick on you, you could’ve sworn his neck went a little red.

He then looked past you onto the bed, at the fabric of your past life. “Good, we need to burn it.”

“What?”

“Your name’s on it. Grab it and let's go.”

He began to walk away and you blinked at him. “I’m supposed to go out like this?”

He looked back at her, biting his cheek as he took in her bare legs. “It’s not like we’re going out in public. Now move.”

You wanted to throw something at his head, but you quickly slipped on your shoes and grabbed your scrubs. When you walked into the living room a fire was already going in the hearth with him kneeling in front of it.

He held out his hand, looking at you expectantly.

You held your breath, fingers tightening on the cloth for a moment before you finally handed it to him.

Feeling something break a bit inside of you as he tossed them in, the fabric beginning to char.

–

A week had passed, and he barely talked to you.

Max.

That was his name.

Not that he told you, he never told you anything. In fact, he avoided you like the plague.

Bits of information fell into your lap. Like his name as he talked to some man named Horner over the radio on the small private jet you had been on. Your eyes watching as he flew it with precision. His hands maneuvering over hundreds of controls as if it were muscle memory.

You didn’t know what to do with yourself.

This was your third relocation, somewhere in the Swiss Alps maybe, you didn’t know. You just sat curled cup with your chin resting on your knees by the window. Looking at the snow-covered mountains. Drawing patterns into the fogged-up mirror.

He felt like a ghost.

Or maybe you did. A presence he was wanting to pretend wasn’t there. Haunting him.

It’s not like you weren’t being taken care of. New clothes had been laid out, all in your size but you tended to op for the shirt you’d found that first night. Feeling like it was your last tether. When you woke up in the morning, breakfast was made. The fridge full. No note as to where he had gone. But you supposed the less you knew the better.

A few more days passed before there was a knock on your door again.

Time to go.

His eyes only met yours for a moment before he walked away.

–

It was late, the moon hanging high in the night and winking at him as he unlocked the door. But he paused as he realised there was loud noise coming from inside the house.

Leaning forward, he realised it was music and his brows furrowed. You were usually asleep by then. He tried to plan his outings to avoid you. He was sure you didn’t want to be around him so it was a common courtesy.

Walking inside, a song from the seventies was pouring through the speakers. If there were nearby houses there would surely be complaints, but they were tucked away in a large house resting on a mountain's edge in southern Mexico. Away from prying eyes or ears.

His steps were quiet and light, though the beat was covering him well enough.

Max passed by the kitchen, brow raising at the sight of an empty bottle of wine and the liquor cabinet doors were left open, bottles rummaged through.

Christian was going to kill him.

His feet carried him to the living room and he abruptly stopped when he caught sight of you.

You were wearing his damned shirt again. A glass of wine in your hand, eyes closed as you swayed around. Singing along to whatever song you had put on. A drunken blush on your cheeks.

He couldn’t stop staring at you. A little dumbfounded at how carefree you looked. How relaxed. Hips swaying and a thoughtless smile on your lips. A daydream in the form of a woman.

You turned, taking another sip of wine and your eyes caught his. He expected you to jump. Scream.

Instead your eyes lit up, knocking him off balance.

“Max!” You exclaimed, making your way over to him, your bare feet padding against the expensive rug.

He blinked down at you as you came to a stop right in front of him. Closer than you had been in weeks. He had been keeping you at an arm's length for both your sakes. But with the mischievous glint in your eye he had a feeling that was going to crumble tonight.

“What are you doing?” He eventually managed to get out.

You took another drink, your eyes locked on him as you did so. As you pulled the glass away, your lips were stained with wine.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Stealing.”

You raised a brow.

He gestured to your glass. “I don’t recall telling you the liquor was up for grabs.”

“Is it not?”

“No.”

You smiled. “That’s too bad.” And you finished off your glass, twirling around and walking to the coffee table where you had another bottle. Pouring yourself another one.

He bit his cheek. Watching you. Cautious. Ignoring that weird tug he got in his stomach when he was around you. “You do realise how much that bottle costs?”

You shrugged, taking a drink “Not my problem.”

“Yeah, well it will be my problem if you run through every bottle in this house.”

“Careful Max, you sound aggravated.” You tsk-d, a playful smile tugging at your lips and he looked away as he leaned against the entryway.

“I don’t get aggravated.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

He felt you approach. The smell of the shampoo you had used wafting around him paired with the wine. Enticing. Dangerous.

You leaned into your hip, the grin on your lips anything but innocent.

“I could push all your buttons right now if I wanted to.”

He flicked his eyes down to you, feeling a little breathless but he pushed onward. “No, you couldn’t actually–”

“I think actually I could.”

“No–”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“No,” he bit out your name, eyes narrowing at your growing grin. “If you would just–”

“I can’t seem to hear you.” He huffed as he watched you grab the remote and turn the music up louder.

“”Just listen to me–”

“I’m trying to listen to you–”

“I can tell–”

“So tell me,” the song ended, and they stared at one another. He’d gotten closer without realising it and you craned your neck back. Voice soft. “Is that making you mad?”

He clenched his jaw, eyes dancing from your mouth to your eyes. Slowly, the word left him. “No.”

“No,” you whispered. With a hum you stepped back as the next song played, and before he realised it you had grabbed his wrist and pulled him further into the room. “Dance with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Your skin was warm against his and he felt his nerves go into a frenzy. Part of him wanted to tear himself away from you, the other half wanted to be more reckless. Hold on.

Ridiculous.

You frowned at him, though it was more of a drunken pout.

He nearly frowned himself when you let go, your drunken mind getting caught up in the song, singing the lyrics and you closed your eyes. Stepping along with the beat to the Nancy Sinatra song that was pouring out into the room.

Max lowered himself on the sofa, leaning back with an arm draped over the back as he watched you. He didn’t really know what to think. It was an odd predicament he found himself in. New territory that came with being hunted by Leclerc. He knew they were being trailed, though a bit slower than he expected.

He was glad you weren’t curled up in fear, knowing he had upended your life by running into you on that night that seemed so long ago now. You were finding little ways to cheer yourself up. Every other night when he’d come home– to the safehouse– he’d find dishes or desserts you made. A note scrawled on top, Help yourself, followed by your first initial.

Max’s eyes danced up your legs as you moved, watching how his shirt hung on your body, not liking how much he enjoyed seeing you in it.

He knew this was reckless. Sitting there, watching you. Harmless from the outside, but he felt that tug again and he wasn’t pulling away from it.

He knew he should get up. Walk away. Avoid you like he had been the past month.

Max didn’t move.

His eyes traced you like an obsessed artist.

“Max,” you sighed, setting your glass down, but you stumbled. The alcohol rushed through your veins and he easily caught you, breath hitching as you fell into his lap.

Eyes locked onto each other. Ensnared. Caught in a trap.

Max swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by you. “I think it’s time you went to bed.”

‘Why?” Your voice was a whisper, breath fanning over his lips.

“Because I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.”

Your eyes searched his, fingers twined in his shirt. Your grip tightened, leaning in, making his heart lurch, then you leaned back.

His hands slowly fell from your waist as you stood up, his fingers grazing your thighs. Dazed as you muttered a goodnight and walked away.

Max watched you go, alone and the music echoed.

One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.

–

You were haunting his dreams. Every night he seemed to wake up in a sweat, sheets pooling around his hips and he’d rub his eyes, forcing the images away.

Reckless.

Stupid.

He started joining you for dinner. Sitting at the counter, glass of whiskey in hand as he watched you move around the kitchen.

Wearing another shirt of his.

He gave it to you a week ago. Left it folded on your bed after you two had landed in Argentina.

Leclerc felt like an approaching shadow. He could feel the tick of the clock matching the beat of his heart.

Closer and closer.

Your fingers trailed along the nape of his neck as you walked behind him, setting down his plate.

He shut his eyes.

He was slipping.

–

You lowered your book a bit, squinting against the sun despite the fact you were wearing sunglasses. The Miami sun unforgiving.

Max walked out onto the back patio and you watched him silently, scared that if you made a noise he’d retreat back into the house. He was always treading so carefully around you.

You watched as he lifted his shirt over his head, his hair looking blond in the sun and his skin tan and corded with muscle. Swim shorts low on his hips.

It seemed so… casual.

You liked it.

He dove into the pool, the water aquamarine and shimmering.

Max broke the surface, shaking his head to rid himself of water and wiped at his eyes, looking at you over the ledge of the pool. He had a habit of staring when he thought you weren’t looking. It felt like a game of cat and mouse with him. Never knowing when he’d let go of his reins a little bit. He’d let you in a little bit but then would take five steps back.

What was he so scared of?

He rested his arms on the edge of the pool. water beading up on his biceps and shoulders, eyes narrowing at you and you lowered your book, raising a brow.

“Get in.”

You blinked and lowered your glasses down your nose. “What?”

“Get in, lieve.”

Your brow furrowed. He called you that sometimes and you had no idea what it meant.

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

Despite your scoff, you found yourself getting up anyway. His eyes watched you as you walked closer, each leg lowering into the water, goosebumps covering your flesh even though it was warm.

The water wasn’t too deep, but you were still on your toes as you neared him, water dewed up on his lashes. His eyes glowing as he briefly looked at your mouth.

Part of you was tempted to grab his neck and just say to hell with it.

It was hard to breathe when he was around.

–

They had only been in Rio for a few days. He didn’t know how you managed to convince him, but he found himself being dragged to a night club as the sun set behind the waves.

It was idiotic.

But seeing your smile as he caved made him reckless.

The music was loud. The club dark, figures flickering in and out of focus as lights flashed.

This really was a horrible idea.

Your hand found his wrist, tugging him towards the dance floor but he didn’t budge.

You looked over your shoulder at him. “Oh come on, live a little.”

He shook his head. “I’ll keep watch.” Max’s heart sank a little when he saw your expression falter a bit, clearly upset. But before he could even scramble for a response you dropped his arm and kept walking. Other bodies swept you up.

Biting his cheek, he leaned back against the bar. Careful to keep an eye on you. On the entrance and exit.

Ignoring that tug in his stomach.

You had a headache. One that was free of alcohol. You weren’t risking that tonight.

Every now and again you’d catch Max’s eye, the stoney expression he always wore. Unreadable.

It was infuriating. Exhausting. You felt like a fool.

You were probably just lonely. Forcing something that wasn’t there. He was practically your keeper. Nothing more, nothing less.

It almost felt like he always went out of his way to make that point.

You could look all you wanted but that was it. Only fleeting touches and tense conversation.

It was maddening. You felt like you were going insane. Imagining things with the way he was looking at you.

Like he wanted you.

Clearly he didn’t.

You had no idea what he wanted.

The music thrummed. Loud in your ears and making your heart lurch in your throat. You wanted to forget for a little while. Forget what your life had turned into, or lack thereof.

Your hands were in the air, hips swaying, letting the crowd guide you.

You spun, heels catching and you stumbled a bit but someone behind you caught you easily.

The smell of rich cologne met you first and you turned, taken slightly aback from the man who was now standing in front of you.

He was devastatingly handsome.

And grinning lightly.

At you.

Dimples in his cheeks, blue eyes looking dark, and his brown hair was a mess.

“Sorry,” you finally managed to spit out, blushing like an idiot.

He shook his head, leaning down so you could hear him better. His voice soft.

“You’re alright, darling.” He had a slight french accent and you returned his smile.

Not denying that you liked the sudden attention you were getting.

The moment was tense, his eyes not leaving yours as he took a step closer, a question in his gaze as his arm reached out and wrapped around your waist.

You sucked in a breath. Debating.

Your eyes trailed to where Max had been but he was gone, walking off somewhere.

Running your tongue along the inside of your cheek, you looked back up at the handsome mystery man and wrapped your arms around his neck.

Permission.

You knew exactly what he wanted. The reassurance felt nicer than it should’ve.

You two began to move to the music, lights flashing and bodies pressed tight together. His voice low in your ear as his lips brushed against it. Making light conversation. Making you laugh.

He was wickedly charming.

He asked your name and you felt like you had to practically shout it over the music.

“Yours?” You asked, feeling a bit dazed with the way he was looking at you. Shivering as one of his hands snaked up your back and into your hair, his other arm tightening around your waist.

“Charles,” he spoke it into your mouth.

Lips colliding. Messy. Electric.

God, you were touch starved.

You practically melted into him as his tongue slid into your mouth.

The taste of him strangely sweet.

After he had caught the sight of a shadow moving upstairs, he debated leaving you alone for a moment before deciding it was better to be safe than sorry.

What he hadn’t been expecting as he looked over the upstairs railing, was to see you making out with someone.

But it wasn’t just someone.

His stomach dropped as the flickering lights shone over the man’s face.

Leclerc.

Just as he turned around a knee was suddenly being lodged into his diaphragm.

Max stumbled back, coughing violently. Barely having time to blink before he dodged another kick, this time a foot coming straight for his head.

He quickly dodged, hooking his own arm out in an arc and landed a fist across the person face.

Lights shone into the balcony and he caught sight of a woman, grunting as she wiped blood off her cheek.

Fuck.

He knew exactly who this was.

Leclerc’s personal murder weapon.

Ex-MI5. Now enemy of the state.

She didn’t hesitate, darting forward, throwing another kick and as he went to block her, her hands gripped his shoulder and she swung up and around, cinching her legs around his neck.

His head spun a bit from the force, adrenaline making him barely take notice of how she dug a knife somewhere in his back.

Max’s hands flew up, grip tightening around her waist before slamming her down onto a near by table, knocking the wind out of her but her legs remained a vice around his neck.

His hand shot out, putting his own death grip around her throat. Seeing red.

She wheezed. Clawing at his hand, eyes going red and bleary.

He grit his teeth as she grinned at him.

“Been a while, babe.”

Max was about to just say fuck it and snap her neck when someone suddenly whistled.

“Kinky, I like it.”

His eyes flicked to the side before widening.

Leclerc was setting your unconscious body down on a nearby couch, your arm slipping from his shoulder and slumping to the side.

He didn’t have much time to take in the smug expression Leclerc was wearing before there was a sharp blow to his skull.

The second he was awake a sharp pain ricocheted around his skull, making him wince.

He blinked a few times, eyes burning, trying to see in the low light provided only by a few lamps.

The room was simple. Neat. A hotel maybe, given the carpet.

When he saw you, tied to a chair across from him, duck tape over your mouth with blood dripping down the side of your head, your eyes dilated in fear.

He bit out your name, attempting to crawl to you out of sheer desperation before he realized his own hands were tied.

The longer Max took in your fear stricken expression, he realised you weren’t even looking at him. But past his shoulder.

Long legs were adorned by an expensive black suit and one ankle was perched up on the other knee. Italian leather graced his feet that looked as frightfully expensive as the black leather gloves that covered his long fingers, resting on the armrests of the chair.

Leclerc looked painfully casual.

Save for the cold look in his eyes and cruel smile on his lips.

His blue eyes flicked down Max’s frame. An invisible string pulled at the corner of his lips as he rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Max clenched his jaw, looking at you, how your hair stuck to your sweat drenched skin. His eyes flicked back to Leclerc.

“Why don’t you come here and find out?”

Leclerc laughed. Though it was more so an exhale of air and his own gaze drifted to you, making Max’s blood boil.

The man hummed, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Max.

“Charles Leclerc.” He let his name sit heavy in the air for a moment. “Hello,” the way he said it, almost in a sing-song voice… like their current situation was amusing.

His eyes danced to you, and your confused expression. “Charles? From the club?” You continued to simply stare at him, blood crusting on your wounds and hummed. “Do I really make such a fleeting impression? That’s a shame. I rather enjoyed our kiss.”

Max thrashed against his restraints.

“Easy now.” Leclerc tsk-d. He then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Max. Just a small one. Of what I’m capable of.” Before Max could even think about what he was saying a red dot appeared on your forehead.

He tried to turn around to see where it was coming from but he couldn’t move. Yanking against the rope but it was useless.

Leclerc sighed, as if taking pity on him.

“I’ve got a lot going on out there in the world. I’m a specialist, I suppose.” He raised his brows, gesturing to Max. “Like you.”

“A consulting criminal,” Max bit.

Leclerc shrugged. “Brilliant, isn’t it? No one ever gets to me.”

“I did.”

He hummed, “you’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you,” Max muttered, his anger making him reckless.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

Leclerc shrugged, smiling. Looking bashful. “Yeah, okay I did.” He then stood up, rolling his shoulders and fixing his cuff links. “But the flirtings over, Max. Daddy’s had enough now and there’s business to be done. I’ve shown you what I’m capable of. Remember the royal family fiasco? Oh, the princess. What a naughty girl.” He laughed. “Or when I drained the Vatican's vaults. All that money just to get you to come out and play.”

He walked over to Max, looking down at him. “So take this as a friendly warning, mon cher.” Leclerc placed his hands in his pockets, unblinking as the next words slid out of his mouth like oil. “Back off.”

He stepped back, walking in a circle around your chair. “Although I’ll admit, it has been fun hasn’t it? This little game of ours.”

“People have died.”

“I hate to tell you this, but that’s what people do.” He then wound a hand in your hair and yanked your head back, smiling into your neck as a knife suddenly appeared in Leclerc’s hand, pressing it against your throat. His eyes flicked up, meeting Max’s rage filled expression. “Would you like a reminder of that?”

“I will kill you,” Max ground out.

Leclerc leaned back, dropping the knife as if he was suddenly bored. His voice calm. “No you won’t.”

Max’s eyes drifted to you. “Are you alright?”

You were quiet. Deathly still.

Leclerc leaned down, his lips dusting your ear. “You can talk, honey. Go ahead.” And he ripped off the tape.

You winced. Voice cry and cracking. “I’m fine.”

“See?” Leclerc leaned against the back of your chair. Hovering. A demon waiting to collect his bargain. “She’s a tough one, you know how to pick them. I’m a little envious, actually.”

“What do you want?” Max snapped. Getting desperate. “Money? Missile plans?”

Leclerc tapped his hands on the chair. Whistling. “Missile plans? Wow.” He acted like he was considering it but sighed. “Boring. I can get those anywhere.” He leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head and Max’s stomach sank as he watched you flinch.

But then you suddenly threw your head back, ramming your head back into Leclerc’s nose and he stumbled, blood beginning to pour out and into his mouth. Staining his lips and teeth.

He laughed, looking crazed as he made a weak attempt to wipe the crimson away. “Good, very good. She’s sweet, I can see why you like having her around. But then again, people do get so sentimental about their pets.”

Max threw himself back, the wooden chair shattering below him and he darted forward, ignoring the pain and slamming Leclerc into the wall. Not caring as an array of red glowing dots covered his back.

“Max!” you cried out, struggling against your restraints.

Leclerc wouldn’t stop laughing. A mad man. “So touchy and loyal. Maybe you’re her pet.”

A bullet shot through the window and he heard you cry out as it grazed your leg.

Max threw himself back, raising his hands in the air.

Leclerc smiled. “Gotcha.” He then smoothed down his suit, giving Max an offended look. “Armani, please be gentle with it.” He then sighed, tilting his head to the side. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Max? Hm?” He stepped forward, getting in his personal space. “Do you?”

“I get killed?”

“Kill you?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “No, no no. Don’t be so obvious. I mean yes I will kill you, eventually. But I don’t want to rush it. I want to save that for something special. Just you and I. But if you don’t stop prying,” his eyes drifted to you, smiling wistfully. “I will burn the heart out of you. And I’ll enjoy it.” He closed his eyes, as if savoring it. “Very much.”

Leclerc began to step back, hands back in his pockets. Smirking. “Ciao, Max.”

And he left out the door.

Max was being so delicate with you, you wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

Tremors still ran through your body. Mostly in shock. You couldn’t believe how stupid you had been. You almost got Max and yourself killed and for what? A night out—

“It’s not your fault.” Max said as he wiped away the blood on your leg, his stitches clean and your heart tugged. All those times you fixed his wounds and he let you. He didn’t need to. He knew how to do it.

“I should’ve listened to you the first time.” You whispered, watching how bruises already began to bloom across your leg from where the bullet had grazed you.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Simply staring at you before his hands gently reached out, cupping your face to tilt your head down and he pressed a light kiss to your freshly washed hair.

He’d cleaned you up. Nothing about it felt remotely sexual. Just… comforting. Letting you know that he had you. You didn’t have the energy to feel even an ounce of embarrassment that he had finally seen you naked.

“It’s not your fault,” Max repeated.

You shut your eyes, leaning into him and his arms slowly wrapped around you in a hug as he stood between your legs as they dangled off the sink.

You hugged him back in your own time, finding comfort in his warmth and you sighed. Wondering who you had pisssed off in your past life to end up here.

“Do you think it’s over?”

Max traced light circles into your back. You were wearing another shirt of his.

Eventually you felt him shake his head. “No,” he said quietly. “Not until he’s dead. But even then, it might take months or even years to dismantle his network.”

You clenched your jaw. Your new reality sinking in. Leaning your head back, you looked up at him. “What do we do now?”

One of his hands reached up, the rough skin of his palm a comfort as he cupped your jaw, his thumb lightly running over your cheekbone. He looked lost. These were new waters, even for him.

“What we’ve been doing.”

“Biding our time?”

He shook his head, eyes flicking to your mouth.

“Being patient.”

The Shanghai safe house was quiet. Too quiet.

Max shoved the door open, blood dripping from the gash on his cheekbone. His T-shirt clung to him, damp from sweat, and his hands were sore from throwing too many punches and landing too few. His head ached, and he wanted nothing more than to shower and sleep.

This was what he got for wanting to train against his teammate - his teammate that hadn’t missed a singular training session while Max was jetting off from country to country evading Leclerc.

But training was more important now than it had ever been now that Leclerc was a constant weight on his mind. Eventually, he’d start training you as well. He wanted you to be able to protect yourself if he wasn’t there.

He’d kill himself if a repeat of Rio happened.

You were perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging lazily, his oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. You had a glass of water in your hand, but you weren't drinking it—just watching him.

Your gaze flicked to his face. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing.” He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his skin.

You exhaled sharply, hopping down to pull the first aid kit from the cabinet. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Max.”

He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you. Just strode towards the bathroom, already pulling his shirt over his head. All he wanted was a shower.

“Fine.”

The word was clipped, laced with something unreadable, and it made him stop. He turned back, brow furrowing as he watched you push herself back onto the counter, setting the first aid kit beside you. Then you just… waited.

No arguing. No chasing him down. Just waiting.

His jaw tightened. His fists curled.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped between your knees.

You were already reaching for him, fingers cool as they cupped his jaw, tilting his face to the light. He let out a slow, steady breath as you pressed a damp cloth to the cut, the sting sharp but distant compared to the warmth of you between his arms.

You were focused, careful. Too careful.

He swallowed. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

His lips twitched despite himself.

Your thumb brushed his cheek as you adjusted your grip, and then—just for a second—your breath caught.

He felt it. Saw it.

You hesitated, your fingers stilling against his skin.

He looked down.

You weren't breathing. Not properly. Not anymore.

Your eyes darted to his mouth. Just for a second. But he caught that, too.

His hands flexed against the counter’s edge.

Silence.

Something thick. Something unspoken.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you broke.

But something had just snapped.

And there was no coming back from it.

His grip on the counter tightened.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at you, feeling the weight of something shift between you—something heavy, something inevitable.

When had this started?

The first safe house? The second? Or had it been there from the moment he dragged you into this mess, when you clung to him on the back of the bike, shaking but unbroken?

You were still looking at him, your fingers trembling just slightly against his skin. Your lips parted like you were about to say something, but nothing came out.

He wondered when you’d last been with someone. When someone had last touched you like this. When you’d last let them.

Max rolled his jaw as he thought about Leclerc that night in Rio. How he has managed to get his hands on you. His mouth. Charles, he had called himself.

He saw black for a moment and shoved the memory away.

His mind flicked back to himself, to the months of running, of waiting, of trying to force this thing between you into something manageable. It had been over a year since he’d had a moment to himself, since he’d even considered wanting something outside of the mission, of survival.

But now—right now—he couldn’t think about anything else.

Then you moved.

Slowly, carefully—giving him time to stop you.

He didn’t.

Your lips brushed his, just barely. A whisper of a kiss. A question.

And he almost answered. Almost let himself sink into it.

But then he pulled away.

Your hand dropped from his face instantly, the space between you rushing back in like a cold slap.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back. “I—”

He saw it in your eyes before you even said it. The regret. The walls slamming back up.

“I shouldn’t have—”

He surged forward.

No hesitation this time. No space left to second-guess.

His hand caught your jaw, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as he crushed his mouth to yours. Nothing soft. Nothing tentative. Seven months of waiting, of fighting it, of pretending he didn’t feel you in every room, in every breath—poured into one kiss.

You gasped against him, your hands flying to his shoulders, but he didn’t let you pull away. Didn’t let you think.

His other hand gripped your thigh, pulling you closer, and you melted against him—just for a second—before you kissed him back just as hard.

Your nails dug into his arms, his teeth scraped your ower lip, and then it was all hands and heat and need. No more distance. No more games.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and he answered by dragging you forward on the counter until there was nothing left between you.

He could feel your breath hitch again, just like before. Only this time, you didn’t pull away.

This time, neither of you did.

And there was no pretending this hadn’t just changed everything.

His hand slid up, fingers curling lightly around your throat. Not squeezing—just enough for you to feel it, to know he could.

You let out a sound, soft and breathy, barely even real—except it was, because he felt it against his lips.

A fucking moan.

His grip tightened just slightly, his own breath catching in his chest.

And then—he smirked.

You wanted this. Badly. He could feel it in the way you were clinging to him, in the way your legs tightened around his hips, in the way you practically melted into his hands.

So he pulled back.

Just enough to make you whimper at the loss of him, just enough to see your lips part in something dangerously close to frustration.

Your eyes flicked open, dazed, hazy with it. “Max,” you breathed.

He raised a brow, deliberately slow, deliberately smug.

“Not fair,” you muttered, voice edged with irritation, your chest still rising and falling too fast.

No, it wasn’t. But it was fun.

Then something shifted in your expression—something sharp, something knowing.

Your lips twitched. “Fine,”you she said lightly, fingers sliding up his chest, nails scraping just enough to make him feel it. “My turn.”

Before he could react, you moved.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips along his jaw, feather-light, barely there. Your hands trailed lower, over the tense muscles of his stomach, your nails pressing just enough to make his pulse hammer.

His breath hissed through his teeth.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing, taunting, and then pulled back just slightly, waiting. Daring him.

His patience snapped.

His hand shot back to your throat, fingers tightening as he pushed forward, crashing his mouth to yours.

This wasn’t careful anymore. Wasn’t measured.

This was hunger. Months of it.

You gasped against him, but he didn’t let you speak. Didn’t let you do anything but feel him, take him, match him.

He bit your lip. You tugged his hair. He swallowed every sound you made, kissed you like he was trying to take the air from your lungs, like he was trying to burn through every second you’d wasted not doing this.

You gripped his shoulders, dragging him closer, but it wasn’t close enough. It would never be close enough.

He lifted you, dragged you against him, let himself lose control in a way he never did, never allowed, because nothing had ever felt like this before.

The way he kissed you, it was like he wanted to wipe that smug little smirk off your face, like he wanted to remind you exactly who was in control here. But the truth was, he wasn’t. Not anymore.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth, and he answered by pressing you back against the wall of the kitchen, swallowing every sound you made.

Your legs tightened around him. He could feel your heartbeat, rapid against his chest, matching his own.

Another kiss, deeper this time. Another sharp intake of breath.

Then finally—finally—he forced himself to pull back, just enough to see your face, to watch the way your lips were swollen, your breath uneven, your pupils blown wide.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

And then—

“Wow.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, and his lips twitched.

“If I’d known you could kiss that well,” you murmured, your fingers still tangled in his hair, “I would’ve done it in Italy.”

His brow lifted, his hands still braced against the counter on either side of you. “Italy?”

You smiled. “When you said you needed to burn my uniform. Something about that all black ensemble made me feel something.”

His jaw tensed. He knew exactly what you were talking about.

That night, the dim glow of the chandeliers, the fire in front of them, the warmth of the room.

He had wanted to shoot himself in the foot for thinking of her in ways he shouldn’t have.

And now you were telling him you’d thought about this then?

His fingers curled against the wood. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, all mock innocence. “Am I?”

His hands shot back to your thighs, dragging you forward, forcing another gasp from your lips as he leaned in close, his mouth hovering over you.

“You have no idea,” he murmured.

tag list: @dragonfly047 @lovehollandy12 @moofilms @theonottsbxtch @fortunapre @ashbone @c8lap1nto @taasgirl @stopeatread @dying-inside-but-its-classy (let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list!)

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kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

Text

Written in the Pages || C.San

Pairing: Choi San × You (F!Reader)

Word Count: 4008 words ; Reading time: 15-ish mins

Synopsis: You never expected your novel to take over the world—or for readers to realize that your male lead looked exactly like Choi San. The internet was on fire, and when Netflix proposed a live adaptation, you jokingly suggested his name. Except he agreed. Now, standing across from him on set, lines blurring between fiction and reality, you can’t help but wonder—was your love story already written in the pages?

Author’s Note: This idea spiraled out of control, and I regret nothing! 🖤 A mix of tension, slow-burn romance, and the classic “Are we acting, or is this real?” trope. Hope you love the chaos as much as I do! Request's are open!!

The world knew you as Y/N, a name whispered in hushed tones everywhere midst the readers who loved a fusion of dark and fluff romance, a dark promise on the lips of those who dared to delve into the depths of your narratives.

Your novels, especially "Shattered Heart," were not mere romances; they were intricate labyrinths of the human psyche, meticulously crafted explorations into the darkest corners where love bloomed amidst decay and obsession. Readers were ensnared, captivated by the twisted dance of Ravenna Skye and Lee Renji , their story a haunting melody of desire and destruction, a symphony of obsession played on the strings of broken hearts.

Ravenna, a woman sculpted from sharp edges and hidden scars, a survivor with eyes that held the ghosts of past traumas, captivated them. She was a paradox, both fragile and formidable, a woman who demanded submission and offered a dangerous kind of salvation, a siren luring them into the depths of a twisted devotion.

Renji, the predator cloaked in charm, a man whose love was a suffocating embrace, a possessive force that promised both ecstasy and ruin, became an obsession, a dark idol worshipped in the shadows of the internet. His description, however, was where the unease began to fester, a creeping dread that seeped into the collective consciousness.

Broad shoulders that hinted at a capacity for violence, a subtle tension that promised a storm, a devastatingly charming smile that masked predatory intent, a calculated allure that ensnared the unwary, sharp yet haunting features that held unspoken threats, a silent promise of pain. And hands… hands that could both caress and crush, leaving marks that were both tender and brutal, a physical manifestation of his dual nature.

"He's him," a post on a hidden forum whispered, a digital echo in the darkness, a chilling revelation that spread like a virus, followed by a meticulously compiled, chillingly detailed comparison of Renji's physical and psychological traits to those of Choi San, the idol whose public persona was a carefully curated mask, a facade that hid something far more complex, far more dangerous, a hidden darkness that resonated with the shadows within Renji.

Screenshots of San's piercing gaze, a look that seemed to penetrate the soul, were juxtaposed with passages from "Shattered Heart," highlighting Renji's possessive tendencies, the subtle manipulation, the psychological games, and the undercurrent of barely restrained rage, the silent promise of violence beneath the veneer of charm.

"Did she know?" the question slithered through the online shadows, a venomous serpent seeking its prey, a chilling accusation that hung in the digital air. "Is this a confession, a warning, or a twisted game of control, a psychological experiment played out on the public stage?"

The online world, usually a place of playful speculation, was now steeped in a chilling unease, a pervasive sense of dread that permeated every forum, every comment section. They dissected every word, every nuance, searching for hidden meanings in the darkness of your prose, seeking the truth behind the carefully crafted fiction.

The speculation escalated, reaching a fever pitch, a crescendo of online anxiety, when you, the enigmatic author, finally emerged from your self-imposed exile for an interview. The world watched, drawn in by your unsettling beauty, a fragile, yet strong with eyes that held the weight of untold secrets, a haunted allure that mirrored Ravenna's own, a dark elegance that hinted at a hidden strength, and a knowledge that seemed to transcend the ordinary, a silent understanding of the darkness that lurked within the human heart.

"Renji is a fiction," you stated, your voice a low, melodic whisper, a silken thread of sound that held a chilling undercurrent, a subtle tremor that hinted at hidden depths, yet a flicker of something dark and knowing in your eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the shadows that lurked beneath the surface, a recognition of the primal desires that fueled both love and obsession. "He is a reflection of the shadows that reside within us all, the desires we dare not speak, the darkness we try to deny, the monsters we keep chained within our souls."

But the universe, it seemed, had a taste for the macabre, a perverse fascination with the twisted narratives you wove, a dark curiosity that mirrored the obsession of your readers. TikTok became a breeding ground for fan edits, each one a disturbing exploration of Renji's obsession, a visual representation of the psychological torment, the subtle manipulation, and San's potential for darkness, a chilling reminder of the thin line between adoration and obsession, a stark warning of the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of idealized love.

Livestreams were invaded by comments, their tone shifting from curiosity to dread, a growing sense of fear that the fictional world was bleeding into reality, that the darkness you crafted was seeping into their own. Even San's broadcasts were not immune, the playful banter replaced by an unsettling silence, a palpable tension that hung in the air.

He read a particularly unsettling comment aloud, his playful facade cracking, revealing a flicker of unease, a glimpse of the fear that was slowly consuming him. "San, you are Renji."

He scrolled through the images, his amusement turning to a cold unease, a creeping dread that settled in his bones, a chilling awareness of the darkness that lurked within the carefully constructed persona. He recognized the details, the subtle hints of darkness, the almost predatory intensity, the unsettling familiarity of Renji's possessiveness which he could possibly inact if needed.

A sense of dread washed over him, a feeling that Renji wasn't just a character, but a dark reflection of something within himself, a hidden darkness that he had never dared to acknowledge, a primal instinct that resonated with the twisted desires of the fictional character. The seed of doubt, planted by a thousand online whispers, began to bloom into a chilling realization, a terrifying echo of fear, a dark understanding that the line between fiction and reality was blurring, and that he was standing on the precipice of something dangerous.

The digital tremors from the online earthquake, a seismic shift in the perception of your work, had barely subsided when the call came. Netflix, drawn by the raw, visceral energy of "Shattered Heart," wanted to adapt it into a live-action series. A global project, they called it, promising to bring the dark romance to life with unflinching intensity, to translate the shadows you'd painted onto the screen. The news, usually a cause for celebration, hung heavy in the air, a dark promise of what was to come, a premonition of the chaos you were about to unleash.

During the initial casting discussions, amidst the hushed tones and the careful consideration of actors, a question was posed, a loaded inquiry that carried the weight of unspoken expectations: "Do you have anyone in mind for Renji?"

The name slipped from your lips, unbidden, a dark echo of the online whispers, a dangerous gamble that felt both reckless and inevitable: "Choi San."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken questions, disbelief, and a flicker of something akin to fear. San, the idol, the performer, the man whose face had become synonymous with Renji’s darkness, whose public persona was a carefully crafted enigma. It was a bold, almost reckless suggestion, a gamble that could shatter everything, or ignite a firestorm of obsession.

The news exploded, a digital wildfire that consumed the internet, spreading through forums and social media like a plague. Fan theories, already fervent, reached a fever pitch, spiraling into darker territories. The possibility of San embodying Renji, the predator, the obsessive lover, was both thrilling and terrifying, a dangerous dance on the edge of obsession, a blurred line between fantasy and reality.

You had expected a refusal. A polite, diplomatic decline. After all, he was a K-pop idol, not an actor. The role of Renji demanded a level of emotional complexity, a willingness to delve into the darkest corners of the human psyche, to explore the shadows of obsession and control, that seemed far removed from the polished perfection of idol life. You had imagined a carefully worded statement from his agency, citing scheduling conflicts or creative differences.

Instead, a meeting was scheduled. You found yourself face-to-face with him, in a sterile conference room, the tension palpable, a silent battleground where unspoken desires and hidden fears collided. And goddamn, the internet was right. He fit the role like a glove. The captivating charm, the underlying intensity, the almost predatory gaze—it was all there, a chilling echo of Renji, a reflection of the darkness you had conjured. Cute yet lethal, charming yet mysterious, an effortless embodiment of the shadows you had written, a dangerous mirror of your creation.

"I won't be playing Ravenna," you declared, your voice steady, though a tremor ran through you, a subtle vibration of unease that betrayed your carefully constructed composure. "I'm not an actress." The thought of stepping into Ravenna’s shoes, of embodying her pain, her resilience, her dangerous allure, was a daunting, almost terrifying prospect, a leap into the abyss of your own creation.

San leaned forward, his eyes locking with yours, a smirk playing on his lips, a playful yet dangerous glint in his gaze that sent a shiver down your spine. "Then who will? The fans won't settle for anyone else. They see you as Ravenna. They see us," he emphasized the "us," a subtle provocation, a dangerous acknowledgment of the connection the fans perceived. "They've already written the script in their heads, haven't they? They see the sparks."

You sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on you, the pressure from the fans and the intensity of his gaze. "I've never acted. It'll take too many retakes—I'll just waste everyone's time. You’re a professional. I’d just slow everything down." The vulnerability you rarely showed, the fear of inadequacy, crept into your voice, a crack in your carefully constructed facade.

"Then learn," he shrugged, his gaze unwavering, intense, a silent challenge that dared you to step into the darkness. "Life is about learning, isn't it? About facing the darkness, about embracing the shadows."

There was something in the way he said it, a dark resonance that hinted at a shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, a dangerous curiosity that mirrored your own. Something that made your pulse unsteady, that sent a strange, unsettling thrill through you, a forbidden excitement that you couldn't deny.

Against your better judgment, against the warnings echoing in your mind, you agreed. A contract was signed, not just for a series, but for something far more dangerous, a pact with the shadows, a dangerous game played on the edge of reality. The series, and this strange, intense connection with San, was about to begin, a dangerous dance into the darkness, a journey into the heart of your own creation.

Filming began, a whirlwind of controlled chaos, a meticulously crafted descent into the shadows. The set became a liminal space, a world between fiction and reality, where the shadows you had written took on flesh and blood, where the lines of reality began to blur and twist. And within that chaos, San moved with an unsettling grace, an effortless embodiment of Renji. The predatory charm, the simmering intensity, the way he could switch from playful to dangerous in a heartbeat—it was both captivating and terrifying, a dangerous dance on the edge of obsession, a performance that felt too real.

You, on the other hand, were thrown into the deep end, forced to confront the vulnerability you usually kept locked away, protected by the armor of your words. Acting was a different beast entirely, a raw exposure of emotions you typically channeled into your writing, a stripping away of the carefully constructed walls. The camera's unblinking eye felt like it was stripping away your carefully constructed defenses, exposing the raw emotions you usually poured into your characters, a terrifying intimacy.

But San became an unexpected anchor in that storm, a dark guide through the chaos, a constant presence that both comforted and unsettled you.

"You look like you're about to run," San observed during a break, his gaze studying your tense posture.

"I feel like I'm about to," you admitted, a wry smile playing on your lips. "This is… intense."

"Intense is what we do," he replied, a playful glint in his eyes. "Embrace the chaos, Y/N. It's where the magic happens."

In the quiet moments between takes, a strange camaraderie blossomed, a silent understanding that transcended words, a shared language of unspoken desires. You were comfortable in shared silences, finding an odd peace in the chaos, a fragile truce amidst the emotional turmoil. There were moments of goofy laughter, shared jokes that eased the tension, light moments that felt like a momentary reprieve. And then there were the moments where the line between actor and character blurred, where the intensity in San's eyes felt too real, too personal, a dangerous reflection of Renji's obsession, a haunting echo of the character you had created.

And then came the confession scene.

Los Angeles. A rainy night, the city lights reflecting off the wet streets, creating an almost ethereal glow, a scene painted in shadows and whispers, a culmination of the unspoken tension.

The scene was simple, yet laden with emotional weight, a raw expression of vulnerability: Renji calling out, "Venna!"

You, as Ravenna, turned, rain plastering your hair to your face, your breath catching in your throat. San, as Renji, was a dark silhouette against the city lights, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart pound.

"Venna," he repeated, his voice a low, desperate plea. "Don't run."

You took a step back, fear and desire warring within you. "Renji…"

He closed the distance, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "Tell me you feel it too. Tell me this isn't just me."

Your breath hitched. "I…"

He cupped your face, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. "Tell me, Venna."

You closed your eyes, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy in the air. "Yes."

He pulled you closer, his hand sliding down to your waist, his grip firm, possessive. "Then show me."

A kiss. A lingering touch that felt like a brand, a silent promise, a dangerous consummation.

--- "Cut."

The director's voice broke the spell, but the air remained charged, thick with unspoken desires, a tension that crackled between you and San.

"That was… intense," the director commented, a flicker of unease in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the raw emotion.

"Too intense?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, your gaze locked on San, seeking answers in his eyes.

"Perfect," San murmured, his voice low, his eyes never leaving yours, a dangerous intensity in their depths. "Perfectly real."

Why did it feel so real?

Why did San linger, his gaze intense, wanting to hold you again, kiss you again, erase the boundaries between fiction and reality, merge the characters with the actors?

And why did you feel the same, a dangerous pull towards the darkness he embodied, a forbidden desire that mirrored Ravenna’s?

The rest of filming became a tightrope walk, a precarious balance between fiction and reality, a dangerous game of emotions. The chemistry between you and San was undeniable, electric, but it was a dangerous electricity, charged with unspoken desires and hidden depths, a silent language spoken in stolen glances and lingering touches, a constant push and pull. The lines between Ravenna and Renji, between Y/N and San, began to blur, creating a tension that permeated every scene, a silent battleground of emotions, a dangerous dance of shadows and light.

The year passed in a blur of long days and sleepless nights, a constant dance between shadows and light, a journey into the heart of your own creation. Filming wrapped. The movie was released.

It shattered records.

The world was captivated by the dark romance, by the raw intensity of the characters, by the undeniable connection between the actors, a connection that seemed to transcend the screen, a forbidden intimacy that captivated millions.

You and San still texted, the digital connection a lifeline in the post-filming void, a fragile thread connecting you across the distance, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken. But distance grew between you, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken feelings, the dangerous desires left behind in that rain-soaked confession scene, a silent pact to ignore the fire that burned between you, a dangerous denial.

Neither of you spoke about the ache in your chests, the lingering questions that haunted your thoughts, the ghosts of the characters you had played, the emotions that felt too real.

Until San finally confessed to his members.

The teasing? Relentless, a mix of playful and concerned, a chorus of unspoken questions and knowing glances, a silent interrogation.

Award season arrived, a whirlwind of flashing lights and red carpets, a stage for the unspoken drama, a spotlight on the tangled truths.

You walked the red carpet in a black gown laced with gold, a dress that mirrored Ravenna's dark elegance, a silent declaration of the character you had become, a dangerous echo of the woman you wrote. San, in a tailored suit that accentuated his sharp features, sat beside you at your table, the air between you thick with unspoken words, a silent battleground of desires, a dangerous tension.

Best Romance Film? Your movie.

The moment your name was called, a wave of emotion washed over you, a culmination of the journey you had taken, a dangerous acknowledgment of the emotions you had stirred. As you made your way to the stage, San's gaze followed you, a silent intensity that felt both supportive and possessive, a dark promise, a silent claim.

After the show, he found you in an empty hallway, the shadows of the night clinging to him, a predator stalking his prey, a desperate plea for honesty.

And then—

He pinned you against the wall, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the forcefulness of the action, a desperate plea for honesty, a raw confession.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice low, rough with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher, a dangerous whisper in the darkness. "Tell me I was the only one who felt it. That it wasn't just acting. That the fire between us was real. That the shadows we danced in weren’t just fiction."

His words hung in the air, a dangerous question that shattered the fragile truce you had built. "Tell me," he had murmured, his voice raw, his eyes searching yours, "tell me it wasn't just acting."

You stared at him, the hallway suddenly shrinking, the silence deafening. The weight of his confession pressed down on you, a heavy truth you could no longer ignore. The fire between you, the connection that had sparked on set, it wasn't just for the cameras. It was a dangerous, consuming thing that had taken root in your soul.

"San…" you began, your voice trembling, the words caught in your throat.

He leaned closer, his hand tightening on your waist, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Was it real, Y/N? Was any of it real? Or were we just playing characters?"

The question echoed the doubts that had plagued you for months. The lines between Ravenna and Renji, between you and San, had blurred irrevocably. Was the passion, the intensity, just a performance? Or was it something more, something dangerous, something real, something that threatened to consume you both?

"I don't know," you finally whispered, the honesty a painful admission, a crack in the carefully constructed walls you'd built around yourself. "I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know where Ravenna ends and I begin."

A flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps, or maybe a hint of anger—crossed his face. He released you, stepping back, creating a distance that felt like a chasm, a tangible representation of the emotional distance between you.

"So, it was all just acting," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a cold statement that cut through the tension.

"No!" you protested, reaching for him, your fingers brushing against his arm, desperate to bridge the gap. "It wasn't just acting. But… it's complicated, San. We're not Ravenna and Renji. This isn't a movie. We can't just follow a script."

He turned away, his jaw tight, his voice strained. "Isn't it? Because it felt pretty damn real to me. It felt like… like everything."

The tension between you was a palpable thing, a live wire stretched taut, threatening to snap, to ignite a fire that would consume you both. The unspoken hung heavy in the air, a dangerous mix of desire and fear, a silent battleground of emotions.

He turned back to you, his eyes searching yours, a raw vulnerability in his gaze. "Y/N," he said, his voice low, a desperate plea. "I need to know. Was it real for you too?"

You hesitated, the truth caught in your throat, a dangerous confession waiting to be unleashed. "San…"

"Tell me," he whispered, closing the distance between you, his breath warm against your skin. "Tell me you felt something. Tell me it wasn’t just me."

You closed your eyes, the weight of his confession pressing down on you. "It was real," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "It was too real."

He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle, yet firm. "Then tell me," he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours for a flicker of truth. "Tell me you feel something for me."

"I…" you started, but the words caught in your throat.

"Say it," he urged, his voice a desperate whisper. "Please."

And then, the dam broke. "I love you, San," you confessed, the words raw and honest, a dangerous admission of the feelings you had tried to deny. "I love you, and it terrifies me."

The following months were a torturous dance. You and San continued to text, the digital connection a fragile lifeline, but the easy camaraderie you had shared on set was gone, replaced by a careful distance, a guarded politeness, a silent acknowledgment of the dangerous emotions that simmered beneath the surface.

You attended every ATEEZ concert, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, watching him from the shadows, your heart aching with a longing you couldn't explain. You stayed in the same hotels, the close proximity a torment, a constant reminder of the unspoken desires that simmered beneath the surface.

Rumors spread like wildfire, fueled by your public appearances, your shared moments, the undeniable chemistry that radiated from you both. The fans, ever-observant, dissected every glance, every touch, weaving their own narratives, their own dangerous fantasies.

And then San made it official.

A single Instagram post.

The photo? You, working on your laptop, your face illuminated by the screen's glow, blurry but unmistakably you.

Caption: "Written in the pages. 🖤"

The internet? Broke.

The fans erupted, a chaotic mix of joy and disbelief, their theories finally confirmed.

The haters? Unbothered. Their voices, usually a deafening roar, were drowned out by the overwhelming tide of support.

Because you didn’t care what the world thought.

After all, your love was already written in the pages. Or was it? The question still lingered, a haunting echo in the quiet moments, a shadow that threatened to consume the light, a dangerous uncertainty that hung in the air.

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