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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pushy reporters, Carlos Sainz Sr is a little bit of a villain in this chapter (sry).

Notes — I feel like so much happens in this chapter and I love it. Also: tysm for 500 followers!!🧡

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peacn x

2019

She hadn’t planned to cross through the garages; it just happened. Amelia was following a technician back from a briefing when she lost track of the conversation and the path, her thoughts spiralling through gearbox data and tyre deltas.

That’s when she heard it. Her name. Loud. Sharp.

“Miss Brown.”

She stopped. Pivoted.

Carlos Sainz Sr. stood a few feet away, hands behind his back.

He wasn’t smiling.

“You are the daughter of our team’s CEO, yes?” he asked.

Amelia nodded. “Yes.”

“You spend a lot of time in the garages,” he said. “Too much, I think.”

She frowned at him. “I— I help.” She told him.

“Right,” he said, and his face did a strange twist. “But with Carlos, my son, it is important he has focus. Space.”

She stared at him, unsure what he was trying to imply. “Carlos told me that I was allowed in his garage as often as I like.”

“He would,” Sainz Sr. said. “He is polite. A respectful boy. But it is not always good to blur lines between personal and professional.” He paused. “It could cause problems.”

Amelia stood perfectly still.

“I’m not causing problems,” she said, a bit too flatly.

Sainz Sr. regarded her a moment longer, then gave a short nod. “Good. I hope it remains that way. Distance, por favor.”

He turned and walked off, leaving her standing in the middle of the paddock walkway, her yellow water bottle pressed tightly to the base of her stomach.

She didn’t move for a long moment.

Her chest felt tight, but not like sadness; not exactly. It was the feeling of a… system error. A mismatch. She couldn’t understand what she’d possibly done wrong.

Carlos hadn’t seemed uncomfortable with her presence. He asked her thoughts on setup changes. Let her hover near the monitors during debriefs. He’d even nudged her elbow pre-quali and whispered, “Wish me luck.”

That didn’t feel like someone who did not want her around.

Swiftly, she made her way back to Lando’s garage. Slow and quiet, avoiding eye contact. Lando waved at her from where he was talking to Jon, but she didn’t wave back. Just sat down beside a stack of unused tyre blankets and stared at the concrete floor.

Her fingers fidgeted, tugged at her sleeves. She didn’t cry. She didn’t really feel anything, other than... a disorienting sense of being wrong.

She thought of the conversation on loop. Trying to decode it. Trying to figure out how she’d accidentally made an enemy out of Carlos Sainz Sr.

She couldn’t focus. Not on the setup sheets. Not on the chatter from the engineers. Not even on the low buzz of the paddock outside.

She started working hard to anchor herself to something familiar. The smell of tyre rubber. The click of Lando’s cooling fan. The buzz of telemetry feeds looping on a nearby monitor. Safe things.

“You hiding, or working?” came Will Joseph’s voice, low and even.

She glanced up. Lando’s race engineer stood a few feet away, clipboard in hand.

“Hiding,” she told him. That’s what it felt like she was doing, anyway.

Will nodded. Then he crouched down in front of her, elbows on his knees. “Wanna talk about it?”

Amelia tugged the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands. She hesitated. “I don’t think I did anything wrong. But… I think I have made somebody angry.”

His jaw jumped. “Yeah? Someone in the team?”

She gave a small nod.

Will glanced sideways. His voice stayed calm, but there was a weird tightness when he said, “If you want me to talk to them, I will.”

Amelia frowned. “It’s okay. I don’t want to… make it worse.”

“You sure?” He asked.

She looked away. “Yes.” She said, eventually.

He paused, then stood, still watching her. “Okay. But if you change your mind… you know where I am.”

She nodded. Will turned as if to go, but then glanced back at her again.

“You want to look over brake traces with me?” he asked.

She stood slowly, gripping her yellow water bottle. “Yes.”

Will gave a small smile. “Knew you would.”

It was Sunday, and her garage smelled like grease and old metal and comfort.

Amelia was elbow-deep in the engine bay of her BMW, sleeves rolled up and a thin streak of oil smudged across her cheek. Jazz played softly from the old radio by the workbench, and a fan hummed lazily in the corner, stirring the warm spring air. She was in her zone — focused, grounded, calm.

She didn’t hear the car pull up. But she did hear the familiar sound of her father’s golf shoes on the concrete.

She turned just in time to see them step inside.

Her dad was in his usual race-less Sunday outfit, white sleeves shoved to the elbows, cap pushed back on his head. Beside him, Lando Norris stood in golf clothes; white polo, khaki trousers, hair a little messy. He looked slightly sunburned.

“Thought we’d swing by for dinner,” her dad told her, a big smile on his face. “We got finished up early today.”

Lando lifted a hand and waved at her. “Hey.”

Amelia stared at him. “You’re wearing real shoes,” she said.

Lando glanced down at his golf trainers. “Yeah. I know. Weird, right?”

Her dad ignored both of them, already wandering over to inspect the engine. “You’ve done the belts,” he noted.

“I did the belts yesterday,” Amelia told him, still staring at Lando.

Having him here felt… odd. This was her space, her house, her garage. The place where everything made sense, where she could retreat from the world and lose herself in the rhythm of machinery.

Then again, she considered, she was always in his garage. This was just the other way around, really.

Lando shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Your dad said dinner was happening. I didn’t really get a say.”

She shrugged. “You could’ve said no.”

“I could’ve,” Lando agreed. He was smiling at her. “But then I wouldn’t get free food. And apparently your mum’s making roast potatoes.”

“She puts garlic in them,” Amelia told him. She turned back to watch her dad, making sure he wasn’t touching anything. Or worse, moving anything.

“She sounds like a genius.” Lando said behind her.

Her dad pushed the hood higher, eyes inspecting the wiring, and let out a low hum of approval. “Right. Dinner in twenty,” he said, glancing at both of them, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice. “Lando, you coming inside?”

Lando wiped his hands on his trousers, then glanced back at Amelia, clearly unsure. “Might stay out here for a bit,” he said with a slight shrug.

He paused, eyes flicking between them. He seemed to weigh the situation for a second before speaking again, more slowly this time. “That okay with you, Amelia?”

She looked over at him. Shrugged. “Fine.”

Her dad nodded and gave them both one last look before walking out of the garage and toward the house. He started whistling somewhere along the way. Amelia grimaced, shoulders inching toward her ears.

There was a beat of silence. Amelia crouched beside the car, fingers working a stubborn bolt. Lando just hovered.

“This place is sick.” He said, eventually.

She looked at him and then around the absolute chaos that was her workspace. “It’s a mess,” she said.

“Yeah, but like… a cool mess. Suits you.” He shrugged.

She made a face, nose scrunching, eyebrows lowering. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It’s a compliment.” He said. “Like… you fit in here.”

Oh. Well. That was nice of him to say. Fitting in wasn’t something she usual excelled at.

The bolt finally gave way with a soft click, and she exhaled, satisfied.

Lando took a step closer, leaning in to peek at the engine. “So what are you working on now?”

She handed him the bolt without thinking. He closed his fist around it. “Timing chain.”

“Oh. Sick.”

“You keep saying that word.” She told him.

“I’ve got a limited vocabulary,” he said with a half-smile, sliding the bolt into his pocket. She narrowed her eyes. “Mine now. Finders keepers.”

“I hate that saying.” She muttered, not asking for the bolt back. She didn’t need it. Maybe he did. “Do you like chicken?” she asked abruptly.

“Sure.” He nodded.

“Good.” She sighed. “It’s all my mom knows how to cook.”

“Mom,” he repeated, mimicking her accent.

She frowned. “You’re quite annoying.”

He grinned, the lines next to his eyes deepening. “I know. Want me to get you a drink or something?”

Her gaze flicked to her yellow water bottle, standing out like a warning sign against the cold steel of the garage. Then to him. Her mind caught on the image of him picking it up, his hand unscrewing the lid, closing it again. It wasn’t even anything weird. Just… she didn’t like it. Not today.

Her stomach did a small, unwelcome swoop.

“No,” she said, sharp. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he replied simply.

She squinted at him. This would be the perfect moment to bring up his social media. She had a whole list saved in her notes app; bullet points and everything. Of things he could post that would improve long-term brand perception, boost fan engagement, attract sponsor interest. She’d even colour-coded it.

But then he leaned a little closer to the engine bay, poked a stray wire with the back of his finger, and asked, “What does that do?”

And instead of launching into a Twitter audit, she blinked. Then sighed. Then said, “That’s not a wire. It’s the gas belt.”

He just looked at her. “That sounds made up.”

“It isn’t.” She crouched beside him and pointed. “It’s part of the pressure regulation loop. If it’s too tight, the fuel intake timing offsets and we lose energy recovery.”

“Oh,” he said, looking down at it. “I thought it was just a spare wire.”

“It’s never just a spare wire.”

She didn’t plan to spend an hour explaining the entire energy recovery system to a man who literally drove race cars for a living. But she did. And he listened. Asked questions. Didn’t pretend to know more than he did.

Dinner came and went. Her mom popped her head in, said she’d keep their plates warm. Amelia didn’t even realise how long they’d been in the garage until her dad came to check if they were still alive.

“What’ve you two been up to?” He asked.

And Lando, still squatting beside the car with grease on his knuckles, said, “She taught me how a gas belt works.”

Amelia felt her lips twist into a smile before she could stop it.

Her dad laughed, loud and full of something Amelia couldn’t place.

Lando’s cheeks went a bit pink.

—

By the time the Spanish Grand Prix rolled around, one thing had become evident.

The Renault engine was going to be a problem.

It wasn’t just an occasional glitch or a minor calibration error — it was systemic. Structural. A pattern beginning to take shape. Carlos had already been forced to retire from the first two races. Lando hadn’t made it past lap twenty in China. And now, in Spain, he was pulling into the garage mid-race with smoke curling out from the rear.

Amelia didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. The telemetry screens told her more than enough — voltage spikes, temperature climbs, the dreaded red-highlighted warnings blinking across the console in angry bursts.

She watched from her usual spot, perched on the edge of the engineering desk with her notebook balanced on her knee. The frustration in the air was sticky.

This was becoming predictable. Usually, she would like that — this was not one of those times.

After the race, she found herself lingering in the quiet corner of the garage, sketching out hypothetical flow improvements in the margins of her notebook. She didn’t work on the engines — not directly, not yet. But she could see the shape of the problem, the flaw in the systems approach. She could feel it humming under her fingertips like a code waiting to be cracked.

Across the paddock, celebrations echoed from the teams that had made it to the finish. The podium champagne had already been popped. But in Lando’s garage, it felt like they were all waiting out a storm that they already knew was coming.

She pressed her pen to the page and underlined a note she’d written hours ago, before the race had even started.

"Energy efficiency doesn’t matter if the engine won’t survive the lap."

She sighed and capped her pen. In the background, someone was wheeling the scorched power unit away for inspection.

Maybe she should’ve warned them louder.

—

She found him in his driver’s room, slouched in a chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. His helmet was discarded on the floor, and he was still in his fireproof suit, half-zipped. Amelia hesitated outside the door for a second, wondering if she should just leave him alone. But Lando had left his water bottle in the garage, and Amelia wasn’t the best at letting things slide. She wasn’t sure why it felt important to bring it to him, but it did.

She knocked softly on the already-open door before walking in. Lando didn’t even look up. He was just staring at the wall.

“I brought your water,” Amelia told him.

He looked up at her then. “Thanks,” he muttered as he reached for the bottle, shoving the straw into his mouth and taking a long gulp. “Second DNF in five races,” he said, his voice rough. “Rookie season, and this is what I get.”

After a second of hesitation, Amelia sat on the beanbag chair across from him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. She didn't say anything at first — just looked at him. She wasn’t sure how this worked, whether she needed to talk first or wait for him.

Eventually, Lando exhaled through his nose and kept going, his words starting to pick up speed. “I don’t even know what went wrong this time. One minute, I’m fighting for position, and then it just… dies. The engine. The whole thing. It’s like I’m cursed, or something.”

“Curses aren’t real,” Amelia said, frowning. “Drink more water. I think you might be dehydrated.”

He laughed, but it was short, and it didn’t feel genuine. “Yeah, well. Maybe I deserve to be dehydrated.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” she sighed, reaching up to itch her neck. She was pretty sure that she’d started to develop a stress rash somewhere around the tenth lap.

“I know it doesn’t,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. “I just… I keep replaying it. I did everything right. I kept the pace, I managed the tyres, I even—” He stopped himself, jaw tight. “I’m trying so hard. Every week. And it still ends the same way.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Trying hard doesn’t guarantee results. Statistically, a mechanical failure is not a reflection of your driving ability.”

“Yeah, but people don’t see it like that, do they? Sponsors don’t see it like that. Fans don’t see it like that. They see a DNF next to my name and think “Ah, that lad’s shit. Couldn’t even finish the race.”

“They’re wrong,” she said, voice steady. “You can’t control the engine.”

He looked at her, like he was searching for something on her face. “That’s not really comforting, you know.”

“I’m not trying to be comforting,” she shrugged. “I’m telling you the truth.”

A beat passed. Then he let out a breath and leaned his head back against the wall, his shoulders finally sagging a little. “Still… it sucks.”

She watched him for a moment, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I made a chart,” she told him. “About Renault’s historical DNF rates. You’re not even in the worst percentile.”

He blinked at her, and for the first time that day, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You made a chart?”

“I like charts,” she said. “They help me make sense of things. Maybe they’ll be able to help you too. I colour coded.”

Lando unfolded the paper and scanned it, a soft breath of laughter escaping him. “You’re actually unbelievable.”

Amelia blinked. “In what way?”

He didn’t answer that, just kept smiling at the paper like it had done something remarkable. Which it hadn’t. It was a simple data set, neatly formatted, with pink for DNF, green for points finishes, and orange for races affected by mechanical issues but still completed. She had used bold font for his name and added a tiny asterisk explaining why none of it was technically his fault.

“You should remember that every time your engine has survived, you have finished in the points,” she said, because facts were important when emotions got loud. “And the season’s not over yet.”

Lando looked up at her. “Thanks, Amelia.”

His voice was quiet, yes, but there was something else layered in the tone, something that made her chest feel tight in a way she couldn’t immediately categorise. She frowned, not at him, but at the sensation itself.

There were variables she didn’t have control over. Facial expressions. Tone. Context. She could usually work it out when someone was mad, or distracted, or lying. But fondness… that was harder. It was inconsistent. Often irrational. Frequently confusing.

She pointed at his water bottle because that was easy. “You should still drink the water.”

He smiled again, this time more to himself, and shook his head. Then he picked up the bottle and unscrewed the lid, just like she knew he would.

As he drank, Amelia watched him carefully. Maybe, she thought, tucking her hands back into her lap, she just needed to collect more data in order to be able to fully understand Lando Norris.

—

iMessage — 17:09pm

Max F. Sorry about the shit luck, mate. Engine again?

Lando Norris Yeah. Just shut off mid-corner. Didn’t even get a warning this time. Proper embarrassing.

Max F. Not your fault. That Renault engine’s a grenade with wires.

Lando Norris Yh that’s what Amelia said kinda She made a chart

Max F. A chart?

Lando Norris Yeah. With colours Fucking cute

Max F. Whipped.

Lando Norris

—

She liked the Mercedes hospitality unit. Neutrally designed, air-conditioned, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus. She liked that a lot.

Amelia walked slowly, phone in hand.

There was no sign of Lewis or Roscoe when she stepped inside, just the low hum of quiet conversations and the click of cutlery. She turned left, toward the usual corner where Roscoe liked to sleep in the sunbeam from the long vertical window.

She didn’t make it that far.

“Amelia.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

Toto Wolff stood halfway down the hallway. In a dark polo. Arms crossed. He was very tall.

“Hello,” she said. She meant to say it with some level of confidence, but it came out more like a question.

“I was hoping we might speak.” His tone was hard for her to read.

She tilted her head, a slight frown growing on her face. “I’m supposed to go and see Roscoe.”

“He will not mind waiting. I am told he is a very patient dog.” Toto said.

She wasn’t sure what to say to that — Roscoe was not, in any sense of the word, a patient dog. She also didn’t really want to argue with Toto Wolff.

So she just gave a small nod and followed him when he gestured to a nearby side room. It was empty. A single chair. A single table. It felt a bit like an interrogation room.

Toto sat. Amelia did not. She hovered just near the wall and folded her arms tight against her chest.

“I understand,” he began, “that you have declined my offer. The junior engineering placement.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

There was a pause. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “You did not think it was a good opportunity?”

“I thought it was an excellent opportunity,” she said honestly. “But I already have a place at McLaren. The team like having my input.”

“That they do,” he said. He didn’t sound offended. He sounded like he was calibrating. “And Lando?”

She blinked. “What about him?”

“He seems to like having you around especially. I have noticed that you spent your time primarily on his side of the garage.”

She wasn’t sure what that meant, so she didn’t respond. She could feel her fingers starting to curl in against her arms. She tightened her grip to stop it.

Toto exhaled through his nose. “I will not press. I simply wanted to say, the door is still open. Mercedes does not forget talent.”

“I know,” she said. “My dad doesn’t either.”

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Possibly a smile. Possibly a tic.

“I see. Then I will stop trying to, how do you say in English… poach you.”

“That would be good,” she said. “My dad would get mad if he found out.”

Toto raised an eyebrow. “You did not tell him?”

She shook her head. “No. I need to go now. Lewis and Roscoe are waiting.”

“Of course,” Toto said, standing. He offered a handshake, which she pointedly ignored.

She left the room and continued on down the hallway until she found Roscoe, sprawled across the carpet like a throw rug.

She dropped to her knees and scratched behind his ears.

“Hello. I have missed you very much,” she whispered. Roscoe huffed, then rolled over.

Lewis rounded the corner a second later with two smoothies in hand. One was green, and the other was pink. She hoped that the pink one was for her. He glanced over her shoulder, where Toto was walking away, his phone pressed to his ear. “Oh dear. Did you get ambushed?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I escaped.”

—

Two races later, she found herself in Canada.

She was en route to the Red Bull motorhome — they always had the best coffee vendor, and no one ever seemed to mind when she slipped in — when someone stepped into her path.

“Miss Brown? Amelia?”

She blinked. The man was tall, holding a Viaplay mic, all teeth and polished camera charm.

“We’re doing some quick paddock interviews — would you mind answering a couple of questions?”

Amelia hesitated. She wasn’t in team kit. Just a plain black hoodie and her headphones around her neck, though the headphones did have the McLaren logo engraved onto them. She glanced over his shoulder. The cameraman was already adjusting focus.

“I’m not a driver,” she said, pushing the words out through a chest that suddenly felt tight.

He laughed, like she’d made a joke. “No, of course — we know. You’re Lando Norris’, uh, data engineer, right? And Zak Brown’s daughter?”

Her fingers tightened in her sleeves. “I’m only officially one of those things,” she replied. “I am not Lando’s data engineer.”

“Still. Very involved in McLaren. We’d love a few thoughts on the upcoming qualifying session. From your perspective.” He was still smiling.

Amelia’s teeth squeaked with the force that she was grinding them together. Her heart was ticking fast, too fast. She didn’t like being filmed. She didn’t like… whatever this was.

She especially didn’t like when people used polite voices to try and back her into a corner.

“I didn’t say I’d do the interview.” She said, eventually.

“Just one or two—”

“She said no.”

The voice came from behind her. Flat. No hesitation or inflect.

Amelia turned her head. Max Verstappen was standing next to her, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He wasn’t looking at her — his eyes were locked on the reporter.

“We’re just asking—”

“She doesn’t work for a team. She doesn’t have to answer your questions.”

“Ah, Max, come on, we’re live in—”

Max took one step forward. The cameraman slowly lowered the lens.

“I do not like to repeat myself.” He said. He didn’t sound angry, but there was nothing kind about the way he said it.

The reporter faltered. “Right,” he muttered, stepping back. “We’ll… catch someone else.” They disappeared down the paddock, the cameraman not even bothering to stop the recording properly.

Amelia stared at Max.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just let out a breath through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. “They should not be bothering you. That was very shit of them.”

“I’m not very interesting,” she told him, her voice barely a mutter as she tried to collect herself. “There’s no point putting me on TV.”

“You’re on TV more than you think,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “Especially when Lando’s around. People are very interested in you both.”

She frowned. “What?”

Max looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

It sounded like it might matter, but if he said that it didn’t, then she wasn’t going to bother asking more about it.

Instead, she tilted her head upward in his direction. He was much taller than he looked when he was in his car. “You’re Max Verstappen.”

He squinted a little under the sun. “Yeah. I am.”

“Why did you help me?” She asked.

He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Because I don’t like people getting cornered. And Dutch media are, ah—assholes, sometimes.” Then, his mouth curved slightly, something close to teasing. “And because Lando would kill me if I let someone mess with you.”

She just stared at him.

Her stomach did something strange and fluttery that she didn’t like at all.

Max must’ve caught the look on her face because he looked away immediately, regret passing across his features like a cloud. “Anyway,” he added, tone turning brisk, “don’t let them bother you. You’re not public property.”

“I know that,” she said, a little too fast. “I just… forget sometimes. That I’m allowed to say no.”

He nodded once. “You are.”

Then he gave her a brief, crooked grin. “I’ll see you around, Amelia.”

And with that, he disappeared into the Red Bull motorhome, as though nothing unusual had happened at all.

Amelia stood there for a few seconds, her skin still prickling from the confrontation, her thoughts spinning in all directions. The iced coffee no longer felt essential. She turned sharply on her heel and made her way back toward McLaren.

The motorhome wasn’t quiet, or even particularly peaceful; but it was familiar.

It was safe.

—

Lando’s garage was louder than usual.

Or maybe Amelia just wasn’t settled yet; her ears hadn’t quite adjusted, and everything felt like it was pressing in from too many angles. The buzz of the generators, the thud of tyres being stacked, the distant screech of an engine on an out-lap. None of it was new, but it all felt sharper today. She tugged her sleeves over her wrists and walked the perimeter of the garage, not because she needed to check anything, but just because she needed to walk.

Lando was leaning over the front wing of his car, talking to his race engineer. His voice had the kind of ease that came only after a good FP3. He glanced up when she approached.

“You okay?” he asked, brow ticking up.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He didn’t believe her. She could see it in the way he paused, fully paused, mid-sentence with Will, and turned his body slightly toward her.

“You sure?”

She considered lying. Or deflecting. She was usually very good at both.

Instead, she told him, “I ran into Max.”

Lando blinked. “Verstappen?”

“Yes.”

He looked vaguely alarmed. “Did he—? I mean, are you—what happened?”

Amelia folded her arms across her chest and looked past him, toward the pit lane. “Viaplay tried to interview me. I wasn’t wearing anything official. I said no, but they kept asking questions. Then Max showed up and made them leave.”

“Oh.” Lando’s face shifted, obvious concern first, then something much tighter. “That’s… are you okay?”

“Max said that Dutch media can sometimes be assholes,” she added matter-of-factly. “His words.”

“He’d know that better than any of us.” Lando said.

She looked at his hands, noticing that his veins were very blue. “He also said you would kill him if he let them mess with me.”

Lando coughed, and Will made a choked sound somewhere in the back of his throat.

“Did he?” Lando asked, ears already pink.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Will looked like he was trying not to laugh, which was odd, because she hadn’t heard anyone make a joke. Lando gave a little shrug. Will nudged him with an elbow, and Lando muttered, “Fuck off, mate,” under his breath.

She sighed, looking off toward the data screens. “I didn’t even get my iced coffee.” She mentioned.

Lando leaned a little closer to her. “You want one now? We can go get it together.”

She shook her head. “No. Just… I want to stay here. Until quali starts.”

His smile got softer. “Yeah. Okay. You can do that.”

So she stood there, adjacent to him, not speaking; just listening to the familiar rhythms of the garage. Tyres being moved. Headsets crackling. Mechanics calling out numbers and adjustments.

She watched Lando pick up his gloves and flex his fingers into them, testing the fit. Quiet. Focused.

And then she turned, and for a split second, panicked. Her water bottle had been moved. She looked around quickly, breath hitching.

But Lando cleared his throat and caught her attention. He walked over to the back of the garage and pulled it from underneath the counter. “Put it in the mini fridge,” he told her. “Didn’t want it getting warm.”

She took it from him, stared at it for a long time, and then smiled.

—

iMessage — 5:08pm

Mom Hello, darling! Just checking in. Hope everything went well today x

Amelia Hello, mom. I have a question. How do you know if you have a crush on somebody?

Mom I think this conversation would be much easier on FaceTime. Are you back at the hotel yet?

Amelia No. Lando asked me if I’d like to go get burgers after qualifying and I said yes. Dad was busy so I didn’t tell him. I texted him though.

Mom Is Lando driving you to get burgers?

Amelia Yes. He is a very safe driver in a normal car. He drives exactly at the speed limit. I was a bit worried that he would speed, but he doesn’t :)

Mom That’s very nice, honey x

—

iMessage — 5:12pm

Tracy Brown (Wife) Zak Brown. You have some explaining to do.

Zak Brown (Husband) What’s going on, honey?

Tracy Brown (Wife) You tell me! Your driver has taken our daughter out on a date and you’re none the wiser!

Zak Brown (Husband) What? Which driver?

Tracy Brown (Wife) He is driving her, Zak. To go and get burgers. She texted you.

Zak Brown (Husband) SHE TEXTED ME “ALL GOOD” I THOUGHT THAT MEANT SHE WAS SAFE IN HER HOTEL ROOM UNDER TEN BLANKETS WATCHING A BARBIE MOVIE

Tracy Brown (Wife) Nope. She’s in a car. With LANDO NORRIS. They’re going for a burger date.

Zak Brown (Husband) I’m calling his father. That little shit head.

Tracy Brown (Wife) Don’t be dramatic. They’re just getting food. I think she likes him. It’s cute.

Zak Brown (Husband) Cute? Are you serious? The media are going to be all over this.

Tracy Brown (Wife) Have you seriously not noticed? They’ve been the talk of the paddock for weeks! They’re attached at the hip. I don’t know how we missed this

Zak Brown (Husband) I think I’m having a heart attack And also a stroke.

—

Amelia had already deconstructed her burger; bun on one side, lettuce on the other, everything organised into neat piles. She wasn’t sure if that was weird or not, but Lando hadn’t commented, so she assumed it was fine.

She cleared her throat, tapping her straw against the side of her milkshake. “I’m sorry if I’m in your garage too much.”

Lando blinked at her mid-bite. “What?”

“I just… I know it might be annoying. I don’t want to get in the way. But since I’m not really allowed in Carlos’ anymore—”

“Wait. Hold on.” He put his burger down, brows pulling together. “What do you mean you’re not allowed in Carlos’ garage anymore?”

She picked up a fry, broke it in half, and frowned down at her tray. “Carlos’ dad told me, in China, that I wasn’t welcome in there. So I’ve just been staying in yours.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Fuck that.” Lando said. He was digging his phone out of his pocket.

Amelia blinked at him, taken aback. “What are you doing?”

“I’m texting Carlos.” He stared down at his phone, typing furiously. “That’s absolute bullshit. You’re not just allowed in my garage, Amelia, you’re wanted there. You practically run the place. I mean, I was wondering why you didn’t spend any time in Carlos’ anymore, and he’s been thinking this whole time that he did something wrong.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t run anything—”

“You do.” He cut her off, still a little frantic. She stared at him. He took a deep breath. “I’m serious, Amelia. Everyone listens to you. Even Will. Which is terrifying.”

She bit her lip, worrying as she glanced at his phone. “It’s okay, though. I like your garage better, anyway.”

Lando smiled at her. “Good. But still. He can’t just get away with that. Carlos appreciated your input — he told me so. And you belong wherever you want to be, yeah?”

Her face felt warm. She reached for another fry, more for something to do with her hands than out of hunger.

“Also,” he added, a little more casually than before — but she didn’t miss the way his jaw was set, or how his voice had tightened just slightly. “Next time someone tells you that you’re not welcome somewhere you want to be… just tell me, alright? I’ll handle it.”

She tilted her head, frowning slightly. “Handle it how?”

“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing another fry. “However I have to.”

—

iMessage — 7:48pm

Lando Norris oye

Carlos Sainz qué pasa

Lando Norris did your dad seriously tell Amelia she wasn’t welcome in your garage?

Carlos Sainz ¿qué? when??

Lando Norris few races ago. bahrain she just told me she thinks you don’t want her around

Carlos Sainz no jodas I never said that I just thought she was busy I will talk to him.

Lando Norris she didn’t wanna say anything

Carlos Sainz

I am glad that she did.

tell her I never said that and that she is welcome any time

Lando Norris yh. already told her but yeah, sort your dad out mate

Carlos Sainz voy a hacerlo ahora mismo this is nonsense

Lando Norris cheers mate

Carlos Sainz de nada are you with her right now?

Lando Norris we’re just getting burgers no biggie

Carlos Sainz Liar.

NEXT CHAPTER

806 notes · View notes

mr-cha-n · 7 months ago

Text

Glass Towers

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x fem!reader

Genres: fluff, angst, smut, architect AU

Warnings: Profanities, drinking, angst, sexual content, penetration, mouth stuff (f. receiving), tension, yearning

Word Count: 18.2k

Summary: City lights are beautiful, but they're nothing compared to the spark between a hopelessly optimistic architect and his no-nonsense boss. He hopes.

Mingyu's always had a thing for the city skyline. He stands there, staring up like a tourist in his own city, while the lights blink back at him. He's convinced that the twinkling stars work overtime in the winter to brighten up the world for busy employees, wonderstruck sightseers, and homebound natives alike.

And the people? Oh, don't get him started. City folk are like ants with a caffeine addiction, scurrying down streets wide enough to do doughnuts on (he's tempted), all on their own secret missions. Got places to be, people to bump into, lives to live. And every now and then, there's a stray tourist wandering around like they're decoding a map from a century-old pirate treasure hunt, or a food vendor desperately offering free samples and a good, if unique, conversation.

But, most of all, he's got a soft spot for buildings. Those skyscrapers that loom over everyone like friendly giants are his favourite. They're tall, dramatic, stoic - but also weirdly welcoming, like they're saying "Come on in, friend, there's an elevator with your name on it." Each one holds a mini-universe of people with no clue that they're all part of this giant city love affair. And honestly? That's what Mingyu loves most.

That is why he is practically vibrating with excitement as he makes his way to the towering glass-and-steel behemoth that houses his new firm. This building is the pinnacle of urban architecture. It has a shiny, almost reflective facade that makes every other building on the block look like they'd shown up to the party in sweatpants. Windows stretch floor to floor like a series of portals to success.

He's read about this building, of course. Brought it up in the interview for the position. Its architect was apparently a big deal who had once described it as "a dialogue between the earth and the sky." Which, as far as Mingyu is concerned, is just fancy architect-speak for, "Look at how absurdly tall I can make things."

Stepping inside, he is immediately hit with that professional smell - a mix of leather-bound sofas, artisanal coffee, and freshly printed documents. The lobby is decorated with minimalist sculptures that seem like they could either be priceless modern art or just very confusing coat ranks. Either way, Mingyu thinks they look amazing and decides that he'd probably best never trying to lean on one.

He stops at the reception desk, where a sharply dressed woman with an impressively unflappable expression sits.

"Good morning!" He says, a little too enthusiastically. "I'm Kim Mingyu. I'm starting as the new project architect, so you'll probably see a lot of confused-looking, lost-guy moments from me."

She raises an eyebrow, a faint smile quirking on the edge of her lips. "Good luck, Mr Kim. This building does tend to eat people up on their first day."

Mingyu lets out a small chuckle, unsure if she's joking or not, but he takes the smile on her face to signify that she is. After getting directions to his new office space, he makes a point of talking to every staff member he sees on the way, hoping to gain a little bit of familiarity with the new space. There's the security guard by the elevator, who gives him a quick nod of approval, the intern rushing by with a stack of blueprints precariously balanced like they are training for Cirque du Soleil, and the coffee cart guy, who looked positively thrilled to tell Mingyu that they're starting a 'Mocha Monday' deal, envisioning half-price mochas flying off the shelf to cure those start-of-week blues.

The elevator itself is sleek, fast, and almost comically over-engineered. Encased in glass and stainless steel, it features a control panel with buttons for every floor and amenities like a mini espresso machine, a retractable tablet and an adjustable lighting system for 'mood optimisation'. He barely has time to catch his breath before the elevator doors ding open, depositing him on the top floor.

Waiting for him is Mr Choi, the firm's head partner, a man so put-together than even his cufflinks look like they could close a business deal. Mingyu recognises him instantly - the same piercing gaze from his interview, though today softened by the faintest hint of a smile. Or, well, something that might one day consider becoming a smile.

"Good to see you again, Mingyu," Mr Choi greets, his voice as smooth as marble. He gestures down the hallway, as if guiding him into an architectural wonderland (which, for all intents and purposes, he is). "Shall we?"

They pass through a maze of glass-walled offices and open spaces dotted with architects, designers, and enough blueprint paper to wrap the world's largest birthday present. As they reach Mr Choi's office, Mingyu makes sure to hold the door open for his new boss.

The space is less of an office and more of an architectural shrine, humming with the wisdom of ten thousand blueprints. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city, as if the whole skyline had been personally curated just to keep Mr Choi inspired. His desk - a sleek slab of dark walnut with edges so sharp they could probably slice bread - sits precisely in the centre of the room. On the walls sit framed sketches of the firm's most iconic projects, each one hung and lit like a small art gallery. The coffee table at the centre piles high with glossy architecture magazines and books with titles like The Future of Concrete and The Language of Buildings. It is as if every element in the room had been strategically selected to convey that Mr Choi is not just any architect.

And, most stunning of all, is you. Tall, poised, and commanding a presence that immediately silences whatever joke Mingyu has mentally queued up to break the ice. You're seated across from Mr Choi's desk, reading through a thick stack of documents with the intensity of someone evaluating world-changing data - or possibly planning the most efficient way to dismantle a skyscraper with your mind. You don't look up when he enters.

"Ms (Y/l/n)," Mr Choi says, a hint of amusement in his voice, "this is Kim Mingyu, our newest project architect. He'll be working under you, as we discussed."

Finally, you look up. There's a flash of something unreadable in your eyes as you meet his, and Mingyu's heart skips a beat. You're beautiful, of course, but not in the approachable way he'd normally charm his way though. There's a quiet sharpness to you, like the edge of a blade hidden under silk. You nod, polite but detached, and extend a hand across the desk. Mingyu's hand is halfway to yours before he realises he's probably grinning too wide.

"Mr Kim," You say, your tone flat and calm. "Welcome to the team."

"Thank you, Ms (Y/l/n)," he replies, fighting the urge to launch into an unnecessarily enthusiastic monologue about how honoured he is to work with someone as formidable as you. Instead, he forces himself to stick with, "It's a pleasure to be here."

Your handshake is brief, controlled, and you retract your hand almost before he's registered the contact. Then you sit back, folding your arms with a measured kind of grace that makes Mingyu feel like he's just been granted an audience with a queen.

"We'll be starting you off on the Langham project," you say, consulting your papers as if double-checking this fact - or maybe just avoiding his eyes. "I'll be overseeing your work and guiding you through our procedures here. We have high standards, and I'll expect you to meet them."

"Of course!" He nods vigorously, attempting his best I-won't-let-you-down smile. "I'm up for any challenge, Ms (Y/l/n). High standards are, uh, my middle name."

You raise an eyebrow, looking slightly perplexed, as though wondering if he might be serious. Mr Choi clears his throat, breaking the silence with a faint smirk that betrays a hint of secondhand amusement.

"Ms (Y/l/n)," he continues, "has been with us for nearly a decade. She's an invaluable asset to the firm. I trust you'll learn a great deal from her."

Mingyu nods earnestly, glancing at you, but you're already back to scanning the documents as if he's drifted into background noise. He's mildly disappointed, though he can't exactly blame you - after all, he is juts the latest recruit with probably a hundred questions, and you seem like the type who doesn't have time for aimless chatter.

"Any questions before we begin?" you ask, in a tone that suggests the answer you're really hoping for is 'no.'

But of course, Mingyu has questions. Too many, probably. He opens his mouth to ask one, but then catches the faintest glint of what he thinks might be impatience in your eyes and quickly changes gears.

"Actually, no," he says, flashing a thumbs-up. "Good to go!"

You don’t seem particularly impressed by this, but there’s a flicker of something — amusement, maybe? — before you turn back to Mr. Choi. "Shall I take him to the Langham briefing room, then?"

Mr Choi waves you off with a nod, and you rise with a brisk elegance that makes Mingyu almost trip over himself in an effort to follow. You walk him through the halls with a calm, businesslike air, giving succinct, precise explanations as you go. Every step you take feels purposeful, every word perfectly chosen. Mingyu feels like an eager puppy trotting beside you, but he's determined to keep up.

As you reach the briefing room, he can't resist trying to break the ice one more time. "You know," he starts, grinning. "I really love the city skyline. It's kind of why I got into architecture."

You pause, giving him a look that manages to be both blank and withering at once. "Is that so?"Yeah!" He barrels on, encouraged by the fact that you responded at all. "It's like ... it's all a big love letter to everyone living here, you know? Every building, every floor, every light in the window - it's all just there, lighting up people's lives."

There's a moment of silence. Mingyu wonders if maybe he overdid it.

Finally, you nod, albeit with an expression he can't quite place. "That's an ... optimistic way of looking at it, Mr Kim."

Optimistic? Not exactly the response he was hoping for, but he'll take it. He smiles, trying to hide his excitement at the fact that you actually acknowledged his point. "I guess that’s me — hopelessly optimistic."

You glance at him with what he might, just might, dare to interpret as the tiniest hint of a smirk. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by your usual professional demeanour.

"Well," you say crisply, gesturing to the plans spread out on the table. "Let’s see if that optimism translates to effective project execution."

By the time Mingyu finally steps out of the firm's towering glass sanctuary, the city has dipped into that golden hour where the skyline looks like it's been dipped in honey. The streets are packed with people still racing to meetings, or dinners, or late-night escapades, but Mingyu feels like he's in his own little bubble, still buzzing from the whirlwind of his first day.

He's not sure what's more overwhelming - the Langham project itself, which already feels like it's going to stretch every ounce of his architectural prowess and patience, or you. The way you carried yourself like you were born in this building, with all its sharp edges and polished surfaces. He isn't sure how to keep up with that level of composure.

But there was something there, wasn't there? A flicker of something. Maybe you were just humouring him, but there was that slight tilt of your lips when he said something slightly amusing. Or the way your eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary when he spoke. Of course, he could just be imagining it. But Mingyu isn't about to let go of that feeling just yet.

The subway ride home does little to calm his excitement. He thinks about the massive pile of documents he's expected to digest tonight for the briefing tomorrow. As the train rumbles beneath the city, Mingyu cracks open his bag and pulls out the folder that was handed to him this morning - a mess of blueprints, floor plans and complicated notes that look like they were designed to break a person's will to live.

But he's not scared, not by this at least. The only thing that kind of scares him is the realisation that you are going to be watching him closely. Judging. Monitoring. And if he’s being honest, he’s not sure if he’s ready for that sort of proximity.

The train screeches to a halt, and Mingyu exits at his stop, shaking off those thoughts. Tonight, he’ll just have to forget about all that for now and focus on getting some food in his stomach. Besides, he’s almost home.

Mingyu’s apartment building isn’t anything to write home about. It’s not a shiny, glass-covered marvel like the office, but it’s cozy and warm, with enough character to make him feel like he has a place to call his own. His apartment is on the fourth floor, up a narrow staircase that creaks with every step. As he pulls his key from his pocket and unlocks the door, the familiar smell of instant ramen and coffee hits him. His flatmate, Wonwoo, is already home.

Wonwoo’s there in the living room, sprawled across the couch with his laptop on his lap and a half-empty mug of coffee next to him. He’s the polar opposite of Mingyu in almost every way: quiet, reserved, and extremely not into architecture, but somehow they’ve been rooming together for the past few years without any major conflicts. Mingyu’s loud, chaotic energy and tendency to overshare perfectly balances Wonwoo’s brooding, half-mysterious vibe. It’s a friendship forged in caffeine and mutual understanding that sometimes, you need someone who won’t judge when you blast pop music at 2 AM, or when you eat cereal for dinner because you forgot to go grocery shopping.

"How’s the first day?" Wonwoo doesn’t look up from his screen, his voice cool and unbothered. But Mingyu can tell he’s asking out of a form of polite curiosity, like a scientist observing a very energetic specimen.

Mingyu drops his bag on the counter and flops onto the couch next to him. "It was ... intense," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "The project I'm gonna be working on is a beast. There's this whole ocean of details to sift through. And then there's Ms (Y/l/n)."

Wonwoo looks up, his brow slightly raised. "Your boss?"

"Yeah," Mingyu says, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "She's something else. Like she doesn't seem interested in me at all, and I'm not sure how to deal with that. But she's got this, like, presence. Makes you want to impress her, y'know? Even when she's totally stone-faced - especially when, actually."

Wonwoo hums noncommittally and takes a sip of his coffee, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "So, you're in love with your boss already. Good to know."

Mingyu shoots him a mock glare, his cheeks ringing with a hint of pink. "I'm not in love with her, okay? It's more like ... fascination. She's just really intimidating."

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, the picture of dry amusement. "Uh-huh. Sure. And what's her deal, anyway? Too professional for your flirty smile?"

"She doesn't seem flattered by it." Mingyu dramatically drops his head into his hands, mimicking a tragic melodrama. "I might have to rethink my whole life strategy if I can’t get her to crack a smile at my jokes."

"But hey," Wonwoo adds with a smirk, "if you want to survive your first week, I suggest you do not mention the city skyline and your theories about how it’s a love letter to people. That’s a hard pass."

Mingyu groans, covering his face in embarrassment. "I’m never telling you anything ever again."

Wonwoo chuckles, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied grin. "You love me and you know it."

Mingyu snorts. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ve got work to do." He picks up the pile of documents, pulling them closer with a resigned sigh. "Gotta impress Ms (Y/l/n) somehow."

Gulping down a quick 'dinner' of left-over stir fry and a couple of eggs for good measure, Mingyu picks back up the Langham project folder, its content still a chaotic swirl of technical specs and words he can't read, and flips open the first few pages. The project itself is a massive undertaking - a luxury hotel and mixed-use complex nestled in the heart of the city, right by the river. The building is going to stretch twenty stories high, with glass facades that'll reflect the river's light like a prism. The design includes state-of-the-art amenities, with the goal of being the ultimate urban getaway - a haven for tourists, business moguls, and the occasional local who just wants to treat themselves to a little luxury.

Mingyu's eyes light up as he scans the proposed design. There's a grand atrium in the centre, stretching all the way up to the top floor, with cascading gardens and open-air terraces. "So fancy," he mutters to himself. His team is clearly trying to push boundaries here, blending modern steel and glass with organic elements - like a giant metallic tree-house hybrid for the city's elite.

He flips to a page filled with notes about sustainability and energy efficiency. They’re aiming for a platinum LEED certification — top-tier green building status. It’s all about using smart, eco-friendly tech to make the building as self-sustaining as possible. Mingyu groans inwardly, wondering if he’s about to become an expert on solar panels and rainwater harvesting.

As he continues reading, one particular detail catches his eye. The signature design element for the building is a series of “floating” glass bridges between the upper floors — a bold architectural statement meant to make the building appear less like a typical office block and more like something out of a futuristic movie. It sounds incredible, but Mingyu can already picture himself pulling his hair out over the engineering calculations required to make sure the whole thing doesn’t come crashing down in a windstorm.

By the time he reaches the end of the folder, his mind is spinning, and a mild panic starts to creep in. Your expectations are clear, and the project’s scope is enormous. But Mingyu can’t help the tiny spark of excitement that flickers in his chest. This is what he’s been working toward — to be a part of something that will change the city’s landscape, something that will make people stop and look up.

He rubs his eyes and glances at the clock. It's late, but he knows he'll need all the preparation he can get for tomorrow.

With one last long look at the papers, Mingyu closes the folder, shoving it aside with a resigned sigh. "I’m going to need a lot more coffee," he mutters, flopping back on the couch beside Wonwoo, who’s already half asleep with his laptop still glowing faintly in his lap.

Wonwoo snorts without opening his eyes. "You’re going to need more than coffee for this, buddy."

"Tell me about it," Mingyu grins, grabbing his phone to order another coffee, just in case he didn’t have enough already. Tonight, it looks like he’s going to be living on caffeine and architectural dreams.

A few weeks into the job, Mingyu has already made a significant number of mistakes. Well, significant is probably an understatement. More like a collection of blunders so impressive that, if anyone were to catalogue them, they might think Mingyu was trying to break some sort of world record in architectural mishaps.

It starts innocently enough, with a small miscalculation on the elevator shaft dimensions that nearly caused a minor freakout in the engineering department. Then there was that time he mixed up the load-bearing capacity for the glass facades and accidentally sent an email to the whole team saying, "We could use stronger glass" when technically, the existing plans were fine. And, of course, who could forget that time he got overzealous and rearranged the project's timeline, shaving an entire month off the construction schedule, only to realise later that it was a little bit too ambitious for anyone's taste?

He still hasn't lived down the elevator incident, which, for the record, wasn't even entirely his fault. But it's hard to explain that when your eyes are drilling into him from across the room, a careful blend of disappointment and 'I'm trying not to send you into an existential crisis right now.'

Today, he's perched at his desk watching the clock tick down the minutes until the inevitable meeting with you. His fingers drum nervously on the edge of his notepad. There's a fresh stack of papers in front of him, each one brimming with red-inked corrections, and he knows what's coming. He's almost perfected the art of nodding in silent shame during your critiques, hoping the earth might swallow him whole.

When the meeting finally comes, you walk into the room, as poised and unbothered as ever. He tries to stand up to greet you, but he stumbles into his chair instead, catching himself just in time.

"You've been busy," you say dryly, as you flip through the stack of appears, your eyes scanning the marked-up blueprints. Your tone is sharp, like an exam proctor giving him one last chance to pass without the lecture.

Mingyu forces a grin, wiping his palms against his pants. "Yep, learning a lot on the fly, you know?"

You don't smile. "You've certainly given us a lot to work with."

Mingyu winces, cracking for the inevitable storm of corrections. He can already feel the weight of your disappointment pressing down on him. He's been trying so hard to make a good impression, but it seems every time he tries, he only ends up making things more complicated.

But then, as if you've suddenly decided that maybe he hasn’t completely bungled everything, you pause, tapping your pen against the papers in front of you. “But there’s one thing...”

His heart stutters. "What's that?"

You flip to the last page in the folder, revealing a neatly detailed diagram of the building's eco-friendly water filtration system, a proposal Mingyu put together at the last minute after a rather inspiring lunch break (where he might have gotten just a little carried away talking to the environmental consultant). You tap the diagram. "This," you say, your voice softer than he's ever heard it, "This is well done. You identified a potential issue with the system that we hadn't accounted for in the original design. We'll need to revise a few things to integrate it fully, but this is exactly the kind of thinking we need."

Mingyu stares at you, completely caught off guard. His brain is still half-parked in panic mode from the earlier mistakes. and he can't quite process your words. Did you just ... praise him?

"Really?" He blinks, his surprise making his voice higher than usual. "You mean the, uh, water thing? I just thought it might be better if we-"

"I know," you interrupt, your gaze steady on him. "You found a solution we missed. We'll be able to integrate it without a massive redesign. Good work."

Mingyu blinks again, this time in pure disbelief. It's like someone just handed him a bag of cash and told him to keep it. "I - uh, wow. Thanks." He tries to act cool, but he's pretty sure he looks like a kid who's just been handed an extra cookie.

You don't break your composed demeanour, but there's a subtle shift in your expression - a quiet respect that wasn't there before. "You're capable, Mr Kim," you say, your voice calm but with a hint of approval. "Despite your tendency to make things a little more complicated than necessary, you're on the right track."

The words hang in the air for a moment, and Mingyu feels an odd rush of pride — a mix of relief and the kind of warmth you get when you find out you didn’t totally mess everything up. For once, he’s not the guy who ruins everything in your eyes.

And, maybe, just maybe, he can keep that “capable” label for a while.

“I’ll expect the revised plans on my desk by Friday,” you say, your voice steady. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t!” Mingyu promises, his voice more confident than it’s been in weeks. “I’m on it.”

Mingyu throws himself into revising the plans with a fervour that borders on obsession. He’s got spreadsheets, CAD files, hand-drawn sketches, and a brand new stack of sticky notes covering his desk like a rainbow-coloured fortress of architectural ambition. The water filtration system has turned into his personal magnum opus, and he’s determined to make sure it’s nothing short of revolutionary.

He's started to stay later than usual, his desk lamp becoming a beacon in the dimmed office. At first, he doesn't pay much attention to who else is around, his mind so wrapped up in calculations and potential pitfalls that he barely notices his own hunger or fatigue. But after a few nights, he realises he's not the only one burning the midnight oil.

Your office light is always on. Sometimes he'll glance up, bleary-eyed and half delirious from staring at documents, and he'll catch a glimpse of you through the glass walls - hair pulled back, eyes locked on your laptop screen, fingers tapping briskly on the keys as if your thoughts are sprinting ahead of your hands. You're a constant fixture, as much a part of the office's architecture as the polished marble floors and unbreakable glass doors. And, he realises, you're usually there even later than he is.

One evening, after finally signing off on what feels like the hundredth draft of the plans, Mingyu yawns and stretches, feeling every vertebra pop like bubble wrap. He glances at the clock. It's nearly midnight. As he stands to grab his coat, he sees your office light flick off, and you appear, looking just as composed as you did this morning, as if working fifteen hours straight is just part of your weekly routine.

You both walk to the elevator in silence, the quiet stretch of the office settling around you like an unspoken truce. When the elevator doors close, you glance at him, breaking the silence with a casual, "You're still here, Mr Kim."

He lets out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, still making sure I don't mess up the Langham project. You know how it is."

You don't smile, but your expression softens. "I do."

The elevator ride is quiet, filled with the low hum of machinery and the faintest scent of Mingyu's cologne - a last-ditch attempt this morning to feel professional. When you step out onto the ground floor, you hesitate by the door, glancing out at the street. The city is dark and quiet, the only lights the occasional passing car and the soft glow of streetlamps.

"Do you have a way home?" You ask, your voice so casual it takes him a second to realise you're actually offering him a ride.

Mingyu blinks, caught off guard. "Uh, well, I was going to take the subway. But if you're offering..." He trails off, grinning sheepishly.

You nod, motioning to the car parked just outside. It's as sleek and polished as you are - a dark sedan that looks like it would have absolutely no patience for speed bumps. He slides into the passenger seat, trying not to fumble with his seatbelt, and you start the engine, pulling into the quiet streets with a calm, practised ease.

For a while, you drive in silence. Mingyu glances out the window, his thoughts tangled between the day's work and the surreal feeling of sitting in the same car as you.

"You're ... very driven," you break the quiet, your tone almost contemplative. "I don't often see people put in that kind of effort, especially so early on."

He chuckles softly, scratching the back of his neck. "Guess I just don’t want to let you down. Or, you know, be known as the guy who destroyed the Langham project.”

You finally smile, a small, genuine expression that feels like a rare peek beyond the wall, and leaves Mingyu feeling a little breathless. "It's more than that, though, isn't it?"

Mingyu hesitates, taken aback by the question. He’s not sure what he expected you to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “I mean, yeah. I’ve always loved buildings. Ever since I was a kid, I’d spend hours sketching skyscrapers in my notebooks. It’s kind of a dream come true, being here. Getting to work on something this big.”

You listen, your eyes fixed on the road but your expression soft, focusing now somewhere beyond just his words.

"This job can consume you, if you let it," you say quietly, almost to yourself. "It's a rare thing to see someone bring genuine excitement to it. Most people, they burn out or let it harden them." You glance at him, and for a brief moment, he sees a flicker of something almost vulnerable in your gaze. "It's good that you still ... care."

Your words hang in the air, and Mingyu feels a strange ache in his chest - a sudden realisation that beneath the cool professionalism, you had been through this same path yourself, fighting to keep that spark alive in an industry that seems determined to grind it out of you.

"Thanks," he says softly, the playful tone absent for once. "I mean it. And ... I think I get what you mean." He hesitates, then adds, "But I don't think I'll stop caring anytime soon."

You nod, a faint smile ghosting your lips. You drive on through the city, the lights casting soft, shifting patterns on the glass.

When you finally reach his building, he unbuckles his seatbelt, giving you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks for the ride. And, you know… for everything else.”

You nod, your expression back to usual, but there's a warmth in your eyes now. "Goodnight, Mr Kim."

"Goodnight," he says, stepping out and closing the door gently. He watches as you drive away, the taillights disappearing down the street, and feels a strange mixture of inspiration and relief, and a hunger to get back in the car and learn anything else he can about you.

It's a week before his presentation, and Mingyu is thrilled about his latest proposal for the Lagham project - a sleek, eco-friendly rooftop space designed to collect rainwater, enhance natural cooling, and serve as a green oasis in the middle of the city for all visitors to access. It's his baby, his architectural pièce de résistance. He’s already named the design “Green Above” in his head, but, apparently, the client is less than convinced.

The hesitation comes during a routine check-in meeting, when Mr. Choi casually drops the news that the client has “concerns.” The term is as vague as it is ominous, and Mingyu’s heart sinks. Apparently, they’re worried it’s too “experimental,” too “risky” for the firm’s conservative image. Mingyu tries to hide his disappointment, nodding as Mr. Choi politely recommends that he “polish up his pitch” before the big day.

By “polish,” of course, he means pull a miracle out of thin air.

Enter: you.

Later that afternoon, you call him into your office, the door clicking shut behind him as you gesture for him to sit. He braces himself, ready for another dissection of his work, but instead, you surprise him by pulling out his sketches and nodding. "The client might be wary," you say, your tone clinical and level, "but there's a strong case for this. You just need to learn how to show them the vision." You pause, looking at him. "I'll help you with that."

Mingyu blinks. "You'll help me present?"

"Yes, Mr Kim," you say. "We'll work on this every evening until you're confident enough to convince a room full of sceptics. You'll have to be better than good. Exceptional."

And so, every evening for the next week, Mingyu stays late in the conference room, rehearsing his proposal with you. The first night, he stumbles through the trial run, mumbling about sustainable design, only to have you stop him after two minutes, unimpressed.

"Start over," you say, tapping your pen against the table. "And this time, stop burying the lead. Walk in there and make me believe it's the best thing I've ever heard."

You're relentless but patient, correcting him when he gets too caught up in technical jargon, showing him how to highlight the benefits rather than the process. "This is a story," you tell him one evening. "Show that what it feels like. Make them see the vision before you go into how it works."

Somewhere around the fourth late night, you sit back into your chair after another dry run, watching him with an intensity that makes him nearly forget his lines.

“Stop talking like you’re trying to convince them you’re good enough,” you say, "You are. You have to believe it, or no one else will."

Mingyu blinks, the words landing with unexpected weight. You say it like it's a fact - as if there's no question about his abilities, just his confidence. Something in your gaze is softer than he's ever seen, and for the first time, he wonders how many long nights like these you've spent not just perfecting your work, but holding yourself up to impossible standards too.

He nods, taking a breath. “Right. Believe it.”

By the night before the presentation, he’d rehearsed the pitch so many times he could recite it in his sleep. You give him one last nod, a subtle flicker of approval in your eyes. "You're ready."

The day of the meeting dawns, and Mingyu arrives early, the faint taste of nerves tingling in his throat. When he enters the boardroom, the client representatives are all seated, an assortment of tailored suits and sceptical expressions. Mr. Choi offers a nod of encouragement from his place at the head of the table, and you stand nearby, arms folded, watching him with that same quiet intensity.

As he begins his pitch, Mingyu can feel his initial nerves settle, his voice steady as he moves through each point. He doesn’t just talk about “Green Above” like an idea on paper; he paints it as a vision, something meant to make the city’s skyline greener, bolder, better. He gestures to the architectural mockups, describing the rooftop garden as not just a feature but a destination, an asset that would be both functional and iconic.

He can tell, halfway through, that the room has shifted. The clients sit forward, nodding, leaning into his words, their initial scepticism melting as he lays out the plan. The numbers, the materials, the maintenance — it’s all there, practical but wrapped in the bigger picture he’s been rehearsing for nights on end.

When he finishes, the room is silent for a beat before the client’s lead representative nods, visibly impressed. “It’s… ambitious,” he says, almost smiling. “But I see what you mean. Let’s move forward.”

Mingyu grins, fighting the urge to fist pump as the clients exchange approving glances. He looks over at you, who gives him the slightest nod of approval. He can almost see a glimmer of pride in your expression, faint but undeniable.

As the room empties and the clients file out, Mingyu's heart is still racing, his whole body humming with triumph. He turns to you, grinning wide. "We did it," he says, his voice barely containing his excitement. "I mean ... I did it. But only because you..."

He trails off, realising just how close you're standing, the quiet of the empty room settling around you. Your gaze meets his, and for a moment, you don't look away. It's a long, lingering look, like you're seeing him not just as an employee or an eager architect but as… him. Someone who cares, who tries, who’s just won his first major victory and feels like he’s on top of the world.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “For all of it. I don’t think I could have pulled it off without you.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering with something he can’t quite place. Your expression softens, your lips parting slightly as if your about to say something else. And in that moment, there’s a warmth between them, a shared understanding that words alone wouldn’t quite capture.

“Just… keep going,” you say finally, your voice so quiet it feels like a secret. “You’re more capable than you realize, Mingyu.”

The way you says his name — with that subtle, unfamiliar warmth — makes his heart skip. He nods, still holding your gaze, feeling the weight of everything you’ve shared in the past week in that single, electric second.

And then, as if the moment might disappear if you linger too long, you step back, your usual composure slipping back into place.

For the first time, Mingyu feels that maybe — just maybe — there’s more between them than late-night work sessions and professional boundaries. And as you walk side by side down the quiet hall, he can’t shake the feeling that, for the first time, you might be feeling it too.

Mingyu's gotten good at convincing himself he's not entirely losing it. So what if his boss, who barely blinks at a 15-hour day and thinks "weekends" are a suggestion, is suddenly occupying 90% of his mental bandwidth? That's just ... professional admiration. So when he finds himself thinking about you at odd times - like, mid-bite of his breakfast burrito, or what he's supposed to be learning zoning codes - he brushes it off. After all, it's normal to be totally absorbed by someone you admire.

One evening, after bringing home takeout and trying (again) to casually mention his most recent success, Wonwoo decides to drop a bomb. "I saw an article about your boss the other day, you know. Back when she first joined the firm. People in the comments kept talking about something called the Westbrook Project - ever heard of it?"

"Westbrook Project?" Mingyu repeats, a little too quickly, his brain scrambling. Nothing. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard the name before, but it’s his boss, so he’s probably supposed to know. After Wonwoo can't provide any more details, Mingyu does what any self-respecting architect does at 2 a.m. when faced with a mysterious professional tidbit: he Googles it. Expecting, like, a vague overview, maybe some old press releases. What he finds, though, are words like "abandoned," "budget issues," and, worst of all, "failure," with your name all over it. Ouch. Big, deep ouch.

The next day at work, Mingyu manages to strike up a casual conversation with the marketing guy who's practically the office encyclopedia. "Oh, the Westbrook Project?" he says with a knowing smirk. "I read the case files. It was supposed to be, like, revolutionary. Eco-forward, huge downtown build. A lot of drama when it got shut down. Man, Ms (Y/l/n) was obsessed with that thing. You've gotta respect someone who fights like that for their work." He laughs a little, but there's something almost pitying in his tone, like he doesn't quite know what to make of someone who has been through such a high-profile professional failure.

Mingyu's stomach drops as he realises that there's a whole side of you - this weight - he never saw before. He feels embarrassed for not knowing. But, maybe, it explains the way you hold yourself together, so careful with your words, so precise in every gesture. Because what happens when you give so much of yourself, and it still isn't enough?

Mingyu can't help but glance at you differently when you walk into the office. You're still the same, all business and poise, but there's a weight to you now that he hadn't noticed before. It's not his place to ask you about Westbrook, and he's not sure he could even bring it up without tripping over his own words.

So, Mingyu brings it up.

Not immediately, because he's not that much of a disaster. It's not the same day, or even the same week. It's one of those late nights when he's deep into pretending he's not panicking over math, and he's only going into your office to ask if you've seen the last-minute email from the client.

Except.

He sees the bottle of red on your desk.

It's sitting there, a little too casually, with half of it in a glass that's perched too close to your mouse.

It's not that Mingyu thought you didn't drink. But seeing it there, on your desk, is like catching a glimpse of a teacher's pet outside of school. His brain starts spiralling. Are you getting drunk? Are you able to get drunk?

Still standing in the doorway like he's caught in some sort of personal disaster movie, Mingyu clears his throat. "Uh," he starts, because his brain is still stuck on you drinking alcohol in the office, "What's the deal with the wine?"

You glance up from your computer, completely unfazed. "Oh, this?" You wave a hand, almost like it’s nothing. “A gift from a client. They thought I needed something to ‘relax’ after all the late nights." You flash a teasing grin. "I didn’t think anyone else would be in the office this late, though."

Mingyu freezes again. Seeing a smile on your face is unnerving him. "Uh, well, yeah ... just ... I thought you were busy, y'know? I didn't want to disturb you," he stammers, as if that makes any sense. Of course you know he's here. He's always here. He's practically a fixture at this point.

You raise an eyebrow at him, clearly not fooled. “Sure you didn’t. Anyway, now that you’re here," you say, looking at him with a glint of curiosity, "what’s been keeping you up lately? Besides zoning codes and whatever else you’ve been trying to memorise, that is."

Mingyu, caught completely off guard by the question, opens his mouth to respond, but his brain, still fighting the urge to melt into the floor, can't form a proper sentence. His gaze flicks back to the wine bottle like it holds all the answers to his life right now. Finally, he blurts out, "Uhh... I’ve been, uh, thinking about the Green Above project. You know, the one we’re working on?"

“Right,” you nod, leaning back in your chair. “Big, green rooftop. You’ve got your hands full with that one.” You take a sip from your glass, and Mingyu swears the way your lips wrap around the rim is completely unfair to his focus. “What else?”

Mingyu, not used to people asking him personal questions that aren’t about work or how he’s planning on saving the planet with his architectural genius, scratches the back of his neck. “Uh... I mean, well, I’ve been wondering about... you. I mean, your—" he pauses, shaking his head, "your work, of course. Like, how you got into all this. You’ve clearly been through a lot, right?”

You chuckle softly, eyes softening for a brief moment. "A lot? Yeah, I guess you could say that. But that’s not what we’re talking about right now, is it?" You lean forward. "What's really going on, Mingyu?"

Mingyu’s mind is officially in crisis mode. He could barely form a sentence when talking about wine, and now you’ve flipped the tables. What is he even supposed to say?

“I—uh, well, it’s just... I’m curious,” he mutters, struggling to sound casual. He bites his lip, then his curiosity gets the best of him. “Wait, can I ask about something?”

You lean back again, clearly amused. “Go ahead.”

He takes a breath and gestures to the cabinet rested against the back wall of your office. "That picture there .. of a building, I think? It kind of looks like the Westbrook Project. Was it yours?” He winces as soon as he asks, knowing full well how awkward this must sound. But now he really wants to know, and he’s not sure he can keep pretending he hasn’t been thinking about it.

You blink, clearly not expecting him to ask, but then you just sigh and open your desk drawer, revealing an old architectural sketch, detailed and bold, with a city skyline in the background. “Yeah,” you say, voice quieter now. “It was.”

Mingyu swallows hard, his voice dropping to a more respectful tone. “What happened to it? The project, I mean... why didn’t it go through?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you take another slow sip of your wine, letting the moment stretch out. When you finally speak, your voice is calm but laced with something unspoken. “It was a good idea, just... not the right time. But that’s how it goes sometimes in this field. Things get started, and then... they don’t.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything at first, processing what you’ve shared. “I get that,” he says softly. “I think I’ve been there too. You know, not everything works out exactly the way you expect.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, there’s this quiet weight in your expression, something raw you don’t usually let slip. The smile fades, but it’s not replaced with sadness—more like... an understanding, an acceptance.

“The Westbrook Project was supposed to be everything I’ve worked for,” you begin, your voice softer now, like the walls are coming down just a little. “My goal has always been to help the community, to build things that people can actually enjoy, not just walk by and forget. I wanted something that would be a part of the city, something that people could use—a space that felt like it belonged to everyone.” You stop, looking at the picture in the drawer for a moment as if it’s not just a sketch, but a piece of your heart. "The Westbrook Project was supposed to be the culmination of all that. The perfect mix of green spaces, architecture, and public access. I wanted to create something people would look at and feel like they were part of it, you know? Not just bystanders."

You take another slow breath, running a hand through your hair, looking a bit less put-together than usual, but somehow even more... real. “I think that’s the hardest part. It wasn’t just a project to me—it was everything I believed in. And when it got shut down... it felt like a piece of that belief just... crumbled.” You shake your head, almost laughing at yourself. “I know it sounds dramatic, but when you spend so much of your time fighting for something, putting everything into it... and it still isn’t enough... it makes you wonder what the point is.”

Mingyu watches you closely with a strange mix of admiration and empathy. For a second, he’s struck with the urge to reach out and say something comforting, but all he can manage is a quiet, "That... sounds incredible. You must have been really proud of it."

You nod, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I was. Still am, in a way. But life moves on, right?” You glance back at the bottle of wine, then take another sip, before setting it down and meeting Mingyu’s gaze again, this time with a lighter, almost teasing glint. "You want some?"

“Uh... yeah?” he says, but it comes out more like a question than a statement, as if he's still trying to make sure this is actually happening.

You pour him a glass, your movements slow and deliberate. Mingyu watches every little gesture, thinking that maybe if he looks at the wine long enough, it might just turn into something less dangerous. It doesn't.

He takes the glass from you, trying to act casual, but honestly? It's a miracle he doesn’t spill it everywhere. "Thanks," he mutters.

You smirk at him as if you know exactly what’s going on in his head, and for a moment, Mingyu wonders if you can hear it, too—the way his pulse skips whenever he looks at you. He takes a sip of the wine, hoping it will steady him. It doesn’t. It only makes him more aware of you, of the way your eyes glint in the dim light of the office, how close you’re sitting, how warm it feels in here all of a sudden.

“So,” you say, your voice dropping a little lower than before, “Now that we’ve gone through my failed projects, do you feel enlightened?”

Mingyu laughs, but it’s a little too breathless, a little too caught off guard. He leans back, trying to appear cool, but it’s hard to be anything but a mess when you’re so close and everything feels a little off in the best possible way. “Enlightened? I’m still figuring out if you’re real,” he admits, voice cracking just a bit.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What does that mean?”

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze for a moment as his thoughts scatter in a dozen different directions. “It’s just ... you’re different than what I expected. I mean, you’re still, like, boss mode, but there’s this whole other side to you. Like, I don't know ... I think I’ve been seeing you as this untouchable, perfect person, and now I’m realising maybe I’m not the only one who’s human.”

You blink at him for a moment, and then—before he can get too embarrassed—something flickers across your face. Maybe it’s recognition. Maybe it’s something else. You lean in just slightly, the air between you thickening, but you don't break the distance just yet.

“I think,” you start slowly, “you might be onto something there, Mingyu.”

His breath hitches. He’s not sure if it’s the wine, the late hour, or the way your voice dropped that has him leaning forward a little. It’s all of it, really. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, lips curling into a knowing smile. “You might find I’m not so untouchable, after all. But—” You pause, the tension rising as your eyes flicker down to his lips, then back to his eyes. “We’ll see if you can handle the reality of that.”

Mingyu’s mind is going full tilt now, brain in overdrive, as his hand involuntarily moves closer to yours on the desk. He's this close to spilling all his thoughts and feelings—about work, about the project, about the way you make him feel—but instead, he blurts out, “I—uh, I’m pretty good with challenges.”

The words hang there, thick in the air between you. And then, before Mingyu can think any more about it, you break the tension—just slightly—by leaning even closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure you are.”

The space between you shrinks, just a little. And Mingyu, heart hammering in his chest, finds himself absolutely certain that if things don’t shift soon, this office might just catch fire from how hot it’s gotten in the last few minutes. The tension in the air is thick, like static before a storm. Mingyu’s hand hovers just a fraction too close to yours on the desk, his heart a jackhammer in his chest. He’s this close to losing all control, caught between wanting to say the right thing and just leaning in and kissing you. But what would that even mean? Would it be the worst decision of his life? Or the best?

His thoughts are a mess, but then—just like that—it’s like you’ve made up your mind for him. You close the space between you with a single, deliberate movement, your lips pressing softly against his.

Mingyu freezes for half a second, too stunned to process what’s happening. And then, without even thinking, he leans into the kiss, his hand moving to cup your jaw. It’s slow at first, soft, like neither of you can quite believe this is actually happening. Your lips are warm, and the taste of wine lingers on them—something sweet and intoxicating that has his head spinning.

You pull back just slightly, your breath brushing against his lips, and he feels his pulse race. You look at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. "You're not regretting this, are you?" you murmur, voice low.

“No,” he breathes out, shaking his head. “Definitely not regretting this.”

And then you’re kissing him again, deeper this time, your hands moving to his collar as if you’re suddenly both starved for this closeness. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and all he can think about is how right this feels, how every inch of him seems to have been made for this exact moment.

The kiss grows more urgent, more heated. His body presses into yours, the desk suddenly feeling too small, too far away. He wants you closer, needs you closer, and the way you move against him makes him ache with desire. He’s so lost in you, in this kiss, that everything else fades away—the Westbrook Project, work deadlines, the office. There’s only you, only this.

You're mumbling something and Mingyu's not sure he has the brain capacity to listen when he can feel your hands on his chest and your body pressed against his.

"... couldn't believe it when I saw you. I mean, who looks like this?"

His brain practically short-circuits at that.

You’re grinning now, clearly enjoying his flustered reaction, and he can feel his cheeks heat up. But before he can manage a reply, you reach up, your hand grazing the back of his neck as you lean in again. His breath catches in his throat, and suddenly his brain clears—just long enough for him to close the remaining distance between you two.

The kiss this time is less hesitant, filled with a kind of urgency that makes the room feel smaller, more intense. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you against him, and he feels your fingers twisting in his hair as if you can’t get enough either. Every brush of your lips sends another jolt through him, and he’s quickly losing any sense of professionalism or reason. He’s just Mingyu, in this moment, in this office, completely undone by you.

You’re mumbling again, half-laughing as he trails his lips down to the corner of your mouth and just slightly to your jawline. “I mean, really,” you manage between kisses, breathy but amused. “Did you even realise the effect you have?”

He lets out a breath of laughter against your skin, half a smirk forming. “I—I mean, maybe,” he says, but the words come out more as a gasp because you’ve got your hands back on him, your fingers trailing along his jaw in a way that has him melting. “I might have... kinda hoped, at least?”

“Oh?” Your voice is soft, teasing, and he catches a flash of that mischievous smile just before you lean in again, catching him in another kiss that’s more intense, more consuming than before.

Mingyu’s senses are a blur, but he manages to break away for just a second, eyes dark, a grin of his own tugging at his lips. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “I’d like to show you just how much I can handle.” His tone is playful but edged with a confidence he didn’t know he had until this very moment.

The moment is thick, like honey, everything moving slower and faster at once. Mingyu’s hands slip around your waist, and you’re tugging him closer, a little breathless, a little reckless. You’re both lost in the feeling of it, the thrill and warmth that seemed impossible just minutes ago.

But then—a sharp vibration echoes against the desk. The hum of your phone springs to life, startling you both. The screen lights up with an urgent notification, reminding you exactly where you are and what you’re doing.

You pull back, your lips just a whisper away from his, and a flicker of reality cuts through the haze of the moment. “Oh—” Your hands drop from his collar, fingertips brushing his chest as if the memory of the touch will fade otherwise. “Mingyu, I...”

His eyes meet yours, still dark and soft, a little dazed, a little too hopeful. But he pulls himself together, straightening and running a hand through his hair, somehow flustered and grinning at the same time. “Uh, right. Sorry,” he says, though it’s not clear who he’s apologising to.

You swallow, nodding as you try to steady yourself. “I—need to go,” you manage. “We both do, actually. It’s...late.”

Mingyu blinks, nodding, though he can't help the hint of disappointment beneath his expression. “Right. Of course. We probably... shouldn’t even be here right now.” He laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his head as if that could somehow erase the last few minutes. “Guess I should close up?”

You nod, and he watches your hand move to your chest, as if to catch your pulse before it runs off. “Yeah, let’s...do that.”

As you step out of the office, you glance back one last time, catching his eye in the dim light. “Goodnight, Mingyu.”

His gaze is steady, his voice warm. “Goodnight.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and Mingyu stands there, staring at it as if it might magically swing back open. For a moment, he doesn’t move, too stunned to process the fact that you were just here, inches away, closer than he ever thought possible, and then—gone. The warmth of you, the softness of your touch, is still buzzing on his skin, and it’s taking everything in him to not replay every single second in his mind.

He lets out a shaky breath and rubs his face, laughing softly to himself. “Wow,” he mutters, barely believing it. Did that really just happen? His boss—the woman he’s spent months trying not to have a full-on crisis over every time she looks at him—just kissed him. And it wasn’t just a peck; it was real, and his head is still spinning.

He paces the office, catching his reflection in the dark window. His hair’s a mess, his shirt collar a little crumpled, and the look on his face is somewhere between ecstatic and completely lost. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff—excited but terrified, staring down into something he can’t quite see.

“Okay, pull it together, man,” he whispers, clutching the edge of his desk like it might hold him steady. But he can’t shake the lingering feeling of your hands against him, the way your voice softened as you spoke to him about your dreams, how for a moment, he felt like he’d glimpsed something real and vulnerable and human in you. It’s like he’s been handed the answer to a riddle he didn’t even know he was solving.

He glances back at the empty doorway and smiles, a little helplessly. Because he knows—there’s no going back from this.

On Monday, Mingyu is ready. He's had days to replay every single second of that kiss, dissecting the tiniest details: the way you'd smiled before leaning in, the way you'd pulled back just a bit only to close the gap even tighter the next time. He’s convinced there’s no way you could look at him the same after that. He’s barely looked at himself the same.

So when he walks into the office Monday morning, there's this nervous excitement buzzing in his chest. He expects maybe a shared look or even a subtle nod, something that says 'yeah, we're definitely not forgetting that happened'. But he doesn't get that. In fact, he doesn't get much of anything.

“Uh, good morning,” he finally says, attempting a smile, hoping to break whatever tension he’s imagining.

“Morning,” you say briskly, barely looking up. “Did you get the updated renderings for the Green Above project?”

Mingyu blinks, caught off guard by how quickly you’ve brushed him off. “Yeah, I—um, they should be in your inbox. I, uh, made some adjustments you might want to look at.”

“Great. I’ll check later,” you say, curtly, already turning back to your computer. It’s not even like you’re being rude, exactly; just… distant. Professional. Totally not how you’d looked at him last week when he’d practically melted into you against this very desk.

The day drags on with more of the same. Every time he tries to catch your eye, you’re looking somewhere else. Every attempt at a lighthearted comment, something to bridge the gap, lands with a dull thud. By mid-afternoon, Mingyu’s just staring at his computer screen, feeling completely lost. Did he imagine everything? Because suddenly, it feels like he’s reading way too much into every little thing, wondering if the smile you’d given him that night was all in his head.

By the end of the day, he can’t take it anymore. He decides to be subtle—or something like that—and casually leans into your office as you’re gathering your things.

“Hey, um… are we good?” He tries to keep his voice light, but there’s an edge of worry there that he can’t quite hide. “It feels like—well, last week was—”

You glance up sharply, your expression guarded. “We’re fine, Mingyu,” you say, with a tone that’s just a little too even. “You’re doing great on the project. Keep up the good work.”

There’s that polished professional mask again, and this time it feels like a wall. Mingyu’s stomach twists, and he can’t help but feel a sting in his chest. He nods, trying to ignore the disappointment sinking in. "Right. Yeah, I’ll, uh… keep that up.”

And just like that, you walk past him, your footsteps echoing down the hallway as you head out for the night, leaving him standing there, staring after you, wondering what just went wrong.

It’s Thursday, and Mingyu’s still thinking about every clipped interaction you’ve had all week. He’s convinced he’s somehow messed everything up, but he’s not sure how. By lunchtime, he’s already halfway through a takeout sandwich in the break room when some of the other junior architects drift in, plates and coffees in hand. He’s only half-listening to their conversation, until, like a magnet, he hears your name.

“Did you see how she restructured the timeline?” One of them—Hyun, a friend from Mingyu’s first week—says, rolling his eyes. “Feels like she’s trying to prove something to everyone.”

Another snorts. “Yeah, she’s always like that. Like she has to make everything harder just to remind us she’s the boss.”

Mingyu freezes mid-bite, a flicker of irritation flaring in his chest. He’d learned more from working with you in the past few months than he could’ve in years of grad school. You didn’t ask anyone to work harder than you did yourself, and Mingyu’s certain no one stays later or puts in more effort than you do.

“Maybe she just actually cares about the projects,” Mingyu snaps, dropping his sandwich. The room goes a bit quiet, a few heads turning his way in surprise. “I mean, do you guys know how much time she’s spent on this? She’s doing half of our jobs for us so we don’t mess it up.”

Hyun raises an eyebrow. "Calm down, Mingyu. Everyone knows she's intense."

“‘Intense’ doesn’t mean you have to talk about her like that,” Mingyu says, his voice a bit sharper than he means it to be. “Maybe if people here actually appreciated all the work she does, she wouldn’t have to be so ‘intense’ to get things done.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, everyone looking at him like he’s suddenly sprouted a second head. Hyun mutters, "That's easy to say when you're the one getting special favours from her."

Mingyu's jaw clenches, the insinuation making his blood boil. Special favours? He opens his mouth to snap back, but then catches himself. Getting defensive will only make things worse, and he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation for the late nights or the extra hours you’ve spent on his work. The truth is, he’s learned more from those “extra” moments than he could ever explain to Hyun and the others.

“Look,” he says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. “If you guys actually put in half the effort she does, you’d see it’s not about favourites. It’s about getting things right. Maybe if you tried it sometime, you’d get the same attention.”

Hyun snorts, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Must be nice, though, always getting her undivided attention. Pretty convenient, huh?”

The others chuckle, and Mingyu feels his face flush. He glances down, jaw set tight as he clenches his fists under the table. He can feel the weight of their stares and half-smirks, their words pressing in on him like a slow burn he can’t shake off.

The door swings open just then, and he catches sight of you standing there, eyes narrowed, a faint frown on your face. His heart drops, and suddenly he realizes you must have heard—possibly all of it.

“Can I talk to you for a second, Mingyu?” Your tone is measured, calm, but he can tell there’s something icy underneath. The others exchange looks, clearly ready to gossip the second you both leave.

Mingyu follows you out of the room, feeling a sense of dread settle in his stomach. As soon as you’re out of earshot, you turn to him, arms crossed.

“So is that how you’re spending your lunch breaks now?” you ask, a cool edge to your voice. “Defending me in the office cafeteria?”

Mingyu swallows, unsure how to respond. “I just… didn’t think they should be talking about you like that,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, even though he can feel the intensity of your gaze. “It wasn’t right.”

You sigh, pressing your lips together, something almost unreadable flickering across your face. “I don’t need you to defend me, Mingyu,” you say, your tone firm. “I’ve been doing this job long enough to handle what people say behind my back. You’re here to do your job, not to play protector.”

Mingyu’s jaw clenches. He wants to argue, to tell you that maybe you don’t need anyone’s help, but that doesn’t mean you deserve to be dragged through the mud behind your back. But something in your expression stops him. He nods, swallowing back whatever words were fighting their way to the surface. “Got it,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible. “It won’t happen again.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, as if deciding whether to say more, but then you just shake your head, walking away with a tense set to your shoulders. He watches you go, the frustration and confusion still churning inside him, wondering just how much further away you both seem to get with every step.

Later that evening, Mingyu slumps into the apartment, looking so defeated that Wonwoo’s expression goes from mildly bored to instantly entertained. “Let me guess. It’s about your boss?” Wonwoo doesn’t even wait for confirmation before tossing him a soda. “You’re like a walking rom-com.”

Mingyu sighs, collapsing on the couch. “Wonwoo, I think she hates me. I mean, really hates me.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you two were practically having candlelit takeout dinners in her office.”

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, deflating. “Yeah, well, that was before I kissed her.”

Wonwoo’s phone slides out of his hand, falling onto the couch like a lead balloon. “You what?”

Mingyu nods slowly, a rueful look on his face. “We were working late. It just—happened, okay? And now she’s all distant. Like, avoid me at all costs distant.”

“You kissed your boss?” Wonwoo repeats, still processing. He’s looking at Mingyu like he’s a particularly unsolvable math problem. “As in, the one you worship and whose entire life story you’ve googled?”

“Yes, that one,” Mingyu mutters, covering his face with his hands. “And it was incredible. Like, the kind of kiss that makes you think about life and all your choices and, you know… stuff.” He trails off, his voice a bit dreamy despite himself. “But then, after that, she started acting all cold, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Wonwoo stares at him, baffled. “Did you, uh, talk to her about it? You know, use words and stuff?”

Mingyu gives him a look. “Of course I tried talking to her. But she’s been all serious and professional and—ugh.” He sinks deeper into the couch. “And today, I may or may not have defended her in front of everyone. Like, really aggressively.”

Wonwoo groans. “You really know how to complicate things, don’t you?”

“Look, it just came out! They were acting like she’s some kind of boss robot or something. I just couldn’t listen to it.” Mingyu shakes his head. “And of course, she overheard it and was not happy. Told me she doesn’t need someone to protect her.”

Wonwoo considers this, eyebrows furrowed. “So basically, you kissed her, defended her honour, and now you think you ruined everything because she’s distant?”

“Exactly,” Mingyu sighs. “I feel like I messed it all up, and now she thinks I’m just some junior architect with a crush or something.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “I mean, to be fair, you kind of are a junior architect with a crush.”

“Thanks, Wonwoo. Really needed that.” Mingyu glares at him, but a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Wonwoo nudges him, his tone a little lighter now. “Look, man, maybe she just needs to know it was more than a one-time, late-night thing for you. Like, a serious talk. But not at the office, where everything’s so formal. Just the two of you.”

Mingyu’s eyes light up. “A serious talk… outside of work. Like, maybe over coffee?”

“Or dinner. Or anything where you can show her that you’re interested in more than work. Just, you know, don’t do that thing where you panic and say something weird.”

Mingyu sighs dramatically. “So, no pressure.”

Wonwoo grins, giving him a slap on the back. “You’ve got this, Romeo. Go win her over.”

Mingyu stands in front of your office door, hands nervously tugging at his sleeves like he's preparing for a public execution. He’s been rehearsing this moment for the last twenty minutes—while staring at his desk like it could offer him some sort of guidance—and he still has no idea what he’s doing. He only knows that if he doesn't get his foot in the door right now, he's going to spend the rest of the day overthinking this until his brain short circuits.

So, he knocks.

And of course, you don’t answer immediately. He stands there like a complete idiot, holding his breath for about five seconds before taking the most awkward step inside. Your eyes flick up to him, and for a second, he’s sure his heart is going to stop.

“Oh. Mingyu.” You sound surprised. Great. That’s just what he needed. "What do you need?"

He smiles, too big, too eager. This is fine. “Hey! So, um, I was thinking—”

“Uh oh,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes as if you already know where this is going.

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he says quickly, forcing himself to sound more convincing than he feels. “I just, you know… you’ve been working super hard, and I was thinking, you deserve a break. So, what do you say? Dinner? You and me, tonight.”

You blink at him like he just asked if you wanted to run through the streets naked.

“Dinner? With you?” You tilt your head, looking him up and down, clearly trying to figure out if he’s joking or if his brain’s just melted from exhaustion.

"Yup!" Mingyu says, definitely a little too loud and way too enthusiastic. “Yeah, just dinner. No work talk, no presentations, just a chance to unwind, you know?” He grins like he's already won, but there’s something in your gaze that makes him freeze up.

You raise an eyebrow, studying him carefully. The air between you two is thick with that awkward tension, like you’re both trying to figure out if this is a professional gesture or something else entirely. Mingyu can feel the temperature in the room rise, and his stomach does a somersault as he waits for you to respond.

“Are you… serious right now?” You finally ask, your tone a mix of confusion and cautious curiosity.

Mingyu’s heart stutters in his chest. “Of course, I’m serious,” he says quickly, voice cracking slightly as his nerves get the best of him. “I mean, it’s not like—uh, it’s not like I want anything weird to happen. It’s just dinner. With two people who both happen to work in the same office. Completely normal, right?” He laughs a little too loudly, and it sounds forced, like someone desperately trying to convince themselves of something they don’t believe.

You’re silent for a moment, and Mingyu’s brain spins with overthinking. Should he apologise? Should he leave before this gets even more awkward? Why did he even think this was a good idea? His palms are sweating, his throat dry, and he feels like he might pass out from sheer mortification.

You lean back in your chair, still watching him, and for a second, Mingyu is sure you’re about to shut him down completely. But then, something shifts in your expression—just the faintest flicker of amusement, like you’re trying not to let it show.

“Dinner,” you repeat, almost like you’re testing the word, as though it’s foreign or absurd coming from him. “No work talk?”

“No work talk,” Mingyu confirms, nodding so hard he might give himself whiplash. “I promise. Just good food and maybe a chance to, you know, talk about literally anything else.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smirks, and Mingyu swears the room feels a little less tense. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

He grins, a spark of hope lighting up his chest. “I like to think of it as... enthusiastic.”

You shake your head, clearly amused now, though you’re doing your best to hide it. “Fine,” you say, leaning forward to jot something on a sticky note. “Dinner."

Mingyu’s heart leaps, and he barely resists the urge to fist pump right there in your office. “Deal!” he says, grinning so wide it’s a wonder his face doesn’t hurt. “Seven o’clock?”

“Seven,” you agree, handing him the sticky note with an address scribbled on it. “Don’t be late, Mingyu.”

He takes the note like it’s a golden ticket, clutching it in his hand as if it might disappear. “I won’t. I’ll see you there.”

As he walks out of your office, he can’t help the goofy smile plastered across his face.

By the time the evening rolls around, Mingyu is pacing outside the restaurant like a man on the edge. He’s checked his watch twice, his phone four times, and stared at the sidewalk so long he’s convinced it’s going to start judging him soon. Late. You're late. Or maybe he’s just early. Impossible to say when your nerves feel like they’re hosting a small rave in your chest.

After all, there’s something about you that makes him want to try harder. Maybe too hard, but he’s finally learned that no one gets anywhere by waiting for the perfect moment to arrive. So, here he is, standing outside the restaurant, pacing like a nervous wreck while waiting for you to arrive.

He’s tried to stay calm, really. Spent the entire afternoon mentally drafting this… whatever this dinner is supposed to be. Not a date (probably). Not a work meeting (definitely). Just dinner. Dinner with the one person who’s managed to turn him into a bundle of energy and chaos masquerading as a fully functional adult.

And then, right as he’s about to dial his mom and ask for advice (because that’s clearly what any reasonable person would do), he sees you.

You walk up with that confident stride, the one that always makes his heart skip a beat, and Mingyu feels himself freeze for a moment, completely forgetting everything he’s planned to say. You've changed and you look good. Too good for a casual dinner, but that’s a problem for another time.

“Hey,” you greet him with a smile, your eyes soft, but not quite soft enough for him to completely relax. “I didn’t expect you to actually show up on time.”

Mingyu laughs, awkwardly tugging at his shirt. “I like to be punctual. It’s kind of a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t comment on the obvious lie, allowing the small banter to settle between you like a cushion. Instead, you let him open the restaurant door for you, falling into that casual rhythm that somehow feels more natural than the air he’s been breathing all day.

The dinner itself is nice. Too nice. No weird silences, no work talk, just good food and easy conversation. And yet, there’s a weight in the room that Mingyu can’t shake. It’s been lingering ever since the kiss—the kiss—and he knows he can’t keep tiptoeing around it forever. So as the plates are cleared and the server drops off the check, he reaches into his bag, pulling out the rolled-up plans he’s been carrying like a talisman.

He sets them on the table, his hands a little too careful, his heart racing like it’s bracing for impact.

“Okay, now you’re being mysterious,” you say, the smallest hint of amusement curling your lips.

Mingyu’s throat goes dry, but he pushes forward, unrolling the designs and smoothing them out between the two of you. “I know I said no work talk,” he starts, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest, “but… I’ve been working on this. And I thought you should see it.”

Your eyes drop to the papers, and he watches as your expression shifts. At first, there’s curiosity, then recognition, and finally… something deeper. Something he can’t quite name but feels in the way your fingers tremble slightly as they trace the edges of the designs with a reverence he didn’t know he could envy. Your fingers are delicate but deliberate, the way you touch the plans like they might vanish under too much pressure. Mingyu’s heart is pounding so loudly he's surprised you can’t hear it across the table.

“Where did you get these?” Your voice comes out hoarse, more vulnerable than you mean it to be.

“I’ve been working on them for a while,” Mingyu admits, leaning forward, his hands clasped on the table. “After you talked about the Westbrook Project that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how much it mattered to you. I wanted to do something with it. Something for you.”

You blink, unsure how to process this. “But how did you know?”

“I just—” Mingyu hesitates, then shrugs. “I listened. I saw it. The way you talked about it that night, the passion you put into your projects. I wanted to give it the respect it deserves. I couldn’t let it just end with a ‘no’.”

You stare at the designs again, looking like you've been hit by a wave of nostalgia and shock. "You really... did this for me?”

“I did,” he says quietly, his eyes meeting yours. “And I think it could be something we could do together. If you’re interested.”

You pause, the space between you thick with emotion, something unspoken hanging in the air. Finally, you swallow and look at him, searching his face as if trying to make sure this is real.

“I... I don’t know what to say, Mingyu.” Your voice cracks, and you can’t quite hide the emotion that’s flooding through you. “You’ve—this is everything I’ve been trying to do. But I didn’t think anyone else could see it.”

He sits up straighter, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he tries to keep his voice steady. "I just didn't want you to let go of something so important," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "It deserves another chance. You deserve another chance."

He doesn't know where he finds the courage to say those words. They sound so earnest. Almost embarrassingly so. But, it's the truth, and if there's one thing he's learned from you, it's that honesty - no matter how uncomfortable - is the foundation of anything worth building.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the restaurant fades away—the low hum of conversation, the soft clink of silverware, all of it. It's just you and Mingyu, sitting across from each other, separated by a stack of papers and an ocean of unspoken feelings.

"Mingyu..." You start, but the words get caught in your throat.

You look down, the faintest hint of a tremble in your hands. And Mingyu, who had been prepared for you to shut him down, to dismiss this moment as anything but professional, has to fight the urge to reach across the table and take your hand. He doesn't, of course. He can't. Not yet.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. He's not used to this - seeing you so vulnerable - and he just wants to take some of that pressure off your back. "Look, I know I’m not perfect. I mess up, I talk too much, and I probably drive you crazy most of the time. But I see you, (Y/n). I see how much you care, how much you put into everything you do. And I don’t just admire that—I... I want to be part of it. To be there for you."

Your lips part in surprise. "I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice trembling slightly. "I’ve spent so long trying to keep everything together. To keep people at a distance. And now—"

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," Mingyu says softly, sensing the spiral of doubt you appear to be descending into. "We can take it slow. One step at a time. I just... I needed you to know how I feel."

For a long moment, you don’t move. But then, slowly, you let your hand inch toward his, your fingertips brushing against his palm.

It’s small. Tentative. But it’s enough.

Mingyu barely breathes as your fingers brush his. It’s such a simple gesture, but it sends a jolt straight through him, grounding him in this moment that feels impossibly fragile. He wraps his hand gently around yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. It’s all he can do to keep himself steady when every nerve in his body is screaming at him to close the distance completely.

You don’t pull away, and that feels like a victory in itself. But when you look up at him again, your eyes are brimming with something he can’t quite name—fear, maybe, or hesitation—but also something softer, warmer, that gives him just enough hope to hold on.

“Mingyu,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance down at your joined hands, your brows furrowing slightly as though you’re gathering the courage to say something that’s been weighing on you. “After the kiss... I didn't know what to do.”

His heart skips a beat at the mention of it, the memory still fresh in his mind—the way your lips had felt against his, the way the world had seemed to tilt on its axis for just a moment. He doesn’t say anything, though, afraid that if he interrupts, you’ll stop.

“I started acting cold because...” You take a shaky breath, your fingers tightening slightly around his. “Because I didn’t know how to handle it. How to handle you.”

Mingyu blinks, his chest tightening at your words. “Me?” His voice is soft, cautious. He doesn’t want to push too hard, but he needs to understand.

You nod, your gaze flickering back to his, vulnerable but resolute. “You scare me, Mingyu. Not in a bad way, but... in a way I’ve never felt before. You’re so open, so sincere. You make everything seem so easy, like it’s natural to just—feel. And for me, that’s... terrifying.”

He watches you, his heart breaking a little with every word. He wants to say something, to tell you that you don’t have to be scared, but he knows this isn’t the time. He needs to let you finish.

“I’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length,” you admit, your voice trembling. “It’s just easier that way. I don’t get hurt, and I don’t hurt anyone else. But then you came along, with your ridiculous optimism and your... your kindness, and suddenly I didn’t know how to keep you out. And that kiss—it made me realise I can’t.”

Mingyu doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if there’s anything he can say to match the weight of what you’re giving him. So he squeezes your hand, letting his touch say what his words can’t.

“I didn’t mean to push you away,” you continue, your voice soft but unsteady. “But I thought if I could convince myself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if it all fell apart.”

Mingyu shakes his head slowly, his grip on your hand firm but gentle. “You don’t have to protect yourself from me,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I’m not going anywhere."

You look at him, your eyes searching his for something—reassurance, maybe, or proof that he’s not just saying what he thinks you want to hear. Whatever it is, you seem to find it, because your shoulders relax just a fraction, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you repeat, your voice barely audible. “But I think... I think I want to try.”

And that’s it. That’s all Mingyu needs. His chest swells with something that feels suspiciously like hope, and he leans in just enough. "I don't need perfect. I just need you, the way you are, right here, right now."

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the awkward kind—the kind where the world feels like it’s holding its breath just for you. Mingyu’s words hang in the air, his thumb still brushing over your knuckles, as if he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops. His heart is doing that thing again, where it feels way too big for his chest, and honestly, he’s not sure if that’s romantic or just a pending medical emergency.

You glance down, exhaling softly, and then look back up at him with that small, tentative smile that could single-handedly knock him off his chair. “Do you...” You pause, biting your lip like you’re still deciding if this is a terrible idea or just a regular bad one. “Do you want to come back to my apartment?”

Mingyu’s brain short-circuits.

Like, fully shuts down. There’s no reboot happening here. Just static, a faint buzzing sound, and a very unfortunate replay of every romantic comedy scene he’s ever watched where the male lead trips over his own words and ruins everything.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Great. Perfect. Ideal response.

“Mingyu?” you ask, your tone softer now, like you’re worried you might’ve just set his brain on fire.

“I—uh—yes? I mean, yes!” He blurts it out, too loud, and the couple at the next table glance over like they’re wondering if he’s okay. He’s not, but that’s beside the point.

You laugh, and the sound feels like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “You’re sure?” you ask, your tone teasing but warm.

“Absolutely,” he says, sitting up straighter, like he’s about to sign an unbreakable contract. “I am very sure. Extremely sure. Couldn’t be more sure.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly enjoying his spiral. “Okay, then.”

You stand, and Mingyu scrambles to follow, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. Smooth. So smooth. He rushes to grab his coat, fumbling with the sleeve as he tries to put it on without dislocating a shoulder. When he finally gets it together and turns back to you, you’re just standing there, watching him with an amused smile.

“You good?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Good?” Mingyu repeats, laughing nervously. “Yeah, I’m great. Amazing. Let’s, uh, go.”

He follows you out of the restaurant, trying to act like a normal, functional human being. Except his palms are sweating, his heart is racing, and he’s pretty sure he almost tripped on absolutely nothing as you walked to the curb. When you glance back at him, your expression softens, and suddenly, it feels like the world’s gone quiet again.

“Hey,” you say, your voice cutting through the chaos in his head. “You don’t have to be nervous, you know.”

“I’m not nervous,” Mingyu lies, his grin wide and unconvincing. “This is just how I always look when I’m—uh—happy.”

You laugh again, shaking your head, and link your arm with his, pulling him gently along. “Come on, let’s go before you combust.”

The walk to your apartment is a blur for Mingyu. His brain is bouncing between, Wow, I can't believe this is happening and What am I supposed to do when we get there? Sit? Stand? Compliment her interior design choices? He's overthinking so hard he barely notices when you nudge him gently and gesture toward the building in front of you.

“This is me,” you say, your voice calm, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips like you know exactly how fried his brain is right now.

“Cool,” Mingyu replies, because apparently that’s the only word left in his vocabulary. Cool. Not “nice place” or “wow, it suits you,” just cool. He could punch himself, but then you’re already unlocking the door, and the reality of the moment hits him like a freight train.

The inside of your apartment is warm. Not literally warm—though the temperature is pleasant—but warm in the way it feels lived-in and completely, unmistakably you. It’s smaller than he imagined, but cozy, like every piece of furniture and every object has been chosen for a reason. There’s a soft throw blanket draped over the arm of your couch, a mug on the coffee table with a faint ring from earlier that day, and a half-finished book on the shelf that he knows he’s seen you reading during breaks.

Mingyu steps inside, toeing off his shoes at the door because it feels like the kind of place where shoes on indoors would be a crime. “Your apartment is really nice,” he says, his voice a little too high-pitched because he’s still desperately trying not to think about why he’s here.

“It suits you,” Mingyu says before he can stop himself, the words slipping out too soft, too sincere. When you glance at him, your cheeks warm, he knows he’s said the right thing.

“Thanks,” you murmur, ducking your head slightly. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab us something to drink.”

You disappear into the kitchen, and Mingyu is left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to spiral. This is fine. Totally normal. Just two people hanging out in a perfectly platonic and definitely not emotionally loaded way. Except it’s not fine, and his brain is racing faster than he can catch up.

He sits down on the couch, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he looks around again. It’s impossible not to take everything in, to let the space tell him little things about you he didn’t know before. Like how there’s a stack of notebooks on the side table, their covers worn like they’ve been flipped through a thousand times. Or how there’s a candle sitting on the shelf labelled something ridiculous like “Cinnamon Forest Dreams,” and now all he can think about is you lighting it during one of your late-night brainstorming sessions.

When you come back, two glasses of water in hand (because you’re practical like that, of course), Mingyu straightens up, his heart pounding in his chest. You sit down beside him, closer than he expected but not close enough to touch, and he’s suddenly very aware of how small the couch feels.

“So,” you say, handing him a glass, your voice light but your eyes betraying a flicker of nervousness. “What do you think?”

“Of the apartment?” Mingyu asks, taking a sip of water because it’s something to do with his hands. “I think it’s great. Like... really great. It’s very... you.”

You raise an eyebrow, amusement tugging at your lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s the compliment,” he replies, his grin a little sheepish. “It’s perfect. Just like—” He cuts himself off, his cheeks flushing as he looks down at his glass. Don’t say it. Don’t overdo it.

But you’re looking at him now, your expression softening. “Just like what?”

Mingyu swallows hard, his brain screaming at him to play it cool. “Just like I imagined,” he finally says, his voice quiet but steady. “Like... a space that feels like you.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s completely ruined everything. But then you smile—really smile—and his chest feels like it might explode.

“Thanks, Mingyu,” you say, your voice soft, almost shy. “That means a lot.”

He smiles back, trying to ignore the way his heart is doing somersaults. This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing to freak out about. But then your knee bumps against his, and suddenly, he’s not so sure.

Mingyu swallows. A cough almost escapes his throat, but he manages to catch it, instead clearing his throat like he's trying to shake off the sudden, very real butterflies in his stomach.

You, on the other hand, seem perfectly at ease, sipping your water, your eyes not quite meeting his, but still playful, still warm. Your knee stays lightly resting against his.

He looks at you, his mind racing, and wonders if maybe this is one of those moments where he should just say it. Say what’s been sitting heavy on his mind, almost screaming to come out ever since that night—the kiss, the awkwardness, the moments of quiet when he almost wished he could reach out and grab the truth like it was some kind of lifeline.

“Y'know," he begins, his voice coming out a little more nervously than he meant, "I’ve spent most of my life messing up in the most spectacular ways possible. I don’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to making things right."

You tilt your head at him, a playful smile on your lips, but your gaze is intense in a way that makes his breath catch. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Mingyu,” you say, your tone teasing, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet, steady assurance that has him clinging to every word.

“No, I’m serious,” he insists, his hand tightening slightly around his glass. “Like, when it comes to this—" He gestures vaguely between the two of you, "I’m completely out of my depth. I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He bites his lip, willing himself not to spill everything at once. “But, I think… I think I really want to try. With you.”

The silence that follows is thick. Mingyu mentally runs through every scenario, and none of them seem to be as perfectly awkward and fragile as this one. He starts to second-guess himself, but before he can say something stupid to cover it all up, you do something that catches him completely off-guard.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his again, but this time, there’s no hesitation in the way you move. Your hand reaches out, fingers gently resting on his forearm, warm and soft. He can feel your pulse, steady and strong, as if somehow in this small gesture, you’re grounding him.

“Mingyu,” you say quietly, and he’s not sure if it’s his name or the way you say it that knocks all the air out of him. “I’m not asking for perfection. I don’t even know what that looks like.”

Mingyu’s breath hitches as he watches you, his heart skipping a beat at the honesty in your eyes. It feels like you're both on the edge of something, teetering between what is and what could be, and yet all Mingyu can think about in this moment is how simple it is to be here with you—how uncomplicated it feels to just let go.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” you continue, your voice soft but clear. “But I want to find out. With you."

It’s then that Mingyu realizes how quiet it’s gotten, how still the air is around the two of you. The world outside your apartment could be spinning at a hundred miles per hour, and in this small space, with your hand on his arm, time feels like it’s standing still.

You’re sitting so close now. The space between you is smaller than the gap in his thoughts. His hand, which had been fidgeting with the glass of water, starts to move on its own. He places it gently on the cushion beside you, just a few inches from your own. His palm is open, but he waits.

And then—he takes a breath.

"Can I?" he asks, voice low, almost a whisper, as though he's afraid you'll pull away, as though he's asking permission for something he should have done a hundred times before.

Your eyes lock with his. They're soft, vulnerable, like you're weighing his words against everything that's happened before. For a moment, the world feels like it’s paused, like there’s no room for doubts or what-ifs. There’s just you and him, and something that’s undeniable between you.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you let your gaze drift to his lips, and then, almost imperceptibly, you lean in.

Mingyu doesn’t wait for a second invitation. His hand slides from the couch to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your cheek as he moves closer. He feels the heat radiating off you, and his breath catches when your lips are just a breath away.

And then, before he can even think, he closes the distance between you, his lips brushing softly against yours.

It’s nothing like the first kiss. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty—just the sensation of everything falling into place. The kiss is slow, tender, almost like he’s savouring it, wanting to memorise the moment because, for once, it feels like everything is exactly how it should be.

Your lips move against his in a quiet, unspoken rhythm, and he feels the tension that had been building between the two of you melt away. He’s no longer nervous, no longer afraid of saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing. He just wants to be here with you—now, in this perfect moment.

When you pull away, it’s not with distance, but with the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips, your eyes full of something that makes Mingyu's chest tighten. Your breath is still coming fast, like you’re just as shaken as he is.

He doesn’t say anything at first. There’s no need. His heart is still racing, but now, he’s not afraid of what comes next. He feels like he’s finally stepped into something real, something that might not be easy but is worth every bit of effort.

"I think..." he starts, his voice a little hushed, "I really wanted to do that again."

You laugh softly, the sound warm and familiar, as you tilt your head just enough for your forehead to rest against his. "Yeah?" you murmur, your fingers gently tracing the outline of his jaw. "Well, I'm glad you did."

Mingyu can't help but smile, his hand, still resting gently on your waist, pulls you just a little closer, as if to remind himself that this is real. That you're really here, and this is really happening. You don’t pull away. Instead, your hand moves from his jaw to his collar, gently tugging at the fabric like it’s an invitation he can’t refuse.

And Mingyu? He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He leans in again, his lips finding yours with more urgency this time. His free hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you deeper into the kiss. It’s like his body’s on autopilot, all his self-control falling away the moment you’re close enough to feel.

You gasp softly against his lips as his hand slides down to your waist, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip, and he feels you shiver. His pulse is racing in his ears, but it's the warmth of your body against his that completely consumes him. He can't stop. Can't pull away. You taste like the promise of something more, and the way your fingers grip his collar tightens the knot in his stomach until it’s a full-on spiral of heat.

Your mouth moves with his now, more desperate, more demanding, and Mingyu’s heart does that weird, annoying thing again—where it leaps in his chest, and all his thoughts vanish like mist under the sun. He kisses you harder, taking a moment to pull away just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting as if you’ve run miles, even though you’ve hardly moved.

“Mingyu...” you whisper, voice breathless, a little unsteady. He feels the sound vibrating through him as much as he hears it.

"Yeah?" he responds, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth despite how utterly wrecked he feels in the best possible way. "You’re not gonna suddenly tell me this is all a huge mistake, right?"

You laugh—a low, playful sound that makes his chest tighten, and then you kiss him again. This time, it's slow, deliberate, like you’re savouring each second, each touch. And Mingyu’s mind short-circuits all over again, as if he's trying to figure out how it's possible for something so simple to make him feel so—so—alive.

Your hands are everywhere now—on his chest, around his neck, tugging him closer until there’s not an inch of space between you. And that’s when he feels it, that surge of want, a physical ache deep in his chest that spreads out to his limbs, making him burn.

He presses you back gently against the armrest of the couch, his lips trailing down to your neck, his breath hitching when you arch into him. The way you melt under his touch is everything he’s ever wanted—more than he even realised he craved. The warmth of your skin, the way your fingers dig into his back, all of it pulls him in, deeper, until he’s lost in the sensation of just being with you.

“Mingyu, we—” you start, but the words cut off when his lips meet the curve of your neck, and the way you shudder against him makes his pulse stutter in his veins. You can’t even finish the sentence, and he’s so close to being past the point of caring.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “We what?” he asks, his voice rough. "I won't let you talk if you're going to tell me you changed your mind."

Your gaze flickers between his lips and his eyes, a playful challenge in your expression. "I’m just saying," you murmur, your hands shifting down to his shirt as you slowly begin to unbutton it. "You're going to have to transfer to a different team after Langham is done."

Mingyu grins, a breathless huff of laughter leaving his lips. "As long as I still get to see you every day."

"I'd say you're probably going to get to see a lot more of me." Your words are said innocently enough, but the implication mixed with the feeling of your heaving chest against his is making his head spin again.

And just like that, you have him, every inch of him. Mingyu can’t keep his hands from wandering, can’t keep his lips from pressing harder against yours, can’t keep from falling deeper into this beautiful mess of passion and want. The last shred of his self-control slips away, leaving only you—right here, right now.

Your clothes go quickly, his quicker, until you're both laid bare before the other, entirely vulnerable and at peace at the same time. He's drowning in you, his head nested between your legs, feeling as eager to please as he did the first day he met you. You're gasping his name, hands curling into his hair, head falling back onto your couch in utter bliss.

And then your fingers are wrapping around his shoulders, digging into the muscles and pulling him back up towards you. He almost falls off the couch he moves so fast, but you don't seem to notice. You're too busy looking positively angelic in front of him, with those large, sparkling eyes staring at him and dirty words pouring out of your mouth.

Mingyu has to hold himself together as you tell him, point blank, to "hurry up, and make love to me."

This isn't Mingyu's first rollercoaster. He's a good-looking guy, and he knows it. He's been with others before, but when you speak to him like that, he feels like he's eighteen again and a girl's just sat on his lap for the first time.

And it feels so good, you feel so good around him. You might not have to worry about transferring teams, because he's not sure he's going to make it. The noises you're making, the warmth of your body, the scraping of your nails against his chest - it's enough to finish him off (or at least allow him to ignore the ungodly sounds pouring out of his own mouth).

He makes sure you've finished as well before pulling out (because he wants to, not because he feels embarrassed that he came first). A blissful look falls over your face and Mingyu has to mentally take a photo of the image to make sure he never forgets it. He's staring at you; he knows it and you know it, and you're giggling a little and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

"Wait here," he whispers, not wanting to break the moment by speaking too loudly. He leans down to peck your lips, before running into your bathroom to dispose of the condom and get some towels and blankets.

The night fades softly into a comfortable quiet as you and Mingyu lay there, nestled on your couch, your bodies half-melted into the cushions, the air between you warm and thick with the lingering feeling of everything now spoken.

Mingyu is still processing it all. This. This feeling of being here, with you. He’s supposed to be good at this—the whole dating thing, at least. But everything about tonight has been different. And, if he’s being honest with himself, much better than he expected. He expected the awkwardness, the second-guessing, the inevitable when do I leave? moment, but none of that happened. Instead, all that’s left is you. And him. And the soft rhythm of your breathing in the stillness of your apartment.

He stares at the ceiling, trying to act casual, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. This is fine, he thinks, despite the tiny voice in the back of his head screaming that nothing this nice is ever fine. But the voice is quieter now. A lot quieter.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you mumble, your voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt, your head resting on his chest. Your fingers play with the hem of his shirt absently, as though you’re trying to figure out the material, the way it fits him, the way it feels beneath your touch.

Mingyu chuckles softly, a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his chest vibrating with the sound. “I guess I’m just... trying to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“Well,” you reply, shifting just enough to lift your head, your eyes soft but amused, “if this is a dream, I’m okay with it. I think I’ll stick around.”

Mingyu's heart skips a beat at the words, but he keeps his voice steady, even if the teasing smile he wears is bordering on ridiculous. “Good, because if this is a dream, I’m not waking up."

As the night deepens and the city lights paint soft patterns on the walls of your apartment, Mingyu finds himself drawn to your window. The skyline stretches before him, a tapestry of glowing spires and shimmering reflections, alive with the energy of the place he loves most. He smiles, realising for the first time how much this view has changed for him. It isn't just buildings and lights anymore - it's connection, collaboration, and the quiet promise of something new. A reminder of what you are going to build together, layer by layer, one light at a time.

Divider credit: @cafekitsune

#seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #svt x reader #seventeen #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen smut #mingyu #kim mingyu #seventeen mingyu #mingyu x reader #kim mingyu x reader #mingyu fic #mingyu smut #kim mingyu smut

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burrowswomen · 3 months ago

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Send us some fic recs!

here r some of my favorite (joe & justin) fics on here!!!

JOE BURROW

daylight ( series ) by @goldfades

sweet on you ( series ) by @goldfades

who else decodes you? ( part 1 & part 2 ) by @goldfades

guilty as sin ( part 1 & part 2 ) by @goldfades

is it casual now? by @joeyfranchise

mine, all mine by @joeyfranchise

delicate ( series ) by @joeyfranchise

tiger girl! reader x lsu! joe burrow ( part 1, 2 , 3 ) by @ladyluvduv

secret of us ( series ) by @honeyncherry

we never tell ( series )by @honeyncherry

you still want this by @honeyncherry

labyrinth ( series ) by @emmyblues

soon you'll get better by @emmyblues

doctor's orders ( series ) by @v6quewrlds

love language by @v6quewrlds

you are in love ( series ) by @starsinthesky5

quarterback by @starsinthesky5

sweetest surprise by @starsinthesky5

so high school by @starsinthesky5

maybe i am jealous by @joeyb1989

imgonnagetyouback by @joeyb1989

slip of the finger by @yelenasbraid

save a horse, ride a quarterback by @yelenasbraid

maintaining professionalism ( series ) by @yelenasbraid

the met by @yelenasbraid

study date by @eternalsunrise

when in france by @eternalsunrise

friend zone? end zone by @thoughtfulfiction

operation : den prep by @thoughtfulfiction

JUSTIN HERBERT

conversation hearts ( series ) by @joeyfranchise

baby blues ( series )by @emmyblues

sunlight ( 1 & 2 ) by @emmyblues

labyrinth ( series ) by @emmyblues

merry christmas, please don't call by @emmyblues

text me by @v6quewrlds

NSFW A-Z by @v6quewrlds

sunday morning by @v6quewrlds

juno by @herbertswomen

i'll be watching you by @herbertswomen

surprise! by @herbertswomen

social media qb by @thoughtfulfiction

last updated: 4/8/25

#noor's fic rec #joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #justin herbert #justin herbert x reader #justin herbert fanfic

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thedensworld · 3 months ago

Text

Play Pretend | c.hs

Pairing: dad Vernon! X reader

Genre: Dad au!

Type: fluff

Words Count: 1.8k

Summary: The daughter's play pretend is getting too real and stressing her. As her dad, who plays with her—he's stressing too.

Choi Anne, Vernon’s daughter, had inherited something that he immediately recognized as coming from you—the way she loved to talk to herself or have conversations with her toys. It was a sign of her boundless imagination, something Vernon had noticed from the moment you’d started asking those playful what if questions.

Anne loved her own company. Vernon often found himself on the couch, remote in hand, watching her with the dopiest smile on his face. Every time Anne asked Mr. Monkey if the tea was to his liking or if Sister Unicorn was having a hard time with her bowel movement, he couldn’t help but laugh. It was definitely something she picked up from you, your daily habit of turning simple moments into little adventures with your words.

"How’s the breakfast, baby? Is it to your liking?" Anne asked seriously, as if it were the most important question of the day.

Vernon chuckled quietly to himself, feeling a rush of warmth.

"Oh no, my baby’s having a hard time pooping... We’ll eat more fruit later, okay?"Anne continued, as though solving a great crisis, her face a mix of concern and concentration.

It was clear where she got it from—those moments when you, too, would talk out loud, running through all the little things that kept your world turning.

And then, Anne took it to a new level. Sitting on the carpet, just a meter away from where Vernon was sitting—remote still in hand, TV playing his favorite show—he found himself more entertained by the scene unfolding before him than the program on screen. Mr. Monkey, apparently, had eaten too much sugar and was now having a heart attack.

"Oh no, Mr. Monkey... Hang in there, we’re calling an ambulance!" Anne exclaimed, her voice filled with dramatic urgency.

Vernon nodded in acknowledgment, trying not to laugh out loud as he watched her grab her "phone"—a block phone she’d fashioned herself—and pretend to dial emergency services.

“We have a patient here, Mr. Monkey, he’s having a heart attack!” Anne declared with all the seriousness of a seasoned professional.

Vernon chuckled, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Address first, baby," he said, glancing over at Anne.

His daughter tilted her head in confusion, her brow furrowing as she processed his request. "Address?" she repeated, as if trying to decode a new puzzle. After a brief pause, she confidently declared, "Mmm... Address is... at home?"

Vernon couldn’t help but laugh, nodding approvingly. "Yes! You’re right. We’re heading there now, Ms. Choi," he added, his tone suddenly taking on the role of an emergency dispatcher.

A thought crossed his mind, and Vernon got up to head toward Anne’s bedroom. He returned moments later, holding the a car toy ambulance Seungkwan had gifted Anne for her third birthday the previous year.

"Be careful, daddy," Anne warned, her voice filled with concern as she eyed the toy. "One of the wheels is off."

Vernon glanced down at the ambulance and found that she was right—only three wheels remained. "Hmm, there were only three. Where’s the other one, Anne?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Anne simply shrugged, holding Mr. Monkey close to her chest. "I don’t know... It’s been like that for a long time, daddy."

A lightbulb of an idea flickered to life in Vernon’s head. He glanced down at the toy ambulance, then back at his daughter, who was still cradling Mr. Monkey as if he were a real patient.

“I don’t know if we can bring Mr. Monkey to the hospital with an ambulance like this, baby,” he mused, tapping the toy with a thoughtful expression.

Anne’s eyes darted to the ambulance, then back to Mr. Monkey, a clear conflict playing out in her little face. She tightened her hold on the stuffed toy, rocking him gently. “What should we do?” she mumbled, though it was more to herself than to her father.

Then, as if struck by inspiration, she gasped. "I’ll find it!"

Her head shot up with determination, her tiny fingers clenching into fists like she was about to embark on a great adventure. Carefully, she laid Mr. Monkey down on the carpet, as if ensuring his comfort, then bolted toward her room in search of the missing wheel.

Vernon blinked, not having expected this turn of events. He inhaled sharply, about to call her name, but before he could get a word out, her bedroom door slammed shut with an emphatic bang.

He exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple. “That’s... not what I expected,” he muttered under his breath.

This play pretend was starting to feel a little too real.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Vernon was starting to worry that his daughter might be building an entirely new house in her bedroom at this rate. She had been in there far too long, completely immersed in her search for the missing ambulance wheel.

Curious—and slightly concerned—he walked over and peeked inside, only to find Anne surrounded by a small mountain of dolls and stuffed animals, each one pulled from its usual place as if the wheel might have been hiding among them all along.

"Baby... Anne," Vernon called gently, stepping closer. "We can keep playing even without that one wheel, you know."

Anne spun around to face him, her little face scrunched in frustration, her hair now a wild mess from constantly brushing it away in her frantic search.

"But what if something bad happens on the way to the hospital?" she argued, clutching the hem of her dress tighter. "What if—what if something bad happens to Mr. Monkey?"

Vernon let out a slow breath, offering his daughter a reassuring smile. "Trust me, baby, nothing bad is going to happen," he said, his voice soft and steady.

Though, in his head, all he really wanted to say was, Because this is just play pretend, so maybe don’t take it this seriously?

But Anne wasn’t having it.

"No, let me find it first, Daddy. I promise I’ll find it."

Seeing her so determined, Vernon sighed and leaned against the doorframe, watching as his daughter stressed over something so small. And somehow, watching her stress out… was starting to stress him out too.

"You find it yet, baby?" he asked after a few moments.

"Not yet," she huffed, still rummaging through her toys.

Minutes passed.

"Found it?"

"Nope."

Vernon sighed again, rubbing his face. Just as Vernon was about to ask again, the sound of the front door opening caught his attention. You were home.

He glanced at Anne, who was still deep in her search mission, completely unaware of anything else. Letting out a small sigh, he pushed himself up from the doorframe and walked out of the room to greet you.

As you set your bag down, you looked up to see Vernon approaching—alone.

Your brow furrowed. "Where’s Anne?"

Vernon exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. "She’s been in her room for the past ten minutes looking for a missing wheel on her toy ambulance. She refuses to come out until she finds it."

You blinked. "…What?"

Vernon ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Mr. Monkey had a heart attack, and apparently, the ambulance isn’t safe to use unless it has all four wheels. So now, instead of actually playing, she’s turned it into a full-scale search and rescue operation."

You tried to hold back a laugh, but the sheer seriousness on his face made it impossible. "She really is your daughter," you teased, slipping off your shoes.

Vernon groaned, rubbing his face. "I know. And she’s stressing herself out so much that it’s stressing me out."

You smirked, shaking your head as you walked past Vernon toward the living room. "You know... I think I might know where that missing wheel is."

Vernon narrowed his eyes, following you as you crouched in front of the TV cabinet. "Wait—what?"

Without a word, you reached out, opened one of the cabinet doors, and rummaged through the random collection of small toys, puzzle pieces, and forgotten treasures Anne had stashed away over time. And there it was—a tiny, slightly dusty plastic wheel, sitting right next to a crayon and a stray hair tie.

Holding it up between your fingers, you turned to Vernon with an amused expression. "You really don’t know your daughter’s habits, do you?"

Vernon stared at the wheel, then at you, then back at the wheel again. He exhaled, half relieved, half exasperated. "I knew I should’ve checked there first," he muttered.

You chuckled, tossing the wheel to him. "Go on, hero. Go save Mr. Monkey."

Vernon caught it effortlessly, shaking his head with a tired smile. "I swear, this girl gets her dramatics from you."

"Uh-huh, keep telling yourself that," you said, grinning as you followed him back to Anne’s room.

Just as Anne was about to attach the wheel to her little ambulance, she suddenly froze. Her tiny hands turned the piece over, inspecting it closely.

Anne sighed dramatically, holding up the wheel with a disappointed look. "Oh no..."

You and Vernon exchanged glances before he crouched down beside her. "What is it?"

"It’s broken, Daddy," Anne groaned, showing him the crack in the plastic. "That’s why I put it away! It wouldn’t stay on."

You sighed, shaking your head with a smile. "So after all that searching, we still can’t fix the ambulance?"

Anne nodded, frowning. "Now how will we take Mr. Monkey to the hospital?"

Vernon rubbed his temples, looking amused but exhausted. "Anne, baby, you could’ve told me this before turning your whole room upside down."

Anne gave him a sheepish look. "But I really forgot."

She suddenly clapped her hands together, eyes lighting up with a new idea. "Wait! I think it’s okay to drive Mr. Monkey to the hospital with three wheels!" she declared confidently.

Anne placed her hands on her hips, looking very serious. "Well... sometimes cars have accidents and they lose a wheel, but they still keep moving, right?"

You bit back a laugh as Vernon sighed out his stress.

"We just have to drive really slowly! Like this!" She crouched down and started pushing the ambulance across the floor at an exaggerated snail’s pace. "Vrooooom... but slooooowly... vroooom..."

You couldn't hold back your laughter this time. "That’s very responsible of you, baby. Slow and safe!"

Vernon watched her with an amused smirk. "I guess Mr. Monkey’s life is in good hands, then."

Anne nodded seriously. "Of course! I’ll be the best ambulance driver ever." She carefully placed Mr. Monkey inside, patting his head. "Hang in there, buddy, we're going to the hospital... but very carefully."

Vernon leaned toward you, lowering his voice. "So we went through all that stress for nothing?"

You shrugged, grinning. "At least she figured it out on her own."

Vernon sighed, watching his daughter inch the ambulance along at a painfully slow speed. "I should’ve known. She’s definitely your daughter."

#seventeen fanfic #seventeen imagines #seventeen angst #densworld🌼#seventeen scenarios #seventeen series #seventeen drabbles #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen imagine #seventeen oneshot #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #svt dad!au #densworld dad au!#vernon fanfic #vernon oneshot #vernon fluff #vernon imagines

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enwoso · 6 months ago

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heyyyy i absolutely love the grumpy universe and i was wondering if your comfortable with writing it, could we get a fic of lovie meeting her dad or him reaching out to alessia to meet her?

a bridge to cross | alessia russo x child!reader

wow this is a long one, so i hope when reading this your comfy! i did decide to put the flashback in here and if any other questions arise from please ask away. also lovie’s not really in this one till later on, its more focused on alessia for once rather than lovie — but don’t worry she’s in it a little later on.

all that’s left from me is to say enjoy!

grumpy masterlist

a late afternoon sun spilled through the windows of alessia's kitchen, painting the room in a soft glow. the hum of life surrounding her as she answered a few work emails she hadn't had a chance to reply to yet while nursing a cup of now warm coffee.

you, sat across the living room floor, in alessia's eyeline from the open plan area as you hummed off-key with crayons sprawled across the floor. the floor being a chaotic masterpiece of mismatched papers, open markers and alessia's worst enemy at the moment, glitter glue.

alessia had been trying to focus on the emails from her agency on upcoming media appearances and events but her gaze kept drifting to her phone which sat beside her coffee mug like a ticking time bomb.

the message had arrived out of nowhere, a text message from harrison reed, her ex boyfriend from college who also happened to be your biological father.

alessia didn't even have the slightest idea on how he could of managed to get her phone number, it being reserved for only those closest to her. it had been years since she'd even though about hearing from him and yet, there it was. five words long.

(maybe harrison) | ‘i want to meet her.’

the words sat heavy in her chest, replaying over and over in her mind. she'd read the message half a dozen times already, trying to decode its intent. trying to figure out if it was genuine or another empty promise she'd have to shield her daughter from.

across the room, you were a picture of joy. your own little personality as you chatted away to yourself. you were drawing again, as always, your tiny hands gripping a purple crayon.

alessia smiling to herself faintly as she watched you press on the paper a little too hard as your tongue stuck out in concentration.

"mummy, look!" you chirped up as you sat up onto your knees holding up your creation, a stick figure with wild hair standing beside a lopsided house. "it's you and me!"

alessia chuckled softly, setting her coffee down to admire the drawing, "it's beautiful lovie, your getting to be quite the artist!”

you beamed as your face lit up, "i'm going to draw esme next" you announced grabbing the elephant teddy with such enthusiasm.

alessia leaned back on the seat she was sat at, her heart tightening. you were everything to her. she'd fought so hard to you a life filled with love and to shield you from the shadows of the past.

and now, he wanted to come back. and alessia was sure if she could trust him, especially not after how he reacted when she told him.

five years ago.

alessia was sat on the edge of the bathtub in her cramped dorm bathroom, the stick trembling in her hand. she had re-read the result at least ten times. her chest tightening with every glance at the small plus sign.

pregnant.

pressing a hand to her mouth, willing herself not to cry. but her thoughts raced: she was nearly four thousand miles away from home, her scholarship, her dreams of playing professionally.

everything she had spent years working for felt like it was slipping through her fingers.

the sound of her phone buzzing on the counter was what jolted her out of her spiralling thoughts. it was him, harrison. staring a the screen as her stomach twisted in knots.

she hadn't even told him she'd been late this month. he didn't know she'd been panicking all week, buying test after test after practice and waiting for her dorm to be empty before she even dared to use it.

taking a deep breath, she pressed the green button, answering him. "hey less," harrison said his voice easy and light, "what's up?"

her throat felt dry, but she forced the words out, "can you come over? i need to talk to you"

"sure, is everything okay?"

"just..come over- please harrison"

alessia had met harrison through a party in her first year at the unc campus, he a bit like her had a athlete scholarship but his was for football not soccer.

the two had been off and on for a few months before they became official at the end of her freshman year.

the two were a good couple, harrison looked out for alessia and she thought she loved him but maybe that was just because he was her first love — he definitely wasn't the one for her.

when harrison showed up fifteen minutes later, his hoodie pulled up against the chilly evening air, a plastic bag no doubt filled with snacks he'd grabbed from the local store.

alessia sat in the edge of her bed, her hands wriggling nervously in her lap. harrison leaned against the doorframe, his expression puzzled by the shear look on his girlfriends face.

"alright, what's going on? you look like you've seen a ghost" his american accent cutting through the room like a knife. alessia looking up at him as she tried to think of the best way to say it.

biting her lip as her heart pounded in her chest. she didn't know how to start so she just held up the pregnancy test, her hands trembling.

harrison froze, his easy and chilled demeanour evaporating, "is that...?"

she nodded, "i'm pregnant" she said it barely coming out above a whisper.

he scoffed, as he stared at her his face totally unreadable. before he laughed a short, disbelieving sound. "your joking right, like this is one of those weird youtube pranks?" he asked spinning his head around to look around for a camera.

"it's not a joke harrison."

his expression immediately changed, "you can't be serious less, we're still in college. we aren't ready for this-"

"do you not think i don't already realise that!" she snapped, her voice breaking, "do you think i haven't thought about how this is going to change everything?"

harrison let out a loud sigh as he paced the small room, "so.. what are you going to do?" he asked as alessia glanced at him with a blank expression, "you're not actually planning on keeping it, are you?"

alessia's stomach churned at his words, "it's not 'it" harrison. it's a baby, our baby."

he stopped, his face paling, "less you've got a scholarship, you've got a great future ahead of you, you can't throw it away for this?"

her voice wavered, but she stood her ground. "i haven't decided yet, but if i keep the baby, it's not 'throwing my future away'"

harrison shook his head, his tone a lot colder now, "you're not thinking straight. just figure it out.. alright and let me know what you decide."

and without another beat or word, harrison left. leaving alessia alone in the suffocating silence.

—

it had been two weeks since alessia had found out she was pregnant and the decision of what to do had been weighing on her both mentally and physically.

she'd hardly slept, her thoughts consumer by the enormity of what was ahead. but after breaking silence with her family and them offering her their undying support.

with many sleepless nights on the phone to her mum, she knew what she wanted. for both her and her baby.

she was going to keep the baby.

the clarity didn't make facing harrison any easier. she had spent the morning rehearsing in her head what to say, trying to figure out what his reaction would be.

arriving at his dorm, it not being too far of a walk from hers. hesitantly she lifted her hand hovering over the door before finally knocking.

harrison answered quickly, his expression guarded, "hey, you alright?" he asked pulling the blonde into a side hug as he kissed the top of her head.

"can..we talk?" alessia asked, stepping to the side to sit on the couch before he could respond. not wanting to give herself the chance to back out.

he closed the door behind her, crossing his arms as he leant against the wall, he knew exactly what the conversation was about to be had. "so have you figured it out?"

alessia frowned at the casual tone in his voice as if this wasn't a serious conversation but she forced herself to stay calm knowing an argument right now would not be the best thing, "yeah i have. i'm keeping the baby."

harrison's eyes widened briefly clearly not the answer he was hoping or expecting as his brow furrowed deeper. "less, come on. think for a moment. your only twenty, we're still in college. your finally getting noticed by the senior teams, and football is going well for me. you can't seriously think this is a good idea-"

her jaw tightened, "it's my decision, harrison. i've thought about it and this is what i want. i'm keeping my baby"

he scoffed, running a hand through his hair, "are you hearing yourself right now. how are you supposed to raise a kid at your age, it's insane less"

"i'll figure it out" alessia snapped her voice firm despite the lump in her throat. "i have my family. i don't need you to like it, harrison. but i just need you to know this is happening"

he stared at her for a long moment, his expression hardening as he let out a loud sigh, "look i'm not ready for this" he said his voice cold and clipped. "i can't be a dad, less. not yet anyway"

alessia felt something in her chest pang, the hurt cutting a littler deeper than she expected. but beneath the pain a fierce determination began to take roots she straightened her back meeting his gaze head on.

"ok" she said shrugging, her voice steady, "if you don't want to be involved, you won't be. but know this, my baby deserves better than someone who walks away when things get hard."

harrison opened his mouth as if to argue, but alessia shook her head stopping him. not wanting her hear anything else from the boy.

"i don't want anything from you, harrison. not your money, not your time, nothing. from now we're done. me and my baby won't have anything to do with you."

her words hung in the air like a challenge and for a moment alessia thought he may change his mind, say something and protest her stern words.

but he didn't, he just sighed shoving his hands into his pockets, "if that's what you want"

alessia's heart ached at his indifference, the memories built flooding into her mind but she refused to let him see her cry. without another word she turned and walked out of his dorm door.

walking along the dimly lit door corridor, the cool air hitting her face as she let out a shaky breath. a wave of reality hitting her like a brick as tears pricked at her eyes but she quickly wiped them away angrily.

"i promise we'll be better without him" she whispered to herself, placing a protective hand over her stomach.

in that moment, alessia made a silent promise to herself and her unborn baby: she would give them a life filled with love and supports. they mightn't have their father to turn to but they would never feel unloved.

and alessia would make sure of it.

that evening, alessia was sat in the familiar comfort of her parents' living room. her hands curled around a mug of tea. the walls were adorned with family photos — memories of holidays, birthdays and days out which were always loud and full of love.

it had always been her safe haven, but tonight, it felt anything but safe.

you had spent the evening in the kitchen with your nonna, helping to make dinner which had been a favourite of yours. making faces on everyone's pizzas with the toppings.

you were now in dream land having difted to sleep in your mummy's arms as you watched the tv.

alessia's parents, mario and carol as well as her older brothers gathered around her each wearing a different expression after hearing the news of who was back.

mario sat forward in his chair, elbows on him knees as his brow furrowed in deep though. carol was perched on the couch beside alessia as she gave a comforting hand on her knee in quiet support.

while her brothers, giorgio and luca across the room sat side by side with their arms crossed and a protective energy glowing from them almost tangible.

alessia's dad broke the silence first, his voice steady but soft. "so to get it straight, after four years, harrison out the blue wants to meet tiny?"

alessia nodded, her hands tightening around her mug. "that's what he says, somehow he got my number and messaged me yesterday"

"but he hasn't been around at all" luca's voice was sharp cutting through the air like a blade, "so why are we even having this conversation. his actions speak louder than his words"

alessia hummed, she knew exactly what her brother was saying, heck she felt the same way. but for some reason the decision felt like such a difficult one.

her mum, carol sighed, giving alessia's hand a reassuring squeeze, "darling, i know this is complicated but.. maybe he's realised he made a mistake. people do change you know"

mario nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful, "exactly what your mum says, it sounds like he's trying to take responsibility. and as much as you maybe wish it wasn't true but harrison is her father and she deserves the chance to know that"

alessia bit her lip, torn between her parents clam logic and her brothers silent fury. she couldn't deny that part of her wanted to believe harrison had changed that he could finally be the father figure you deserved but despite her parents words, alessia knew harrison better than them.

and she didn't know if she was exactly ready to gamble with your heart.

"you really think he deserves a chance, dad?" alessia asked still hesitant.

mario nodded slowly, "i do, i'm not saying forgive him overnight but you could always meet with him, if he's in london and talk to him. see if he's serious. if he's willing to show up for her now — that has to count for something."

a loud scoff could be then heard from luca, his arms tightening across his chest. "count for what? a pat on the back for finally doing what he should've been doing for the past four years-"

carol gave her eldest son a sharp look, "luca. don't make this harder than it already is for your sister."

but luca was unmoved in his opinion, "but mum, he walked away when less needed him most! and now he thinks he can just waltz back in like nothings happened!"

gio, who had been quieter of the two brothers, decided to add his opinion. his voice firm, "and what happens if he decides it's too hard for him and disappears again? think about what that'll do to lovie. she's too young to understand why her dad didn't stick around the first time."

alessia's throat tightened, like she was going to either be sick or pass out or maybe both. she'd had the same thoughts running through her mind all day.

"boys" mario said sharply cutting through the clear tension which was building. his tone carrying the weight of authority. "this isn't about us, it's about what's best for y/n and if harrison is serious don't you think she deserves to know him?"

luca scoffed, "only if he's serious," luca snapped sharply, "and that's a big if."

carol turned back to alessia, her expression softer now, "what do you think darling? do you believe he's changed?"

alessia let out a shaky breath, setting her mug down on the coffee table careful not to wake you as you slept peacefully in her arms. "i don't know mum, part of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt but i can't risk lovie getting hurt. she's happy and she doesn't even know what's she missing."

"which is exactly why you should be careful," gio firmly said, her voice protective not only of his sister but also of his niece. "she doesn't know him. if you let him in and he screws up — she's the one whose going to get hurt and confused, not him."

the room fell into a tense silence, alessia's parents and brothers were split down the middle — her dad and mum urging caution but also the fact everyone deserves a second chance while her brothers were both adamant that harrison definitely wasn't even worthy of considering the opportunity.

finally mario broke the stalemate, "less, we can sit here and go back and forth but at the end of the day it's your decision. tiny is your daughter and whatever you choose, we'll support you.

alessia nodded slowly, her eyes stinging with she'd tears. she appreciated their support but it didn't make the decision any easier.

glancing down at your sleeping figure in her arms as you clutched the side of her hoodie in your hands, soft breaths coming from your lips. her heart aching as she thought about your bright, innocent and trusting smile.

whatever she decided, it had to be for your sake.

—

it was a few days since she'd been at her parents, going over her options and she was still no further forward on what to do so as she sat lying on her bed it was late and the house was quiet, you tucking up peacefully in bed and the world was quiet, but alessia's mind was anything but.

so as she lay on facetime to someone she hoped would be able to give her an honest and brutal opinion and not sugar coat it.

"so after four years he's just reached out, that's mad less" ella's thick accent came through the speaker as her brows furrowed as she adjusted the angle of her phone

alessia sighed running a hand through her freshly washed hair, "tell me about it. it's like where has he suddenly gotten the change of heart come from. i don't know if i can trust him, el"

ella's face softened, her usual playful smirk replaced with genuine concern, she'd seen the fallout after what happened. the state the blonde had been in when she came home from the states six months pregnant.

she was the only one who really knew the whole story. whether that was from late night chats or drunken confessions after one too many on a team night out.

"i mean i don't blame you, after all you've brought her up on your own. you've played both parents and he's just been.. well not here"

"exactly," alessia said her voice tight, "and now he want to meet her" alessia huffed expressing the same concerns about letting harrison back into your life like she did with her parents.

ella shifted, propping herself up on her elbows, "it normal that your feeling worried, but.. what if he's serious this time? people can change less. don't you think tiny deserves the chance to know her dad, even if it's just to see for herself what he's like?"

alessia frowned leaning back against the headboard of her bed. "but that's the thing, she's doesn't even know he exists. she's happy el and i've worked so hard to keep my promise to her and give her a good life"

"i know you have less," ella said softly, "but.. what if one day after school she asks about him. what are you going to tell her? that you wouldn't give him the chance"

alessia groaned quietly, covering her face with her hands. part of her wishing he had never even sent the message and then she wouldn't be in such a split state of mind. "i don't know! that's why i'm calling you. i don't know what to do."

ella was quiet for a moment, her expression deep in thought. "look i get your scared, heck i don't know sometimes how you manage everything you do. but i also know how much you love that little girl. you always put her first and this is no different."

ella paused as alessia nodded, hearing her best friend loud and clear, "maybe the answer isn't about trusting him— it's about trusting yourself. you'll know if it's the right thing to do."

alessia let out a small laugh, as she looked at the camera, "you make it sound so simple"

ella laughed lightly, "it's not simple, far from it. it's messy as hell. but your so strong, less. you've handled everything else life thrown at you and you'll handle this too. just.. don't rush it. start small and let him prove himself."

alessia let out a slow breath, the tension in her shoulders easing a little, "you really think i should give him a chance?"

ella's eyes softened as she let out a sigh, "i think you should do what feels right for tiny. but yeah maybe, give him a shot. if he messes up you'll know and you'll handle it. your her mum and there's no better at protecting her than you"

for the first time in a couple days a small smile tugged at alessia's lips, "thanks el, i don't know what i'd do without you."

ella grinned, her usual cheeky grin as her playful energy returned, "you'd probably just sit overthinking everything. good thing i'm always here to knock some sense into you"

alessia laughed, shaking her head, "your an idiot"

"and yet you still love me for it!" ella winked before stifling a yawn. "right go and get some sleep. you've got enough in your plate without being a total zombie tomorrow."

"and less," ella paused grabbing the blondes attention as she shuffled around her bed, "i'm proud of you" ella smiled softly as the two shared an understanding nod, knowing exactly what the other was saying without having to say a word.

"goodnight, el" alessia smiled her voice softer

"night, less. you've got this! oh, and give my favourite little russo a kiss from her auntie ella, i miss her” ella added with a pout as a small giggled came from alessia as she nodded telling her best friend she would do just that.

as the screen went dark, alessia leaned back against her pillows, staring up at the ceiling as ella's words replayed in her mind. for the first time since harrison's message, she felt the faintest flicker of clarity.

—

the cafe was small and tucked into a quiet corner of london, the last thing alessia wanted was for this to be in every media outlet going. so she chose a discreet location somewhere she wouldn't usually go.

the bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside, clutching her coat tightly around her. her eyes scanning the room until she saw him: harrison reed.

sat at a table by the window, his hands wrapped around what looked to be some sort of health smoothie filled with all the healthy greens.

his hair a little shorter than she remembered, not the messy moon of curls it was back in college as well as the light subtle on his jaw. a black shirt covering him as his arms where on show a lot more tattoos coving his arms than the blonde could recall from back in college.

he looked nervous — his knee bouncing under the table, his fingers tapping against the plastic cup. when he saw her, he stood quickly unsure what to do or how to greet the blonde so he stuck his hands into his pockets.

"alessia" he said his voice tentative.

alessia just gave him a curt nod as she forced herself to take a steadying breath. she walked towards him, her heart pouring in her chest.

as she reached the table, sliding into the seat across from him without a word, her posture rigid and far from relaxed.

harrison sat down slowly, his movements careful as if he was afraid of scaring her off. for a moment neither of them spoke. alessia kept her arms crossed tightly, her gaze fixed on him like a shield.

"do you want a dri-" harrison began but was quickly shut off by the blonde shaking her head, "-no, i'm not staying long. i have to pick lovie up at three"

the blonde glanced down at the time on her phone, thirty minutes. that it all she had to do was listen to him for thirty minutes. she could do that.

harrison just nodded, "well thanks for uh, meeting me" harrison finally said, stuttering over his words.

alessia's lips pressed into a thin line. "you said it was important."

he nodded, his eyes flickering to the smoothie in front of him before returning to her. "it is. i've.. i've been thinking about this for a while. reaching out, i mean. i know it's been too long. way too long"

her jaw tightened, "four years harrison. you haven't said anything in four years. you didn't even say anything after i went out my way to send you a message the day she was born"

he flinched slightly at the sharpness in her tone, guilt washing over his face. "i-i know i didn't and i hate myself for it alessia. i wasn't ready back then. i was..scared, stupid and i thought walking away was the right thing to do because i didn't think i could handle it."

alessia let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "the right thing? you left me to do it all alone, i was terrified too but i didn't get the luxury of running away"

alessia paused for a moment her voice a little shaky as she took a deep breath, "i had to figure it out alone — for her"

harrison's face fell as his hands tightened around the plastic cup, "i've let you down, both of you. and i know i'll never be able to make up for that. but i've changed alessia. i'm not the same selfish idiot i was back then"

she arched an eyebrow, skepticism radiating from her as she let out a scoff, "and now you try think you can just walk into her life and everything will be sunshine and rainbows? do you even understand what you're asking?"

harrison hesitated as his gaze dropped to the table, alessia continuing voicing her frustration, "and what happens when you go back to america"

harrison's head picked back up as he shook it, "i- i live here now. i have for the past year and a bit... football didn't work out for me not like the.. the way it did for you. i erm work for marketing firm now, the hours are long but it works" he shrugged and alessia nodded talking in the new information.

it didn't change a lot but it definitely changed something. harrison wasn't going to go away after a few months, especially now, not since he lived here too. alessia couldn't just forget him like she did before when he lived across the world.

"and i can't sit here and pretend to understand what it's been like for you. but i know i want to try. i want to be there for y/n even if it's just a small part. she deserves to know her dad"

the mention of your name coming from his lips made alessia's heart ache. your bright smile flashing in her mind, your endless curiosity and infectious laughter.

"she doesn't even know you exist" alessia said quietly, her voice cracking slightly, you had never really asked but alessia knew with each month that passed it was only a matter of time till you did. "she's happy and i've worked so hard to give her a life full of love and stability. i won't let you ruin that.

harrison's eyes filled with remorse, "i’m not here to ruin anything. i just want a chance. if i could erase the past i would in a heartbeat. but i know i can show up now. so please alessia, let me try and prove myself to you."

she studied for a long moment, searching his face for any hint of insincerity. there was a desperation in his eye but also something else — determination maybe even hope.

"this isn't about you." she said finally, her voice steady. "this is about it her and if you're not serious, if you mess this up. i'll never forgive you.

harrison nodded quickly, his expression earnest. "i understand and i swear i'm serious. i'll do whatever it takes to prove it to you."

alessia leaned back in her chair as her arms still crossed tightly. she wasn't ready to trust him, not yet, but she couldn't ignore the tiny voice in her head whispering 'what if he has changed?' 'what if this is his change to be the dad you deserve'

after a long pause, she sighed, "i need time to think about this and i'm not making any promises harrison."

"of course," he said quickly, a flash of shock going over his features at the blondes response, "take all the time you need, i'll wait."

she stood, reaching for her coat "this isn't just about meeting her. if i let you in, you have to stay. no backing out when things get hard. no disappearing acts and if you can't promise that then we might as well not even bother"

harrison rose to his feet, his posture uncertain but hopeful, "i promise alessia. i have a life here, i live here and have a steady job i promise i'm not going anywhere."

she didn't respond, simply pulling her coat tighter around herself as she nodded mumbling a quick "i'll be in touch" as she headed towards the door.

as she stepped outside and closer to her car in the cold air, she felt a swirl of emotions: anger, fear and deep down a faintest flicker of hope.

—

a few weeks had passed since alessia had met harrison in that cafe. after a few days of going back and forth with the idea and a few more conversations with her mum and ella.

she decided to give him the chance to know his daughter. giving harrison a call, him answering pretty much straight away his voice filled with hope as alessia asked when he would next be free along with another warning of the risk she was taking.

which lead to this warm sunday, and for once where alessia didn't have a match. the team having played on the friday night. as alessia and you walked through your local park which was only a short walk from your house.

the playground at the park was alive with laughter and the squeals of children running around in every direction.

alessia stopped for a moment as she leaned down to tie your shoelace again for you, standing back up as she gripped the straps of her bag tightly.

feeling her stomach churn as she glanced towards a bench in the distance, where harrison was sitting. his posture stiff as he sat with his hands clasped together.

beside her, you tugged at her hand excitedly. the eyes of your hair slightly curled bouncing up and down as you pointed towards the swings.

"mummy! can we go on the swings first?" you asked, your voice brimming with nothing but energy.

alessia forced a smile as she leant down to your level, "in a bit we can lovie, but first there's someone i would like you to meet"

your head tilted the side, curiosity filling your features as you wondered who it could be, "who?"

alessia swallowed hard, her throat dry, "he's... someone who would like to get to know you. his name is harrison"

before you could ask any more questions, alessia straightening up as her gaze met harrison's. he was already looking over, waving alessia over as she could sense his nervous energy practically radiating from him.

alessia taking your hand and starting to walk towards him, her heart pounding with every step.

as they approached, harrison offered a small and tentative smile. "hi y/n" he said softly, his voice careful and gentle not wanting to overwhelm you.

you looked at him, your big blue eyes wife with curiosity as you clutched your mummy's hand a little tighter. your usual boldness momentarily replaced with shyness. "hi," you said after a pause, you voice quiet and timid.

alessia crouched down before you, her hand staying tightly in yours, "lovie, this is harrison" she said her voice calm but steady. "and he's.. your dad"

your brow furrowed slightly, her head tilting as you processed your mummy's words, "my dad?" you repeated, your gaze flicking between your mummy and harrison.

"yes" alessia said softly, "he's been away for a little while, but he wants to get to know you"

harrison leaned forward, putting himself a little closer to you. he looked hesitant unsure if he should speak but when you didn't back away, he took a deep breath.

"it's nice to finally meet you, y/n." he said his voice warm and welcoming, "your mummy has told me so many wonderful things about you."

you stared at him for a moment, your little button nose scrunching up as you studied his face. finally you asked, "but why weren't you here before?"

the question hit like a punch to the gut and alessia felt her breath get caught in her throat as she looked at harrison waiting to see how he would respond.

harrison's face softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. "that's a good question" he said gently. "the truth is, i made a mistake. a pretty big one and i wasn't there when i should've been and i'm really really sorry for that"

you blinked, your expression still curious but no longer as guarded as you were, "so.. but your not going away now?"

harrison's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, "no kiddo, i’m not going anywhere. and if you'll let me i would really like to spend time with you and get to know you"

alessia felt her chest tighten at the raw emotion in his voice. she looked down at you whose gaze was fixed on harrison and after a long moment you nodded slowly.

"okay" you said simply.

harrison's face lighting up with relief, his smile genuine and warm, "okay" he echoed softly.

you turned back to look at your mummy, your usual energy returning. "can i show him the swings, mummy? i'm really good at swinging high!"

alessia hesitated for a moment, her protective instincts warring slightly with the tentative hope stirring in her chest. finally she nodded, "of course lovie. go on"

you grabbed harrison's hand without hesitation, pulling him towards the swings with the same confidence you had with everyone you trusted.

alessia watching as harrison followed you, his movements careful but not awkward. he listened to you chattering about your favourite colours and how you someday when you get older would like a puppy like your auntie beth and steph.

by the time you reached the swings, you had clearly decided that harrison was worth your attention. you climbed onto the swing and your legs were kicking in anticipation.

"push me! but not too high!" you instructed your voice filled with authority.

harrison chuckled, a sound alessia hadn't heard in years. it bringing back memories of the two of them when they were sit and laugh in their dorms about things that probably weren't even funny.

"you got it kiddo!"

as harrison gently pushed on the swing, your laughter filled the air, bright and unrestrained. alessia stood by the bench watching them with a strange mix of emotions swirling inside her.

for the first time, she allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—this could work.

—

the sun had dipped lower in the sky as they walked home, the soft golden light casting long shadows on the pavement of the three.

you skipping happily ahead, holding your mummy's hand with one of her own while the other clutched the small daisy harrison had plucked for her from the park.

you hadn't stopped talking since they left, your excitement bubbling over as you recounted every little thing about your day.

harrison walked in the other side of alessia, his hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, clearly not well adjusted to the cool breeze that london brings once the sun had lowered.

his steps were measured as his gaze drifted towards you every so often as if he couldn't quite believe you were real and part his blood.

when they reached the driveway of your home, you running straight to the door as your mummy came up behind unlocking it for you to rush inside the warmth, kicking your shoes off before turning to the door seeing your mummy and har- your daddy still stood at the door way.

"are you coming inside daddy?" you asked so innocently with a big toothy grin.

the words so simple as daddy, landed like a punch and a hug all at once. alessia's heart clenching and she saw the way harrison froze, his eyes widening for just a moment before he crouched down to your level.

"not today, y/n" he said gently, his voice steady but filled with emotion. remembering about what alessia had said about boundaries and wanting to respect them. "but i'll see you soon, and maybe we can go to a soft play"

you pouted slight but your expression softened when harrison added, "i promise i’ll be back, pinky swear?" he held out his pink and you giggled as you wrapped yours around his, "pinky swear!"

satisfied with the answer you were given, you turned and tugged at your mummy's arm, "can i have a snack now, mummy?"

alessia smiled, brushing a faint curl from your face, "go on inside and wash your hands first lovie, i'll be through in a moment"

you nodded, bouncing your way inside and making a beeline for the kitchen as you held your daisy tight in your hand.

as you bounced down the hallway, the world seemed to grow quieter. alessia turning back to harrison after making sure you went were you should be, crossing her arms instinctively over her chest.

for a long moment, they stood there, the late afternoon casting a soft flow over their faces.

harrison shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hands still buried inside his coat pockets, "she's.. amazing" he said finally, his voice thick with emotion.

alessia's lips twitched into a small smile despite herself. "she is, i've worked hard to make sure she has a good life"

"and you've done an incredible job" harrison said honestly, his eyes meeting alessia's. "she's so clever, so confident. that's all you"

alessia felt her guard waver, but she quickly steadied herself, "not just me. my family and my friends. she's surrounded by people who shower her with love" her gaze hardened slightly, "people who've been there since day one."

harrison flinched but nodded, he knew it was coming. his jaw tightened, "yeah, i deserve that one," he admitted quietly.

"i know i let you down less- alessia. both of you. and i don't expect forgiveness overnight but i would like to there for her now, and you if you ever need me. however you'll let me" harrison smiled softly, alessia taking in his words, letter by letter.

alessia studied him, her expression unreadable, "your really asking me to fully trust you, after four years of nothing."

"yeah" harrison said quietly, his voice was steady despite the weight of alessia's words. "but not just for me, but for her. i'll do whatever it takes to prove that i'm serious this time."

her lips pressed together into a thin line as she considered him, the sincerity in his eyes was hard to ignore but the scars of the past were fresh and the last few days had opened more than alessia care to admit.

"we'll see" she said finally, her voice cool but not dismissive, "you've got a long way to go harrison. don't make me regret this."

he nodded, a small but grateful smile tugging at his lips, "i won't, i promise"

for a minute, the weight of their shared history hung between them — everything left unsaid, every moment lost. then alessia took a small step back her hand resting lightly on the door handle.

"goodnight, harrison."

"goodnight, alessia. message me once you've had time to think!"

she slipped inside and close the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she let out a shaky breath.

your laughter echoing from the kitchen, no doubt in alessia's mind that you were making soap bubbles while you washing your hands and alessia felt the faintest glimmer of hope pierce through the wall of doubt surrounding her heart.

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anto-pops · 1 year ago

Text

The Archivist - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Weeks after discovering some ancient tomes you're unable to decipher, you reach out to the Ministry of Magic Archives for help decoding the timeworn pages. The last thing you'd expected was for Sebastian Sallow to show up, much less for him to be so... attractive. Had he always looked like that?

Alternatively summarized as Sebastian Sallow pursued a professional career as a book nerd and also happens to be really well versed in sex.

Word Count: 6,969 (LMAO)

Warnings: 18+. aged up characters, explicit sexual content, size difference, Sebastian wearing glasses again

Up on Ao3 here for your viewing pleasure

You honestly didn’t think you’d ever thrown on clothes faster than you did the day someone apparated into your living room with a deafening crack, followed by a crash and a muffled, “Shit, ow.”

If you were to die, you weren’t eager to do so half-naked and half-asleep.

After hastily tying your robe around your waist and stuffing your feet in a pair of deteriorating slippers, you cautiously stuck your head into the hallway, the unruly strands of your bed head sticking to your cheeks and poking you in the eye as you assessed the situation.

At the end of the hall you could see a stack of books scattered across the floor, along with a previously organized collection of newspapers now strewn over the top of a prone body. Said body was stirring beneath the crumpled parchment, and you bit your lip and wished desperately for coffee as you weighed your options.

Option one: it was a murderer and you should leave immediately. The only problem was that the hallway leading to the front door was now blocked. Shit.

Option two: it was a burglar, and if you could remember where you’d left your wand last night, you could petrify the man in place until officials came to your aid.

Option three: it was a murdering burglar, and you might as well attempt to find out as much as you could before you wound up gruesomely cut down so you could at least haunt the bastard.

As the concealed figure attempted to sit up, you heard another thump as something fell from above them, followed by an irate groan, and you gripped the doorway to your bedroom tightly as you managed to call out a meek, “Hello?”

All movement and noises in the living room ceased for a moment, the air still and silent. You swore if the intruder dropped so much as a pin, you would hear it. The pair of feet belonging to the unknown man dragged along the floor as he seemingly stood himself up, and figuring that no burglar would be such a noisy wreck, you took your chances and slowly made your way down the hall to take in the damage done to your living space.

Bizarre as it was to be so civil with someone who’d essentially broken into your home, you rounded the corner and found yourself asking, “Are you alright?”

You were met with your potential adversary as he turned around, and you were equal parts surprised and confused to discover that it was none other than Sebastian Sallow. It had been years since you’d last seen him, the two of you having gone your separate ways after graduation as you continued hunting down ancient magic sites and he pursued a career within the Ministry. The last letter you’d received from him had come in a little over a year ago, sadly informing you that his sister had finally passed, albeit peacefully.

To find him now standing in the midst of your demolished living room was a shock in and of itself.

“Sebastian?” you asked incredulously, your eyes raking down his disheveled but well dressed body. He had certainly grown since you’d last seen him, his long legs accentuated by pressed slacks, and the suspenders that wrapped over his sculpted shoulders left little to the imagination. The button up he wore was just shy of being too small for his broad figure, and when you glanced back up at him, you watched as he brought one of his hands up to his face to fix his crooked glasses.

“Hi,” he said lamely, flashing you a somewhat sheepish smile. “Sorry for the mess– I, uh– well, I think I landed on something when I popped in.”

Your eyes flicked down once more to the toppled stacks of books that now covered the floor, and your brow cocked of its own accord as you breathed out a laugh, “You don’t say.”

Still reeling from the abrupt wake up call, you could only stare dumbstruck as Sebastian fixed his clothing and picked invisible lint off of his shirt, then offered his hand to you. “Sorry about the books. And the, uh, language. I’m here about the old tomes you found?”

As you accepted his outstretched hand and tried not to pass out from the firmness of it, you blinked and attempted to figure out what he was referring to. “Tomes?”

“The ones you wanted looked over?” He let go of your hand to rifle through the small satchel strapped to his thigh, and it took a herculean effort not to drool over the sheer width of his leg. Merlin’s bloody balls… you’d been holed up indoors for too long. “You sent in this consultation request a few weeks ago,” he said, pulling out a small slip of parchment decorated in your familiar scrawl, and then it all started to come back to you.

It had been nearly a month since, but during your last excursion to Scotland, you’d come across a set of unique, fragile tomes buried deep in an ancient magic site there. As curious as you’d been to read through their contents, the text within was hardly legible, and in truth, you weren’t even sure it was written in English. In a bid to still make use of the age-old books, you had reached out to the Ministry of Magic Archives to have someone potentially aid you in deciphering the timeworn pages. After almost a month with no response, you had simply shelved them all and moved on to planning your next trip.

“I completely forgot,” you muttered, taking the paper from Sebastian to read it over. “I kind of gave up hoping that the Ministry would send someone.”

“They weren’t planning on it,” he started to say, sounding conflicted as to whether or not he should continue. “But after I got my hands on the request, I took something of a personal interest in the case.”

Jokingly, you teased, “You hold that much sway working in the Archives?”

“I do when I’m the Archivist.”

“You’re the Archivist?” Your jaw dropped comically fast, your eyes wider than saucers as you processed his statement. Suddenly you were looking at your former friend in a whole new light. In your mind, you had always assumed the Ministry’s Archivist would be… well, ancient. Old and withered, graying and feeble. Not youthful and– quite frankly– hot. “How did that happen?”

Sebastian rocked back on his heels as he stuffed his thumbs in his pockets, the very picture of modesty as he shrugged, “It’s technically my trial period since the old Archivist just died a few months ago. But yeah, I guess my thirst for knowledge and reading habits paid off. At the very least it impressed the Minister enough for him to promote me.”

Eventually you managed to pick your chin up off the floor so you were no longer gaping at him like a fish, and you bashfully tucked a particularly stubborn strand of hair behind your ear as you cleared your throat and said, “Well, congratulations then. Glad to hear you’re doing well for yourself.”

Sebastian stared at you for a long moment before laughing softly under his breath, his hand sweeping through the front of his curly hair, “Thanks. But anyways, I can take a look at those tomes now if you’ve still got them?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. They’re on the shelf by the couch, let me just get changed.”

“No worries,” Sebastian said quickly, grinning widely as he moved around you further into the living room, his eyes roving over you momentarily. “I’ve got this.”

Did he just… check you out? No way, you thought, shaking the idea from your mind entirely.

You tracked the brunet as he strode over to the cluttered shelf beside the sofa, watching intently as he moved a few books around until he found the unmistakable tomes propped against the wooden panels. With the utmost care, Sebastian carefully withdrew one of the three with delicate fingers, his touch featherlight and ever conscious of the fragile nature of the bound piece of foreign literature. As he thoughtfully deposited the book on top of the coffee table, you couldn’t help but admire how gentle he was being with it; with hands that big, you found his tender touch to be something of a contrast to his entire person.

Shamelessly, you also found yourself wondering how those hands of his might feel against your skin.

Beating back your lustful thoughts with a mental brick, you managed to say with an even tone, “I’m surprised you can tell what’s what in that mess of a shelf. I’ve been told I have a bit of a hoarding problem– most people can’t separate the floor from the walls.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” he retorted, flashing you a dazzling smile from over his shoulder. “It takes a bookworm to know one. My old overseer at the Archives used to tell me I ‘had no shelf control’.”

The silence that settled over the room was utterly loud, and as Sebastian’s face took on the hue of a ripe tomato, you were fighting a grin with every fiber of your being. Your lips contorted into something resembling a downward smile while the Archivist-in-training turned back to the bookshelf, dragging a hand down his flushed cheeks as a pained groan weaseled its way out of him. “Please forget I said that. I’ve picked up on one too many library jokes in the past five years.”

Sweet Merlin, he was dorky as hell. Please leave, excessively hot Archivist. Either leave or stay for about six hours and don’t go until I’m ready to let you.

To spare him his dignity and also because you needed to refrain from staring at his attractive backside, you spun on your heel to head into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Please,” he sighed in agreement, sounding all too excited about the change in topic.

“I’ve got tea, coffee, and… water,” you finished pathetically. The barren cupboards above the pantry nearly brought a tear to your eye, and you made a mental note to do some shopping later if you had the time.

Sebastian set the second tome down on the coffee table at the same time he called out to you, “Tea is fine, thank you.”

It took a smidge longer than normal to boil the water, seeing as you had to pause your efforts to find your wand buried beneath the piles of maps in your bedroom. Once you had it in hand, however, you whipped up two steaming cups of black tea and returned to Sebastian minutes later to hand his cup over to him. He took it graciously, plainly eyeing you up over the brim of the mug as he took a tentative sip, and your stomach flipped at the suggestive look he fixed you with.

“I’m a little jealous, you’ve got one hell of a collection here. I almost wish I could take some of these old books off your hands.”

“Mm,” you hummed around a mouthful of tea, swallowing pointedly. Sebastian’s eyebrow twitched minutely. “Well, I think it might be time for me to clean house a bit anyways. If you wanted to, you could always come back and take your pick of what you like.”

His brows rose momentarily before settling, a muscle in his defined jaw ticking as he glanced between you and the tomes on the table. Then with a voice like pure sin, Sebastian smoothly said, “And what if I like more than the books?”

Shit, shit. Redirect. You fought to employ every ounce of self-control in your body so you wouldn’t just jump into his strong arms and straddle him right there, but you were acutely aware of a few facts; you looked like you had fought a Hippogriff in your sleep, you had sorely little on under your robe, and Sebastian's eyes had been devouring the noticeable outline of your collarbone for the last minute or so. Fuck.

“Then it sounds, uh,” you started to say, struggling to form words with the broad shouldered Adonis across from you seemingly undressing you with his eyes. “Like we might be on the same page.” It was the truth– you were as interested in the Archivist as you were in the purpose for his visit– but once the unintentional pun registered, you rolled your eyes and dug the heel of your palm into one eye, swearing softly. To his credit, Sebastian just laughed, taking another hearty sip of his tea as you shyly smiled up at him.

With more work to be done back at the Ministry and your tomes in hand, Sebastian dutifully let you know that while he couldn't stay presently, he would absolutely be coming back later that night. He followed you into the kitchen to deposit his cup beside the sink, intentionally reaching over your shoulder to set the mug down before letting his fingers ghost along the skin of your neck. Goosebumps broke out all over your body at the contact, and when you turned around to face him with the counter pressing against your rear, his hands came to deftly adjust the revealing neckline of your robe with a coy smirk tugging at his lips.

“See you at seven,” he purred, leaving you a blushing mess in your kitchen as he stepped back, winked, then apparated away.

—

By the time seven o’clock rolled around, you had bathed, gone to the market to replenish your sorry excuse of a pantry, tidied up the previously demolished sitting area, and started cooking dinner. Part of you felt like you were getting ahead of yourself with everything, but after spending the entirety of your day reflecting on the stolen glances Sebastian had sent your way and his rather telling comment in the living room, you told yourself it couldn’t get any more obvious than that.

He had always been rather cute during your time at school, but something about seeing him grown and fully matured had ignited a fire in your veins that stubbornly stayed burning for hours.

When he showed up five minutes early at six fifty-five with freshly washed hair and wearing a darker version of his earlier outfit, your doubts all but vanished. Clearly you weren’t the only one itching to make a good impression.

Sebastian followed you into the living room, now noticeably cleaner than it had been earlier in the morning, and held up the bottle of wine he’d been holding at his side. “I know you’ve got tea and water, but uh. I figured why not. It’s Friday after all.”

You smiled softly and let your hands brush against his as you took the wine from him, curiously watching as his fingers flexed when his arm returned to his side. “Thank you. I take it the Archivist doesn’t go to work on the weekends, then?”

“The Archivist in training doesn’t, but I’m sure my free time will be a commodity before long. I’m pretty sure the last one frequently slept under his desk at the Ministry Headquarters. What about you? Any drab desk jobs to speak of?”

“Nope,” you said, gesturing to the couch as you turned to head back into the kitchen. “When I need the extra money I’ll help out Sirona at The Three Broomsticks, but for the most part my explorations and Professor Fig’s estate hold me over well enough. I’m hardly ever home anyways, so it’s not like there’s many expenses to keep track of.”

“I see,” Sebastian huffed as he collapsed into the couch, spreading his long arms along the top of the backrest as he took in the neater state of the living room. “I’m guessing your adventuring is why there’s so many books in the first place. Have you ever thought about upsizing?”

“Hardly,” you set the bottle down on the kitchen counter and chanced a look at the man on the sofa, oddly pleased to see him so at ease in the midst of your cluttered home. “I’d much rather downsize the collection. I don’t even need the majority of what I have– I’ve read through it all ten times over.”

He nodded, “Fair enough.”

“Anyway, I imagined you’d be hungry, so dinner’s almost ready.”

“Oh, damn,” Sebastian mumbled, sitting forward to run a hand through his drying hair as you flitted around the kitchen. “You didn’t have to.”

“Unless you planned on feeding yourself later, I think most shops will be closed by the time you leave,” you said pointedly, turning to hide your grin when you observed the brunet flushing bright red. Miraculously you resisted the urge to add ‘if at all’ to the end of your statement. You unearthed the corkscrew buried deep within the kitchen drawers and popped open the wine bottle, filling two glasses before striding back into the living room to hand one over to Sebastian. “Feel free to take a look at any of the books, see if any of them might be worth taking to the Archives.”

The larger man gave you a lopsided smirk as he took the offered glass and clinked it gently against yours, muttering his agreement before shamelessly ogling your retreating form returning to the kitchen. The cinched waist of your otherwise simple dress was incredibly distracting. He elected not to sift through the piles upon piles of books, opting to instead watch as you hummed to yourself and stirred something on the stove, which Sebastian was beginning to realize smelled pretty fantastic. He was grateful for the distance between you both so you couldn’t hear his stomach growling.

Once the food was ready, you ate with comfortable conversation flowing between the two of you the entire time. You asked Sebastian what he did in his soon to be nonexistent free time, and you were surprised to hear that he had taken on the role of Feldcroft’s token handyman. In his own words, the muggle approach to fixing things was relatively therapeutic, and he loved getting his hands dirty almost as much as he loved having his nose burrowed in book pages. It explained his physical appearance, at the very least. Until now, you’d just assumed he had a habit of squatting massive stacks of books in the Archives when he was bored.

In turn he had asked you about your hobbies, about the ancient magic sites you visited, and about living on-the-go so regularly. It was so normal for you now that you barely batted an eye at being away from home for weeks at a time, and you told him as much with a half-hearted shrug.

Lazily, you swirled the remaining wine around in your glass, bringing it to your mouth as you murmured, “It’s not like there’s anything waiting for me here, so I don’t mind it.”

Sebastian watched you intently as you finished off your drink, taking in the pretty flush decorating your cheeks and the delectable way you licked your wine-stained lips in the moment that followed. “Anything, or anyone?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t have anyone to come home to? No pets, no kids…” he trailed off, the rest of his question dangling in the air like a lone cloud. Your eyes fell to Sebastian’s hand as he sensually ran his pinched fingers along the stem of his own glass, and his half-hooded eyes hidden behind his glasses said everything in place of the missing portion of his sentence.

No lover, is what you knew he was indirectly asking.

“Do you see anyone else here?” you teased, the sides of your mouth curling into a coy smile.

“No,” Sebastian retorted, pushing his empty glass away as he sat back in his seat, amusement etched across his handsome face. “Then again, it doesn’t hurt to check. Had to make sure I was reading things correctly.”

You perched your elbow on the armrest of your chair and balanced your chin on top of your fist casually before asking, “Was that another one of your jokes?” Hoping that you looked more confident than you felt, you mirrored his position and crossed one of your legs over the other, taking immense satisfaction in the way the brunet’s throat bobbed at the sight of your legs outlined through your attire.

Sebastian looked puzzled for a moment before realizing what he’d said, and he rolled his eyes at the same time an airy laugh spilled from your lips. “An accidental one, make no mistake,” he moved forward to the edge of his seat, leaning forward to play with one of the folds of your dress with his index finger. “But I have been thinking about you all day, and I may or may not have convinced myself that you’re way out of my league.”

“You should be more confident,” you whispered, dropping your hand to clutch at the one the Archivist was inching towards your leg with. His fingers immediately spread to accommodate your smaller ones, and you tugged him a smidge closer so your noses were mere inches apart. Jokingly, you taunted him further by asking, “Did you still want to look at my book collection?”

Before you could so much as yelp, Sebastian closed the distance between the two of you in a flash and pressed his lips to yours fervently, any lingering awkwardness falling away like leaves on a tree. His free hand came to curl around the back of your neck, holding you firmly against his mouth as he angled his head to the side to deepen the kiss further, and you couldn’t help but moan against him at the brutish feeling of his broad hand holding you in place.

He pulled away just enough to brush a tinier, more delicate kiss against the tip of your nose before he sighed, “I really don’t give a damn about the books right now.”

A budding Archivist not caring about books? The scandal, is what you wanted to say, but then Sebastian’s lips were back on yours, swallowing your pending comment with a ferocity that had your stomach churning wantonly. Those brilliant hands of his left your neck and your hand to trail along your waist, his fingers digging firmly into the bodice of your dress to pull you towards him, and you followed his guidance all too willingly as he urged you from your seat. Within seconds you were in his lap, melting against him as he ground his hips up into yours while simultaneously using his hands to rock you against his hardening cock, and a satisfied groan emitted from him as you allowed him to move you as he pleased.

In-between kisses, Sebastian managed to croak out, “Bedroom?”

You barely managed a nod, too enthralled by the man under you to form actual words, and at the same time you dove back in for another heated kiss, Sebastian looped an arm around your back and the other under your ass as he stood up, lifting you with him as though you weighed nothing. Instinctively you hooked your legs around his hips, letting him haul you along to your bedroom while your hands flew to his neck to clutch at him ardently in a bid to keep your mouth glued to his. His ability to multi-task was something to compliment later on, because he kept walking and working his mouth over yours with a finesse that bordered on inhuman.

The next thing you knew you were being thrown down on the mattress, bouncing in place briefly before you had to bite your lip to stifle a curse as you watched Sebastian fucking crawl up the bed towards you, predatory and sexy as hell. As soon as he was within reach, you grabbed for one of his suspender straps and pulled him closer, kissing him once again and moaning eagerly when you felt his hand grip at the seductive curve of your waist to squeeze before he settled on top of you. With his knees on either side of you, it was impossible to overlook the feeling of his achingly hard cock pressing down against your leg, and Sebastian groaned loudly when you tried lifting your hips to convey your impatience.

“Someone’s excited,” he murmured against your swollen lips, grinning to himself as you worked to catch your breath. “Have you been thinking about me, too?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your train of thought momentarily derailing when Sebastian moved so his chest was pressing against your clothed breasts, his hips flush with yours to better grind against you. “Don’t you own a mirror?”

Instead of replying to your thinly veiled compliment, Sebastian dipped his head into the crook of your neck to nip and kiss his way along your jaw with a rumbling moan, the force of his ministrations forcing your head back against the pillows. He was as eager as you were, that much was certain. As he rutted his concealed cock against your thigh, you heard and felt him shudder against you, and in an attempt to silence himself, the Archivist’s plush lips latched firmly onto a patch of skin under your jaw to suck a mark there.

The stinging sensation of him biting down had your eyes fluttering shut, your entire being relishing in the light pain his teeth bestowed upon you, and Sebastian blindly reached for your wrist to pin your arm above your head. The dominant display had you voicing your approval in the form of a low moan, enjoying how being stretched out for him allowed for his other hand to rake down your side to start bunching up your dress. His movements didn’t cease as he lifted his hips slightly to free up the rest of the fabric trapped beneath him, and he expertly collected the material into a disheveled heap below your navel. When his dexterous fingers ghosted along the waistband of your undergarments, your next breath caught in your throat and caused you to gasp shakily.

You felt as Sebastian’s lips curved into a smirk against your spit-slick skin before sitting back on his heels to murmur, “You’re so noisy.”

Through his lashes, he watched as a brilliant flush swept up your neck to cover your face, and you timidly tried to hide your cheeks with the back of your free hand. “S-Sorry,” you stammered, but the man above you was having absolutely none of your self-consciousness.

Your mediocre shield was wrenched away from your face and pinned up alongside your other hand in an instant, and you blinked up at Sebastian in blatant surprise as he leaned menacingly over you. “Don’t stop,” he implored you, biting his lip as he took in the sight of you beneath him. “I love it.

The brunet secured your wrists into one of his hands so he could drop the other one back to your aching center, swiping two of his fingers up your slit through your underwear to feel the wetness that had collected there. The sensation left you breathless, another choked gasp weaseling its way past your lips and earning a dark chuckle from Sebastian. His digits moved up to slide beneath the fabric blocking his path, and a low groan sounded from him as he felt how truly soaked you were from his efforts. Without looking away from your pinched features, he gingerly slid a single finger in, biting his lip hungrily at the way your lips parted and your head rolled to the side when he began steadily pumping in and out of you.

When you felt his thumb begin to rub against your clit, your eyelids fluttered shut from the intense pleasure that washed over you, pulling a strangled whimper from you. “Fuck, Sebastian–”

The hand he had securely wrapped around your wrists tightened a fraction to draw your mind out of the gutter, and he roughly gritted out, “Look at me, darling– open those pretty eyes for me.” You couldn’t help but oblige him when he referred to you so sweetly, and when you cracked your eyes open once again, his body seemed to shudder with delight as he growled, “So fucking perfect. My name sounds damn good when you say it like that.”

With his gaze burning into yours and the close proximity between the two of you, you didn’t think the overwhelming euphoria you felt could get any better. That is, until he added a second finger into the mix. The initial stretch was felt only briefly before his thumb pressed against your sensitive bundle of nerves, the persistent ministrations against your clit muting any discomfort and leaving you arching brainlessly beneath him as that hot, incessant feeling in your gut roared to life. It was tantalizing, and your hips bucked off the mattress in an attempt to chase his movements and reach the climax you were utterly desperate for.

“Please, please,” you begged mindlessly, your desire to come so potent that it was almost painful. “Please, Sebastian, please.”

“Already?” he tsk’d mockingly, shaking his head minutely as he eagerly wet his bottom lip and removed his thumb from your center. “I think you can hold on a bit longer, don’t you? I’d much rather end this with my cock, if it’s all the same to you.”

The lack of friction sobered you up instantly, and the lustful haze that had clouded your mind cleared enough for you to blink blearily up at him, a small frown playing on your lips. “Really?”

Sebastian cocked a brow at you, as though daring you to tell him he was being unreasonable. “Would you rather this end with my hands?”

You tried to roll your hips up into his hand before relenting rather quickly, and you muttered, “F-Fine. Just hurry up, I might throttle you if I have to wait any longer.”

Sebastian grinned wickedly at the way your back arched when he curled his fingers inside of you before torturously withdrawing them. A small sigh slipped from you when he let go of your wrists and slid away to hastily begin shedding his clothing, taking care to be gentler with his glasses as he set them down on the nightstand, and once he was wholly bare before you, the only thing you could do was stare.

His physique was mind boggling; toned, defined muscles made up every inch of his torso, accentuated by broad shoulders that you were convinced didn’t belong anywhere near someone who worked in a glorified library of all places. His skin was sun-kissed and peppered with freckles, a testament to the aforementioned physical labor he claimed to enjoy. It hadn’t made much sense to you before when he’d told you– forgoing magic to use his own hands to help fix things. But if a habit like that gave a man a body like his, you would never doubt his preferences again.

All of Sebastian looked positively divine, including his cock. Thick, hard, and twitching tellingly, it arched proudly against his taut stomach, the head violently red and already leaking beads of pre-cum in response to the situation at hand. You swallowed thickly when you realized that that would be inside of you, and you were suddenly grateful that he’d told you to wait. Not to discredit his fingers or anything, but you had a nagging feeling that you would enjoy his lower parts far more than his hands.

Ignoring the nervousness that settled in your stomach, you sat up to quickly pull the sleeves of your dress down your arms, wriggling out of the attire quickly before throwing the bunched up material to the floor. As you reached down to slide your underwear off, Sebastian returned to kneel in front of you and stopped you by lightly pushing you flat against the pillows, then ran his hands along the plane of your stomach.

“Allow me,” he said chivalrously, taking care to gently slip his fingers under the waistband and sensually remove the material entirely. With nothing else separating you from him, Sebastian took his time eating you alive with his eyes, letting his hands drag up your thighs and squeeze at your knees before pushing your legs apart so he had space to siddle forward. The blunt head of his cock bumped against your slick cunt, and a barely there shudder ran down your spine in anticipation.

It took a good amount of self-control for you to let Sebastian press into you achingly slow, his eyes pinching shut while his teeth savaged his bottom lip, and when he was finally sheathed inside of you fully, the brunet was practically shaking with the desire to fuck your brains out. He waited, though, his palms sliding from your knees to your upper thighs to dig his fingers into the skin there, raking his hungry gaze over you while he gave you a moment to adjust.

You appreciated the sentiment, because Merlin– he was big. It was impossible to overlook every delicious inch of him pressing against your inner walls, the subtle grinding of his hips stretching you out more and more to the point where your breath continuously caught in your throat. It felt good, though. Good enough to leave you wondering why you’d never sought him out when the two of you were still in school together.

At some point, however, you realized Sebastian was fucking with you. It probably had something to do with the repetitive, shallow thrusts he teased you with, and when you craned your neck up to look at him, he was already staring at you with a wide grin splitting his face, his tongue poking out between his teeth.

“W-What?” you grumbled, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Are you going to make me beg or something? I already said please.”

“I was just enjoying the face you were making,” Sebastian said, rocking his hips just enough to leave you arching towards him. “You look like you’re trying really hard to keep it together. It’s cute.”

“I’m flattered,” you breathed out around an airy laugh, then wriggled your hips down in an attempt to bait the Archivist into moving. Mercifully, it worked.

Sebastian gave a throaty moan, leaning forward to brace one hand on the side of your waist while the other gripped at your thigh tighter, and he withdrew his cock languidly before plunging back in. Your breathing hitched and your head fell back against the pillows at the abrupt sensation, and the sight of you so obviously enthralled by his efforts was what expelled the remainder of his patience.

Holding onto your thigh with bruising strength, Sebastian fell into a steady, toe-curling pace. He pulled you onto his cock with every deep plunge, digging his feet into the bed to lend some force to his thrusts, and his reward was the sound of your shaky voice reverberating off of the bedroom walls as your spine rounded. You keened loudly, overcome with both the feeling and the sight of Sebastian– because not only was he deceptively good at rendering your mind into a puddle of mush, he looked amazing while he was doing it. The muscles in his arms rippled as he supported himself above you, his brown curls falling into his face as his head hung heavy between his sculpted shoulders, and when your arousal had you clamping down on his cock harder, those full, kissable lips of his fell open around a guttural groan.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he grit out through his clenched teeth, gazing down at you with lust-dark eyes that made your blood burn hot in your veins. “So bloody gorgeous– like a fucking work of art.”

His praises left you whining in earnest, and you didn’t bother to keep your voice down in the slightest. With every sinful noise that escaped you, Sebastian’s hold on you seemed to intensify, and his thick cock filled you harder with every desperate pump of his hips. His ragged breathing left you craving more of him– all of him– and you rutted against him as much as was physically possible in a bid to take him deeper.

Sebastian picked up on your desires wordlessly, and he shifted his hold on your thigh so his hand was looped around it to better pull it to the side, giving him the room he needed to spear into you with wicked precision. It also allowed him to discover what you sounded like crying out for more, your voice reedy and strident within the four walls of the bedroom, and when he shifted his hips down to achieve new depths, your moans echoed around him. He had to be hitting a good spot.

“Right there, Sebastian, fuck– right there–”

Your lower half was positively shaking, and Sebastian was honestly at his limit. He sat up momentarily before grabbing both of your legs, watching as you blearily tried to figure out what was going on while he pulled your knees over his shoulders. Moving over you swiftly and urgently, he bent you back and rammed his thick cock back into your tight heat, animalistic grunts sounding from him as you arched tight and cried out, but you were barely given the space to breathe before he was fucking you hard– hips bucking rough and deep and so fucking good that you were left screaming and gasping helplessly at the sheets.

Sebastian pinned you to the bed and pounded into you, his own moans dripping loud from his lips as his hands grasped at the sweaty, flushed skin of your waist, pulling you close while he filled you over and over and drank in your noisy pleas for more until your back was arching clear off the bed and your thighs were shaking. You were barely holding on, your climax from earlier roaring back to life in your gut and rendering your tongue a lead weight in your mouth.

Forming words was damn near impossible, but you still managed to babble out, “Like that, Sebastian, fuck, just like that– I’m close– please, I’m–”

He obliged you instantly, keeping up his pace while he brought his hand between your legs to thumb over your bundle of nerves, his hips angling upwards with every deep, precise plunge. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, you watched through your slitted eyes as he bent forward to press a chaste kiss to your parted lips, swallowing your breathy whines with a satisfied expression playing over his face. “Come on, darling. Let’s hear how you sound falling apart on my cock, yeah?”

As if you even needed the encouragement.

Every muscle in your body tensed as a wave of unparalleled ecstasy crashed over you, and your hands flew to Sebastian’s shoulders to absentmindedly attempt to grasp at something to ground yourself. His movements didn’t stop as you writhed beneath him– milking every possible noise out of you with unconcealed fervor– and it was only when you sagged into the sheets twitching and whimpering that Sebastian let your legs drop to the sides so he could wrap his arms around you to give you the last of his deep, quick thrusts before he was coming too, your name tumbling over his lips as he fell alongside you.

“Fuck,” Sebastian murmured directly beside your ear, still draped in a boneless heap on top of you as you trembled against him. One of your hands slid up to bury your fingers in his tangled curls, and you mumbled something unintelligibly into the crook of his neck. He pulled back slightly to hear you better, “What?”

Your eyes were still glazed over as you came down from your post-coital high, “Are the Archives chock-full of sex books or something?”

Sebastian smirked tiredly at you, pulling out gently before collapsing beside you with his arms still wrapped securely around your waist. “One or two. Why?”

You stared up at the ceiling in a daze and shook your head softly to yourself, “Because you’re a little too good at that. It’s kind of scary.”

“Good scary or bad scary?”

“Good scary,” you clarified, turning over so you could face the brunet and smile softly at him. The way his entire face lit up at the sight of you would live on in your mind for years to come, you were sure, so you wistfully said, “We should do this again sometime.”

Sebastian paused, leaving you worried for a short second until he wriggled in a way that let him press his hard cock against your stomach, and he closed the distance between the two of you to give you a chaste kiss on your nose before grinning mischievously. “Like right now?”

You raised your eyebrows in silent surprise before laughing playfully, rolling over onto him before taking his face in your hands to kiss him deeply. It was a sweet moment– tender, affectionate, and heartwarming. It only ceased when you let go of his cheeks to move down his larger body, already itching to put your hands to better use.

The only thing that stopped Sebastian from staying holed up within the warm, comfortable confines of your bedroom with you forever was the imminent arrival of Monday, but Saturday and Sunday were days well spent. You were rather disappointed when your time together came to an end– enough so that you actually pouted when Sebastian had slid out from beneath the covers to get ready for work. Thankfully though, the Archivist was as unwilling as you were to call it quits after everything, and following a heated, lengthy kiss, he promised to come back as soon as he was able.

It only took him eight hours to find himself back in your bed, but you knew then that it would be impossible to stay away from him for very long from here on out.

#sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x female!reader #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #hogwarts legacy oneshot #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow oneshot #my writing #the final word count for this being 6969 is honestly the highlight of my fucking month who would have thought #I'm just a large child

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enoiocean · 2 months ago

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𝓳𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓾𝔁 franklin saint x black!reader

૮ ․ ․ ྀིა 12k words — set in LA Beverly hills in 09, rich!business man!franklin saint x black!fem!reader , age gap - ( reader is 21 , Franklin is 30 ) porn with plot , Rough Sex , Daddy kink, veryyyy long read , multiple parts coming , this is for a mature audience , please read with caution !

This job didn't really feel like a...job.

You didn't have to abide by a certain dress code, you didn't work around only women , the building was beautiful, and the first day you arrived for the interview, you wore a black skirt with matching stockings and heels and a white long-sleeve top to balance it out—nothing too revealing, nothing too vulnerable, just a blank slate. Your hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail , so taut it made your temples throb, but there was something satisfying about the control of it. and The black-framed glasses weren't prescription, but they made people trust you. Smile wide. Lip gloss is subtle. You'd rehearsed it in the mirror. Professional. Approachable. Just enough. You couldn't help but be excited.

The building was enormous—a towering monolith of glass and steel. Inside, it was a time capsule sealed in style. The decor hadn't been updated since the 1970s, but not in the way of disrepair—more like reverence. Golden-hued lighting bathed everything in a soft, cinematic glow. Velvet chairs in jewel tones sat beneath smoked glass tables. Brass fixtures caught the light like secrets. The air smelled faintly of aged leather and expensive cologne, like the ghosts of men who once closed deals with handshakes and half-truths still lingered in the wallpaper. It was retro, yes, but effortlessly, arrestingly beautiful. Like stepping into a beautiful memory .

The woman who greeted you was tall, alabaster-pale, and sculpted into her perfectly pressed ivory suit like she'd been born in it. Her hair was lacquered into place, not a single strand out of line, and her heels clicked with surgical precision as she walked—sharp, efficient, utterly devoid of hesitation. She didn't smile. She didn't need to.

She guided you past the front lobby, a space so unnervingly quiet it bordered on the sacred. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was pressurized. The hum of office phones rang out in soft, rhythmic pulses, like a heartbeat barely holding on. Somewhere behind frosted glass, voices murmured—thin, bloodless conversations spoken in fragments, too hushed to decode. No laughter. No interruptions. Just the mechanical whisper of a machine well-oiled and too proud to acknowledge its own humanity.

Her eyes—those eyes—slid over you like she was appraising livestock. No warmth. No welcome. Just a quick inventory. Your shoes. Your posture. The way you held your purse like it was armor. Her gaze was clinical, transactional, the kind of look someone gives a thing they're considering purchasing—not a person, a product. She didn't bother with a smile. She nodded. Once. Like she'd already met ten versions of you and decided you were just another mold from the same batch.

18th floor.

The elevator ride was long. Too long. The silence felt oppressive, like the air was thick with something unseen, something waiting. It binged like the pulse of a dying animal. When the doors opened, you were hit with the sharp, cold sting of perfection. Marble floors. 70s walls. A decor that screamed luxury, A hallway extended in four directions, each path ending in a sealed door—identical, marked with a gold nameplate. Outside every door sat a single desk, and behind each desk, a woman. Perfect posture. Impeccable grooming. Typing with the precision of gunfire. Their fingers danced across the keys in exact, rhythmic motion, inhuman in their steadiness, like they'd rehearsed this moment to death.

They didn't look up. Not really.

One of them glanced at you—brief, slicing, surgical. Eyes like frosted glass.

Your stomach flipped. Not a flutter. A full inversion. That sick, hot tumble of instinct trying to speak before your brain can form words. But you kept walking, heels clicking across the marble like you belonged here. Because you needed the job. Because "figuring it out" doesn't pay rent, and retail was starting to feel like a punchline to a joke you'd already heard too many times.

Your landlord was hiking the rent again—like your building had suddenly earned the right to call itself luxury just because they painted over the mold and installed a broken security camera in the stairwell. Going back home wasn't an option. You couldn't stomach your mother's passive-aggressive sighs or your father's not-so-subtle lectures about "readiness" and "real-world responsibility." They still talked about you like you were a kid who wandered too far from the sandbox. Moving back would only make them right.

You heard about the job from Vince. Your sister's boyfriend. The guy who drank straight from the bottle and always smelled like car grease and weed. He said his friend needed a secretary. Some executive downtown. Something vague and high-paying. You didn't ask questions. You just said, "Tell him I'm interested."

Next morning: bing. Inbox. One new message. An email dressed up like an invitation to a secret club. Subject line: "Thank you for your interest in FS Enterprises."

No job description. No bullet points or salary range. No qualifications or application portal. Just a single line dripping with urgency: "Show up here Friday."

No signature. Just an address. Downtown, where all the high-profile politicians and businessmen are.

You Googled. Nothing.

You searched and searched. Still nothing.

No company website. No mission statement. No reviews. Just a trail of digital dust—like the whole thing had been scrubbed clean or had never existed to begin with.

And still, you got dressed. Still, you showed up. Because your sister trusted Vince, and Vince didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd sell you into something.

Not on purpose, anyway.

Right?

Your fingers gripped the folder tighter in your hands as you walked toward the door at the end of the hall. Heavy wood, dark-stained and polished to a mirror shine. A gold nameplate sat flush in its center, gleaming like it had just been cleaned, though no one ever seemed to touch it. The letters engraved were too clean, Franklin Saint.

You knocked. Three short, quick taps. The sound of someone pretending they weren't terrified.

The silence that followed was too thick, too heavy. You almost felt like the sound of your knuckles hitting the door had been swallowed by the walls. You didn't know what you were walking into. Not really. It was all so surreal—the smell of cologne mixing with the faint undertone of something artificial, like the air had been scrubbed clean of any trace of humanity. The hallway behind you felt a lifetime away, everything shrinking into the space just in front of the door, everything focusing down to that very moment.

You could hear your heart beating in your ears.

And then, the door creaked open, slow, deliberate.

You'd imagined Franklin a hundred different ways, but now that you were here, staring at him, all those versions faded. He was tall, maybe too tall, with a suit that swallowed him whole, sharp and tailored to perfection. His skin was beautifully dark with no imperfections, and his eyes—those eyes— they lit up when they saw you, squinting a little. His smile was bright, white, and straight.

You couldn't help yourself. You smiled back. It was the only thing you could do in that moment, the only thing your body would let you do. Your hands got sweaty, your breath shallow. You were a thousand miles away from the girl you thought you were before you stepped into this room. Now, you were something else—something in-between, trapped in the tension of his gaze. And you couldn't look away. Couldn't stop.

His voice came soft, almost too soft for the size of his frame, "You must be... (❀), right?" His eyes flickered over you, a quick scan that felt like a full-body examination. He smiled more.

You nodded, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Your mouth was dry. You couldn't even remember the last time you’ve been this nervous.

He stepped back, letting the door swing open further, a silent invitation that felt more like a command.

"Come in. We have a lot to discuss."

The door clicked shut behind you, and for that moment, it was just the two of you.

He didn't ask you about your work history. He didn't ask why he should hire you. He didn't even look at the paper you clutched in your hands, the one you had memorized the night before. He didn't care about any of that. Instead, he asked about you about who you were, not what you did. His voice was soft and polite, the words cutting through the air with a precision you could almost feel on your skin. He asked if you were still in school, if you liked it, where you grew up, and if you were from California.

It felt almost casual, like he wasn't trying to dissect you. Like he wasn't testing you. But you could tell that, couldn't you? You could tell he was watching. He was listening not to your answers but to the way you gave them. He wanted to know how you thought and how you felt. What you cared about.

And each time you answered, you found yourself talking longer than you intended, telling him more than you meant to. You rambled about things you loved, about places you'd been, and about the little things that made you feel like you were truly alive. The way the ocean smelled after a rainstorm. The way the sun felt on your skin when you woke up before anyone else did. Why you loved photography. Why you loved fashion. You couldn't stop yourself. You couldn't even try. You were unraveling, piece by piece, and you didn't know how to stitch yourself back together.

He didn't write anything down. He didn't interrupt you. He didn't glance at the clock for the time and didn't look anywhere else but at you. And every time you spoke, every word you let slip, he leaned in a little more. Not physically, no. But emotionally. His eyes locked onto yours, absorbing you. He wasn't just listening. He was consuming.

And all the while, you felt like you were in the middle of a dream—a dream that was beginning to twist, beginning to become something dangerous. You couldn't name it, couldn't put your finger on it, but you knew that in this room, in this space with him, you weren't in control anymore.

And you didn't want to be. Not really.

The interview lasted an hour, but it felt like a reunion with a long-lost friend—someone you'd forgotten you needed, someone you hadn't realized you missed until they walked into the room. You didn't remember exactly when it happened, but somewhere between your rambling answers and his unblinking stare, the clock seemed to disappear.

You stood up to shake his hand, your legs slightly unsteady under you, like you were waking from a dream you hadn't wanted to end. Your mind raced in that final moment—was that enough? Did you say the right things? Did he see through your act? Did he see you as just another ditzy, young girl, spinning in circles, thinking she could handle belonging in a place like this?

But before the doubts could claw their way up your throat—before logic or fear or that sick little voice in the back of your mind could poison the moment—he shattered them. Just like that. His hand found yours, firm and warm, grounding, pulling you back into the room, into your body, like a lifeline tied to something you couldn't quite name.

"Sign these," he said. His voice was smooth in that dangerous way—like silk hiding the blade. He slid three pristine sheets of paper across the desk. Blank. No headers. No legal jargon. Just space. Space waiting for your name.

"Bring them back to me Monday. You'll start then."

And that smile—God, that smile. It didn't sell a job. It sold something else. A promise, maybe. Or a secret you weren't ready to be trusted with. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Your pulse was sprinting. You were vibrating with questions—about the papers, about the man, about what this was.

You didn't know if you wanted to bolt from the room, heart hammering like a warning, or stay and crawl deeper into whatever rabbit hole he was offering.

But your mouth moved before your mind could catch up.

"Mister Saint, are you sure you don't want to look at my resumé—"

He cut you off, clean. Didn't even glance up. just opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and a leather-bound book. The kind that smells expensive. The kind that's meant to hold things you're not supposed to share.

"Here," he said, eyes still bright. "This is all you'll need; go over it and remember everything in it."

You barely heard the next words, not with the way your blood was rushing in your ears.

"What type of computer do you prefer?"

It was the kind of question that made no sense in that moment. You blinked at him, thrown off, suddenly aware of how little you truly knew about this man, about this space, about what was even happening here.

You glanced at the pen in your hand. It was small, silver, and engraved with what looked like a symbol, a logo, but it was so tiny, so simple, you couldn't make out the detail. The book, thick and bound with care, felt heavier in your hand than it should have, like it had weight beyond its pages. But all you could do was stare at him, waiting, trying to process what just happened, trying to figure out how the hell you were supposed to answer that question.

Your voice stuttered out, softer than it had any right to be. "I... usually work with Macs. But I'm flexible."

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

He nodded, like that was the answer he expected.

"Beautiful," he said. Slowly. Like the words were designed to be unwrapped one syllable at a time. "That's why I chose you."

Your breath caught.

"I'll have something set up for you by Monday," he said, casually. Almost like a favor. Like he was offering you a seat at a table you didn't know existed.

Then his eyes flicked back to yours, and something in his voice curled, slow and deliberate:

"You'll be fine."

Just like that, you were here. three months in. Sitting in front of his door every day, behind a desk that you could do anything with. A blank canvas waiting for you to carve out something real, something personal. You looked at the MacBook Air; you couldn't believe he got it for you, like it was some cheap thing to play with. You placed your small trinkets on the desk. A small plant with deep green leaves, hopeful and stubborn, clinging to the light that never seemed to be enough. A picture of you and your friends, their laughter forever frozen in a frame that suddenly felt like a memory you didn't want to forget. A cup holder, silver star-shaped, And the small stuffed bunny—like an Easter relic.

You liked the space. The lighting. The way the windows let in just enough natural light to make everything feel alive, like it wasn't all just polished steel and glass. The small details grounded you in a way you hadn't expected. The world outside might've been spinning out of control, but this little corner was yours. And that was enough, for now.

The four women sat in front of you; beautiful older figures leaned over their own desks. They didn't speak much to you. No casual introductions, no offers of friendship. They just murmured the occasional "Good morning" as you walked past them every morning to your desk; they'd talk to each other, laughing and gossiping. Your heel clicks a little heavier, a little more uncertain. You were always a few minutes late. Never much of a punctual person. And every time you passed them, you felt their eyes on you, their glances lingering longer than necessary. But they never said anything, and you never asked.

You sat at your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, your mind a little too distracted to focus on anything "important." You thought you'd be dealing with endless emails—replying in that perfect, overly polite tone that corporate types love. Or maybe scheduling meetings for Saint, organizing his calendar like you'd seen secretaries do in the movies. But nope. None of that.

Instead, your day started off with coffee and a doughnut. His coffee, just the way he liked it: black, no frills. And the doughnut—glazed and sweet, the kind that makes you feel like you're doing something right. You gave it to him with a smile, like a ritual offering, and he took it from your hands like it meant something.

His fingers brushed yours—accidental, probably. But they lingered. His eyes met yours. They didn't just see you. They read you.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Simple question. Too simple. But the way he said it—it unzipped something in your chest.

"I'm okay," you said, soft, almost shy. Your smile slipped out on instinct, like it had been waiting for permission.

He watched you smile. Really watched. And then he nodded, slow, like he already knew the answer before you gave it.

You let him in at ten o'clock. A man in a charcoal suit, cologne too expensive, nerves twitching in the corners of his mouth. Mister Saint didn't rush. Didn't bark orders. He just stood when he was ready, nodded once, and disappeared behind the door with the man trailing behind him like a child being summoned by his father.

It was quiet. Peaceful, almost. You took a moment, enjoying the stillness, the calmness of the space. You didn't have to fake it. It wasn't a rush of anxiety or pressure. Just... you. And a desk.

You tapped the keys, barely noticing the rhythm. A soft click-click that soothed your nerves more than it should. Instead of working, you found yourself scrolling through clothing websites. You didn't need anything, but hey, it was fun to look. So many pretty dresses and shoes that made you feel all sorts of ways—cute, fun, alive. You had the money for what you were scrolling past now, the way Franklin was paying you. You're imagining what you'd look like in them. A little daydream, a little fantasy.

Maybe he'd like this skirt.

Maybe he'd hate it.

But notice? Oh, he'd notice.

Your lips curled. Just a little.

You didn't ask how old he was. Didn't need to. Thirty-something. Close enough to know better. Far enough to ruin you.

And you?

You were starving.

You drooled.

Not in the cute, girly way either. No, you thirsted. Hard. Quiet. Secret. Like an addiction that made your palms sweat and your stomach tighten. Every time he walked into the room, your spine snapped straight like you'd been caught doing something wrong. Because you were. At least in your head.

I mean, who wouldn't?

Franklin Saint was perfect. Not in the glossy, magazine way. No, this wasn't boy-band pretty. This was grown-man, carved-from-concrete perfection. Big. Broad shoulders under tailored suits. Thick forearms veined like tree roots. Biceps you wanted to lay your head against after he ruined you.

He looked like he could pick you up without effort—over the shoulder, into his car, across state lines—and no one would stop him.

But it was his hands that really did it. Those hands.

You found your eyes drifting to them mid-conversation like gravity had a preference. Watching the way his fingers flexed when he gripped a glass. Watching how he rolled a blunt—slow, neat, precise. Watching the calluses catch the light when he touched his jaw or rubbed the back of his neck

You stared like a fool.

You tried to stop. Tried to keep eye contact like a grown woman. But then his thumb would stroke the rim of his glass, or he'd drum those thick knuckles against the table, and it was over. Your mouth would go dry. Your thighs would clench. And your brain? Gone. Just static and heat and the thought of how those hands would feel between your legs.

That's all it ever was—just fiction you played in your head.

Smutty little flickers of a world that didn't exist while you clicked through YouTube videos, watching tutorials on makeup, how to get the perfect glow, and how to do a bouncy, fun curl without frying your hair. You smiled at the thought of trying those things at home later. Maybe a new look for the weekend? Who knows? You liked how it felt to just zone out and let the hours pass by. You weren't thinking about deadlines or pressure. Just... being. The soft buzz of the computer felt like a constant hum that kept you company.

You read over that book he gave you over and over; it didn't consist of anything top secret like you thought it would. The pages were lined in his handwriting—tight, clean, no wasted motion. Like him.

"Monday: Pick up suit from dry cleaners in Beverly Hills. Dark navy, double vent, Brioni."

"Coffee: black, hot, touch of honey if I'm pissed. No cream, never sugar."

"Call Mama on Thursdays. Remind her I'm breathing.”

"Jerome likes the good cigars. Louie, don't. Don't bring 'em to the club."

His blood's in these pages. His rhythm. His rituals. Shoe sizes—11.5, Italian cut only. Suit sizes, jacket preferences. Pocket square colors.

And then the numbers. Phone numbers are like pressure points.

His mother's. His aunt and uncle. a lawyer. The second lawyer. A name you don't recognize—Twanda (DON'T ANSWER UNLESS BLEEDING).

You read that part twice. Maybe three times.

You didn't know who she was.

But now you want to.

"You like the job?" A smooth voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up, slightly startled. One of the women from the desk across from you was smiling. She wasn't typing anything, just turned toward you, her posture confident, arms casually crossed, legs crossed in that effortless way people do when they're just... comfortable.

For a moment, you couldn't help but take her in. She was beautiful. Like, really beautiful. Reminded you of someone—a little like Vanessa Williams, if you had to put a name to it. Her skin glowed, rich and smooth, her hair slicked back in a professional yet somehow effortless way. She had that vibe, that calm, controlled energy. Like she knew something you didn't. There was a nameplate at the edge of her desk, half-blocked by a stack of blank papers and a glass of water that hadn't been touched.

Gina Camplee. You tucked the name into your mind.

You blinked, trying to focus. "I-I like it," you said with a smile, your voice a little higher than you wanted it to be. Your nerves were still making themselves known, even though you were happy. You were always happy. That was just who you were. "It's... quite a bit easier than I expected." You chuckled a little, hoping it sounded natural. It did to you, but who knew what it sounded like to someone else?

She raised an eyebrow, her smile turning a little more knowing. "Easier than you expected, huh?" Her voice was smooth, almost teasing, but not in a mean way. She seemed genuinely curious, like she was giving you a chance to explain.

You nodded, giving a shy smile, trying to ease into the conversation. "Yeah, I thought there'd be more... pressure? Or a lot more to do, but... I don't know. It's been calm." You shrugged, not really sure why it felt so strange. It was just a job. But it wasn't just a job, not really. There was something else, something off about it that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

She studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing just a little. It felt like she was measuring you, seeing if you were hiding something or if you were just really that... naive. Maybe it was the way she sat, the way she carried herself. It was the kind of confidence that only came with experience, with knowing exactly how much to reveal and how much to hold back.

"I'm sure it's calm now," she said, breaking your trance. "But things have a way of getting... interesting around here." She uncrossed her arms, leaning back just a little. "Franklin likes to keep things unpredictable."

You nodded, smiling brightly. "I'm up for interesting!" You couldn't help it. The optimism just bubbled out of you, no matter what. You weren't about to let any of the unknowns get to you, not yet. You hadn't even been here long enough to feel any of that "pressure" everyone seemed to talk about. Right now, you were just... here, and that was enough.

She smiled again, this time a little softer, but there was something behind it that made you pause. It wasn't a judgmental smile, but a knowing one. Like she had seen this story before, maybe more times than you'd ever know.

"You'll find your rhythm," she said, her voice lighter, almost reassuring. "just show up and do what he says, easy."

You nodded, trying to let the words sink in, but your thoughts were already drifting somewhere else. Somewhere that was just a little too far ahead. "I will," you said, smiling again, because that's what you always did.

You couldn't help but wonder, though, if she knew more. If she knew what he did outside of this perfect, pristine office. She had to, right? She must have seen something, heard something. Franklin Saint wasn't the type of man to just be... normal. You knew his name, his age, and that he hated smoking. That was it. Nothing else. Not a single glimpse of what lay beneath the tailored suits, the sharp eyes, and the polite smiles.

You glanced up at her again, catching her eye. "Hey, uh..." you said, your voice softer this time, tentative. "Can you tell me more about him?" You weren't sure why you asked. Maybe it was the curiosity. Maybe it was the way he made you feel—like you were just a little out of place, but in the best way possible.

She turned toward you again, this time raising an eyebrow, her expression almost teasing. "You want to know if he's married?" she asked, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Your face heated up, the flush creeping up your neck. "I—" you stammered, embarrassed that she'd caught you so off guard. Of course, that wasn't what you meant. You just... wanted to know more. But she could probably tell the real question before it even left your mouth.

"If he was," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "the wife wouldn't appreciate the way he looks at you." She said it matter-of-factly, like she had seen it a hundred times before, like it was just an obvious truth in the office.

Her words hung in the air like a sharp breath. You stared at her, stunned, trying to figure out what exactly she meant. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you quickly forced your gaze back to your desk, your fingers playing nervously with a pen. You couldn't dwell on it—couldn't let yourself get lost in that thought, not now, not when the office was so... quiet and unpredictable.

Just as Gina's words began to settle—curling around your ribs like smoke you couldn't exhale—the call box on your desk crackled to life, that familiar static popping like a nerve firing too close to the surface.

"Sweetheart, I need you."

Franklin's voice oozed through the speaker, thick and smooth like honey sliding over a blade. That word—sweetheart—again. Always, sweetheart.

He never used your name. Never "Miss," never the clipped professionalism he reserved for everyone else in his orbit. With you, it was different. There was always a softness laced with something heavier. Darling. Honey. Sweetheart. Like you weren't on his payroll but his tongue. Like you were meant to come undone just from the sound of him.

You told yourself it didn't mean anything. Just a generational thing. Men like him always spoke like that—charming, old-school, slightly patronizing. You told yourself not to linger on it. Not to romanticize the way his voice dipped when he said it. Not to ache when he lingered on the word like it tasted good.

But gosh, you ached.

You wanted it to mean something so bad it stung.

You rolled your chair back and rose slowly, smoothing your skirt with trembling fingers before you walked to his door. You opened it just in time to see the older man he'd been meeting with step past you, cologne thick and sour in the air as he muttered something under his breath. He didn't look at you. He just nodded stiffly and shut the door behind him with a soft click, like punctuation.

Then it was just you and Franklin.

He stood by the window, backlit by late-afternoon gold, arms folded across his chest, the fabric of his suit hugging him like it was tailored by God himself. Still. Regal. A statue made of heat and ego.

His gaze landed on you—so pretty. he thought

From your hair, pulled tight and neat, to the subtle gloss on your lips. Down the curve of your chest, the gentle dip of your waist. The way you chose a light pink blouse today that matched with your brown pleated skirt, tight enough to make him wonder how long you'd stood in the mirror, smoothing it, adjusting it, planning it.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

The shape of your thighs. The way your knees knocked ever so slightly inward, like your body didn't quite know what to do under his gaze. The heels were modest, office-appropriate, but the way your toes pointed—nervous, uncertain—lit something in him. Something interesting.

"Hi, Mr. Saint... How did the meeting go?" You asked, soft and stammering, your voice slipping out too gentle, too exposed.

The smile you offered was all surface—mirror-polished, practiced to hell. It was the smile you wore when you needed to pretend your hands weren't twitching, that your pulse wasn't sprinting behind your ears. But Franklin saw right through it. Saw how your fingers danced at the hem of your blouse, tugging, fiddling, betraying you in real time.

He tilted his head, just slightly. That look of his—half amused, half predatory. Like he knew exactly how to unravel you and was only deciding how long he wanted to take.

He didn't speak. Not yet.

He let the silence bloom.

It stretched long and thin between you, a thread pulled tight. The kind that holds breath hostage. The kind that says, Don't move.

Then, one step.

Just one.

He moved closer to his desk, dragging his fingers across the edge—mahogany catching the gold of his watch, glinting like a threat. Every gesture precise. Controlled. Like even his silence was curated.

"The meeting went..." He paused, like he was choosing his words for effect, "...very well...Did that guy look trustworthy to you?" He asked, like it was a genuine question.

"I... I'm not sure," you said, truthfully. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, a light barrier, your smile thinning. "He didn't say much."

Franklin hummed, a low, amused sound that vibrated more in your chest than your ears. He kept his eyes on you, like you were the one under investigation.

"Exactly," he murmured, jaw tightening for just a flicker of a second. "and people who don't talk much? They're either hiding something, or they think they're smarter than everyone else."

He leaned back on the desk now, hands gripping the edge behind him, legs slightly spread, relaxed like a panther in the sun—gorgeous and deadly. Watching you. Reading you.

"Which do you think he is, sweetheart?"

Your throat went dry. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, like that'd help you dodge the heat crawling up your spine. Franklin had a way of making a question sound like a test, like the answer mattered more than you realized.

"... I think he just doesn't say much, like he... he lets his business do the talking," you said, finally. The words came gently but whole, carried by a thread of courage you barely felt. Your eyes held his—just enough to show you weren't scared, but not enough to drown in him. Not yet.

And then—he smiled.

Not soft. Not kind. Not the sort of smile you earn. This one was sharper. Like he'd already solved the riddle and just wanted to hear what shape your mouth would make trying to solve it, too.

It wasn't approval.

It was interest.

"Good girl," he said, and the sound of it coiled straight through you. Low. Warm. A little too pleased.

Your body lit up before your brain could catch up. That phrase—good girl—you'd only ever heard it in those private little daydreams. The ones you had no business entertaining. The ones that made your thighs clench under your desk while you chewed your lip and tried to remember how to breathe.

Now it was real.

And it wrecked you.

You didn't know what to say. Didn't trust your voice not to give you away. All you could do was stand there and feel the heat rise from your chest to your cheeks to the place between your legs that tightened, traitorous and alive.

"I like that," he murmured, the edges of his voice rougher now, velvet fraying at the seams. "That you pay attention."

He moved, slow and sure, circling the desk like it wasn't furniture but a piece of terrain. Like you were the destination. Each step quiet, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to close the space between you.

Your spine straightened, like instinct, like prey spotting the slow approach of something much larger than itself.

"Thank you, Mr. Saint—" you started, breath catching on the edge of your words.

"Just call me Saint, lovely," he cut in, flashing a grin that was all sin dressed in silk. Teeth barely visible. Heat behind the charm. A joke with a blade tucked in its belly.

"I'm only thirty."

"Okay..." you said, hesitating for the briefest second before letting it fall from your mouth, "Saint." The word felt strange on your tongue—too casual, too intimate—but it came out anyway, soft and unsure, like you were tasting it for the first time. And maybe you were.

He heard it.

Felt it.

Watched it settle in the space between you.

He leaned back in his chair like he owned gravity. Legs spread, one hand lazily draped over the armrest, the other toying with a gold pen like it was a cigar. His smile was a smirk now, slow and knowing. Like he'd just slipped a key into a lock and was waiting to see if the door would open.

"How lovely does that sound?" he said, voice dipped in molasses, eyes trained on yours. "You should use it more often."

And fuck, your face burned.

The heat crept down your neck, across your chest, blooming in your belly. You blinked hard, trying to keep still. To hide how your body betrayed you. But it didn't matter. Franklin saw it. He always did. You shifted just slightly on your feet, and that was enough.

He clocked everything.

"You like working for me so far?" He asked, tone light, but there was nothing innocent about it.

The way he looked at you made the air feel thicker. Like if you breathed too deeply, you might swallow more than oxygen.

"I... I do," you said finally, the words barely above a whisper. "It's different here. Quiet. Clean."

You looked around, pretending to study the office like that was what had your attention, not the way Saint was watching you like he could read the heat under your skin.

"...And you're not like the other bosses I've had."

He chuckled, low and amused, like you'd just handed him a compliment wrapped in a secret.

"No, I'm not," he said. "And I don't plan to be."

There was a pause. Heavy. Lingering. Then—

"Come here for a second," he said.

Not a request. A command, soft-wrapped in charm.

Your legs moved before you could even think about it. You stepped around his desk, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome marking time, every beat louder in your chest.

He watched as you approached—like he was measuring your steps, your breath, and the way your skirt moved when you walked.

When you were close enough to smell his cologne—sharp, woodsy, expensive—he slid papers over to you.

"Read the small paper to me first, out loud," he said, his voice even, casual. Then added, "Then the two others—go over them for errors."

You blinked, thrown for half a second by how mundane the request sounded. That's it? Just read?

"Read it?" you asked, like maybe you hadn't heard him right.

"Mhm," he hummed, settling deeper into the leather, thighs parting just slightly. Just enough. And you knew it wasn't for comfort—it was deliberate. Calculated. The kind of move meant to short-circuit whatever train of thought you were clinging to.

"Out loud."

Your fingers reached for the paper with a shake you hoped he couldn't see. It felt like silk against your skin—thick, creamy, clearly expensive. Not something that got printed on an office copier. It looked like it belonged in a gilded envelope, carried by hand, maybe with a wax seal to match the weight of his name.

You cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. "Please join us—"

"Skip that part," he said, with that same low firmness, like velvet wrapped around command. "Start from my name."

You swallowed. Nodded. Your fingers tightened just slightly on the edge of the paper. "Franklin Saint, you are invited to the 40th birthday celebration of Weston Port. RSVP at the number provided at the bottom of the invitation. We would love to have you here”—

He cut you off with a soft laugh. "Love to have you here," he repeated, his voice rich with something mocking. His mouth curled into that half-smirk, the one that always felt like he was letting you in on a joke with teeth.

Then he tilted his head, eyes still locked on yours.

"That guy hates me, by the way."

You lowered the paper slowly, pulse skipping, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or choke on the heat rising up your chest. "Why does he hate you?"

His smile stretched—wider this time, not kinder.

A quiet kind of cruelty in the corners of his mouth.

"Because his wife prefers me."

It wasn't a boast. It wasn't flirtation, either.

The way he said it—it was fact. Cold. Solid. Undeniable.

The air shifted.

The words didn't hit like a joke. They landed like a dropped match on gasoline, sharp and sudden, making something ignite deep in your gut. You froze—lips parted, breath caught halfway to your lungs.

Jealousy came quickly. Hot and ugly.

Possessive in a way that made no sense.

You had no claim on him. You weren't his. He wasn't yours.

But still—it burned. Low in your belly, a molten thing curled around your spine and made your fists clench just slightly around the paper.

Franklin watched you with that maddening calm, the kind that said he'd already dissected every inch of your reaction before you even had the chance to hide it. Like he could smell the jealousy on you. Like it pleased him.

You looked down at the papers again, tried to focus, tried to pretend the tightness in your chest wasn't there—but your hands were trembling now. Barely, but enough. Enough to betray you.

He waited a beat, letting the silence press in again like a thumb to your throat.

"Now," he said, slow and sure, voice thick with authority. "go over the other two. I want clean copies. No spelling errors. No missed details."

You nodded, eyes flicking back up to meet his.

You knew. But he was studying you again, reading every twitch in your face, every slight shift in breath.

You could feel it. The way his gaze followed your pupils as they darted from side to side, trying to keep up, trying to look like you knew exactly what you were reading—even though you didn't. Not really. Just enough to fake it. Just enough to please him.

and again, your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.

"Is his wife's name... Twanda?" You asked, voice low, almost ashamed of how badly you needed to know.

You risked a glance. And there it was. That smirk again. That wicked amusement curling at the edge of his lips like smoke.

He chuckled, soft and dangerous. "I'm glad you're remembering the book," he said, leaning back.

You could feel it radiating off him now—the satisfaction. Not just that you remembered. But what you remembered. He saw the jealousy in your question, bleeding through every syllable, and it lit something in him.

His baby. Jealous.

He liked it. He liked it too much. You didn't know it, but he did—every damn night he pictured you. His girl on her knees. Obedient. Beautiful. Unguarded. The thought kept him up, aching.

"You told me to, so I did," you murmured back, still focused on the pages in front of you.

You were done.

You’ve been done.

But flipping through them gave you something to do with your hands. Something to hide behind, because eye contact now would wreck you.

He huffed a little, leaning forward just enough to make you feel it in your chest. Then his voice dropped, close and quiet:

"Twanda is a close friend of my mother's," he said finally, his voice easy now, like he wasn't aware of the war he'd started in your chest. "She used to call a lot. And I mean a lot. Trivial things."

He shrugged, all casual indifference, like it didn't matter—but something in the way his jaw flexed said maybe it did.

"She got the hint, maybe," he added, more to himself than to you. "The last time I spoke to her was Christmas."

That landed in the air with a soft finality. No bitterness.

No regrets. Just a fact. And yet you couldn't stop the flicker of relief that bloomed inside you, wild and warm.

You nodded like it was nothing. Like you didn't just unclench your jaw.

"Got it," you murmured, going back to the papers with renewed focus, though the words on the page were a blur now, your mind far from ink and margins.

"Got a boyfriend?" he asked, his voice casual but dipped in something more—curiosity, maybe. Or calculation. Like he already knew and was asking for the sake of watching how you'd react.

Your fingers paused at the corner of the page, still touching the paper but no longer moving. You looked up slowly, caught between surprise and uncertainty, eyes just a shade too wide. The kind of look that wasn't rehearsed.

He caught it.

"Oh—sorry. A girlfriend?" His tone softened, a half-correction, eyebrow lifting like he was opening the door wider.

You laughed, quick and quiet, covering your mouth out of instinct. "No, no. Neither," you said, voice light, but the air around it felt heavier. "Ended something last year, around July. Since then it's just been... me."

You didn't mean to trail off like that, but the words sat strange in your mouth—familiar, but tired. He didn't speak, just nodded once, slow, like he was letting it settle. Like he understood more than he let on.

"Long one?" he asked after a pause, eyes still on you, but softer now. Less study, more presence.

You hesitated, your thumb brushing the edge of the paper. "Yeah. Long enough to feel like a part of me went with it. We were together for a while. Thought it was going to be... I don't know. Everything....He cheated, so”

Who the hell could cheat on someone like you? Franklin couldn't wrap his head around it. The way you walked into a room like sunlight—soft but impossible to ignore. Smart, sweet, with a voice that made even silence feel intimate. You weren't just beautiful; you were rare. The kind of woman a man should get on his knees for. And some idiot threw that away.

Good. That meant you were free now. That meant he could have you.

And Saint wanted you. Not later. Not in some slow-burn fantasy he dragged out over months. Now.

He watched you from his seat, jaw tight, chest heavy with it. Your smile. The curve of your throat when you laughed. The way your fingers curled around the edge of your chair like you needed to hold onto something. He wanted to be that something.

Fuck waiting.

He'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind—sweeping everything off his desk, your gasp swallowed in his mouth, his hands gripping your wrists as your back met the cold wood. Him, between your thighs, desperate and rough, finally tasting the thing he'd been circling for weeks.

And you'd let him. He saw it in the way your gaze lingered too long, in the way your thighs shifted when the room got quiet. You wanted it too. Maybe you didn't know how to say it yet. Maybe you were still telling yourself you shouldn't. But Franklin Saint didn't deal in shouldn't.

Just one word from you—one look—and he'd show you exactly what it means to be wanted.

When you finally put the paper down, ready to tell him you'd found no errors, something small thudded against the carpet. You looked down—pencils, a lots of them, scattered and rolling across the floor like tiny messengers of clumsiness. Your breath caught. You realized they'd slipped off the edge of the desk on your side. Your fault.

"I'm so sorry," you said quickly, already half-bending down.

What you didn't see was the flicker of a smirk slicing across his face behind you. It came and went like lightning—quick, precise, almost cruel.

"It's alright," Franklin said, smooth as velvet. "Could you get those for me, lovely?"

His voice was calm, but there was something heavier sitting beneath the surface. Like thunder building behind a polite sky. He wore that look again—the one that made your stomach dip. Gentle mouth, shadowed eyes. A man pretending at softness, while something darker simmered behind his gaze.

You nodded without thinking.

"Yes, sir," you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

Then your knees hit the floor, bare against the plush rug, and you bent to gather the pencils in your hands. One by one. Delicate. Careful. His silence stretched above you, a humid thing.

He watched, eyes hooded, as you reached further under his desk—watched the way your hand went instinctively to the hem of your skirt, trying to hold it down. Modest. Careful. But it was no use. The skirt was too short, and you'd worn nothing beneath it. No tights. No shorts. Just skin and nerve endings and a poor little excuse for a barrier.

His gaze didn't flinch.

The air in the room shifted, heavy and slow like molasses in the summer. Tension swelled, thick enough to chew. On the surface, you were just picking up pencils—a harmless task.

He turned everything into intention.

You could feel it, the weight of his stare glued to your body, and suddenly your own heartbeat was deafening. Slamming through your chest, echoing in your ears. You stayed on your knees, breath shallow, fingers curling around pencil after pencil, each one slower than the last. One by one. Deliberate.

It wasn't just tension anymore. It was anticipation.

Then—you felt it.

something you didn't think he would be so bold to do.

As you had been picking up the lines of graphite, he had tucked his leather shoe underneath your skirt and lifted it up, making your eyes widen. Your heartbeat falls into the depths of your innards as cold sweat starts to rear its existence after the catalyst of Saint's actions. You felt the tip of his shoe rub against the fat of your ass, and hearing his shallow breath added a hotter tension into the room that made you feel suffocated. All you did was look back as your body shook, feeling the nerves reverberate through you.

"... What are you-"

"Shh... You're so pretty like this... on your knees." He lifted your skirt even higher to expose the lacy pink thong and your exposed ass. "So sexy," he continued to whisper his seductive praises.

He sat back in his chair, letting the tip of his shoe press into the fat that made a plushy indentation that made his cock twitch within his trousers; you were so vulnerable, so unknowing, and he just wanted to take you right then and there as he felt your shuddering body to his touch. His smirk only widened when he witnessed you weren't doing anything.

But that was the point. You were simply there—kneeling, soft, unguarded. And that made it even better.

He saw the way your lip caught between your teeth, trying to quiet the sound building in your throat.

And gosh, that little motion? That was his favorite part.

"Oh, do you like this, sweetheart?" He wasn't going to make you answer; he liked you all nervous and too embarrassed to admit that you liked having your own boss appreciate and want to use your body. He felt like he had won the lottery with how willing your body was for him.

"Hm, I love having you around... It's so sexy when you walk around the place... But I want more than you just playing secretary." He watched as your pupils swallowed the color of your eyes as you looked at him through a shuddering chest from broken breaths.

"Turn around for me; I want to see that pretty face more clearly." At your own volition, you quickly obeyed without hesitancy, watching as he opened his legs and the growing bulge that was starting to develop underneath his navy trousers, imminently making you blush as you watched how your body affected him, how just the sight of your panties was making him rock hard underneath the cloth.

"You're a good girl , aren't you?"

"Mmhmm," you nodded in your timid response as you looked up at him with those 'fuck me' eyes.

"Yeah, you are," he said, his voice warm now, praising like a reward. He leaned forward, his hand finding your face with startling gentleness. Big, firm fingers cradling your cheek like it belonged there. Your body responded before your mind caught up—cheek nuzzling into his palm, chasing that heat, that gravity. Subconscious. Instinctive. You fit against him like you were made for it.

Whatever doubts you'd carried—those silly thoughts that he'd never even notice you, that someone like Franklin Saint couldn't possibly see you that way—they melted under the weight of his touch. Under the closeness. The heat that poured off his body like static before a storm.

"How about you take care of me... I've been feeling so stressed... I'm sure you can help me out with that, can't you?" His voice was just like whiskey, smooth in its feeling but also a sensation of burning with how warmth pooled around your core and started to soak around your slit as your clit throbbed under the desire to be touched and to touch him.

"What do... What do you want me to do?" You whispered, almost pathetically, as your pillowy and glossy lips parted as if you knew exactly where this was going; you weren't completely stupid.

"I want to use that pretty mouth of yours for something good," he said, voice low and heavy with intent, fingers moving to unbuckle his belt. The metallic clink cut through the thick air like a warning—or a promise—and your breath hitched on instinct. The sound made your thighs press tighter together, your pussy throbbing against the now-soaked lace barrier that barely held your arousal in check.

He lifted his hips just enough to slide his trousers and boxers down in one fluid motion, and there—his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, proud in its demand. The sheer size of it made your breath catch in your throat. It was flushed, already hard, with the tip glistening like it had been waiting just for you. He didn't need to say another word. That clock spoke volumes.

"Be a good girl and suck it..." he murmured, one hand resting lazily on the armrest as he stared down at you like you were his reward. "You wouldn't want your boss stressed, would you?"

You shook your head quickly, your voice trembling with need. "No. No, I wouldn't."

Your hands rose to wrap around the base, fingers struggling to meet on the underside as you pumped him slowly, reverently. The vein along the length of his shaft throbbed against your soft palms, your thumb swiping over the bead of pre-drip dripping from the swollen head. His breath stuttered—a sharp inhale through gritted teeth.

You looked up at him, locking eyes with that dark, unreadable gaze, and then leaned in. Your tongue dragged a long, slow stripe up from the base to the tip, savoring the heat and weight of him, the way his cock twitched under your attention. His hand tightened on the armrest.

Then you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, wet and warm, lips stretched around his thickness. The taste of him, salty and heavy with want, coated your tongue as you moaned around him—soft, muffled, sinful.

Franklin's head fell back, his jaw tightening.

"Oh, fuck, yes, you're so good at that." His fingers started to tangle in your previously neat hair, causing frizzy strands to strike up as he smoothed his palms over your scalp, gently bucking his hips to guide his cock further into the warm and soaking valley of your mouth and throat.

You softly gagged at the feeling of his fat cock pressing against the back of your throat; you loved this, feeling your glossy lips stretch around him and tasting his salty length as you continued to suck and feel him.

"A-aah, yeah, you're taking me so well," he whispered another praise before he started to feel a little greedy. "Why don't you take that blouse off... I want to see those pretty tits."

You took your mouth off of him in a loud, wet popping sound that made him shudder as the cold air pressed against his cock, continuing to palm and pump his throbbing length as he watched you unbutton the silk blouse until it became discarded cloth on the floor, soon accompanied by your black lace bra.

You felt that pleasurable tingling feeling within your walls and a heated coil that was heating up as it tied together tightly when you squeezed the mounds of your chest for him, letting soft whimpers protrude from your lips as you squeezed onto the sensitive buds when looking into his darkened gaze.

Franklin leaned forward, slow and deliberate, like a shadow swallowing light. His hands peeled away from the armrests, the tension in his shoulders rippling as he shifted over you, dominant and calm, like he had all the time in the world to savor this.

Then—his palms landed on your chest, warm and heavy, cupping the weight of your bare breasts. No hesitation. No apology. Just need to meet with ownership.

He kneaded them slowly, thumbs rolling over your sensitive nipples, dragging them into stiffness. You gasped around his cock, the sensation electric, like he was rewiring your nerves. He never broke eye contact. He just stared down at you like you were his sweetest sin, his most beautiful disaster.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice thick with pride and lust. "Such a mess."

Spit trailed down your cheek, the slick sheen around your lips catching the light, your eyes glassy with pleasure and overwhelming need. Your thighs squeezed together as you moaned to him again.

You were flustered, ruined—his good girl brought to the edge.

His presence was demanding, yet arousing at the same time; a superior shouldn't be doing this to their secretary, but let's be honest, the fantasy has been around for as long as can be remembered; it wasn't like you were complaining that an attractive older man wanted to use you as a cocksleeve. Of course, there was the little voice in the back of your mind telling you that this power dynamic was wrong; you were his employee, and it was highly inappropriate for him to be treating you like this, but the libido soon squelched the rational down as your heated core was wanting to take him on further.

You made his head fall back onto the headrest of his office chair again when you continued to leave swirls from your tongue on the tip of his dribbling cock, tasting that salty and creamy precum as you watched his chest fall up and down in broken tandem to his labored breaths. You could feel your panties become completely soaked when a slow, gushing release came down in your finish as you wrapped your breasts around his large cock and heard his sensual moans fill his office room up.

"Fuck, aaah, keep going, don't stop, making me feel so good," he kept caressing your cheek as he watched you leave kitten licks on the tip of your warm, plushy breasts hugged around his shaft. "Such a perfect, sexy girl."

You sucked on the tip of his fat cock, watching him bite his lip.

"I'm so close... Stop for a moment."

The command was sharp but hushed, laced with restraint—his voice strained from holding himself back. You obeyed instantly, lips releasing him with a soft pop, breath catching as your mouth ached and your chin glistened with the evidence of just how good you'd been.

"Stand up," he said.

You didn't think twice. Your legs were trembling, barely holding your weight, but you stood—still buzzing from the heat of his hands, the ache of his cock in your mouth, and the denial that left you soaked and desperate. Your fingers ghosted over the hem of your skirt, trying to fix it, even though the fabric clung to your thighs, damp with your own arousal. You felt exposed. Ruined. Beautiful.

Your eyes never left him.

He moved with a smooth, unbothered calm, reaching into the drawer beside him like he'd done this a hundred times before. No urgency. No shame. Just pure, collected dominance. You watched him pull out his wallet, the soft leather creasing in his palm, and then—between two fingers—he slipped out a small, gold package.

Your breath caught.

"Get on the desk," he said, his voice low and rich, thick with the promise of everything he'd been holding back. "Spread your legs so I can see."

Your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You turned, the edge of the desk cold against your thighs as you climbed up, palms pressing into the wood for balance. Slowly, you leaned back, your knees parting inch by inch, the cool air meeting the heat between your legs as you revealed everything to him—lace soaked through, clinging to swollen lips, proof of your need written into every curve and shiver.

Franklin stood there, gold wrapper in hand, eyes locked between your thighs like a man staring at salvation.

"Fuck, baby..." he groaned, the sound raw, almost a whimper. There was nothing controlled about it anymore—just want. Heavy. Undeniable. His composure cracked in real time, and it only made your core throb harder, slick gathering with every second he looked at you like that.

He stepped closer, his hands finding the waistband of your panties, fingers curling into the lace.

One sharp tug.

The soaked fabric peeled from your skin like second nature, dragging across your sensitive folds and stealing a gasp from your lips. He didn't move slowly. He didn't ask. He took. The lace hit the floor in an instant, forgotten.

And there you were—open, glistening, your plump, wet cunt exposed to the thick air and his starving gaze.

you lean back a little more, and slowly spread your thighs more, opening up more so the ball of nerves would be exposed as well as your dripping hole. Your heels were gone, kicked off in the heat of it all. Now your soft, pretty white toes gripped the desk's edge, barely holding you in place as you arched slightly,

Your pussy sat there in the light, bare and soaked and ready, a perfect picture of surrender and need.

Franklin He stood frozen for a heartbeat—mouth parted, jaw slack. The raw hunger in his face wasn't subtle. It was worship. It was claiming.

"Shit ..." he breathed, more to himself than to you, like he wasn't sure how he'd held back this long.

The gold wrapper crinkled in his fist as he fought with it, hands no longer slow or calculated—now frantic, desperate to be inside you. He tore it open, pulled the rubber free, and with one long stroke, slid it over his thick, leaking cock. The sight of him standing there, hard and ready, made your hips twitch off the desk in anticipation.

He wrapped his fingers around the base, gave himself one firm pump, eyes never leaving your dripping cunt.

And then—he stepped closer to your legs.

Your legs instinctively slid closer together, thighs brushing, nerves creeping in like a shadow. For a moment, you let the reality of his size sink in—the sheer weight of it, the way it curved in his grip, thick and pulsing. You tilted your chin up, eyes wide and uncertain, a soft breath catching in your throat.

"Franklin... It's so big, I— I haven't had that big before—"

Your words came out like a whisper, stammered and laced with equal parts awe and fear.

But he didn't soothe you. He didn't stroke your hair or offer gentle words.

No.

His voice cut through the air like a blade—rough, commanding, dripping with authority and hunger.

"Spread them," he growled, stepping closer, the tip of his cock brushing your inner thigh. "Or I'll spread them for you."

That tone—it flipped a switch inside you. Something primal. Something submissive and aching to obey.

You weren't used to it. Not from him. Not from anyone.

Which is why your thighs flew open , trembling as you obeyed instantly, wide and dripping and ready. Your pussy glistened under the light again, exposed and aching, your core fluttering with anticipation and the sharp thrill of giving up control.

Franklin's hand wrapped around the base of his cock, thick and pulsing with heat as he dragged it slowly through your folds, letting your slick coat every inch of him. He moved deliberately, smearing himself in your arousal, the swollen head brushing over your clit just enough to make your back arch and a broken whimper slip from your lips.

Your hands lifted—finally—like your body couldn't stay passive any longer. They found his arms, fingers curling into his firm biceps, grounding yourself in him as he bit down on his bottom lip, gaze locked between your thighs. His cock slid up and down again, gliding with ease now, teasing your entrance as he groaned low and deep in his chest.

One hand gripped your knee and held, keeping you wide open. You tried to close your thighs reflexively, overwhelmed, but he didn't let you—not even for a second. His fingers dug in, possessive, commanding, holding you in place as his cockhead smeared your wetness across your folds again and again, each stroke making the tension coil tighter in your gut.

"You're so wet, baby..." he muttered, voice distant, lost. Like he forgot where he was—forgot about the office, the company, the windows overlooking downtown. None of it mattered now. Just your cunt, open and ready. His temple dropped back, jaw slack with a sigh that sounded like worship.

"Ahh, f-fuck." Your eyes couldn't leave his face. He was beautiful like this—undone, needy, lost in you. You were soaked, ruined, panting—his.

A mess.

Then, with one greedy, careless push—he found your entrance. You gasped. Bite your tongue. He slipped in too easily, too naturally, as if your body had been made for him.

He moaned under his breath, hips rolling as he fed more of himself into you, slow and relentless, until he bottomed out. His hips pressed flush to yours, his balls snug against the curve of your ass, and you let out a fragile little sound, something between a gasp and a moan, helpless to the fullness.

"You okay, baby?" He murmured, breath unsteady. One of his hands moved to your waist, his thumb stroking your side. "How does that feel?"

Your walls clenched around him involuntarily, sucking him deeper, as if your body didn't want to let him go. He shuddered from the feeling, his eyes softening, something dangerously close to adoration swimming there.

You could barely breathe. You were floating.

And then it came out of you—raw, unplanned, honest.

"Daddy... it feels so good," you whimpered, your voice all breath and silk, breaking apart under the weight of him inside you. Eyes wide, glassy, cheeks flushed—the picture of soft surrender. You looked like the sweetest kind of mess, like the type of girl who gets what she wants just by pouting pretty and parting her thighs. A spoiled little pillow princess laid out and ruined just right.

Franklin looked down at you, heat licking through his chest at the sight. His jaw tightened, but that smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, knowing, cruel.

"I know baby," he murmurs in a taunting way. "I know."

"Don't s-stop, i–i'm almost there—" you gasp, the words tumbling out in pieces, each syllable cracked open by the rhythm of his thrusts. You're begging now—for air, for mercy, for him to never stop. Because you're right on the edge, teetering on the brink of something too good, too deep. Bliss, heaven, him.

Franklin's grip tightens on your waist, and he leans in until his forehead presses to yours, eyes blazing.

"I won't," he pants, breath ragged, voice rough with focus and fire. "I won't. I promise, princess."

His words hit you like a vow, low and serious, each one chased by the sound of skin against skin and the heat of his body overwhelming yours. He doesn't stop—not even for a second. His hips stay steady, relentless, chasing your high like it's the only thing that matters.

And the way he's looking at you—like you're the only girl in the world, like nothing else exists but your shaking body under his—makes you fall apart just that much faster.

You were a dirty girl, and you knew it. You knew it the second you opened your legs and let him see how wet you already were, how easily your body betrayed every little game you thought you could play. You thought you'd last, thought you could take it and keep some kind of control—but Franklin Saint stripped that away from you with nothing but a look and a few deep, unrelenting strokes.

Now you were here—writhing beneath him, back arched and breath catching in your throat. You were moaning into his ear, the words filthy, soft, and broken. almost slipping, "I love you, I love you," like he was the last man you'll ever be with. It was just the way he filled you so deep it felt like he lived inside your bones.

You were so close.

"I can't, baby... Uh, fuck daddy." Your brain is already melting, and with it, your pussy starts to melt more. You wonder if he even notices such a thing from how he's basically fucking you now like his life depended on it.

"You want to cum pretty?" He pants on your face for a second, seeing how your eyes were starting to roll.

Your fingers find his shirt, skimming the side seam of the cotton separating you from his skin. He grabs onto you tighter, like he's afraid you might slip away. His thrusts turn rougher, deeper, and more desperate—driven by something primal and possessive. You can feel the muscles in his back shift under your hands, feel the heat radiating off him, and see the way his shirt sticks to his skin with the sweat he's working up just for you.

"Touching' me like that," he growls near your ear, voice thick with heat, "is going to make me lose my fucking' mind."

You can feel the tremble in his arms, the shake in his breath, and the way he fucks you like he needs it. Like you're the only thing keeping him grounded.

"cum for me, baby. I'll give you everything you want, princess ... whatever you need," he coos into your ear while fucking you hard, his voice so soft.

The cries tearing through the room are yours—but they barely sound like you anymore. They're ragged and raw, wrecked beyond recognition. So pathetic, so desperate, like a girl who's never known anything like this. Like a girl who's unraveling with him buried so deep inside, it feels like he's splitting your soul wide open just to claim it.

Your body jerks beneath him, hips twitching with every thrust like you're chasing the end, like you need to take him with you. And he matches it—his hips punching into you with purpose, power, like he's determined to finish with you, in you, no matter what it takes.

He expected this from you. Expected you to be needy, expected your sweet cunt to be this wet, this messy, this perfect.

And still, the way you clamp around him with every pulse of your orgasm nearly undoes him. It's a miracle he's still inside, thick and hard, when you're so slippery, so drenched, his cock sliding through the heat of you like velvet wrapped in wet silk.

He thrusts into you like he's got something to prove—like every brutal thrust is a punishment and a prayer. His rhythm is ruthless, unrelenting, the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked flesh echoing off the office walls like filth wrapped in rhythm. There's nothing sweet about it now—this is pure possession, raw and animal, like he's been saving this part of himself just for you.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave pulling you under, leaving you limp, trembling, a boneless mess. But he doesn't stop. Not even a little. He uses your body like it's his right, his reward, barely coherent with the things he's saying—gritted praise, ragged groans, something about how tight you are, how good you feel, how his you are.

Then his muscles snap taut.

He throws his head back, curses low and feral, and pulls out of you so fast it makes your breath hitch. The condom's off in a blink. His jaw clenched, his hand jerks his cock once, twice—and then hot, thick release spills from him, shooting across your stomach, your cunt, painting you in sticky ribbons of lust. He groans through it.

And when he's emptied himself, when the haze finally lifts, he collapses into his chair, chest rising and falling fast. He's still facing you—still watching.

You're frozen in place, arched and open, breath coming in frantic little stutters. Your thighs twitch. Your body's ruined. Your mind Gone.

beautiful.

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