#rapid implementation

[midnightwind]

yeah I still hate the story beats around killing Ghilan'nain the second time around lmao this coulda been so mean, but instead it's suuuuper rushed

[seumyo]

thinking about the aftermath of the final war with bakugou.

It’s more often that you and Bakugou are the only ones left in the dorms after the war. The others chose to go back to their homes when the school’s implementation of mandatory dorm living lifted, and some decided to stay a little longer.

“Taste this.”

Bakugou raised a brow but didn’t protest as you walked over, spooning some curry towards his mouth. With a slight huff, he leaned forward, lips parting just enough to take the spoon. The moment it hit his tongue, his nose scrunched slightly.

“Careful, it’s still a bit hot.”

“Mild,” he muttered after swallowing. “You could barely even taste the richness of the sauce, too.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, frowning. “Are you serious? I followed your recipe.”

“Still mild; you brought shame to my recipe.”

You gave him an unimpressed look before turning back on the pot. “Wow, then maybe you should’ve been the one cooking here. I’m gonna check what went wrong.”

“I would if I could, dipshit.”

“Just get over here and check, too.”

“Nuh-uh. You said you’d cook tonight.”

“And you’re the one who keeps on complaining that I didn’t do your recipe justice!”

“That’s a fact.”

“Starve.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he went back to his writing practice, but there was something in his expression—something almost amused.

-

Bakugou sat by his study desk, his left hand gripping a pen tightly as he tried to force his stubborn fingers into writing something readable. His handwriting had always been sharp and textbook-pristine penmanship that you could mistake it for being printed, but now, with his right hand still recovering, it looked… awful.

You sat a good distance next to him, watching with an unreadable expression.

“Oi,” Bakugou grunted, not looking up. “The hell are you staring at?”

“Your letters look like a baby bird scratched them out,” you said bluntly, not even bothering to hold back on your words.

He clicked his tongue. “Like I don’t already know that.”

You reached over, grabbing his notebook before he could protest, flipping back to his first attempts from a few weeks ago. The letters were uneven, practically illegible. Then you held it up next to his latest attempt.

“See? You’re getting better.” You turned the notebook toward him. “You can actually read this one.”

He scoffed but didn’t deny it. Instead, he reached for the notebook, but you yanked it away at the last second, grinning.

“You don’t get this back until you admit I’m a good teacher.”

Bakugou glared at you, debating whether this was worth a fight. Finally, he sighed, leaning back against the chair.

“Fine. You’re not the worst teacher.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Don’t get too cocky.”

“Me? Never. That’s more of a you thing and not a me thing.”

“Like hell it’s only me.”

You laughed. “Let’s try numbers this time; I even bought a tracing book.”

“That shit’s for kids,” he scoffed.

“It says three and up,” you argued. “You’re three and up, are you not? And—who knows? Maybe after this you’ll be ambidextrous.”

“Shut up.”

-

“Run.”

That was the only warning before Bakugou grabbed your wrist and bolted.

The sound of rapid footsteps and excited squeals filled the hall behind you. A group of first-year girls was hot on your trail, giddy with the thrill of chasing UA’s most popular second-year student.

“Why the hell do they keep following me?!” Bakugou barked as you rounded a corner, his grip still firm on your wrist.

“Because you’re literally their idol,” you said between breaths, peeking to see as the girls went the opposite direction. “They see you as some kind of bad boy heartthrob ever since the Sports Festival. It’s kinda cute.”

“It’s not cute—it’s annoying!”

You found an empty classroom and slammed the door shut. Both of you stood there, panting. Outside, the sounds of giggling and footsteps faded down the hall, the first-years continuing their search elsewhere.

You let out a breath and leaned against a desk. “Could be worse. They could be chasing you with cameras like the paparazzi did.”

Bakugou groaned, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Don’t even joke about that.”

You nudged his shoulder, smiling. “You didn’t have to drag me with you, y’know? Or is this an excuse to be alone in a room with me?”

He glared at you, opening his mouth to argue—but then he caught the teasing glint in your eyes and scoffed, shaking his head.

“Fucking idiot. You’d get trampled over by that mob.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll tell Iida to see if he can scout the area to make sure no one’s going to jump at us when we leave.”

You laughed, and despite himself, Bakugou didn’t find it all that annoying. He actually found it... familiar and worth something he can’t put into words.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[hammerheadandsickle]

i missed spamming my mutuals dms on here with silly posts it doesn’t hit the same on twitter unless it’s a groupchat

[deception-united]

Let's talk about pacing.

Pacing is crucial to consider in plot development. It refers to the speed at which events unfold in your story.

It's important to vary the pacing to keep readers engaged. By effectively managing it throughout, you can maintain reader interest, build tension, and create an overall compelling narrative.

Fast-paced scenes: Use quick, action-packed scenes during moments of high tension, such as intense action sequences or pivotal plot points. Short sentences and rapid-fire dialogue can help create a sense of urgency and keep readers on the edge of their seats.

Slow-paced scenes: Slow down the pacing during moments of introspection, character development, or when you want to build atmosphere. Take the time to delve into emotions, descriptions, and inner thoughts to deepen the reader's connection to the characters and world.

Transitions: Smoothly transition between fast-paced and slow-paced scenes to maintain momentum while allowing readers time to catch their breath and process information. (See here for more on how to effectively implement transitions!)

Avoid prolonged lulls: While it's essential to have slower moments for character development and world-building, be cautious of prolonged lulls in the story where nothing significant happens. Keep the plot moving forward, even during quieter scenes, by introducing new information, conflicts, or character dynamics.

Balance: have a balance between fast-paced and slow-paced scenes throughout your narrative to create a dynamic reading experience. Too much action without sufficient downtime can exhaust readers, while an excessive number of slow scenes may lead to boredom.

More writing help on my blog! ❤

Previous | Next

[herpsandbirds]

A remarkable new blue Ranitomeya species (Anura: Dendrobatidae) with copper metallic legs from open forests of Juruá River Basin, Amazonia

Esteban Diego Koch, Alexander Tamanini Monico, et al.

ABSTRACT

Poison dart frogs (Dendrobatidae) are known for their aposematic coloration and toxic skin, making them a frequent subject of interest and research. However, descriptions of new species of Ranitomeya were interrupted for more than a decade. The implementation of a RAPELD (Rapid Assessment surveys of Long-Term Ecological Research) module in the Juruá River basin, a highly biodiverse and underexplored region, led to the record of a Ranitomeya species with blue dorsal stripes and coppery limbs. Herein we use morphological, morphometric, advertisement call, natural history, tadpole data and genetic data to describe the new species. Our phylogenetic analysis places the species within the Ranitomeya vanzolinii clade, and all delimitation methods confirmed its status as a new species. The species is characterized by its (i) small size (snout-vent length: males 15.2–17.0 mm, females 14.4–16.9 mm), (ii) dorsum with light sky-blue stripes on a reddish-brown ground, and metallic copper limbs with reddish-brown spots, (iii) ring-shaped granular region on the belly, (iv) toes with poorly developed lateral fringes, (v) later tadpole stages with tooth rows P1 = P2 > P3, P3 of 83–87% of P1, and conspicuous light sky-blue dorsal stripes, and (vi) cricket-like advertisement call consisting of 16–35 notes, call duration of 490–1,005 ms, note duration of 8.2–16.9 ms and dominant frequency of 5,168–6,029 Hz. The discovery of the new species emphasizes the significance of researching under-sampled regions like the Juruá River basin, and the usefulness of using a multidisciplinary approach to reveal new dendrobatid species.

Read the paper here:

A remarkable new blue Ranitomeya species (Anura: Dendrobatidae) with copper metallic legs from open forests of Juruá River Basin, Amazonia | PLOS One

[uluthrek]

au in which robert, the starks and the lannisters play monopoly instead of going hunting and pushing each other‘s kids from towers.

tyrion implements a tax system to make things more interesting and fights cersei over the cat for a solid ten minutes.

around thirty minutes into the game, catelyn realizes that she has free will and stops paying taxes.

arya and sansa haggle over new york avenue, which ends up being bought by theon. this causes the two to completely cast aside their differences, ally and subsequently start doing everything in their power to make theon‘s life hell.

theon himself is quite severely stoned the entire time throughout.

ned enters horrendous debt pretty much immediately and, after two hours of being financially sucked dry by both cersei and his tax evader of a wife, decides to just place his figurine in jail and never leave.

jon, playing the dog, controls the railroads and makes jaime, playing the ship, go completely broke within minutes. being beaten by a bastard and officially the first to lose the game makes jaime so mad he spends the rest of the evening perched on the family‘s ancestral armchair eating flaming hot cheetos and stifling sobs.

cersei is holding onto her last two dollars and her one house in atlantic avenue like a maniac and evades taxes like it‘s an olympic sport. she claims ownership of kentucky avenue on the grounds that red is her house‘s color at least twice. after three hours, she‘s consumed enough vintage red to kill a large mammal and keeps quoting the art of war. fascinatingly enough, she never goes completely broke.

robert, just as broke and drunk as his wife but not nearly as ferocious, proposes marriage for tax advantages to bran, who is in possession of the boardwalk and lets him dangle on his proposition for two rounds before accepting and feeling like a benevolent god.

sansa sees this and immediately proposes to arya, who accepts, only for them to be sued by their mother for public indecency („you‘re siblings, jesus christ!“). arya argues that this is just a game and that one could argue that robert‘s and bran‘s marital alliance is just as if not even more inappropriate, considering that bran is seven and robert thirtyseven. sansa countersues her mother for tax evasion, who promises she‘ll drop her lawsuit if her daughters let her keep hoarding perverse amounts of wealth. „love wins!“ arya says, which causes jaime, still perched on the armchair but now eating old nan‘s home made whiskey truffles, to hysterically sob. cersei stares him down.

robb, in a rare moment of almost prophetic foresight, excuses himself one hour in and goes on a very, VERY long walk with grey wind.

tyrion, whose tax system has spectacularly backfired in his face, proposes marriage to catelyn, jon and cersei in rapid succession, who all turn him down. „i wish i was the monster you think i am. i wish i had enough poison for the whole pack of you. i would gladly give my life to watch you all swallow it.“ he screams before he leaves the table.

at that, joffrey, who has refused to participate and instead sits on the couch playing doom on his nintendo ds, starts hysterically laughing. tyrion turns on his heel and awards his nephew with the bitchslap of the century. this causes cersei to completely abandon the game and chase after him with a broom. catelyn makes sure that everyone is distracted by the lannister antics and then reaches across the table and bags cersei‘s money and properties.

with a heavy heart, myrcella trades arya and sansa one of her limited edition bayala schleich unicorns for park place.

at this point, the game is between the tycoons that are catelyn and jon, the bran-robert alliance, the arya-sansa-alliance, and ned, who is still in jail and watching ice hockey on his phone under the table. that is when catelyn hears rickon gagging and discovers that he, in the absence of tyrion, the self declared bank manager, has managed to eat all bank notes from the box.

rickon gets his stomach pumped, cersei and tyrion have both been arrested, theon is still stoned, arya, sansa and myrcella have wandered off to go play schleich horses, and jon remains at the table, alone, content, and quietly considering himself the winner.

[alexanderwales]

A fantasy worldbuilding idea on what to do with making humans special:

Humans have comparatively insane endurance. Most other species are like cats, spending only 4-6 hours a day "active", which includes time spent playing, working, eating, and interacting with others. The remaining 18-20 hours are spent sleeping or in light rest. Humans putting in eight hours of work every day seems insane, and it seems even more insane when they realize that there's an additional eight hours of cooking, eating, socialization, and play. Human armies aren't feared because they have powerful warriors, they're feared because they can do a fifteen mile march in a day. Humans don't produce the best goods, but because they work so many more hours in a day, they can produce a lot more.

There are a few consequences of this. For one, most of the fantasy races will tend to stay pretty close to their homes, given that travel takes time. If they do travel, that travel has to be in the form of either swiftly moving places in a limited time (e.g. with horses) or a form of travel that allows them to be in "light rest" mode (e.g. lazing about in a wagon). The elves might have grand ships that allow six different shifts of elven sailors, because that's the only way they can keep up with a human navy, and this would obviously have all kinds of cool downstream implications.

In a city that's not dominated by humans, you might either get a "high intensity" four hour block where all business gets done, or alternately, depending on physiology, you might have elven shopkeepers sleeping on their feet, only stirring when someone comes in with some business, and of course there's a limit on how many customers an elf could handle in a day, and some etiquette about not entering a shop unless it's going to be worth the elf's limited time.

I'm continually picturing my cats, who actually do sleep or rest for about twenty hours out of the day. They have a way of lifting their head to see whether a noise or vibration warrants their attention, then settling back down with a huff when it turned out to be a noisy human. This is, in my mind, very close to being elf behavior already.

But if all fantasy races are going to have limited endurance, then I do think it's important to have it be implemented in different ways depending on the species. Here are some ideas:

Elves are like cats, lazing about, extremely fast and agile in their high-power moments, but mostly yawning and stretching, conserving energy for the times of need.

Dwarves have a more strict and structured four hour stretch, which cannot be broken up. Once they're roused for the day, that's it, they have to make the most of it, and this is one of the reason that they disdain delays, dithering, and other things that don't make productive use of their precious four hours.

Orcs go through a personality shift when they're in "waking mode", and while they never actually sleep, a dormant orc is physically smaller, listless, and difficult to engage in conversation. In a first contact scenario, it might be possible to regard these as two separate species, or to imagine that one "form" is male and the other female.

Gnomes have relatively rapid alternating cycles of sleep and wake, with their four hours of activity stretched across the day in half-hour chunks. Gnomes workmen often fall asleep in the middle of crafting, then lift their heads from their benches and continue on as though they had only been asleep for seconds rather than several hours. (For this reason, gnomes often have fire-stoppers built into their homes and workplaces that will quench their flames if they nod off in the midst of work. It also limits their ability to work with flame in general.)

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER V: TENDER.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (20,7k words)

Author's note: Congratulations for making it through the week. Pls enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think about it after ♡

Tender. /ˈten.dər/ (adj) 1. showing gentleness and concern or sympathy. 2. easy to cut.

There’s something about the way sweet things linger on your tongue—like the moments you’ve shared with Minho. Each one, fleeting and intoxicating, feels like a sugar rush. The stolen glances, the secret smiles, the warmth of his presence beside you—they all flood your senses, leaving you craving more.

But now, that sweetness has turned cloying. The secret you’ve been keeping together, delicate as spun sugar, is starting to crack. And like biting into something bittersweet after too much indulgence, the sharp edge of reality cuts through.

You’re walking toward the locker room, hands balled into fists on each side of you and you brace yourself for what's coming as you push the door open. It feels like the aftermath of a sugar addiction—the kind of crash that leaves you wondering why you allowed yourself to get so carried away in the first place.

The memory of Taesoo’s panicked face lingering in your mind, his words ringing in your ears: Everyone knows now.

Your heart sinks again, as if hearing it for the first time.

The taste of bitterness is unmistakable now, grounding you in the realization that this thing between you and Minho—this private, fragile thing—has been exposed to the light.

The locker room feels like a battlefield the moment you step inside. Seungwan charges toward you like he’s been lying in wait. His voice comes out in a rapid-fire assault.

“Minji saw everything!” he declares, practically vibrating with excitement. “She watched you and Chef Minho in the café! She even sent me a picture—proof!”

Your stomach drops, but you force yourself to stay calm. Before you can even respond, Hyunwoo appears at Seungwan’s side, his expression stern. “So? Is it true?”

Before you can answer, Felix suddenly slides into view, positioning himself at your side like a protective shield.

“Hey, it’s not true.” His wide, bright eyes lock onto yours as he asks for your confirmation, “That’s not true, right?”

The weight of their combined stares is suffocating, but you take a deep breath and let it out, bracing yourself. “It’s true.”

The room erupts. Seungwan gasps in victory, practically glowing as he boasts, “See? I told you I wasn’t lying!”

You quickly raise your hands, trying to regain control of the situation. “Wait, listen. It’s true we went to the café, but it’s not because we’re dating, we're close because we were friends back in Italy.”

The uproar falters, and Hyunwoo crosses his arms, skeptical. “Minji said she saw you give him chocolate.”

“I did,” you admit, “but not everyone who exchanges chocolates on Valentine’s Day is a couple by default.”

Seungwan isn’t buying it. “Minji said you looked like a couple.”

You meet his gaze head-on. “Does she have proof? Did she see us kissing? Did she see us sleeping together?”

That bold challenge silences him for a moment, but before you can feel any relief, Felix jumps in, clearly desperate to squash the rumor.

“Hey, it’s impossible!” he insists. “Chef isn’t the type to fall for some random woman in the kitchen. Even if you like him, no matter how hard you try, he won't budge.”

You don’t know if that comment stings more than it should, but you keep your face neutral. In the corner, you catch Taesoo trying to suppress a laugh. He quickly looks away when your eyes meet his.

The tension in the room gradually deflates as the others seem to accept the lack of solid evidence. Seungwan narrows his eyes at you, his voice low with warning. “If it turns out you are dating, I’m not going to sit back and allow it.”

You force a small, indifferent smile. “Fine.”

The others shuffle out of the locker room one by one, grumbling amongst themselves. As you listen to Felix and Hyunwoo bicker about whether or not you’re really dating Minho, you lean against the cold metal of the lockers and close your eyes.

Finally, blessedly, the room is empty, and the air feels breathable again. You sag against the lockers, exhaustion creeping in. The bitter taste of the confrontation lingers, but at least, for now, the storm has passed.

But even in the bitterness, there’s a part of you that clings to the sweetness. The way Minho looked at you, the way his voice softened when he said your name. Those moments are what keep you going, what make the risk feel almost worth it.

You glance down at the chef coat hanging in front of you, then yanking it off the hanger and taking your time as you put it on. Maybe you need the space to breathe, or maybe you’re just trying to drown out the ache in your chest.

Because no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, to quit this dangerous craving, your heart keeps whispering the same thing: One more taste.

-

The echo of his footsteps feels heavier today as Minho walks through the hall and up the stairs to his office. Everyone knows. That single thought loops in his head, clinging like a bad smell he can’t shake off.

He’s prepared himself for the inevitable questions, even rehearsed his answers, but when he steps into his office, the tension he expected isn’t there.

Sara is at her desk, her pen gliding smoothly over her notebook. She looks up briefly when he enters, her brow furrowing slightly as if she senses his unease. But she says nothing.

Minho pauses, unsure. Her lack of reaction is almost more unsettling than if she’d pounced on him with questions. They share a quiet glance, her expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. When he doesn’t speak, she simply returns to her notes, the faint scratch of her pen filling the silence.

Minho crosses the room and drops into his chair, swiveling it slightly to the side to put himself out of Sara’s line of sight. His fingers reach into his coat pocket, pulling out the card you gave him.

He stares at the envelope for a moment, running his thumb along the edge before carefully pulling the card out. The words you wrote are simple, yet they hit him with an unexpected force.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

A small, lopsided smile tugs at his lips as his eyes fall to the tiny heart you’ve sketched in the corner, next to your initials. It’s so you, and it’s perfect.

Minho lets himself sink into the warmth of your words, feeling them settle in his chest. For a brief moment, the weight of the morning—the rumors, the tension, the stares—fades away. All that matters is this little card and the emotions it carries.

He leans back in his chair, holding the card in one hand as he gazes at it. The dread that had been clawing at him since Taesoo’s outburst dissipates. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Instead, he thinks of you. The way your eyes light up when you talk about food, the shy smile you tried to hide when you slid the box of chocolates across the café table, how you thought of him when you wrote these words.

Minho’s grip on the card tightens slightly, a spark of determination igniting within him.

-

The kitchen hums with the usual chaos—clanging pans, sizzling oils, and sharp orders cutting through the air—but today, there’s a peculiar tension simmering beneath it all. It’s intangible, like an invisible thread tightening around everyone, pulling them taut.

Minho feels it, the weight of too many eyes fixed on him. He’s used to being the center of attention in the kitchen, but this is different. Suspicion hangs in the air like the smell of burning garlic.

He notices Taesoo, his eyes darting nervously between stations. First at you, then at Minho, then at everyone else, as if trying to track invisible lines of connection. Minho doesn’t miss the way Sara leans toward you, whispering something. You shake your head, feigning obliviousness, but your stiff shoulders betray your discomfort.

Minho keeps his face neutral, but inside, he’s amused. He knows exactly what’s happening.

Walking the perimeter of the kitchen, he checks on everyone’s progress, pausing here and there to critique, encourage, or chastise. When he reaches your station, he pauses longer than necessary. Without warning, he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to shake the frying pan properly.

“Faster, but steady,” he says, his tone deceptively soft. His hand remains over yours a moment longer than needed, and he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric of his gloves.

It’s deliberate, of course. A tiny act of rebellion against the scrutiny, a way to poke at the invisible tension until it snaps.

You pull your hand away quickly, your cheeks flushing as you mutter, “I’ll do better.” Your eyes dart nervously around the kitchen, and Minho knows you’re aware of the stares.

He smirks faintly. “Good.”

Then, louder, for everyone to hear, he says, “Come with me.”

The room freezes for a moment, and Minho doesn’t miss the way Taesoo’s face pales. Minho walks toward the freezer without looking back, trusting that you’ll follow. Sure enough, he hears your footsteps trailing behind him, hesitant but obedient.

The freezer door closes with a soft thud, and the chill immediately bites at his skin. You cross your arms, glaring at him.

“Chef, we shouldn’t be doing this,” you grumble, your voice low but firm.

Minho raises a brow, feigning innocence. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Everyone is watching,” you hiss.

He steps closer, tilting his head slightly. “I called you in here to scold you. Don’t get any ideas. Do I have to tell you so many—”

Before he can elaborate, the door bursts open, and Taesoo rushes in, his face a mask of panic.

“Chef,” he stammers, his voice a frantic whisper. “Everyone’s watching you two. You can’t—”

Minho cuts him off with a sharp look, his patience thinning. “It seems you the two of you are getting too comfortable with me. It’s time to fix that.”

Both of you blink at him in confusion.

“Kneel,” Minho orders, his voice cold and authoritative.

“What? Why?” you ask, incredulous.

“Kneel on the floor and raise your arms. Now.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before you and Taesoo comply, kneeling on the icy floor and raising your arms awkwardly.

Minho crosses his arms, pacing in front of you. “Respect in the kitchen isn’t optional. Do you think I'm a friend? You will both stay like this for ten minutes as punishment.”

He walks over to a nearby bucket of clams, gesturing toward it. “And apologize to the clams. You didn’t clean them properly, and they still smell like mud.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to his surprise, you burst into laughter, your giggles echoing in the cold space.

Minho glares at you. “Do you think this is funny?”

Through your laughter, you manage to say, “I’m just… glad I’m being punished.”

Taesoo, unable to hold it in, starts chuckling beside you. The sound is contagious, and for a brief second, Minho’s composure cracks, a small smile threatening to escape. He quickly regains control, his expression hardening.

Minho straightens, his authoritative mask slipping back into place. “Now, stop grinning like an idiot and keep your arms up. Ten minutes isn’t over yet.”

As he turns to leave the freezer, a small, satisfied smirk plays on his lips. Whatever happens next—whatever fallout this may bring—he’s ready. For you, he’ll face it all and if anything, he feels braver now.

-

Minho’s office feels smaller than usual, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Felix hesitates, glancing between you and Minho before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Minho’s voice calls, steady and commanding.

You step inside, Felix right behind you, both still clad in your chef coats. Minho and Sara are already waiting, their expressions unreadable as they stand side by side.

Minho doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hyunwoo is moving to the pasta line and Seungwan will take over the grill which leaves the antipasto line open.” His sharp gaze moves between you and Felix. “Which of you wants to take it?”

Sara chimes in, her tone softer but no less serious. “We’re leaving the decision to you two.”

You exchange a brief glance with Felix. The silence stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable before Felix clears his throat. “I… I don’t think it’s a good idea to break the current dynamic. But—” He hesitates, his voice growing quieter. “I’ve had some issues with the entrée line. I’d rather not work directly with them.”

All eyes shift to you. The unspoken expectation presses down like a weight. You’re the senior, the one with more experience in antipasto, and everyone knows it.

Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, and with one look, he makes the decision for you. “You’ll take it.”

Sara immediately protests. “We need to hear her opinion first.”

“It’s final,” Minho replies without missing a beat, his gaze shifts back to you. “You’ll take Seungwan’s position starting tomorrow.”

Before you can argue, Minho dismisses Felix with a curt nod. Felix glances at you, his lips parting as if he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it and leaves.

“Can you give us a minute?” Minho asks as he turns to Sara, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Sara pauses, her expression conflicted, but she nods. As she passes, her gaze lingers on you, offering a silent apology before she exits.

The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Minho and the second you and him are alone in the room, you don't hold back.

“I don’t want to switch, Chef,” you blurt out, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

Minho leans against his desk, arms crossed. “This isn’t about what you want. A cook who stays in one section becomes stale. Hyunwoo didn’t get moved because he complained—I made that call.”

You narrow your eyes, doubt creeping in. “Is this because of the rumors?”

He straightens, his tone sharp. “No.”

But it’s too late. The thought takes root, and your voice softens. “If this is about protecting me because of our… relationship, I understand.”

Minho steps forward, his hands landing firmly on your shoulders. His touch is steady, grounding. “I told you this isn’t about that,” he insists, his gaze searching yours. “Look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually meet his eyes.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, his voice quiet but intense. “Don’t you trust your chef?”

You do. You trust him more than anyone else in this kitchen, but a small part of you doesn’t trust his judgment on this decision. Still, you keep that thought buried.

You don’t answer, and the silence stretches between you. Minho’s hands drop from your shoulders, and he steps back.

“Be ready for tomorrow,” he says, his tone unreadable.

You nod stiffly, turning to leave, but the tension lingers, heavy and unresolved, as you close the door behind you.

-

The morning light streams through the curtains as you wake with a heavy head, your body feels sluggish, and for a moment, you consider calling in sick. But no—you refuse to let anything, not even a budding illness, make you seem weak or incapable.

You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, your eyes barely open. Sara is already at the dining table, her laptop open, fingers typing away. She glances up as you enter.

“Morning,” you mutter, your voice scratchy as you make your way to the coffee machine. The promise of caffeine is the only thing pulling you forward.

“Morning,” Sara replies, her tone light but curious. Her gaze lingers on you as you prepare your coffee.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee offers some comfort as you pour yourself a cup and take a slow sip. The warmth spreads through you, waking you up just a little.

Sara leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You’re still upset about Minho’s decision, aren’t you?”

You glance at her but quickly look away, shaking your head. “It’s fine,” you say, forcing a faint smile.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “If you don’t want to leave the pasta line, you can tell me. You don’t have to go along with it if it’s not what you want.”

You take another sip of your coffee, letting the bitter warmth fill the silence. “It’s fine, really,” you repeat, this time with more finality.

Sara watches you for a moment longer, then smiles faintly, taking a sip of her own coffee. “If you say so.”

The sound of her typing resumes, filling the quiet space between you.

But then she pauses again, tilting her head slightly. “The kitchen was… weird yesterday,” she says casually, though her eyes are sharp. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face neutral. “I have no idea what you mean,” you reply, your tone light and innocent.

Sara raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she nods slowly and returns her attention to her laptop.

You take another sip of your coffee, the bitterness grounding you as your thoughts swirl. Sara’s question hangs in the air, her suspicion like a quiet storm waiting to brew.

“It’s better this way,” you murmur under your breath, so softly that Sara doesn’t hear. Keeping things under wraps—keeping him under wraps—is the safest choice for now.

You glance over at Sara, who’s focused on her screen again, her typing steady and uninterrupted. If she, with her sharp intuition, catches on, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does. And then what?

You set your cup down on the counter, the sound sharper than you intended, and Sara glances at you again. You force another faint smile her way, but your mind is already elsewhere.

Minho’s decision might sting, but he’s right about one thing: in a world like this, appearances matter. As much as it frustrates you, the secrecy shields you both—for now.

You press your palm against the counter, steadying yourself as a quiet resolve builds in your chest. Yes, this is the best thing for now. But for how long?

-

The locker room smells faintly of detergent and metal, the silence punctuated only by the quiet clink of locker doors and the shuffle of clothing. Minho steps inside, and his eyes immediately find you. You're standing at your locker, back partially turned to him, moving with a distracted air.

He pauses, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your movements lack their usual grace. He knows you're still upset about yesterday, about the decision he made for you without asking, but he also knows this isn't something you can discuss openly.

Taking a steadying breath, Minho calls your name softly.

You glance over your shoulder, your expression unreadable, before turning to face him fully.

Minho steps closer, his voice calm but firm. "In the kitchen," he starts, his gaze holding yours, "I'm just your head chef. Not the man you like."

The faintest smile graces your lips, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Yes, chef," you reply, your tone polite but distant.

That won’t do. Minho closes the distance, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders. The warmth of your body beneath his touch grounds him as much as it does you. "Listen," he says, softer now, his tone almost a whisper. "In the kitchen, there’s no Minho. Just the chef. Do you understand?"

This time, your smile is a little brighter, a touch more genuine, and it eases some of the tightness in his chest.

"Yes, chef," you reply again, and this time, there's a hint of lightness in your voice.

Minho hesitates for a moment, then lets his hand trail up to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, warm and steady, before he leans in slightly, his voice low. "Be prepared."

Your smile deepens, and this time it’s convincing. "Yes, chef," you say again, and something about the way you say it fills Minho with an unfamiliar ache—a longing to stay like this, even though he knows he can't.

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps the moment in two. Instinctively, Minho drops his hand and takes a step back, turning to his locker and shutting it with practiced ease.

Before he leaves, he risks one last glance at you. You're standing there, watching him, your expression softer now. Minho doesn’t say another word, but he hopes that brief moment between you was enough to bridge the unspoken gap.

As he walks away, he also reminds himself it’s all about work. What he does to you at work is nothing personal. Not at all.

-

The kitchen bustles with the usual clamor of voices, clattering utensils, and the sharp hiss of flames.

Your new station feels foreign, the rhythm and layout unfamiliar compared to the pasta line you’d grown so comfortable with. Across the room, Felix gives you an encouraging grin, his eyes sparkling with reassurance. “Good luck!” he mouths.

You smile back, appreciating his gesture, but the nerves gnawing at your stomach refuse to settle. Your attention shifts to the front as Minho steps up to the chef’s table, commanding immediate silence with his presence.

His gaze sweeps across the kitchen, lingering for the briefest moment on you. Then, his voice cuts through the room, authoritative and unyielding. “There are changes in the kitchen,” he begins, his tone firm. “Just because you're in the new line, does not mean you can make mistakes. I won't accept excuses like 'I need time to adapt' or 'I'm not used to it'. Customers are blind to what's going on in the kitchen. Just because we have a change in personnel or because they're not used to doing it, there's no customer whose willing to put up with bad food. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Chef” echoes in response, your voice among them.

The first orders start rolling in, and the kitchen launches into motion. You throw yourself into the work, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no denying the subtle awkwardness of being in a new environment.

You present your first dish, a carefully grilled medley of vegetables, to Minho. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the din, sharp and precise. “What are you doing to these vegetables?” he snaps, holding up a forkful like it’s a crime scene. “Did you forget how to grill? Or is this because it’s not pasta?”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you stammer out an apology as he continues. “The basic of grilling it is to let it sear lightly so that it's brown on the outside but still juicy inside. This? This is dry.”

“I'll do it again, Chef,” You admit your mistake quickly, grabbing the plate and retreating to your station. His words sting, but you force yourself to focus, determined to get it right on the second try.

As you work on the next dish, a bowl of potato soup, Minho’s voice startles you again. “When are you going to come to your senses?,” he slams his spatula onto the counter before pointing it at your garnish choice. “The soup is potato. When it comes to course meals, balance is everything. It's different from pasta, the garnish should be something refreshing like tomatoes. Do you think the customer only eat potatoes, huh?”

Swallowing your frustration, you apologize once more and excuse yourself to retrieve a container of tomatoes from the freezer. The cool air hits you like a slap as you step inside, and for a moment, you just stand there, clutching the empty container.

Your thoughts race as you try to steady your breathing. He’s just doing his job, you remind yourself, but the harshness of his tone lingers, cutting deeper than you want to admit. Was it really just about the food, or was there something personal behind his words?

The door creaks open, and you jump, turning quickly. Relief floods through you when you see Taesoo grinning at you.

“Jeez, you look like you saw a ghost,” he jokes, grabbing something off a nearby shelf. “Man, the way Chef yelled at you, no one’s gonna think you two are dating now!”

You force a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “Yeah, I’m glad no one thinks so,” you reply, though your voice comes out strained.

Taesoo chuckles, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Seriously, it looked like he was just trying to knock you down a peg. Guess that’s his way of making things... normal?”

His words blur into background noise as your thoughts drift. Was it really just about appearances? you wonder. Or was there something else behind the way Minho singled you out today?

You shake your head, pushing the thought aside as you grab the tomatoes and head for the door. Taesoo’s voice trails after you, but you don’t respond.

As you step back into the heat and chaos of the kitchen, your resolve hardens. If Minho wanted to prove something today, he succeeded—but the sting of his words still clings to you like a bitter taste that lingers on your tongue.

-

The dining hall is empty now, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound echoing through Farfalle. Minho knows exactly where to find you. He steps out to the back entrance and spots you sitting on the narrow steps that lead up to the dining hall, your arms wrapped around your knees.

You’re not crying, but there’s something vulnerable about the way you sit, staring ahead as though trying to push away the memory of today’s relentless scoldings. Minho pauses for a moment before joining you, settling onto the steps with a sigh.

Your expression is calm, but he catches the faint pout of your lips. It’s… cute, in a way that annoys him because it’s distracting.

“Today was tough,” he begins, his voice softer than usual, “but it’ll get better from now on.”

You hug your knees tighter, still avoiding his gaze. “Were you harsh on me because people are suspicious of us, Chef?”

The question catches him off guard, but he recovers quickly, his tone firm. “No. I scolded you because you didn’t get it right.” His lips twitch into a faint smirk as he adds, “And it’s honestly annoying how you’re worse than I expected.”

That earns him a glare. “The last time I handled antipasto was four years ago,” you retort defensively.

Minho leans back, his tone warning. “This is just the beginning.”

Your eyes widen in horror. “Does that mean you’re going to scold me more?”

“Yes,” he replies simply, relishing your exaggerated groan as you bury your face in your hands.

After a beat of silence, you call him. “Chef?”

He hums in acknowledgment, and you wait until he meets your gaze before asking, “Are you the chef right now, or are you just Minho?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a teasing smirk. “Which one would you prefer?”

You glance around, gesturing to the empty surroundings. “This isn’t the kitchen or anything.”

Minho raises a brow, his tone dry. “There are still people around who haven’t left work yet.”

You pout again, your lips jutting out in that same way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Then when do you stop being the chef and just become Minho?”

He smirks, leaning slightly closer. “What’s wrong with the chef? Don’t you like him?”

You sigh dramatically and mumble. “I hate the chef. He scolded me all day long.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “What about you? Is this my line cook, or just you?”

“Just me,” you mutter, though your eyes dart nervously around.

“If it’s just you then why are you sitting so far away from me?” He asks, one corner of his mouth raises higher than the other.

“But people could still see us like this,” you say as you crane your neck to spot any prying eyes.

Minho shrugs and calmly responds. “We’re in an open space. No one would suspect anything.”

You glance at him, then the empty surroundings, before scooting closer. You both exchange playful glances at each other until you break into a series of giggles, light and sweet, and for a moment, Minho feels the weight of the day lift. Your warmth draws him in, and he considers, just briefly, risking everything by kissing you.

But the moment shatters as Chris appears at the top of the steps, his expression far too cheerful. He squeezes himself between you and Minho, blatantly ignoring the latter’s glare as he takes your hand.

“You've finished your work today,” Chris begins, his tone warm. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let's go.”

Your gaze flickers to Minho, seeking his reaction, but Chris notices. “It’s past working hours, Chef,” Chris says pointedly to Minho. “Surely, she’s allowed to leave.”

Minho exhales sharply, locking eyes with you. “It’s up to you,” he says cryptically, his voice unreadable.

Confused by his cryptic response, you hesitate, but Chris barrels on. “I know it’s not allowed for kitchen staff to date each other,” he muses aloud, “but hall staff and kitchen staff? That’s a different story, right?”

Chris grins slyly, his words grating on Minho’s nerves. “I personally think the restaurant should be a happy place, don’t you think? Love, friendship—it’s all fine by me.”

Minho’s patience snaps. “What are your intentions with her?” he asks bluntly, his tone sharp.

Chris meets his gaze with an infuriating calmness. “Anything,” he replies smoothly.

The audacity makes Minho’s blood boil, but he reins himself in. “Go inside,” he orders you curtly.

You hesitate but obey, and Minho waits until he hears the sound of the door slamming shut behind you before talking again.

Minho turns back to Chris, his eyes blazing. “I know why you’re doing this. You like her, don't you?”

Chris doesn’t deny it, his calm stare unflinching. “That’s right. I like her.”

It's not a rocket science to figure it out, Chris' treatment toward you tells it all and Minho can tell the difference between favoritism at workplace and romantic feelings.

“How long were you planning to keep it a secret?” Minho boldly asks him.

Chris smirks and puts on a coy smile. “I'm not going to love cowardly like you do, Chef. It's difficult to just watch and support her now. Thanks to you.”

The words hit like a punch, and Minho scoffs, masking the sting.

Chris shrugs, his tone casual. “The secret ends now. I'm going to tell her.” He announces before walking off, leaving Minho stewing in his frustration.

You return a moment later, your expression hesitant as you sit beside him again. “What did you two talk about?”

Minho tilts his head, exhaling sharply before leaning toward you. “Good news,” he says with a wry smile.

You perk up slightly. “What is it?”

“There’s a guy who likes you,” he teases, watching your reaction carefully.

Your brows furrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To give you confidence,” he replies smoothly. “Who knows? Maybe he’s a better person than me.”

You chuckle, leaning closer. “I have good news for you too.”

“Yeah?” Minho asks, playing along.

You lean in close to whisper it to him. “There’s a girl who likes you.”

Minho takes it with a coy smile. “Is she pretty?”

You nod with a grin. “Very.”

“Good to know,” he quips, smirking.

“What about the guy who likes me?” you ask, feigning curiosity. “Is he rich?”

“Very,” Minho deadpans.

Your delighted gasp turns into laughter, and Minho finds himself laughing too, though a bitter ache lingers beneath his amusement.

How is it fair? he wonders as the laughter fades. Chris will have the freedom to treat you well, to show his feelings openly. And Minho? He’s trapped, forced to keep scolding you in the kitchen while his own feelings remain locked away.

-

The kitchen is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the refrigerators and the faint echo of your footsteps. Determined to make a better impression in antipasto today, you arrived earlier than usual. After slipping into your chef’s coat, you head straight to your station, mentally rehearsing the steps for today’s dishes.

As you’re about to inspect your prep list, the sound of footsteps echoes behind you. Turning, you see Chris walking in, his navy suit perfectly tailored, his silk tie catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. His dimpled grin greets you warmly, and you can’t help but smile back.

“You’re early,” he remarks, leaning casually against the counter.

“You’re always early,” you counter with a teasing smile.

Chris comes up at you and crosses his arms, pretending to pout as he says, “I’m hungry.”

You raise a brow. “What? No personal chef to whip up breakfast for you?”

Chris dramatically places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. That hurt.”

You chuckle. “Alright, alright. Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

Chris waves a hand dismissively. “But you’ll be cooking all day so let’s go out and grab something instead.”

You shake your head. “I insist. Besides, I miss cooking pasta.”

He relents with a small shrug and a grin. “Alright, then.”

You grab a gas lighter for the stove. “I'll be a moment. You should wait in the chef’s table.”

“I want to watch you cook,” Chris says with a teasing smile as he leans against the counter.

You take a wooden spatula and point it at him. “Don’t blame me if your fancy suit get splattered!”

Rolling your eyes, you grab a pan and start prepping. As you move around the kitchen, you occasionally glance at Chris, noticing how his eyes linger on you instead of the ingredients. His attention is flattering, but you try not to let it distract you.

Once the dish is ready, you bring the plate to the chef’s table, setting down a fork and napkin. You hop onto the counter, watching as he examines the dish with a look of admiration.

“It’s pretty,” he comments, his fork hovering above the plate.

With a sly smile, you tell him, “Instead of spaghetti, I used farfalle—for the owner of Farfalle.”

Chris grins at the pun but still hesitates. “It’s too pretty to eat.”

“Nothing tastes good when you eat alone,” you say, crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “And I’m not sitting here because of you. I’m sitting here because I want my pasta to taste good.”

Chris laughs at that, finally digging in. As he eats, you can’t help but lean forward. “So? Does it taste good?”

Chris nods earnestly. “It's the best.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced and sigh. “Your taste buds are a bit dull because Chef would've thrown a fit right now.”

“I mean it, it's good,” he insists, his tone softening as he meets your gaze. “Anything tastes good with you next to me.”

You quickly laugh, brushing off the flutter in your chest. “You’re just trying to flatter me now.”

He chuckles, taking another bite before you teasingly ask, “Still better than sex?”

Chris pauses, chewing thoughtfully. When he swallows, he shakes his head. “I’ve had sex now, so...”

You feign nonchalance and give him a playful side eyes, “Good for you,” you reply lightly.

Chris offers you a forkful of pasta. You lean in to accept, only for him to pull it back last second and shove it into his own mouth with a mischievous grin.

“Really?” you ask, putting on an annoyed expression.

He grins triumphantly. “Got you.”

Despite your mock irritation, you feel your mood lift. Chris always has this way of making everything lighter, brighter without him even realizing it and you’re grateful for it, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

-

You’re on your way to the kitchen, mentally going over the preparations needed for tonight’s dinner service. Your nerves are steady—though antipasto demands precision, you’ve prepared yourself for the challenge.

“Hey!” Hyunwoo’s cheerful voice stops you mid-step.

He’s standing beside Seungwan, his usual wide grin plastered across his face. “Ready for today?”

You nod simply. “Yes.”

Seungwan, ever the commentator, chimes in, “You know, antipasto requires meticulousness. A delicate hand. Mindfulness. You get it. Women are naturally better at these things.”

You feel the heat of irritation flare up but push it down, offering a curt nod instead of engaging. It’s not worth the energy.

Hyunwoo claps a hand on Seungwan’s shoulder, as if to diffuse the awkwardness. “Well, you’ve got experience, so I know you’ll do well. But if you need anything, I’m here.”

You muster a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Before you can move on, Seungwan interrupts, smirking. “You have nothing to worry about, though. We know Chef will take good care of you.”

Hyunwoo chuckles, catching the implication, and soon both of them are laughing, their voices carrying through the hallway.

You open your mouth to respond—to shut down their insinuations about Minho—when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“What are you three doing standing around?”

Minho appears behind you, his sharp gaze flicking between the three of you. His tone is cold, commanding, and it instantly silences Hyunwoo and Seungwan’s laughter.

“Hurry up and get to the kitchen,” he orders, his eyes narrowing slightly in warning.

The two men mumble quick apologies and scurry off, leaving you alone with Minho. For a brief moment, his gaze lands on you, unreadable. Then, without a word, he strides past you, heading straight for the kitchen.

You can't tell if he heard everything or maybe he heard but he just doesn't care. You release a quiet breath and follow after him, steeling yourself for the long night ahead.

The kitchen is chaos. Orders are flying in, pans are clanging, and the sharp aroma of cooking fills the air. You stay at your station, hyper-focused, determined to do your best and avoid Minho’s wrath.

The ticket machine whirs, spitting out another order. Minho’s voice booms across the kitchen. “Table number six. One panchetta, one carbonara, one celeriac puree with grilled scallops.”

He looks around the kitchen and his eyes land on you. “You take the scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”

“Yes, Chef!” you reply firmly, moving to grab a pan.

Taesoo rushes over with fresh scallops, and you thank him before carefully checking the temperature of your pan. You add the scallops, and the satisfying sizzle confirms the heat is just right. Every move is calculated—no room for mistakes.

When the scallops are done, you plate the dish for service with meticulous attention to detail, making sure it looks perfect. On a smaller plate, you arrange the extra portion for Minho to taste. You carry both plates to the chef’s table, setting them down with a quiet but confident, “Chef.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He takes a bite of the extra plate.

The reaction is immediate. He spits the scallop into a napkin and, with a sharp movement, hurls the plate to the floor. The crash echoes, silencing part of the kitchen.

“Are you trying to break the customer’s jaw? Is this a gum or a rubber? What is this?” His voice is cutting, laced with venom.

Your heart sinks as you see the dish you made splattered across the kitchen floor and Taesoo quickly sweeps it away before anyone can step on it.

“Didn't you hear what I told you earlier? I said it has to be brown on the outside but tender on the inside. If you overcook a scallop like this, it’s tougher than the soles of your shoes!” His eyes are blazing, and for a moment, it feels like his anger isn’t just about the dish but aimed directly at you. It’s hard not to take it personally.

“What are you doing? Do it again!” The tone of his voice rains down on you like a bucket of cold water.

“Yes, Chef,” you manage, your voice tight as a lump forms in your throat.

Before you can move back to your station, Minho’s sharp voice cuts through the kitchen again. “Seungwan, you take the scallops.”

The humiliation burns as Seungwan takes over, muttering under his breath, loud enough for you to hear, “But I still have a lot to do...”

As you return to your station, Seungwan glances at you, his tone dripping with mockery. “You still like Chef after he tore you apart like that?”

You don’t answer. Your lips press into a thin line, and your chest feels heavy. The truth is, you’re not sure anymore. It’s harder and harder not to let his words cut deep, harder to pretend his disdain doesn’t feel personal.

You focus on the task in front of you, trying to push the doubt and hurt away. But no matter how much you tell yourself it’s just work, his anger lingers like a bruise.

-

Dinner service is brutal, even by Minho’s standards. The tension in the kitchen is suffocating, and he sees the weight of his harsh words pressing down on you. He hates it—every second of it.

Minho prides himself on keeping things professional, but with you, the lines blur dangerously every day. Tonight is no exception, and he can’t wait to leave the kitchen behind and find a way to make things right.

The locker room is dim and quiet when he walks in. His eyes immediately find you standing in front of your locker, your back to him. You’re tying your hair into a messy ponytail, your movements deliberate and tense. You look exhausted, but more than that, you look angry.

Minho hesitates, unsure how to approach you. He moves to his locker, giving you space and hoping you’ll warm up to him. As he opens the metal door, his eyes catch the corner of something tucked into the back of the shelf. He pulls it out—the Valentine’s card you gave him, still pristine despite its creased edges.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

He reads it again, the words a bittersweet reminder of how much you mean to him and how much he’s risking with his behavior. Slipping the card back into the locker, he turns to face you and softly calls your name.

“Yes, chef?” you reply, your voice distant and clipped.

“Are the other cooks still bothering you? Like earlier?” he asks, watching you carefully.

You wave him off, your tone sharp. “It’s nothing. It’s not their fault anyway—it’s ours. We’re the ones lying to them.”

The bitterness in your voice stings, and Minho realizes this isn’t like the other times you’ve been upset. This is deeper, rawer. You grab your bag from your locker, slamming it shut with more force than necessary before turning to leave.

Minho steps in your way, blocking the door. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Just... tell me and I’ll do it.”

Your eyes lock with his, hard and unyielding. “Then tomorrow. During lunch service. Tell everyone that you like me and that we’re dating. And you want everyone to treat me nicely and to be patient with me.”

He knows you don’t mean it—not really. It’s not a serious demand but a product of your anger and frustration. Still, he stays quiet, letting you speak because he knows you need to.

“I didn’t know it was going to be this difficult,” you continue, your voice softening but no less sharp. “If I had, I wouldn’t have started it.”

Your words strike him like a blow, but he stays rooted, listening as your eyes turn glassy.

“I know you’re scolding me as a cook for making mistakes,” you say, your voice trembling, “but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m being yelled at by someone I like. A lot.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you wipe it away hastily, as if embarrassed by the show of emotion. Your eyes meet his again, red and glistening.

“I can't separate those two feelings like a fool,” you say wistfully, fighting the tears pooling in your eyes. “But you seem to be good at it so why can’t I? Tell me how.”

Minho opens his mouth to speak, to tell you how hard it’s been for him too, how every harsh word in the kitchen feels like a knife twisting in his own chest. But the words won’t come. He can’t explain without risking you misunderstanding everything.

When his silence stretches too long, you bite your lip, swallowing down more tears. “Forget it,” you mutter, pushing past him.

He lets you go, standing there alone in the quiet locker room. The anger that swirls inside him isn’t directed at you—it’s at himself. At the way things have spiraled between you. At how his own fear of jeopardizing your career and his has made everything worse.

And most of all, at the way he’s made you sad.

Leaning against the wall, Minho clenches his fists, vowing to himself that he’ll find a way to make things right. He has to—because losing you isn’t an option.

-

Minho sits at his desk, his head bowed over his well-worn recipe book. The pages are filled with scribbles, corrections, and crossed-out ideas—remnants of every failure that taught him something valuable. He flips through them slowly, the memories tied to each one tugging at him.

He’s come so far, but the thought of how easily it could all crumble gnaws at him. His shoulders feel heavy with the weight of his choices, both in the kitchen and outside of it.

The creak of the office door pulls him from his thoughts. He glances up to see Sara stepping in, her expression hesitant but determined. The sight surprises him—he thought everyone had already left the restaurant.

Sara doesn’t say anything at first, but her eyes are locked on him, her presence carrying an air of purpose. Minho leans back in his chair, waiting for her to speak.

“Chef,” she starts, her voice carefully measured. “Can I ask you something?”

He doesn’t reply verbally, just nods slightly, signaling her to go on.

“It’s about... what people are saying in the kitchen,” she says, her voice faltering.

Minho smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile. Of course, the gossip finally reached her. He expected as much—it was only a matter of time.

“Is it true?” Sara asks, her tone laced with hesitation.

Without hesitation, Minho answers, “It’s true.”

The confirmation hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable.

Sara presses on, her voice trembling slightly. “How do you feel about it?”

Maybe this is his chance to stop running, to stop pretending he can keep everything under wraps. He exhales deeply, letting the tension leave his body, and answers her with full conviction.

“I like her more than she likes me,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering.

Sara’s lips tremble, and Minho can’t tell if she’s holding back tears or fighting the urge to speak further. But he doesn’t feel guilt. He’s told her before, countless times, that he only sees her as a chef—a colleague. Nothing more.

Standing, Minho grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, looking at Sara one last time, before stepping toward the door.

“I hope this clears things up for you,” he says quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

As he leaves the office, Minho feels a small weight lift off his chest. He’s not hiding the truth anymore—not from Sara, at least. And while the path ahead still feels uncertain, he’s relieved to have taken this first step.

-

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there at the bus stop, letting bus after bus pass without getting on. Your head is a whirlwind of thoughts, yet somehow, it also feels completely blank. You sigh, hugging yourself tightly against the biting cold of the night air.

The sound of footsteps draws your attention, and you glance sideways. Minho is walking toward you. Without a word, he sits down on the bench and slides closer until he’s right next to you. You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. You can feel his presence, the warmth of him radiating against the chill, but you say nothing. If you open your mouth now, everything you’re feeling will come spilling out, and you’re not ready for him to see how deeply he’s affected you.

In a calm, steady tone, Minho breaks the silence. “You can go back to the pasta line.”

You bite your lip, still not looking at him. That’s not what this is about—not why you exploded at him earlier. When you don’t respond, he leans in a little closer, his voice soft but firm. “I said I'm letting you go back to the pasta line.”

Your frustration boils over. “I don’t want to,” you snap, finally turning to glare at him.

Minho looks genuinely confused. “Weren’t you just complaining about it a while ago?”

You meet his gaze, your voice unwavering. “I don’t want to go back because of you. I’m going back to the pasta line on my own merits—not because of whatever this is.”

The intensity of your words seems to take him by surprise. He stares at you for a moment, stunned into silence. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a sly smile.

“You’re quite something, do you know that?” he says, his tone laced with admiration.

You roll your eyes, dismissing his attempt at flattery. You dismiss it, thinking he’s just trying to sweet-talk you.

Minho sighs, his expression softening as he leans in even closer. “What should I do? I’m in big trouble now,” he says quietly.

Your brows furrow. “Why?”

He tilts his head, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. “Because I like you even more now.”

The words catch you off guard, and despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You quickly suppress it, trying to keep your composure.

Minho notices, of course, and his own smile deepens. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he says earnestly.

You jab back, trying to deflect. “Just how many women have you known?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait, surprising you. Instead, he gestures toward the sky. “Look at the moon.”

You scoff, skeptical. “Why?”

“Just look at it,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a huff, you tilt your head up, your eyes landing on the full moon glowing brightly against the dark sky. The sight is breathtaking, but before you can comment, you feel the soft press of Minho’s lips against your cheek.

Startled, you whip your head around to face him. He meets your gaze, his eyes steady and sincere. “Your cooking is missing something. You need to improve,” he says quietly. “That’s why I scolded you—not because of rumors, not because of us, but because I know you’re better than that.”

His words sink in, and you nod slowly. “Yes, Chef,” you reply sincerely.

Minho smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s what I love to hear the most. When you say, 'Yes, chef!'” he says with a teasing lilt.

Despite yourself, you giggle softly, repeating, “Yes, Chef.”

This time, Minho doesn’t hold back. He cups your jaw gently, leaning in to press his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender—completely different from the sharp, demanding presence he exudes in the kitchen. It’s as if he’s trying to show you the difference between Minho the Chef and Minho the man.

When he pulls back, his hand remains on your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. “What do you think, mmh?” he murmurs. “Should we let all hell break loose tomorrow?”

You blink at him, startled. “You’re serious?”

Minho chuckles, nodding. “Let’s stop hiding. It’s better than getting caught and fired.”

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he really means it. His lips quirk into a grin, and he adds, “I feel like I’m about to explode from frustration if we keep this up.”

Finally, you find your voice. “So... you want us to just say to hell with it?”

“Exactly,” he says, cupping your face with both hands now. His gaze is intense, but there’s a warmth there that steadies you. “Let’s just tell everyone. To hell with it.”

Before you can respond, he leans in again, his lips capturing yours in a long, lingering kiss that erases any doubts you might have had.

As he pulls away, leaving you breathless, you find yourself staring at him, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The truth is, you’ve felt it growing stronger every day—the way he’s slowly become impossible to ignore. It’s more than just admiration, more than just the thrill of secrecy. It’s something real, something that scares you just as much as it excites you.

You don’t say any of that aloud, but the way you lean back into his touch, the way your lips curve into a small, shy smile, tells Minho everything he needs to know. For once, you feel like you’re both on the same page.

-

The space between you feels heavy, charged, but neither of you says a word. His gaze locks on yours, dark and intent, and it makes your heart race. Slowly, Minho steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the warmth of his bedroom room. His fingers graze your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he’s memorizing the moment.

Your breath hitches as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours with a gentleness that sends a shiver down your spine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second. You respond in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

Minho deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a tenderness that leaves you dizzy. His hands slide down your arms, warm and steady, before resting on your waist. He pulls you closer, your bodies barely a breath apart.

As the kiss grows more fervent, his fingers find the hem of your shirt, toying with the fabric. He pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as if asking for permission. You nod, your own hands slipping to the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, carefully, you undo them one by one, your fingers brushing against his skin with each movement.

Minho mirrors your actions, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in one fluid motion. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by the warmth of his touch. His fingers trace along your collarbone, his lips following suit, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your knees weak.

You push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your hands explore the smooth planes of his chest, the taut muscle beneath your fingertips. He exhales sharply, his breath hot against your neck as he presses closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your hands move to his belt, fumbling slightly, but Minho stops you with a soft chuckle. “Hey, what's the rush?” he whispers, his lips curving into a small smile against your skin.

The rest of your clothes fall away piece by piece, each moment lingering, each touch filled with an unspoken reverence. Minho’s hands are steady as they glide along your body, his touch igniting a warmth that spreads through you like wildfire.

When there’s nothing left between you, he pauses, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your cheeks flush. “You’re perfect,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumb brushing along his jawline. “You’re perfect,” you mutter back, your voice soft but certain.

Minho leans in once more, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s equal parts passion and tenderness. As you fall back onto the bed together, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in each other’s warmth, every touch and kiss a silent declaration of the feelings neither of you can deny any longer.

-

Minho hovers over you, his weight braced on one arm as his free hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of mischief and adoration that sends a thrill through your entire body.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours.

His lips capture yours again, the kiss deep and unhurried, as if he wants to taste every sound you make. His hand trails down, fingertips ghosting over your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as his touch ventures lower, slow and deliberate.

When his fingers finally slide between your thighs, a soft gasp escapes your lips, but Minho swallows it with another kiss, his smirk pressing against your mouth. He pauses for a moment, teasing, his touch feather-light on your bundle of nerves, just enough to drive you wild.

“Eager, are we?” he asks, his tone playful, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.

You nod slightly, breathless, and he rewards you with a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers move with precision, exploring and learning what makes you react, what makes you tremble beneath him.

The tension builds as he curls his fingers inside you, finding the perfect rhythm that leaves you gasping and clinging to him. He watches you intently, his eyes flicking over your face, taking in every reaction. The smirk on his lips deepens as he notices the way your body arches toward him, completely at his mercy.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispers, his voice filled with both awe and amusement. He leans down to capture your lips again, muffling the soft moans spilling from your mouth. His kiss is as skillful as his touch, his tongue teasing yours as if he’s trying to coax every bit of sound out of you.

Your hands grip his shoulders, desperate for some anchor as the pleasure intensifies. Minho’s lips leave yours for a moment, moving to press kisses along your jawline, then down to the hollow of your throat. His voice is a low murmur against your skin. “I could watch you like this forever.”

Each movement of his fingers feels like a symphony, building you higher and higher. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, your body trembling beneath him, and Minho seems to revel in every second of it.

When your moans grow louder, your head tilting back against the pillow, Minho leans down to kiss you again, catching the sound in his mouth. His lips curve into a smile against yours, and the vibration of his low chuckle only heightens your pleasure.

“Let go for me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

His words, his touch, the way he’s watching you with so much intent—it’s overwhelming in the best way. You fall over the edge, your body trembling as waves of pleasure wash over you. Minho doesn’t stop, guiding you through it, his lips never straying far from yours, his fingers slowing only once he’s sure you’re coming down gently.

When you finally open your eyes, Minho’s gaze is still fixed on you, his smirk replaced by a softer, more affectionate smile. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, as if to ground you.

As you come down from the high he’s led you to, Minho’s hand slides up, his fingers brushing over your flushed skin with care. He watches you intently, his lips curving into that signature smirk of his, as though he’s proud of the effect he has on you.

Without breaking eye contact, he brings his hand up, his slick fingers hovering near your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, yet laced with dominance.

Your breath catches, but you obey, parting your lips for him. He slides his fingers into your mouth slowly, his touch deliberate, and you close your lips around them, tasting the remnants of yourself on him.

Minho’s eyes darken as he watches you, his thumb tracing along your jaw as you lick his fingers clean. The way you meet his gaze, unflinching and bold, sends a shiver through him, his smirk deepening with every deliberate movement of your tongue.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with heat. “Such a good girl for me.”

Your cheeks flush at his praise, but it only makes him lean in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You have no idea how perfect you are,” he whispers, his tone dripping with seduction.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, his hand now cradling your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, as though he can’t get enough of you. “You make it so easy to lose control,” he adds, his gaze intense.

Minho leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both possessive and tender, as if to seal his words. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and the corners of his lips lift into a soft smile.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says with a chuckle, his voice light but filled with genuine affection.

You can’t help but smile back at him, your heart pounding as his thumb strokes your cheek. Whatever walls he’s kept up before, they seem to have crumbled completely in this moment, leaving nothing but raw honesty between the two of you.

-

“Please,” You whimper as Minho is burying his head in between your soft mounds. His mouth immediately latches onto your hardening bud while the other is being teased by his fingers, both assaults make your eyes fluttering shut.

A moment after hearing your plead, Minho lets go of his mouth, leaving your nipple wet and swollen. “Please what?” he asks, landing a kitten lick on your other nipple.

“Fill me,” you breathlessly beg.

Minho sucks on your flesh before answering to your request. “Fill you with my cock or...?”

Your hand reaches down to his hardening member, you pinch the end of the condom he's already putting on and pulling at it until it snaps away. “Both,” you simply answer and opening your legs wider for him.

The thought of being filled by his cock is enough to send you into overdrive but you want more, you want to feel every inch of him, to be filled with his cum, to feel it filling you and leaking out of you and ultimately, you want to be soaked in both of your releases.

Minho is more than eager to comply to your request, he gives his cock a few strokes before aligning it with your entrace. Once the tip has entered you, he uses his hips to push the rest of his length.

The two of you collectively moan at the feeling of being inside each other, raw, without a layer of protection. While you delightfully sigh, Minho groans into the crook of your neck as he's fully sheathed inside you. The slightest of movement and you can feel him, the length, the heat, the hardness... oh, he fills you perfectly.

The way Minho moves against you is slow yet deliberate, every motion pulling soft gasps from your lips. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let you go, his forehead pressed against yours as he lets out low groans, completely lost in the sensation of you.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice shaky and raw. His head tilts down, lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder as if trying to ground himself, but you can feel him faltering, overwhelmed by the intensity between you.

You’re caught between the pleasure coursing through you and the sight of him unraveling—his lips parted, his brows furrowed, his breaths heavy. It’s mesmerizing, yet you know he’s losing himself too much in the moment.

Reaching up, you grab his chin gently but firmly, tilting his face so he’s looking directly at you. His eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with desire, and you feel his breath catch as you lock your gaze with his.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the heat pooling in your core. “Look at me.”

Minho’s lips part as if he’s going to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he nods slightly, his hands tightening on your hips as he adjusts his rhythm, his movements more controlled now, more intentional.

You hold his gaze, your eyes searching his as your fingers caress his jaw. “That’s it,” you murmur, your voice soft but commanding. “Stay with me.”

His breaths grow heavier, his lips brushing yours briefly as he finds his rhythm again, pouring everything into every movement. He seems transfixed by you, his eyes never leaving yours, even as his body trembles with the effort to keep it together.

“You feel so, so good,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe and something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way. His gaze softens as he takes you in, his movements slower but no less intense, like he’s savoring every second with you.

Your hand moves from his jaw to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as you pull him closer. “Minho,” you breathe, the sound of his name on your lips pulling a low groan from his throat.

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s searing, his focus entirely on you now, every motion, every touch, every sound meant for you alone. The intimacy of it all makes your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every moment.

And as he continues, his body pressed firmly against yours, you see it in his eyes—the way he’s completely and utterly yours in this moment, and how much it terrifies and excites him all at once.

-

Minho leans back against the headboard, his chest bare and warm against your back as you sit between his legs. His arm wraps securely around you, holding you close in the quiet intimacy of afterglow. In one hand, you're holding a wine glass steady as Minho carefully pours, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment.

You take the first sip, savoring the sweetness on your tongue before passing the glass to him. The silence that follows is comfortable, but you know it can’t last.

“You know your plan to say ‘hell with it’ tomorrow isn’t going to work, right?” you say, breaking the quiet.

Minho pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow at you. “Why not?”

You shift slightly to look up at him, your head leaning back against his shoulder. “Because I want to stay in the kitchen with you for a long time,” you admit, your voice soft but firm. “You still have so much to teach me, and that can’t happen if we get fired.”

Minho takes another slow sip of wine before handing the glass back to you. He exhales, his lips curving into a slight smile. “I can’t work in that kitchen without you in it anyway.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten in the best way, and you can’t help but giggle, the wine glass hovering close to your lips. Resting your head comfortably on his shoulder, you turn your face slightly to meet his gaze. “I want to learn to be as good as you someday,” you confess, your tone playful but tinged with genuine admiration.

Minho scoffs, his usual cockiness coming through. “As good as me? You’re being greedy. I’m the best, you know.”

His arrogance annoys you, but it’s so quintessentially Minho that you can’t even be mad. Rolling your eyes, you counter, “Exactly. That’s why you’re the best teacher I could ever have.”

Minho’s hand slides to the nape of your neck, his touch gentle but firm as he tilts your face toward his. “So, what you’re saying is... you want to be my student?”

You smile sweetly, meeting his gaze. “Yes, chef,” you reply with a soft laugh.

He shakes his head slightly, his lips curving into a sly grin. “That’s not good enough. You have to be my favorite student.”

The playfulness in his tone makes your heart flutter, and when he leans in to kiss you, it’s like he’s trying to capture your smile with his lips. The kiss is slow and tender, leaving you breathless when he finally pulls away.

Lightly holding his chin, you gaze into his eyes, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. “I wonder if there’ll ever be a day when I can be as good as you. Maybe even better.”

Minho snorts, clearly amused by your boldness. He wraps his arm tighter around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “I don’t want you to be better than me,” he says, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “Being as good as me is enough—and even that’s highly unlikely.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again, which only makes him smirk. He tugs gently at the hair at the back of your head, making you turn to face him fully.

“Why? You think I’m arrogant?” he asks, his tone daring you to challenge him.

Without missing a beat, you reply, “Yes, chef.”

His smirk deepens as he pulls you closer, your head resting in the crook of his neck. “Even if I am, just grin and bear it,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You chuckle softly, nuzzling into him as you reply, “Yes, chef.”

Minho shifts slightly, his fingers trailing along your jawline as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze again. His eyes darken with something unspoken as he murmurs, “Say it one more time.”

Your heart skips, but you don’t hesitate. “Yes, chef,” you whisper, putting every ounce of feeling into the words.

He nods in satisfaction, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that’s hard, deep, and utterly consuming. The taste of wine lingers on his tongue resembles this shared moment between the two of you: sweet with just a hint of bitterness and highly intoxicating.

-

The key to a perfect crispy hashbrown lies in the details, and Minho thrives in them. He presses the shredded potatoes between layers of paper towels, extracting every last drop of moisture with precise, firm motions. The sizzle of oil heating in the pan is his cue to move, his fingers instinctively testing the temperature by letting a few stray potato shreds dance in the heat. When the oil crackles just right, he spreads the potatoes into an even, golden canvas, pressing them lightly with his spatula to ensure uniformity.

The smell of starch meeting hot oil fills the kitchen as the edges of the hashbrown crisp and curl slightly, the underside transforming into a golden-brown crust. With a deft flick of his wrist, he flips it, revealing the perfection he aimed for—deep, golden brown, with a promise of crunch.

He’s just plating the first hashbrown when you appear, stepping out of the bedroom in his oversized sweater, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair is a mess of bedhead, and your sleepy smile feels like sunlight breaking through the quiet morning.

“Good morning,” you mumble, leaning against the counter, your chin resting in your hand as you watch him work.

Minho allows himself a brief glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk, before returning his focus to the pan. “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful. Coffee,” he says, his tone a mix of teasing and instruction.

You chuckle softly, the sound still drowsy, but you comply, moving to the coffee machine with a sense of purpose that warms him more than the steam rising from the pan.

Together, the two of you work in quiet harmony. By the time breakfast is ready, the table is set with golden hashbrowns, fluffy scrambled eggs, and two steaming mugs of coffee. Minho takes a seat across from you, picking up his fork as you do the same.

He notices it immediately: the way you keep stealing glances at him between bites, your eyes lingering like you’re savoring more than just the food. The third time he catches you, Minho sets his fork down and narrows his eyes at you.

“Stop staring,” he says flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with a slight twitch.

You pout, your lips curving into a playful frown. “It’s the first time I’m staying over for breakfast,” you point out, your voice soft but teasing.

Minho scoffs, his hand pausing mid-reach for his coffee. “That’s because you always sneak out before I even wake up,” he counters, giving you a look that’s equal parts reprimand and amusement.

You giggle, tucking your knees up onto the chair and cradling your mug close to your chest. Instead of looking away, you stare openly, the mischief in your eyes making his chest tighten in ways he’s not ready to admit.

Rolling his eyes, Minho leans back in his chair, reaching for his backpack slung over the sofa. He pulls out his notebook, flipping it open briefly before sliding it across the table to you.

You blink in surprise. “What’s this?”

“The notes I took in Italy,” Minho explains, crossing his arms as he leans back. “From when I was wrestling over pasta. If you look carefully, you'll see all my failed attempts.”

You pick it up hesitantly, flipping through the pages. Your brows furrow as you scan the scribbled notes, some smudged with flour, oil, and sweat from long nights in the kitchen. “Not the ones you've succeeded?”

Minho nods, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Deliberately noted every single one of them.” He taps his temple. “If you only write down what you got right, you’ll keep going back to it and stop thinking it over. But if you document your mistakes, you’ll challenge yourself to do better every time.”

Your eyes widen as you flip through more pages. “You made this many mistakes?” you ask in disbelief.

Minho is slightly offended, his expression darkening playfully. In one swift motion, he flicks your forehead, the sound sharp but the gesture light enough to make you laugh.

“Don’t focus on replicating someone else’s great recipe,” he warns, his tone firm but not unkind. “Find your own dish through your mistakes. That’s how you get better.”

You clutch the notebook to your chest, nodding solemnly before breaking into a smile so warm it feels like the morning sunlight flooding the kitchen. “Yes, chef,” you say softly, the sincerity in your voice settling into him like a perfectly balanced dish.

Minho watches you for a moment, his arms crossed as his sharp eyes scan your face. There’s something about the way you’re holding his notebook—as if it’s the most valuable thing in the world—that stirs something deep within him.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches across the table and gently pats your head, his fingers ruffling your messy bedhead with deliberate care. His lips curve into a faint smirk, but there’s a softness in his eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.

“I gave you that because you're my favorite student,” he murmurs, his voice low but undeniably affectionate.

Your cheeks flush at the unexpected praise, and you duck your head slightly, pretending to focus on flipping through the pages again. But Minho sees the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and it makes his chest feel inexplicably full.

Yeah, you’re his favorite, and for reasons that go far beyond the kitchen.

-

The clinking of utensils and hum of conversation from the staff having lunch downstairs fades as Minho walks toward the second floor of the dining hall. His footsteps slow when he spots Felix and Taesoo sitting at one of the tables, heads bent close in conversation. Their voices are low, but not low enough to escape his ears.

Minho lingers just out of sight, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, listening in with mild curiosity.

“So, what do you think’s going on between chef and her?” Taesoo asks, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Felix hums thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’d prefer it if they did fall in love.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s not the answer he was expecting, and judging by Taesoo’s laugh, neither was he.

“Why?” Taesoo presses, his tone disbelieving.

Felix shrugs. “I mean, if it’s between her and Sara, I’d rather see chef with her, you know? It’d be… nicer.”

Minho’s lips twitch, both annoyed and amused. His jaw clenches when Felix adds after a moment, “But, even if they did, it’d be risky. If they got caught dating while working in the kitchen… It’d be dangerous.”

That’s enough. With a sharp inhale, Minho steps forward and delivers a firm slap to the back of both their heads, startling them.

Felix yelps, clutching his head as Taesoo hisses in pain, whipping around to see their chef towering behind them.

“Yes, I’m having an affair in the kitchen. So what?” Minho deadpans, his gaze locking onto Felix with a daring intensity.

Felix stiffens, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “I—I’m sorry, chef!” he stammers, bowing his head.

Minho walks around to the front of the table and leans against it, crossing his arms. His sharp eyes stay trained on Felix, who fidgets nervously under the weight of his stare.

“What you said is right,” Minho says, his tone deceptively calm, almost challenging.

Felix blinks in confusion. “I didn’t mean with what I said, Chef. I'm sorry.”

Minho smirks as he calmly asks Felix’s opinion. “What do you think? Don't we look good together?”

Felix gapes at him, dazed and unsure if this is a trap. “I—I don’t know! Are you asking for real or just messing with me?”

Minho tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Well, since there are already rumors, maybe I should make them true.”

Taesoo lets out a snort of laughter, but Felix pales. “Chef! You’d get fired!”

“I know,” Minho replies nonchalantly, his voice laced with mischief.

Felix groans, slumping back in his chair. “There are so many beautiful women out there. Why her?!”

Without missing a beat, Minho leans forward and flicks the back of Felix’s head again. “Do you want to die? What's wrong with her?”

Felix winces, rubbing his head. “Are you lonely, chef?” he mutters weakly.

“Yes,” Minho replies immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Felix groans louder, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Chef, you need to control yourself! You can’t date her!”

Minho smirks, reaching out to grab Felix’s ponytail and giving it a playful tug. “Never,” he says with a sly grin, watching as Felix frantically fixes his hair, a look of disbelief etched across his face.

Taesoo snickers behind his hand, and Minho straightens up, looking utterly satisfied with himself. Taesoo makes another zipping his mouth gesture to him to avoid Minho’s wrath.

As Minho walks away, he feels a small but undeniable sense of relief. Now that more people knew about you and him—albeit through gossip—it felt a little less like he was hiding something. And while he’d never admit it out loud, he liked the idea of others knowing that you were his.

For once, the thought didn’t feel like a risk. It felt like a win.

-

The hum of the coffee machine fills the air as you sit at the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and Minho’s notebook in the other. You flip through the pages, tracing his meticulous notes with your finger, trying to absorb every word. His handwriting is sharp and precise, almost as if it mirrors his personality—strict, methodical, yet undeniably passionate.

The faint sound of footsteps makes you glance up, and you catch Chris approaching. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls up the stool next to you, sitting with his arms stacked on the counter. His presence is calm but unwavering, his gaze fixed on you as you study the notebook.

You try to ignore him, focusing back on the notebook, but his silent watching becomes too distracting. After a few moments, you sigh, closing the notebook and turning to him with a questioning look.

Chris flashes his trademark dimpled smile, the kind that always seems to disarm everyone around him. But this time, there’s a hint of something else behind it—something pensive. He lets out a low sigh.

“It’s unfair,” he says softly.

Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “What’s unfair?”

Propping his chin on his hand, Chris starts listing, his tone lighthearted but deliberate. “Well, for starters, I think I’m a good person. I’ve got a decent amount of money. I’m considerate. And—” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I’m very reasonable.”

You nod at each point he makes, humoring him. “I acknowledge all of that,” you reply with a small smile.

Chris leans back slightly, grinning as he clasps his hands together. “And I also think you’re the best chef in the world.”

You chuckle at his exaggerated sincerity. “Fully noted and acknowledged.”

Chris’s grin widens, but his tone softens. “All things considered, I think I’m a pretty decent catch. So why don’t you even consider me in the running?”

You pout at his question, feigning offense. “Who told you I didn’t?”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

You shrug, maintaining your playful tone. “I love wealthy men. And I do love that you have lots of money.”

Chris nods in mock seriousness, playing along. “So… no dislikes?”

“Of course not,” you reply easily, taking a sip of your coffee.

There’s a brief moment of silence before Chris leans in closer, his tone dropping just enough to make the conversation feel private. His eyes lock onto yours, and the teasing air between you shifts.

“You know I like you,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

You chuckle, brushing it off with a lighthearted smile. “And you know I like you too.”

But the smile on Chris’s face fades, replaced by an earnest, almost vulnerable expression. “No,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering. “I said I like you.”

It takes you a moment to process his words fully. The weight of his confession settles in, and your playful demeanor falters. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

Chris doesn’t press you for an answer. He simply smiles—soft and understanding—and stands from his stool. As he walks away, his words hang heavily in the air, leaving you sitting at the counter, staring after him with a knot of conflicted feelings in your chest.

-

The echo of your footsteps bounces off the corridor walls as you head toward the locker room, your mind swirling with thoughts. Chris’s confession keeps replaying in your head, leaving you feeling like your chest is tied in knots. You want to vent, to unload the mess of emotions building inside you, but there’s no one in here you can comfortably and openly share this with.

With a frustrated sigh, you dig your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through your contacts until you land on a name that feels safe. You press the call button.

The line rings three times before your dad picks up. “Hello?”

“Dad,” you say, your voice wistful and soft.

There’s a pause before he asks, “What’s wrong with your voice? Did you get into trouble again?”

You grumble, rolling your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Why do you always assume I’m in trouble?”

“Because you call me like this, all dramatic,” he replies. “What is it, then?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. Then you take a deep breath and let it out in one go. “A guy told me he likes me.”

Your dad gasps, audibly enough that you can’t help but pull the phone away from your ear. “A guy?”

“Why are you so surprised?” you ask, annoyed.

“Which guy?” he presses, his tone suspicious and borderline protective.

“I’m not telling you that,” you reply firmly. “But now I’m confused.”

Your dad doesn’t let it go. “Does this guy have a job?”

You blink at the unexpected question. “Yes. He’s got loads of money.”

“Is he bad-tempered?”

You sigh. “No, he’s actually very considerate and reasonable.”

“Does he mind that you’re a chef?”

You pause before answering, “He always says whatever I make is delicious.”

Your dad sighs deeply, his voice softening. “Then what’s the problem?”

You hesitate again, your heart caught in your throat. Finally, you admit, “I… I like someone else.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then your dad asks, “What’s better about the other guy?”

You instinctively clam up. The thought of describing Minho to your dad feels impossible. He’s the exact opposite of Chris in every way. “I… I can’t talk about him,” you say vaguely, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your dad’s tone sharpens. “Does the other guy have more money?”

“Probably not.”

“Is he nicer?”

You snort, the answer bubbling up before you can stop it. “No way. He yells a lot, is stubborn, and gets into fights with people all the time.”

“Does he like your cooking?”

You groan, already knowing what’s coming. “No, he nitpicks my cooking. All. The. Time.”

Your dad lets out another heavy sigh. “And you like this guy more?”

You lower your voice, almost ashamed. “It just… happened.”

There’s a long pause before your dad speaks again, this time with firm finality. “Go with the first one. No matter what.”

“What?!” you shriek, your frustration boiling over. “Why?”

“Because I’m your dad,” he replies without hesitation, as if that explains everything.

You gasp, completely exasperated. “You can’t just pick for me!”

“I just did.”

Groaning in disbelief, you snap, “I shouldn’t have told you anything!” Without waiting for a response, you hang up, shoving your phone aggressively back into your pocket.

“God! Why did I even bother?” You mumble to yourself.

Standing in the quiet locker room, you lean against the cold metal doors, groaning under your breath. Calling your dad was supposed to help clear your head, but now you feel more conflicted than ever.

-

The heat in the kitchen feels heavier today, the air thick with tension as the orders flood in relentlessly. Minho scans the ticket machine as it spits out another slip. His eyes flicker to table eight’s order, extra cautious as he calculates what needs to be done. His gaze darts to your station.

“Have you started on table eight?” he asks sharply.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply immediately, already halfway into prepping the vongole.

“Then hurry up,” Minho snaps, turning back to the endless stream of orders.

Before he can move on, a service staff member steps into the kitchen, looking hesitant. “Chef, table eight wants to change their order—they’re asking for the Chef’s special.”

Minho clenches his jaw, spinning back toward you. You glance up at him, your hands frozen mid-motion. “Chef, I already put the clams in. Should I stop cooking the vongole?”

For a moment, Minho hesitates, the decision flickering in his mind. Table eight wants a Chef’s special, but you’re already halfway through the vongole. Quickly, he makes the call.

“Keep going with the vongole,” he instructs, then pivots to the entrée line. “Seungwan, swap the tuna salad for grilled vegetable salad. You’ve got five minutes to prep it.”

Seungwan looks up from his station, irritation flickering in his eyes. “I don't think that’s possible, Chef. If you only give me five minutes, we should go with the special we already prepared.”

Minho turns toward him slowly, his stare icy. Before he can respond, you interrupt with another question. “Should I keep going with the vongole, or—”

“Finish it,” Minho barks, his patience thinning, then swivels back to Seungwan. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson here? Did you guys set the specials?”

Seungwan stiffens, but Minho doesn’t give him a chance to retort. He steps closer, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “Let me remind you, I created this menu. If I decide to make changes, it’s because I know what works. Since the pasta is changing, the grilled vegetable salad will enhance the flavors of the clams better than tuna. Do you get that?”

Hyunwoo chimes in from the side, his tone laced with skepticism. “Why change the pasta in the first place? If you’d just stuck with the seafood linguine, none of this would be necessary.”

Seungwan adds, his tone sharper, “Or is it because she made the vongole?” He throws a glare your way.

You hiss back at them, your voice tight with frustration. “Hey, this has nothing to do with me!”

Minho draws in a deep breath, trying to contain the mounting irritation. He strides toward the entrée line, his sharp tone commanding the room. “A customer requested the Chef’s recommendation. Are you saying I can’t make that recommendation?” He raises his voice, his authority cutting through the tension. “Whether I tell you to make pasta, lasagna, or even a bowl of ramyeon, if I say it, you make it. Got it?”

Turning on his heel, he stalks back to the chef’s table, his voice dropping to a cold calm. “If anyone here has a problem with how I run this kitchen, feel free to find another chef and another kitchen. I don’t need anyone here who won’t listen to orders.”

The room goes silent, save for the faint sizzle of pans. Then Seojun, the sous-chef, speaks up, his tone measured but firm. “Chef, how can you say that so easily?”

Before Minho can respond, Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Unlike some people, we don’t have chefs who’ll cover for us if we leave.” His eyes flick briefly toward you and Felix.

Minho hears you hiss under your breath as you tend to the vongole about to get overcooked from staying on the pan for too long. “Chef, what should I—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Minho snaps, “I told you to make it! Are you rebelling against me too?” His voice rises as he glares at you. “I gave you an order then you should make it. Where did you pick up a habit of questioning me over and over again? Is that how these guys taught you to do? Just finish the dish!”

The tension is palpable, the air crackling as Sara steps in, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough!” she barks, her tone sharp as a blade. She glares at the entrée line. “Are you going to keep these up? Can't you see the orders are piling up?”

Minho grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckle turns white, he turns to Taesoo who's been watching the fiery exchange from the corner of the kitchen. “Hey, Taesoo! What are you doing? You still don't know what you should bring out for a chef’s recommended course? Hurry and bring them out. Right now!”

Now that Minho knows they won't obey him, he only needs to work with the people who wants to work with him. He turns to Felix and says, “Felix, you and I are going to make the chef’s recommended course. Switch places! Now!”

“Yes, chef!” Felix eagerly respond, throwing a sharp glance at Hyunwoo as he walks past his station.

Felix walks to the other side of the kitchen, taking Seungwan’s station from him while Minho takes Souschef Seojun’s station, pushing Seojun and Seungwan to the back of the kitchen.

Sara temporarily takes the chef table and scold both Seojun and Seungwan who refuse to obey Minho. “If you're all just going to stand there and do nothing, get out. You're just interfering.” Her voice is firm yet authoritative as she remarks, “Whoever doesn't want to cook in this kitchen, I want you to get out.”

Seungwan and Seojun exchange glances, resentment burning in their eyes. Seojun steps forward, his voice tight with anger. “Chef Sara, why are you doing this? At least one of us should find out why this is happening—why the kitchen’s a mess!”

Sara doesn’t flinch under his fiery stare. “Anyone who doesn't obey the orders of the chef isn't needed in the kitchen. You should've at least followed the basic rules of the kitchen before you protested,” she retorts coldly.

Meanwhile, the ticket machine continues to spew out orders. Minho knows the kitchen won’t survive with half the staff refusing to work. His pride grates against his decision, but he knows what he has to do.

He turns to Seojun, his voice softer but no less commanding. “Hey, Souschef! Grab a frying pan. Please!”

Seojun’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists. For a moment, it looks like he might refuse, but then he sighs heavily and steps toward the pasta line. Slowly, the others follow, the kitchen sputtering back into chaotic motion as the orders pile up.

Minho exhales deeply, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The fight isn’t over, but for now, the kitchen runs.

-

Minho descends the staircase slowly, his steps measured, the sounds of distant chatter from the dining hall growing clearer with each step. As he enters the hall, he spots Taesoo sprawled on his back atop one of the tables, groaning dramatically as he vents to you. You sit beside him, listening patiently, though Minho can tell from the way you rest your head on stacked hands, you're too exhausted to listening to it.

“I can’t do it,” Taesoo whines, stretching his arms above his head. “If there’s another day like today, I swear my heart will either burst or shrivel up into nothing.”

Minho, unimpressed by Taesoo's theatrics, crosses the room in quick strides and delivers a swift slap to the back of Taesoo’s head. The loud smack startles him, making him yelp and sit upright, rubbing the spot with a pout.

“Cut the drama, Taesoo,” Minho says curtly as he pulls out the chair next to yours and sits down. “It’s embarrassing.”

Taesoo grumbles but doesn’t argue further. Meanwhile, you turn to Minho, offering a polite smile. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone professional, if not a little tired.

Minho’s gaze softens as he places a hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

Your smile doesn’t falter, though it seems rehearsed. “I’m alright, Chef,” you reply simply.

The interaction doesn’t escape Taesoo, who sits upright, his eyes darting between the two of you with exaggerated suspicion. “Do you know how many people are talking about the two of you?” he blurts, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Or how many can’t wait to catch you two together? They're sharpening their knives as we speak!”

Minho shoots him a smirk, entirely unbothered. “Should I care?”

Taesoo doesn’t back down, lowering his voice as he leans closer. “I’m more anxious about it than either of you, and I’m not even involved!” He clasps his hands together in mock pleading. “Please, for all our sakes, rein in your temper a little, Chef. You’re making it worse.”

Instead of acknowledging Taesoo’s concerns, Minho flicks his forehead, eliciting a sharp hiss from you as you watch the scene unfold. Taesoo’s expression twists in exaggerated pain and frustration.

“Chef! How long do you think we can keep going like this?” Taesoo asks, panic lacing his voice.

Minho considers it for a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Not more than a month,” he answers nonchalantly. Then, with a small sigh, he corrects himself, “Probably a week. Three days if we’re lucky.”

Taesoo lets out a defeated groan, slumping back against the chair as if Minho’s prediction seals his fate.

Their conversation seems to summon trouble as Seungwan, Hyunwoo, and sous chef Seojun appear near the entrance. Their gazes immediately zero in on you and Minho, and Seungwan wastes no time making his disdain clear.

“If I catch the two of you dating, I’m not going to stand for it. Keep that in mind!” Seungwan says, his tone sharp and accusatory. His glare lingers on you, but Minho stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Are you threatening me right now?” Minho asks, his voice dangerously calm. His sharp gaze locks onto Seungwan’s, daring him to escalate the situation further.

Seungwan hesitates, faltering under the weight of Minho’s icy stare, but whatever response he might make is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Chris.

Chris smiles warmly as his eyes land on you, his soft voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Hey, aren't you going home?” he says, directing his attention to you. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let’s go.”

You glance between Chris and Minho, sensing that leaving now is the smartest move. With a quick nod, you grab your bag and rise to your feet, walking toward Chris. Minho’s gaze follows you, sharp and unreadable, as you reach for Chris’s arm in a small gesture of familiarity. Minho feels something pinged his chest, jealousy.

Chris turns back to the room before leaving with you, his smile unshaken. “Good job today, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow,” he says cheerfully.

The room falls silent in their absence until Felix appears a moment later, his presence lighter but no less significant. He approaches Minho, hands casually tucked into his pockets. “It’s been a long day. How about we grab some drinks, Chef?” he offers simply, his tone a mix of suggestion and insistence.

Minho exhales, running a hand through his hair. Drinking feels like the only way to end the day, and he figures he can deal with the mess brewing around him tomorrow. Without a word, he gives Felix a nod, and the two leave the dining hall together with Taesoo insists on joining as he trails behind them like a puppy.

-

It’s been a hard day, and drinking feels like the perfect solution. Minho sits at a small table in a dimly lit bar, with Felix to his right and Taesoo to his left. The three of them have already drained two bottles of soju, and as Taesoo refills their glasses, it looks like they’re well on their way to finishing a third.

The alcohol has softened the edges of Minho’s usual restraint, his words slightly slurred as he leans back in his chair. He glances between Felix and Taesoo, raising his glass. “If either of you has any complaints about me, just say them now,” he says, his tone both a challenge and an invitation. “Everything. I want to hear it today.”

Felix perks up instantly, his face lighting with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Oh, I’ve got a ton of complaints,” he says, setting his glass down with a grin.

Minho arches a brow and turns to him, feigning seriousness. “Go on, then. Say it to my face.”

Felix stacks his hands together on the table, leaning forward as if preparing for a serious interrogation. “Alright, tell me the truth,” he begins dramatically.

“The truth about what?” Minho asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you like sharing the office with Chef Sara?” Felix asks, his voice laced with mock curiosity.

Minho doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he gently slaps the back of Felix’s head. Felix hisses in pain, rubbing the spot as he mumbles something under his breath about Minho being too rough.

Minho doesn’t linger on Felix, shifting his attention to Taesoo next. “What about you?” he asks. “Got anything to complain about?”

Taesoo shrugs, nonchalant. “Nope. No complaints.”

Without hesitation, Minho slaps the back of Taesoo’s head too, earning a startled yelp. “You’re too agreeable,” Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Felix chuckles, taking another sip of his soju before wincing at the sharp aftertaste. He exhales deeply and rests his chin on his hand. “You know,” he says, looking at Minho with a hint of earnestness. “The problem is that you have a funny way of showing affection. That’s why the other cooks don’t get your good intentions.”

Minho rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, he firmly hits Felix on the chest, causing Felix to wheeze dramatically.

“Let’s just drink tonight,” Minho orders, waving for another bottle of soju.

He doesn’t want to talk, not about anything that actually matters. Tonight, he just wants to drown his frustrations in alcohol and forget the tension that’s been weighing on him all day. Especially the part of the day where he got to watch you being whisked away by that annoying manager, Chris.

The waiter brings the fresh bottle, and Taesoo eagerly pops it open. He pours into all their glasses, careful not to spill a drop, and they raise their drinks together.

“To surviving another day,” Taesoo says with a grin.

Minho clinks his glass against theirs, the faint chime ringing in the air. “Cheers,” he mutters before downing his glass in one shot.

The warmth of the soju burns his throat, momentarily dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He places the empty glass on the table and exhales, already reaching for a refill.

-

Chris drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console. The car glides smoothly along the road, his pace steady and unhurried. As the car slows to a stop at a red light, he glances over at you.

“So,” he says, his tone light but knowing, “did you come with me on purpose to avoid the other chefs?”

You chuckle softly, amused by how quickly he figures things out. “See? This is why I like you,” you reply with a grin. “You’ve got a great sense for things, Chris. And honestly, I’m glad it’s not awkward between us.”

His forehead wrinkles slightly in question. “What do you mean?”

You tilt your head, choosing your words carefully. “I mean, it’s just the two of us here, in the car, and it doesn’t feel weird or uncomfortable. Especially after what you told me earlier.”

At that, Chris’s lips curl into a wide grin, his dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. “I’ll take that as a good thing,” he says, his voice warm.

The light turns green, and Chris shifts his attention back to the road. After a moment, he speaks up again. “I need to stop at the grocery store. You wanna come along?”

You glance at him and smile. “Sure,” you say, feeling like it’s the least you can do after he swooped in to save you earlier.

When you get to the supermarket, Chris grabs a trolley and starts pushing it through the aisles while you wander toward the fruit section. Your attention is caught by a bag of grapes sitting in the chiller. You grab it and examine the label before turning to him.

“These are cotton candy grapes,” you announce.

Chris raises a brow, pushing the trolley closer. “What’s the difference?”

“They’re sweeter than regular grapes,” you explain. To prove it, you open the bag, pull out a grape, and without hesitation, shove it into his mouth.

Chris blinks at you, startled, but obediently chews. You pop one into your own mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness as you watch his reaction.

He chews thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Tastes like regular grapes to me,” he finally says, shrugging.

You groan dramatically. “Your taste buds really are dull, Chris.” Then, with a teasing smile, you shove another grape into his mouth before he can protest.

Ignoring his glare, you toss the bag into the trolley. Chris immediately objects, his voice mock-stern. “Hey, you opened that! You should pay for it.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You ate more grapes than me so you’re paying for it.” And just to tease him further, you shove yet another grape into his mouth.

Chris pouts as he chews, his lips sticking out just slightly, and you can’t help but laugh softly at the sight. There’s something so easy about being around him. There are no games, no tricks, no sharp words to dodge or tension to navigate. It’s nice, comfortable, safe.

And yet…

As you watch him push the trolley forward, chatting easily about what else he needs to buy, your thoughts drift to someone else. Your heart, stubborn as it is, doesn’t want this safety or ease. It wants the man who flicks your forehead and scolds you, who keeps you guessing and makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

But for now, you follow Chris down the aisle, telling yourself it’s enough to enjoy this moment, even if your heart is elsewhere.

-

Minho’s head is buzzing, a dull throb behind his temples as he stumbles out of the elevator. His steps are heavy, his balance slightly off, but he manages to make it to your apartment without tripping. He pushes the doorbell, leaning against the wall for support as his impatience bubbles over.

“Hey!” he calls, his voice slurred. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

After what feels like forever, the door finally opens. But it’s not you.

Sara stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she takes in his disheveled state. Minho squints at her, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Where’s she?” he asks, his voice thick with alcohol.

Sara hesitates, her hand still on the doorknob. “She’s not home yet,” she says simply.

Minho scratches his head, a frustrated groan escaping his lips. He needs to talk to you, to see you. His gaze flickers back to Sara. “Can I get some water?” he asks, his voice softening.

Sara nods after a moment, stepping aside to let him in. He makes his way to the living room, collapsing onto the single sofa with a tired sigh. The room is quiet except for the faint clinking of a glass from the kitchen. When Sara returns, she hands him the water without a word.

Minho takes a long gulp, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. He gasps for air after finishing half the glass, setting it down on the armrest as he leans back into the cushions. His gaze shifts to Sara, who’s taken a seat on the long sofa across from him, sipping what looks like tea.

“Thanks,” he mutters, breaking the silence. “For today. In the kitchen.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sara says with a small smile and then takes a careful sip of her tea before asking, “You've been drinking, huh?”

Minho nods bht his mind feels slightly clearer now, though still hazy enough to loosen his tongue. He glances down at the glass in his hand, his voice dropping to a steady, almost contemplative tone.

“You know,” he starts, “I thought about it once. Just once.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “If you’d beaten me fair and square—if you’d used honest means and taken first place—would I have stayed in second just because I loved you? Would I have applauded you in the background?”

Sara’s brow furrows slightly, but she stays quiet, letting him continue.

“I think… even if you had been honest and won, I still would’ve left you,” he admits, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Because I would’ve gotten jealous. Envious. You’d have made me feel small.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “My pride as a man… it would’ve screamed that I had to be number one. And because of that, I would’ve left you anyway.”

He takes another sip of water, his words hanging heavy in the air. When he sets the empty glass down, he looks at Sara directly. “So maybe… maybe I didn’t leave because you backstabbed me. Maybe I would’ve left regardless.”

The room falls silent. Sara holds his gaze, her expression conflicted. Minho can see the appreciation in her eyes for his honesty, but also the uncertainty about how to respond.

That’s his cue to leave.

Minho pushes himself up from the sofa, his legs unsteady but determined. “Thanks for the water,” he mutters, heading toward the door.

Sara stays seated, watching as he leaves. As he steps out into the hallway, Minho lets out a breath, leaving her to grapple with the weight of his words and eventually makes peace with herself with it.

-

Chris pulls the car to a stop right in front of your apartment building, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the vehicle. You unbuckle your seatbelt, reaching back to grab your bag from the backseat. Your heart pounds as you sit there, debating whether now is the right time to say it.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to him with a smile, calling his name softly. His dimpled smile greets you instantly, warm and familiar. “Yeah?” he says, his voice gentle.

You don’t hesitate any longer. “I like Chef more.”

The words tumble out so quickly that you barely register the slight shift in his expression. For a second, he looks caught off guard, but then his lips curl into a soft smile. “Wow,” he says, feigning playfulness. “You’re quick to reject a guy, huh?”

You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not exactly a rejection,” you explain. “I like you, Chris. I do. But I just… like Chef more.”

Chris leans back in his seat, his hand resting on the steering wheel. He nods slowly, as if processing your words, before looking back at you with a knowing grin. “I kind of already knew.”

You gasp, your eyes widening. “Wait, you knew I’d reject you?”

He gives a small, coy nod.

Without thinking, you reach over and gently slap his chest, making him chuckle. “Then why confess in the first place?” you demand, half annoyed, half amused.

His chuckle deepens, his dimples flashing again. “Because I wanted to try anyway. Maybe I’ll just keep trying until you say yes.”

You groan, slumping back against the seat. “Don’t do that, Chris. Seriously.”

He laughs at your reaction, but there’s something in his tone that hints at a deeper feeling—one he’s clearly trying to mask. You glance at him, feeling a pang of guilt. “You don’t know how hard this is,” you mutter, glaring at him. “I’ve never had to do this before. Rejecting someone… especially a guy who’s wealthy, good-looking, and actually likes me?!”

Chris laughs again, the sound warm and disarming, but you can see the faint sadness in his eyes. You reach out and squeeze his arm gently, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I really hate being the one to do this, you know. I’d rather be the one getting rejected.”

Your hand slides down to his, holding it briefly as you meet his gaze. “Just… promise me you won’t say this again. Don’t tell me you like me or anything like that ever again.”

Chris holds your gaze for a moment longer, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “I’ll do what I want,” he says, his voice teasing.

You groan in defeat, leaning your head back against the headrest. Your frustration only lasts a second before the two of you burst out laughing at the same time, the tension melting away.

Eventually, you know it’s time to go. You reach for your bag and unbuckle, but before you leave, you lean in and wrap your arms around him. “Good night, Chris,” you whisper softly, giving him a squeeze before letting go.

As you pull back, you give him a smile—one that you hope conveys how sorry you truly are for not being able to feel the same way. “Bye,” you say gently, opening the car door.

Chris watches you as you step out, his gaze lingering until you close the door. You wave briefly before heading toward the building, his car idling in place for just a moment longer before driving away.

-

Minho leans against the cool marble column of the lobby, his eyes fixed on the car parked outside. Through the windshield, he sees you and Chris talking, your expressions shifting between seriousness and familiarity. His stomach twists uncomfortably when he sees Chris’s smile soften and how you return it before leaning in to hug him—a hug that lingers just long enough to stir unease in Minho.

He doesn’t know what you’re saying to each other, but his gut tells him Chris must have confessed his feelings. It doesn’t scare him—Minho knows who he is, knows his worth—but it makes him nervous. He knows how sly that Australian guy, Chris, can be, how easily he could sway you if you let him.

When you step out of the car and head toward the building, you don’t notice Minho watching until you’re almost at the door. Your startled expression turns to one of exasperation as you catch his glare.

“You really are a professional two-timer,” Minho sneers, his words sharper than he intended.

You scoff, crossing your arms as you step closer. “And you’re drunk,” you point out, wrinkling your nose at the alcohol on his breath.

Minho grabs your hand firmly, cutting off any further argument. “Come with me,” he mutters, dragging you toward the elevator.

The ride up is silent, except for the faint hum of the elevator motor. Minho leans against the wall, his gaze locked on you. He wants to ask about Chris, wants to confirm if his suspicion is right, but his thoughts are muddled by the alcohol and his own insecurity. The ding of the elevator interrupts his thoughts, and he stumbles slightly as he steps out.

“I need your help to get inside,” he grumbles, draping an arm over your shoulder for support.

Once inside his apartment, Minho kicks his shoes off haphazardly, his bag and coat ending up in a careless pile on the floor. He pulls you along toward the bedroom, his grip on your hand tightening. “Take me to bed,” he demands, his voice heavy with fatigue and alcohol.

“Just a second,” you chide, slipping out of your shoes as fast as you can before he tugs you toward the bed.

Minho collapses onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You prop yourself up on one elbow, offering to get him some water, but he grabs your wrist and pulls you down beside him. “Stay,” he murmurs, his tone softening.

You obey, lying on your stomach and facing him. The room is quiet except for the faint sound of the city outside. After a while, Minho turns his head to look at you, his brow furrowed. “Chris told you he likes you, didn't he?” he finally asks.

You nod, confirming his suspicion.

“What did you say?” he presses, his voice low.

Instead of answering directly, you prop your hand under your chin and smirk. “My dad says Chris is a nicer man than you.”

Minho lifts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at you. “Does that make me the bad guy?”

You grin, nodding without hesitation.

“You told your dad about me and Chris already?” Minho asks in disbelief, his brows shooting up.

You nod again, your grin widening.

He groans, reaching out to pull you closer. You shut your eyes, bracing yourself for the finger flick you’re certain is coming, but instead, Minho wraps his arm around your neck and tugs you close until your head rests against his shoulder.

“What did your dad say?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You let out a soft sigh. “He’s rooting for the nice man.”

Minho frowns, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What about you?”

Your sly smile returns as you rest your hand on his chest. “Well... I’ve always been the disobedient daughter who never listens to her dad.”

Minho smirks at that, nodding in approval. “Good,” he murmurs. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. “Don’t listen to your dad, okay?”

You chuckle softly. “Yes, Chef.”

He nods again, shifting to get more comfortable. “Let’s sleep.”

“Yes, Chef,” You snuggle closer to his side, his arm draped around you as he exhales deeply, finally relaxing.

Just as you’re about to drift off, Minho turns his head toward you. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

You roll your eyes and shake your head firmly. “No. You reek of alcohol.”

“Come on, just a peck,” he pleads, his voice almost whining.

With a sigh, you relent, leaning in to press a quick peck to his lips.

“That was too quick,” he protests immediately.

You groan, rolling your eyes again before leaning in for a longer, lingering kiss. Minho lets out a small gasp when you finally pull away, his cheeks flushed and his lips curling into a contented smile. “Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy.

He cups your face gently, holding your gaze as he whispers, “Goodnight.”

You smile back at him, your heart warming at the tenderness in his voice. “Goodnight.”

As the room falls into peaceful silence, Minho pulls you closer, your warmth grounding him. For the first time in a while, the doubt and jealousy that had been weighing on him begin to lift. With you lying beside him, he feels at ease—secure in the knowledge that no matter who tries to sway your feelings, you aren’t going anywhere but his side. A soft smile lingers on his lips as sleep finally claims him.

-

Minho’s eyes scan the tickets clipped to the rail as Felix approaches with a dish in hand. Minho inspects the plating carefully, wiping a smudge from the edge of the plate with a practiced motion. “Go,” he instructs, handing it off to the waiting server. Felix nods and heads back to his station, and Minho’s focus shifts to the tickets again.

His brows furrow. Something’s off.

“Felix!” Minho barks, his voice cutting through the clatter of the kitchen. Felix looks up from the garnish he’s carefully arranging.

“Yes, Chef?”

Minho holds up the ticket. “Table three’s order hasn’t even gone out yet, but table eight’s is already served. Care to explain?”

Felix glances at the tickets, then smirks and jerks his head toward Hyunwoo, who’s furiously tossing pasta in a pan at the next station. “It’s not me, Chef. It’s Hyunwoo. He’s taking too long on the linguine.”

Hyunwoo stiffens, glaring at Felix. “Linguine takes longer to cook! Maybe if you timed your dishes better, this wouldn’t happen.”

Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe if you didn’t act like you’re boiling pasta for a buffet line, this wouldn’t happen either.”

Their voices escalate, bickering like children, as Minho’s patience wears thin. Slamming his palm against the counter, he growls, “Both of you, shut up!”

The kitchen falls into tense silence, save for the sizzle of pans. Minho steps around the counter, moving to stand between Felix and Hyunwoo, his sharp gaze flicking between the two.

“I’ve told you both a hundred times,” Minho starts, his voice low but seething with authority. “Cooking for a course meal isn’t the same as cooking a single dish. Timing. Coordination. Communication. If you two can’t figure out how to work together, you’ll take this entire kitchen down with you.”

Felix nods quickly, contrite. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho looks at Hyunwoo, waiting. But Hyunwoo’s jaw is tight, resentment clear in his eyes as he hesitates.

Minho narrows his gaze at Hyunwoo. “Are you not going to answer me?”

The tension thickens as Hyunwoo glares back at Minho but says nothing. Before Minho can press further, the kitchen door bursts open.

“Where is he?!” Yura’s voice echoes like a thunderclap.

Chris rushes in behind her, his face flushed as he tries to hold her back. “Please, don’t. Let’s talk in my office—”

Yura yanks her arm away, storming past Chris with fire in her eyes. She marches straight toward Minho, her voice trembling with rage. “I know what you’ve been doing. With who. And when.”

Minho doesn’t flinch, his expression stony as he locks eyes with her, daring her to continue.

“I know your little secret,” Yura spits, her gaze sweeping the kitchen before landing back on Minho. “I saw it with my own eyes. You and her.” Her eyes flick to you, standing frozen by the corner of the kitchen.

Minho’s chest tightens, but his face remains impassive.

Yura takes a deep breath, as if savoring the moment. Then she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I saw you two at the bus stop. Kissing.”

The kitchen plunges into suffocating silence. Every clatter of knives and pans halts. All eyes turn to Minho, then to you, then back to him.

Despite his calm exterior, Minho’s heart pounds in his chest. Yura presses on, her voice dripping with venom.

“You are a hypocrite. You fired my sister—innocent Minji—because you said you wouldn’t allow romantic relationships in the kitchen. But now you’re doing the exact same thing.” Her lips curl into a bitter smile. “How does it feel to be the one breaking your own rules? How does it feel to be the one causing this situation?”

Felix steps forward suddenly, his voice firm. “That’s a complete lie! Chef wouldn’t do something like that.”

Hyunwoo hisses in response, turning to Felix with a sneer. “How do you know? Minji saw them at the café, remember? And now this? Are you seriously defending him?”

Hyunwoo turns his glare on you. “And you—didn’t you say you were just close with Chef? What a joke.”

Seungwan steps in, his voice sharp. “So, it's true, Chef? That the two of you are dating?”

You cut in, your voice trembling but steady enough to say, “We— We’re close because we went to the same culinary school in Italy. That’s all.”

But Sous Chef Seojun isn’t satisfied. “Chef, just tell us the truth. Are you dating her or not?”

Minho’s gaze falls on you, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Your eyes plead with him, a silent “don’t do it” written in every tearful glance. But Minho knows this has gone on long enough.

Minho straightens, resting his hands flat on the chef’s table as he looks out at his team.

“It’s true,” Minho says, his voice clear and unwavering. “We’re close.”

He pauses, looking back at you, silently apologizing for what he’s about to do.

“However, I’m in love with her.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

You close your eyes as if you can't stand seeing it happens and when you open them, tears pooling in your eyes as you stare at him in disbelief.

Minho keeps his gaze on you, knowing that as long as he looks at you, he can weather anything.

The silence is deafening, broken only by Yura stepping forward with a mocking laugh. “And what did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in this kitchen, Chef?” She grabs Minho by his chef’s tie, pulling him closer. “You’re fired!”

Minho calmly untangles her grip from his tie, fixing his coat with precision. He stands tall, facing everyone once more.

“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as your chef,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “But I won’t apologize for loving her. And because of that, I have no right to continue leading this kitchen.”

Minho unties his chef’s necktie, pulling it off and holding it in his hand.

“With this, I'll leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”

The room remains eerily quiet as Minho steps back, turning his attention to you one last time. A triumphant smile plays on his lips, even as tears stream down yours.

Despite the chaos he left behind, despite the stunned expressions and inevitable fallout, Minho feels an unexpected lightness—a sense of victory. For the first time, he didn’t hide. He didn’t lie. He stood before everyone and declared his love for you without hesitation, without shame.

He glances down at the crumpled chef’s tie in his hand, a symbol of all the rules and walls he’d built around himself. He knows he’s walking away from the life he built with his blood, sweat, and tears, but strangely, there’s no regret.

If loving you meant losing the kitchen, then so be it.

-

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @whosanaanyway @skzswife @nightmarenyxx @vixensss @angstraykids

[nialovessatoru]

Redline Hearts

streetracer!gojo x mechanic!reader

ft. rival!sukuna

mdni!

content: smut, fast and furious!au, gojo x reader, tension, teasing & flirting, jealous!sukuna, slight angst, illegal street races, fluff, explicit sexual descriptions, piv sex, dry humping, oral m & f recieving, car sex

synopsis: Retired from street racing, you opted to tuning cars, only test driving them all by yourself, in peace and safety. Until the star of the streets crashes straight into your heart. You can’t help but keep meeting him, despite the danger of him finding out you work for his biggest rival. And god forbid the chaos that would ensue, if said rival found out you like to sneak around behind his back with the Gojo Satoru. And if it came down to it, were you able to sever ties with with an old friend to pursue the one who makes your heart race?

word count: 12k

archive

It is a few minutes past midnight in Tokyo when the streets are almost entirely empty, save for people occasionally heading to the train station to catch the last train for the night. That aside, the streets felt alive regardless of their desolateness as you were sitting in the dark red Mazda rx-7 that you had finished modifying by 2pm and decided to take a nap before you took his new weapon on a test drive.

Which is what you are doing right now, as your foot presses down on the gas pedal and the monster of a car you had brought to life, speeds through the streets of Tokyo. Racing past all the brightly coloured neon lights that make the city feel alive, you can feel the adrenaline soaring through every vein of your body. Spreading out from your hands on the steering wheel and up from your feet at the pedals, lighting up every artery which carried the rush through your body, reaching your heart and filling a void that had been infesting your body long enough so you had become almost entirely numb to it.

This was merely a test run. Just you and the car you’d spend over the past month on, dedicated for it to turn out perfect. No flags, no stakes, no crew, no bets.

You drive fast, able to see what’s in front of you just fine, but if you’d look out of the windows at the side of the car, you’d only see a blurr of colors. Yes, this is the way you liked it best, only you and the car, alone and in peace.

Or at least, so you thought.

A few streets away, driving into your direction, is an almost equally fast white Nissan gt-r. Inside of it, a driver with a spiky head of hair in the same, pure, bright shade.

He didn’t plan on racing tonight. Only bothering to drive through the city at this hour to scope out a rival build. And it’s not just any rival’s build. It’s the one that never plays fair, the only one who could challenge him enough to try and sneak a peek into his garage at night, the only one he’d lost to in the past 3 years. Ever since he was 25, he’d won any race he participated in and even before that, he rarely lost.

Until he raced Sukuna.

They always seemed to be eye to eye on races, one winning over the other, just to have the results turned around in the next race. But he was an adrenaline seeker at heart, so it’s not a surprise that when he sees your car speeding through the brightly illuminated streets of Tokyo under the dark night sky, he accelerates the speed of his car to catch up with you.

You hear the faint sound of another vehicle approaching yours from behind at rapid speed. Looking through the rearview mirror, you see the the icy white gt-r coming up right behind you, threatening to overtake. Your eyes narrow, you know this car— who it belongs to.

Satoru Gojo. The star of the streets, so they say. His name circles around like the smoke in every lane with each drift. He is the reason you sometimes have to spend day and night, listening to Sukuna rage, while you tune the fuck out of his car, convincing you to implement dangerous mechanisms in order to reach the car’s highest potential.

You did with this car. He insisted despite all your concerns. You weren’t too keen to try it out yourself. You’d quit street racing for a reason.

And yet, when you see the white gt-r approaching, you can feel the thrill of a real race come back. You love tuning and are content with only test driving all on your own, in peace, at least you kept telling yourself you didn’t miss racing that much.

And you don’t, for the most part. But he is a real challenge. The star of the streets racing you completely unprompted? You couldn’t turn away from this unspoken race, even if you wanted to. So you accelerate your car’s speed even more. A silent battle between your cars begins, with him almost overtaking multiple times, he kept you chasing him and you let him chase you. You both are playing a game. Racing through the streets, fully aware that you both are teasing eachother.

Until he speeds up significantly, rounding corners with an incredible trust in his abilities and his car. Your drifts are clean and precise, though your car isn’t as fast as his. It could be. Due to the mechanism you installed. As much as your rational mind tried to hold you back, you use it to almost it’s fullest potential, racing past him, engine roaring. After having proved to yourself and him that you still got it, you brake behind an old supermarket and bring your car to a stand. Getting out and leaning your back against the cold surface of the car to calm your racing heart. Of course, he’s right behind you, pulling up a few seconds later and getting out of his car. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. He’s freakishly tall and relaxed. With a cocky grin on his face despite having lost to you, although it wasn’t a real race.

“Didn’t think i’d find somebody else dumb enough to hit those turns at that speed, with nothing but risks at stake at that.”

“Especially not someone so gorgeous.”

You half scoff half laugh at that. Turning to look at him. You’d known he was hot, seen him from afar at races before. But standing here before you, you truly notices just how much of a pretty man he was. His light eyes and hair shining under the low streetlights as he walks up to you. And then there was his voice, that carefree, cocky and somehow gentle tone that soothed the racing thrill in your mind that made you tilt your head at him and ask,“You always chase someone halfway through the city then?” His voice although still teasing is more intense, like his gaze that’s fixed on you. “Only when they’re worth chasing.”

Repressing a smile as you seize up his car to avoid eye contact, you decide to add “You’d be even faster on your right turns, if you got your suspension rebalanced and dropped a few pounds off the front end.”

Eyes widening slightly in awe he steps closer to you, “Oh? You tune?” and inquiring more when you nod, gesturing to the rx-7 “That’s also your work?” Which you confirm and he steps closer to admire it further, although his admiration for the car is short lived as he focuses his pretty eyes on you. One hand that was trailing over the hood of your car stopping dangerously close to where your hip rests, standing right before you, voice deeper and measured but it keeps it’s teasing edge. “Wanna take a look at mine next?” Somehow, with the unsubtle way he is checking you out, you get the feeling he isn’t talking about his car.

Any other day you probably would have just brushed him off, he’s the biggest rival of Sukuna and his crew. The people you usually tune for, if Sukuna knew you are even entertaining the idea… you don’t even want to think about what he’s do, much less risk finding out by chance.But with fresh adrenaline still running through your veins and the way his warm hand rests just a little too close to the hem of your skirt overrides all rational thought. “I guess maybe you could come by sometime.”

“Maybe? You need some convincing?” And his fingers trail over your hip at the hem of your skirt. His touch is light but it ignites a fire within you. Still, you don’t let your guard down and gently take his hand from your hip, though with hesitation, your warm hands lingering on his cold, soft but strong ones for a few seconds too long. “Bring your car, and cash. Not your hands. And you can come by.” The sound of his laugh followed you all the way back home, after you’d given him your number and said, you’d give him a date (one where you knew neither Sukuna nor one of his acquaintances would be around).

You are ripped from your sleep the next day by your door slamming open and a gruff voice, “Why the fuck are you still asleep?”.

Better question. Why the fuck had you given him the spare keys to your house again??? It may have been around 2pm, but you didn’t appreciate being woken up like this, no matter the time. Opening your eyes, you see his pink head of hair and as usual, a scowl tugging at his face. “I need my car.” Hurling a pillow at him, which he catches effortlessly with an amused scoff, you turn your head back into your spare pillow and muffledly respond something about five more minutes.

Your phone kept ringing as you explained the car’s mechanics next to him, until it got on his nerves and he went to grab it. “Can you tell whoever that is to fuck off?”. Quickly, you snatch it out of his grasp before he can look at your screen, snapping back “Can you mind your fucking business?” He grunts irritably, the glare on his face deepening and turning back to the car. You repress letting out a sigh of relief as you notice the messages you prevented him from seeing. It was Gojo. The very same man he was bragging about beating with this car not even five minutes later.

Really, you don’t know why he bothers to act this way over you when he’s literally the one taking another girl home every race—scratch that. He probably doesn’t even wait until they’re home and just fucks them in the car that you tuned. It’s not like you care who he sleeps with but his hypocrisy gets on your nerves. You’d already explained to him multiple times you were cool with whatever he’s doing, but you want no part of it, if he’s not all for you. He didn’t understand that. Not that you expected him to. But there was this weird tension whenever you two were alone and the focus wasn’t soely on cars or tactics. Or when a guy would hit on you and Sukuna would go intimidate him, but every time you asked what that was about, he’d just tell you they’re all shitty assholes.

Like he isn’t one himself.

Safe to say, you feel like a weight is lifted off your shoulders the moment he gets into -your- his newly tuned car and drives off.

You’d been ignoring Gojo while he was here, too scared of the risk of Sukuna seeing who texted you. He was already weirdly angry everytime a guy would even hint at flirting with you— you don’t want to know experience the way he’d act up if he found out you were meeting up with his biggest rival behind his back, while driving his car.

Oh, and he was ecstatic when he saw your name on his screen. He’d expected a snarky text back but your call was a nice surprise. “Heyy sweetheart. Already miss me?”

“I’m free now. If you wanna come over and have me check out your car.”, you try to sound indifferent to seeing him again.

There’s a pause on the line, not because he’s caught off guard but because he’s savouring it. Leaning his head back and cheesing, you can hear the grin in his voice. “Ahh, didn’t think i would hear from you so soon. And so eager too— should i be flattered or worried?”

“Don’t read too much into it. I just don’t have any other plans today.”

He grabs his keys and you can hear them jingling faintly over the line. “Guess i should just count myself lucky you decided you want me to fill your time.”

Letting out a sigh, you don’t know if you’re going to regret this or have a fun time with -him- his car that you’d dreamt about working on. “See you then.” Hanging up before he can answer, you text him your address and decide to put on an outfit that’s cuter than your oversized, stained shirt. Twenty minutes later, you can hear tires screeching on the street in front of your garage. You walk outside and wave him into your garage. Inside he gets out of his car, whistling as he looks you up and down. “Heyy gorgeous.”

“You don’t need to call me all that.”, you turn around to hide your blush, fumbling with some tools, but he walks up behind you, his voice vibrating in your ear. “You haven’t even told me your name. What am i supposed to call you?”

You turn around to face him and almost blush again at his closeness. You… hadn’t?

“Weren’t you bothered you that you don’t have a name to put to this handsome face? I know i was— am.”

“You think really highly of yourself.”, you look back into his eyes and give him your name, which he repeats a few times as if savouring it, then leans closer, chuckling. “The name’s Gojo Satoru, but you can call me Satoru.”

“I know.” Fuck. You and your big fucking mouth. You had a reasonable explanation that he seems to already be piecing together, but…

“Ahh i see, my name precedes me, as a mechanic, you’d know the name of one of Tokyo’s biggest street racers. Well, now i’m really flattered.” …you really don’t need to inflate any man’s ego.

“It’s not a big deal. People talk a lot all the time.” Putting a hand on his chest, and letting it linger on him for longer than it needs to because— damn he’s ripped as fuck, you shove him away to escape the hot, suffocating distance.

You let go and turn to his car, it really was a beautiful car -beautiful car belonging to a beautiful man-.

One of your hands trails over the hood of his nissan gt-r, crouching down to examine the front bumper, you try to focus, shuddering as you remember how solid his chest had just felt under your palm.

“Looks clean for the most part, but your left tire is under inflated, you’re loosing speed on your right turns and risk delaying them if it deflates even more.” You absentmindedly speak, while examining his car, adding, “and if you really wanted it to gain speed, you could switch the bumper to a lighter one, but that’s really just me being petty.”

Gojo is utterly impressed by your meticulousness, his mouth slightly agape, stunned as he watches you examine his car, it doesn’t help that your skirt had ridden up just the slightest bit. He swallows hard, regaining his composure before laughing, “So you’re saying i’m a pretty amazing driver for winning left and right, despite being handicapped?”

Well, yes, pretty much exactly that. But it’s not like you’re going to give him the satisfaction of saying that aloud. Glancing back at him over your shoulder with a raised brow, you reply, “I’m saying, you need to take better care of your car and run your mouth less, if you don’t want to crash into a ditch in your next sharp turn at high speed.”

When you stand back up and fully look at him, he almost looks like he’s… pouting? With his bottom lip pushed out, pretty and glossy from him probably running his tongue over it. It made you wonder what else he could do with it, if he would kiss you gently and slowly run his tongue along your mouth, or if he would plunge it right in, kissing messy and needy. -You could bet a hundred dollars that you could make him beg.-

“I’m treating her veryyyyy well.”

You snap out of wherever your imagination was running and tilt your head at his insistence in full confusion. “What? Who?”

He nods his head towards his car. “Her.”

“Her..?” you sceptically raise one of your eyebrows. “You really refer to your car like it’s a woman?” Not being able to bite back the urge to tease him, you stifle a giggle with one hand. “So desperate you need to project your lack of a love life onto your car? Do you kiss her goodnight too?”

Unashamed, he walks closer to you, winking. “Only if she’s been good.”

“Oh, so your love is conditional? Tsk tsk… she deserves better.”

He rests his hand against the side of his car, caging you in, just like when you first met. He gives you space to move away— you don’t. “No, my love is unconditional but I believe in… performance based rewards.”

You force out a chuckle, hoping he doesn’t notice your blush. “Wow. Lucky her.”

He leans down, his face hovering only inches away from yours, “Jealous?”

A scoff escapes your mouth, it’s weaker than you want it to be, “Of your car? You’re ridiculous…” And yet, you lean in too, only slightly but it gives him enough confidence to place the hand that was on his car on your waist. Barely, but enough to let you know that the desire in his eyes was burning just for you.

“Are you sure? You’ve been eyeing me like you want me to take you for a ride instead.”

Your breath hitches, his lips brush yours and his low voice sends an evil flutter down your stomach, making you core spasm and coat your panties with sticky arousal, when he adds “Or would you prefer i leave the riding to you, princess?”

This time, he’s definitely not talking about cars. And you’re glad he isn’t. You lean in, your hands fisting his shirt as your lips lock onto his and he deepens the kiss almost immediately. His lips are soft and the kiss is slow, but passionate. He tightens his grip on your waist, pushing your back against the surface of his car. You gasp when he shoves one knee between your legs, putting friction on your aching clit, “Gojo—“

“—Satoru, baby. Call me Satoru.” He’d been teasing you with nicknames, but the way he called you baby so naturally, so confident, made your head spin. “Fuck, okay. Satoru.”

He humms against your jaw, between kisses he plants on it, “Hm?”

“W-what about your car?”

Chuckling, he picks you up, both hands on your hips as your legs wrap around his waist and he places you on the hood of his car.

“My car? She’s not going anywhere.”

Rolling your eyes at the female connotation he forces onto his car, you pull away a bit, “No, seriously. Didn’t you come to let me tune it?”

“That can wait.” And he’s kissing you again, more hungrily, hands on your thighs, kneading them and pulling you flush against him. His clothed, hardening cock brushing against your core and he lets out a soft moan as he starts grinding against you—a loud crash and the metal echoing from the fall breaks the moment.

He pulls away and you do too, standing up but holding onto the side of his car, knees still weakened. You let out a sigh of relief as you see that it was just a wrench, you’d placed carelessly on the edge of your table. Meanwhile Satoru lets out a groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stands behind you, “Not your shop trying to cockblock you.”

Not being able to repress a small laugh, you push his head off of you and pat his cheek, stepping away to pick up the wrench and put it where it belongs. “Good. Maybe it has better judgement than we do.”

After mutually agreeing that he’d come back in a few days where he’d get lighter bumper for his car, since you had none that specifically fit his car, you fixed his tires and tell him goodbye.

He’s lingering on the outside of his car door, fumbling with the keys in his hand as if he’s nervous. “Um. I’ll see you.”

Your eyes narrow a bit at his behavior but you shrug it off, “…Yeah, just make sure you tell me before you plan to come ov—“

And he hugs you goodbye, his strong arms only encircling your body for a short moment before he slips into his car and drives off.

You’re left dumbfounded, with heated cheeks and a racing heart.

Suguru is leaned under the hood of his black ccxr, the garage smelling like burnt rubber and metal as Satoru walks in, sunglasses pushed back on into his soft hair.

“Thought you wanted to go for a drive?”, Suguru’s voice echoes from beneah his car.

“I am.” Satoru circles his car and taps the front bumper just in time for Suguru to see as he slides out from under his car. “Figured i should swap this to a lighter one though.”

Raising an eyebrow, the raven haired man questions, “Lighter? Seriously?”

The former shrugs, “Every millisecond counts, right?”

With a sigh, Suguru gets up and wipes his hands on a rag, muttering, “Overambitious but sure. I’ve got time right now. I’ll help you put it on.”

Twirling his keys around his finger, Satoru’s

already opening his car door and shaking his head, “Nah, i’m good.” He grins. “I’m taking it to an actual professional.”

Suguru’s brows knit together in confusion. They always tune their cars together. Always have.

“Seriously?”

“Yup. She’s a real professional— real pretty too.”, Satoru leans against his car with one arm, internally swooning over you.

“Uh-huh.” Assuming he’s trying to find a euphemism for a hookup because why else would he suddenly get his car tuned by someone else, when they’ve been doing it together for years. “…so…. it’s not actually about cars?”

Confused, Satoru’s nose scrunches up. “Ehhh? No no no, it is. She rebalanced my suspension last time, my car runs smooth as hell now.”

Now that makes Suguru deadpan. “I’ve been telling you to get your tires fixed for weeks, Satoru.” And he’d always brush him off.

With a silly pink flush on his pale cheeks, Satoru just sheepishly chuckles, making Suguru prod further. “Are you gonna tell me who this actual professional is?”

Satoru only grins and gets into his car, waving at him cheekily, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

After he drove outside, Suguru was left standing there, staring at the empty space where his car had been. And then his lips curl into a sly smile as he recalls the times he’d caught him smiling at his phone or sneaking away to make a call…

You’re currently stirring the pasta you’d made yourself for dinner and were very much looking forward to eating. It’s been three days and you haven’t received a single text from Satoru. Maybe he just had a lot to do, or maybe he hasn’t been able to get a lighter bumper yet. There are other possibilities you don’t want to consider because you realize that you really barely know him. You suppose, maybe it’s different because you’ve known of him beforehand, while he’s met you for the first time a few weeks ago. Still, it felt weird. He’d been spamming you with texts and calls before he’d been to your garage, but now? Does it have something to do with what you did—or almost did, in your garage? Maybe it was about that awkward goodbye you’d had. You shake your head vehemently. Stupid stupid stupid stupid thoughts. It really isn’t that serious.

Or maybe it is, because the doorbell rings only a few seconds after and instead of your fear of Sukuna coming over becoming reality, It’s the white haired fool.

“I thought i told you to call, or text me before you come over!”

God, you don’t even want to think about what if Sukuna actually was here, if he’d been the one to open the door… A shudder runs down your spine but you snap out of it when you see his eyes on you, and instead of the usual teasing, carefree look, he seems concerned. About you? Why?

“Hey… Sorry about that.” He slowly steps inside when you automatically move to the side. “Are you okay?”

Luckily, you recover quickly from your overthinking habits and are able to smile, “Yeah yeah, just…” you smack the back of his head with your palm, “don’t show up unannounced. Do you even know that you look like a major creep?” You also wondered why he didn’t bother texting you, but you weren’t about to bring that up, when you just decided that it isn’t that serious.

He ruffles his head where you smacked him, not because it hurts because he’s grinning like that just made his day. “Sorry, sorry. I promise, i won’t forget again.” adding a quieter, “Are you gonna kick me out?”

You did contemplate it for a moment but you don’t actually want him to leave.

“Depends. Are you hungry?”

He blinks, confused. “Huh? Like what— like, for you? Hell yeah! You know, i’ve actually been dreaming about—“

You interrupt him with another smack to his head, before he can finish that sentence. “I mean actual food, dumbass. I made pasta.”

“Oh. Ohhhhh.” For a moment, he’s actually flustered but that quickly switches back to his usual attitude, “So we’re eating together? Like a married couple? Are you going to feed me too?”

You grimace as you turn off the stove. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Chuckling with that casual tone of his, he leans against your fridge, “so… you’ve been thinking about me?”

Your hands pause, hovering over the pots. “What?”

“Weeellll, earlier, when you opened the door, you looked like you’ve seen a ghost. But not in the bad kind, more like ‘oh wow, i’ve been totally imagining this moment but i’m not prepared for it’ kind of way.”

You snort a laugh. He wasn’t all that wrong, you were thinking about him more than you wanted to but this scenario was just so ridiculous and outright cocky.

“Have you ever considered that i just wasn’t expecting anyone? Don’t flatter yourself too much.”

He shrugs, “Ehh, yeah, sure. But of course i prefer the version where you’ve been fantasising about me.”

You’d definitely put double chilli powder in his portion sauce.

After deciding you’ve felt enough satisfaction from seeing him suffer and squirm, lips red and puffy from the spice, you even told him and agreed to switch plates because you can handle spicy food. And then he was actually able to enjoy the food you made.

For a while, you two eat in comfortable silence, but then he asks a question that’s been on his mind ever since he first met you.

“You know, you’ve got hella skills behind the wheel. But i’ve never seen you in a proper race, or heard of you and i sure as hell know you’d be talked about if you’d participate in bigger events.”

“Not everyone cares for that.”

He pouts, with his slightly reddened and plumped lips from the spice, he looks cute. “Sure but… i guess i’m wondering. Why don’t you race?”

To which you pause, stirring the pasta on your plate around, “Ah… long story, i guess.”

Satoru rests his head on his palm, “Not like i’ve got somewhere to be.”

Placing your fork down with a sigh you relent, “Okay, it’s not actually a long story.”

He nods, waiting for you to continue.

“I kinda had an accident.”, you mumble almost under your breath.

“Like a bad one?”

You shrug, “I dunno. Don’t remember.”

Leaning forward on the table, he prods, his blue eyes soft but seemingly piercing right through you, “So you’re afraid?”

“No.” Your answer comes out a little too quickly, more like a reflex, so you add, “I mean, maybe, a little. But mainly… someone else sort of made me.”

His eyes widen, “Someone made you?“

Shaking your head you exhale deeply, “Not really but kind of. He just kept saying that i’ll get myself killed and made a fuss, so i just…”

Satoru stays quiet for a moment, not judging you but thinking, trying to understand. “And you let him tell you what to do?”

“I wouldn’t say that… i just-“ you trail off, fixing your thoughts for a second. “since i can’t remember the accident… i guess he wasn’t too far off, i may have been reckless, i was younger. So after i recovered, i stuck to tuning and as you know, occasionally test drive, but not real races… it’s just safer that way.”

Putting your last tools away after having attached the lighter bumper to his car and checked all of his tires again, which were fine now, curtesy to you, you lean back on your workbench and face Satoru— who’s eyes are surprisingly trained on you instead of the car you’d tuned. You were explaining something about his car, rambling even. Showing your nerdy tendencies when it came to cars and their mechanics, though when you notice the way he is staring, you trail off and your cheeks flush the tiniest bit. “What?”

He smiles, looking at you the same way he had after he realized you were seriously asking him to eat dinner with you earlier. It wasn’t a cocky, relaxed smile, it was soft and genuine, his eyes fixed on you in a way that makes you feel seen. You weren’t used to this… gentleness, to someone being so attentive of you.

“Nothing, nothing… i just think you’re really cute like this.”

Yous stomach flutters dangerously, the way it has been with him. He keeps getting to you in a way no one ever has before. It scares the shit out of you because you’re not used to being vulnerable. But you find yourself not wanting to run. You aren’t sure if you want to take the risk of being hurt for him, although deep down you know that you do. You let him in time and time again, almost involuntarily because it just came so easy, so naturally with him.

Yous stomach flutters dangerously, the way it has been with him. He keeps getting to you in a way no one ever has before. It scares the shit out of you because you’re not used to being vulnerable. But you find yourself not wanting to run. You aren’t sure if you want to take the risk of being hurt for him, although deep down you know that you do. You let him in time and time again, almost involuntarily because it just came so easy, so naturally with him.

“Cute..? Really?” Brushing hair out of your face that was messy, sticking up and to your forehead, desperately needing a shower, stains on your shirt and you were rambling about car mechanics—and he thinks you’re cute??

He nods, looking unfazed on the surface but in the short time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him pick on his nails and the redness that was more intense than usual while he stepped forward also doesn’t escape your attention. Until the teasing edge in his voice comes back and he grins boyishly, “Yeah, i mean, you were so focused, putting your all into my car and then you’re nerding off about mechanics… Like whew, are you trying to seduce me?”

You bite your lip, returning his grin, “So it’s working?”

You don’t notice that he pulled a stack of cash out of his pocket until he takes your hand and places it in your palm, eyes widening at the fact that it’s far more than you’d ever charge for exchanging the bumper and fixing his tires, you were about to protest but he winks at you and reassures you before you can. “A bit extra. Consider it a thank you for uh… everything. Dinner too, it was great. Though, i’ll take you out properly next time. I mean… if you want?”

Almost immediately, without even thinking about it, you reply, “Yeah. Of course.”

He squeezes your hand with both of his. “Great. And don’t worry about the Cash, it’s fine, really.” Then he adds, in a confident, cocky tone, “I’ll get it back in at the next race anyways. I’ll go all out, i promise, it’d be a disservice to the work you put into my car.”

He says it as if you did anything special. You barely did anything at all to his car but he’s so appreciative, it’s heartwarming.

Though it doesn’t last long because internally, your mind is screaming. The race in a week. He told you about it while you were working on his car earlier but you were too focused on what you were doing to put the pieces together until now. And you feel like an idiot. The race. The stupid race. It’s the same one Sukuna’s been telling you about. The one for which he convinced you to install a multi staged nitrous kit for and rid the car of all limitations that were there for safety. Thinking about the monster you’d created in doing so, made you nauseous already. But realizing that Satoru will be there, racing against that? The possibilities of everything that could happen make your throat close up.

You don’t even notice that your breathing has slowed and you are trembling until warm, strong, calloused hands squeeze yours and you look up to see blue eyes piercing through you, his eyebrows furrowed in worry. He says your name a few times and you blink. At his hands on your trembling ones, the door to your garage, the ceiling lights, his car and at him. He’s saying your name, with a softness that makes you want to curl up into his chest and cry.

But why are you so vulnerable now? It’s fine. It’s okay. Whatever happened at races had never been your business. You never cared. Never cared that Sukuna would be racing against Satoru, until you got to know him and he was everything. Offered you everything Sukuna never could in his wildest dreams. Seeing you— caring about what he sees in a way Sukuna would never even dare try.

He places one hand on your shoulder, and rubs your back comfortingly, his voice so assured and kind, “I’ll be safe. I promise you. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

He interprets your reaction as a sign of the lingering fear of your accident you’d mentioned earlier.

“That’s not what i’m worried about.” You reply, steadying your voice.

It isn’t the car you are worried about, your tuning is, despite the mechanism, safe and secure enough to last. Neither are you worried about Sukuna playing dirty. He is too cocky for tricks.

Satoru tilts his head, still rubbing your back, “You sure? Because it’s totally fine if you are. I get it, it’s scary. You may not remember the accident but that doesn’t mean you can’t be scared.”

Taking a deep breath, you silently wrap your arms around him. Hoping that he’ll remain this sweet to you after the race. Hoping that nothing will change.

You’re worried because essentially, you’re betraying him. Betraying both of them.

And you don’t think Satoru will see it that way, you know he’ll try his best to reason and be understanding the same way he is now. But Sukuna? He’s a ticking time bomb and it makes you sick thinking about what he might do when he finds out. He’s big on loyalty. Incredibly so.

Pushing these thoughts away, you are grounded to the present moment by Satoru’s warmth. The way his chin rests on the top of your head, his strong arms around you and tones chest against your cheek. Inhaling his scent, you’re calming down. In this moment, everything is alright. So you stop worrying and focus on the now.

Eventually, both of you pull away and you’re calm again. At peace and safe, as you always seem to be with him.

After he is sure you’re safe he says his goodbye, opening his car door, but before he can get in, you grab his chin and kiss him. It’s a messy kiss when your lips meet and you pour all of your worries and affection for him in it. He tugs you closer by the waist, fingers digging into your skin beneath the shirt and moans breathily when you bite his lower lip, sucking on it.

He pulls back slightly, eyes darkened and wide with need, his voice rough and low,

“If you keep kissing me like that, i might have to drop down on one knee and put a ring on your pretty fingers.”

Gently swatting his chest, you gasp, cheeks flushed, “Don’t… don’t just say stuff like that.”

He nuzzles his forehead against yours, “You’re right, by the time i actually do, i won’t spoil the surprise like this.”

“You’re insane.”, you breathe out as your hands slide from his cheeks to the back of his head, closing your eyes for a second.

“Do you know what’s actually insane?”, he pulls his forehead away to look down at you, hands gripping your hips and pulling your body closer against the hard, hot planes of his chest. Your heart pounds in your chest as you wait for him to continue.

“That i haven’t properly tasted you yet.”

Before you can properly react he lifts you up with his hands grabbing your ass, making you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist.

“You’re so beautiful.” He places you down on the hood of his car. The sleek metal of the car cools the heated skin of your bare legs beneath your shorts.

Your hands are still clutching his shoulders, head spinning as you reply to him, “Wait, but i’m all gross after working on your car—“

His hands caress your thighs almost reverently, “No- god, no. I swear you’re the sexiest woman ever. You could never be gross to me.”

His hands on your thighs slide dangerously high, barely slipping beneath your shorts but so so close to where you need him most as he keeps talking with a low, breathy voice, his eyes almost hungry. “Please, just let me eat you out. Right now. You don’t need to do anything. I’ll take care of you if you’ll let me.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, frozen for a moment as your legs wrap around his waist tighter to keep him close.

“I need to taste you, just this once… —or maybe a hundred times more but please let me do this right now.”

He keeps mumbling, planting soft, deliberate kisses over your neck.

And fuck, you need him probably just as much. So you cup his face and kiss him again, whispering against his lips, “Just shut up and do it.”

That’s all he needs because he immediately drops to his knees in front of you, tugging your shorts and panties off, tossing them somewhere neither of you care to look.

He spreads your legs and places them on his shoulders, his face between your thighs, which he places messy, wet kisses all over.

You’re about to tell him to hurry, tugging your hands in his fluffy white hair to pull him closer, when his tongue licks a long stripe over your already wet folds.

A strangled gasp escapes you when he sinks his tongue into your pussy immediately after. His hands are gripping your thighs, as he thrusts his tongue into you. “Fuckkkk, you taste so good…”, he mutters against your skin, his low voice vibrating against your core.

Breathlessly, you whine, “Satoru, please… more…”

And you don’t need to tell him twice because he’s eating you out, licking, kissing, sucking on your clit like a starved man.

You keep him in place as he sucks on your clit, his teeth gently pulling on it, making your legs tremble around his head as you feel the pressure building up even further in your lower stomach. “Oh, fuck! I’m so close.”

That only makes him suck on your clit harder, more desperately. By the time he slides two fingers inside of you, you’re falling apart in his mouth, over his hand, on his car. He gently places kisses around your cunt, looking up at your glazed over expression through white lashes, while he slowly thrusts his fingers inside for a few more times to prolong your high.

He pulls them out after a bit, sucking your slick off of them, but instead of getting up, he stays on his knees for a bit, rubbing your thighs while looking up at you.

You tiredly tug on his hair, wanting him closer, so he stands up and wraps his arms around you, lifting you up and kissing you softly. You can taste yourself on his lips and it makes you hum into the kiss.

He carries you into your house, letting you point the way to the bathroom and he showers together with you, his hands all over you, caressing your body sensually, keeping his eyes on you as if he’s admiring you.

Later in bed, he’s laying next to you, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face and you can feel him hesitate— see the question forming in his head as he speaks, “Do you want me to leave?”, his voice is gentle and low. He’s not asking out of insecurity but out of respect for you, giving you the space to pull away if you wanted to.

Your brows furrow and you shake your head, taking his hand and placing it on your waist, shifting closer to him, “What? Don’t be stupid.”, you pull him into a kiss, slow and needy, tongues meeting and you suck on his bottom lip to hear that whiney sound he makes when you do.

He pulls you closer by your waist and deepens the kiss. One of your hands trails over his bare chest, taking in the hard planes of his muscles under your fingertips, sliding down over his v-line, to the hem of his pants. He trails his hands upwards to tug off your shirt, his lips trailing down from your jaw to your neck, to your collarbones and now exposed breats. “God, baby, you’re so gorgeous.” And you feel him shift to hover above you, his hands kneading the flesh of your breasts, popping one nipple into his mouth and sucking on it, tongue flicking over the bud, making surges of pleasure shoot through you.

Your own hand tugs down his pants, freeing his hard cock. Wrapping your hand around him and stroking slowly, you feel just how big he is. He gasps and releases your nipple, going back up to kiss you, wet and sloppy, whining into your mouth as you stroke him.

One of his hands slides down into your panties, running his fingers over your already dripping cunt, “You’re so wet for me”, he mumbles into your skin, sinking two fingers knuckle deep into you. You squeeze his cock harder in your hand when he scissors his fingers just right and both of you moan in unison.

You release his cock to take off your panties but he’s already pulling them down with your free hand, tossing them into a corner for the second time that day.

His hands grip your thighs and he lines himself up with your cunt, sliding his tip through your wet folds, making you whine,

“Satoru, fuck me already.”

He chuckles breathlessly against the skin of your neck, tingling you there.

“So impatient… i’m on it, sweetheart, don’t worry.” A loud moan falls from your lips when he finally sinks his entire length inside of you, pausing and gripping your thighs as if to compose himself.

He starts thrusting in slowly, shallowly, one hand cupping your breast and squeezing. When he sees your pretty eyes looking up at him with need, he picks up the pace, bottoming out until only the tip remains inside of you and slamming back in. His hips snapping against yours, stretching you out so good. Your legs wrap around his waist but he takes one and lifts it up over his shoulder, the new angle allowing him to reach even deeper. “Fuck, you’re so tight..”

Your nails rake over his back, leaving red lines all over, and that only seems to turn him on more because he rubs your clit with one hand in response. “Oh yes, just like that!” You moan and clench tighter around him, his own hips stutter slightly but he holds himself back, pushing you over the edge first. Your eyes are locked on his, mouth open in silent, breathy moans as the tsunami of pleasure crashes over you, clinging onto him.

He keeps thrusting into you, hand releasing your clit and tangling in your hair, lightly pulling on it, “I’m gonna— shit— Should i pull out?”

Your arms only wrap around his back tighter in response, shaking your head, “Want it inside.”

He looks at you with need and keeps rutting into you, replying with a breathy voice, “Fuck, okay.”

And he thrusts deeply inside of you, hips staggering, pressing against yours as you feel his warm cum fill your belly.

He rides out his high by shallowly thrusting into you a few more times, stuffing his cum inside of your cunt, his forehead resting against yours, savouring the moment of being connected to you physically.

After a moment of letting you both catch your breath, he pulls his head away to look at you, his hands cupping your face and capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss.

He rolls his softening cock for a few more times, still nestled inside of your cum filled cunt, whispering your name against your lips.

When he pulls out, he lays his head down on your chest and you caress his hair. You’re both silent for a moment until he looks up and places another kiss on your lips, like he can’t get enough of you, “You’re so perfect.”

He says it so earnestly, like it’s nothing, it makes your stomach flutter and cheeks heat up.

“And you’re ridiculous..”

“Ridiculously hot.” He smirks and you giggle tiredly, “Sure sure.”

You settle properly into bed, nuzzling against eachother after he cleaned you up, tiredness overcoming both of you, he sleepily rubs your back, your eyes closing and you only nod against his chest when he speaks, “I meant everything i said.”

And you believe him.

A few days pass and the time span leading up to the race gets shorter. Satoru and you stay in contact, calling sometimes but often texting eachother. It’s easy with him, you can feel your affection and care grow for him day by day, no matter how much you try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach whenever you see his name light up your screen. You barely even think about the conflict that you knew was bound to come when they— especially Sukuna, find out about you having been tangled up in them both.

Until reality snaps back in.

Currently, you’re eating dinner with Sukuna and his crew after coming over and doing some last check-ups to ensure his car was flawless for the upcoming race. And you’d stayed over to eat dinner, like you always did before a bigger race. Just with the difference that earlier, when you and him were closer—when he wasn’t a complete asshole towards you—you’d stay the night and he’d often fuck you till sunrise.

But ever since he started entertaining more and more women, while you were around and he’d see you less whenever you said you didn’t feel like warming his bed, you broke it off, the entire weird-whatever-exactly-it-was friends with benefits thing. You didn’t have feelings for him like that, but it sucked being treated the way you were and okayyy, maybe you liked him a little more than you’d wanted to admit, or else you wouldn’t have longed for him to be all over you outside of bed too.

You are over it though. Have been.

Shots are being passed around, which you refuse, you’re more in your head than usually. Sukuna is an asshole but he’d been your friend… or something… for years. Did he really deserve that you fucked his biggest rival, one that he’s told you countless times that he despises, behind his back?

When you bring your plate to the kitchen after dinner, he’s there. Studying you with his usual scowl, but his eyes seemed more brooding than sharp. Before you can ask him what his problem is, he asks, “You good?”

You blink. Since when did he care?

“Fine. Just tired.”

“Hm.” He tilts his head at you, his voice so… unusually gentle. “Stay the night.”

Not a question, a demand. Just how you knew him. And so casually too— you don’t know if you want to yell at him or pretend you’re nor fazed at all. You don’t have the chance to do either, when your phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. A call. If this wasn’t some insurance scam, then it could only be one other person calling you after the sun had long set. Sukuna glances at it, and your hand moves quickly as you grab it, scared he’d see. “Give me a sec.”

You step away and try to keep your voice down, hushedly talking into the speaker, “Hey… you know, you probably picked the worst possible time to call.”

“You in trouble or something? Everything okay?”

Biting your lip and glancing back over the shoulder, hoping Sukuna is far enough away to overhear anything and exhaling when you notice that he probably is. “All good, just bad timing, as i said. But i am glad you called. I’ll call you back?”

You can hear the grin in his voice, “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

To which you lightheartedly roll your eyes, repressing a smile and ultimately hang up. It’s funny how quickly you can go from almost spiraling in the pain you’d been through due to Sukuna, to feeling wanted. With Satoru you feel grounded, like you’re not just an afterthought or there out of convenience. He makes you feel like you’re his priority in a way that seems so natural that it’s easy to forget how little time you’ve actually known him, if you don’t keep reminding yourself. Despite all the adrenaline and thrill he brings, it just feels easy with him, comfortable and reliable.

Stepping back into the kitchen, it feels as if the balloon of bliss was popped with only a snarl. “Who the fuck was that?”

“Mind your business. Don’t you have a ton of women to call back instead of bothering me?”

He sighs, exhausted, as if you’ve been the one who was pushing his limits. “Just answer the question.”

His tone, which seems genuine enough catches you off-guard, but it’s not enough to undermine the fact that you’re over his antics. “I don’t owe you shit.”

Instead of getting angry, he seems to try to figure you out, “You don’t. But you’ve never hid anything.”

Yeah, maybe. But you don’t reply. You don’t want to yell at him. You want to give into him even less. You’re over it. You want Satoru, even if it made you feel guilty.

“Don’t tell me this is about a guy.”, he scoffs a disbelieving laugh, almost as if the notion was too ridiculous to be true. But when you still don’t respond, he looks conflicted between repulsed and… offended? “You’re kidding. And i always thought you were too cold for some shit like that.”, he mutters, the insult sliding out because he’s confronted with something he doesn’t want to face. A defense you’d witnessed and experienced more times than you can count.

Too cold? Does that asshole even know you?? Too fucking cold???

No. You were loyal, unwaveringly so. Available too. To warm his bed and cool his temper like— and you were there.

Until it started to feel like standing in traffic, waiting to get hit.

You inhale sharply, you’re too tired to argue and you know it’s meaningless too. “Just drop it, Sukuna. I’m going home.”

Grabbing your things, you walk towards his front door, he doesn’t follow. You turn around, eyes softening the slightest bit. Even you don’t know why, you suppose you’ve known his hardened shell enough to be able to tell when something managed to get through. And somehow you also knew, that you not screaming at him, cut through him harder than any yell or hit ever could.

“Get some sleep. And don’t be reckless.”

Then you’re out of the door.

Almost instinctively, you call Satoru after driving a few metres away from Sukuna’s house. He picks up after the second ring, voice light and happy, “Heyy, gorgeous. That was quick. You missed me so much?”

“Yeah yeah…” you swallow, “um, are you home and have some time by chance?”

You try to keep your voice even but he picks up the tightnessin it and his own tone gets more serious, worrying.

“Yeah. Always for you.” he says quickly, “Are you okay? Do you need me to come pick you up from somewhere or something?”

“No, no, i’m in my car.” You hesitate, you didn’t only call him because you said you would, it was like an instinct, a subconscious gesture because you know he’d comfort you. “Do… do you think i could come over?” Biting your lip, you almost regret asking, feeling vulnerable and weak but his response is— as it always is, safe, assured, comforting and natural. “Of course. I just have a friend over right now but if you need space i can tell him to—“

You shake your head as if he can see it and interrupt him, “It’s fine. I don’t want you to send him away for me or anything, that’s really not necessary.”

A small pause and your phone vibrates, “Okay, if you’re sure. I sent you my address. See you soon, sweetheart.”

When you arrive, his garage is open and you see a tall man with silky, long, black hair tied into a half up half down, turning around to look at your car as you park it in Satoru’s driveway.

Satoru is already walking towards you as you step out of your car, his expression softens as soon as he sees you.

“Hey.” You murmur, looking at him, your hands fiddling with your keys.

He doesn’t hesitate, opening his arms for a hug with a soft, “Come here.”

And you let him embrace you, wrapping your arms around his waist, his firm, warm muscles surrounding you, inhaling his cologne.

“Bad day?”

You shrug in his hold, already having calmed down, “Something like that.”

Both of you pull away and look eachother into the eyes for a moment, until Satoru clears his throat and gestures to the man in his garage, “This is Suguru, he’s an old friend, the oldest, really.” Then he gestures to you, “And this is…” he hesitates before grinning, “the best and prettiest mechanic i know.”

The raven haired man’s lips curl into a sly, knowing smile, “Ahhh, so this is her.”

“Her?” You tilt your head questioningly at Satoru, but before he can respond, his friend clarifies, “Nothing. Just didn’t know who he kept running off to see or smile at his phone.”

Satoru chuckles and pushes you towards the door that connects his garage to his house, chuckling sheepishly, “Yeah yeah. Come in, i’ll make you— uh, whatever you want.”

The evening passes comfortably and the atmosphere is relaxed, harmonic. Despite Suguru being a stranger, conversation over dinner flows smoothly between you three. You didn’t feel excluded, despite them being best friends since elementary school and you… just being there, essentially. You found out that Suguru also races and that they’ve been into cars since forever, started racing in high school and gotten into tuning together.

You were surprised, “So you’ve known eachother for that long and were friends the entire time?”

“Unfortunately”, Suguru said with a small smirk.

Satoru threw a dish towel at him in response.

Eventually, Suguru said his goodbye, told you it was nice to meet you and teased Satoru about behaving around you.

Now, you’re laying in his bed, in his shirt, next to him in only loose sweats. He absentmindedly plays with your hair and pulls your head onto his chest, you drape your leg over his in response.

“You’re okay?” he murmurs for the nth time today, to which you nod against him.

A comfortable silence stretches over you. There’s so much you could say.

So much you probably should say.

But for now, it feels easier to just be with him. You’d like to think he feels the same, nothing indicates that he doesn’t and almost everything indicates that he does. You’re still cautious.

But you do want him to know at the same time, “I liked today.”

His hand keeps caressing your hair, more deliberate now, “Me too.”

You’re stirred awake by the slow, rhythmic brush of a warm chest behind you and soft breaths on your neck. You feel something hard press insistently against your ass. Blinking your eyes open, you shift a little under Satoru’s arm that’s hugging you close to him by your waist.

The movement earns a low groan from him, his arm pulling you closer and his hips twitching forwards just slightly, but enough for you to feel the entirety of his hard length.

“Morning, gorgeous.” He mumbles with his raspy, sleepy voice.

“You’re hard.”

He humms against your neck, keeping you close, “Mhm. Can’t help it. You’re so warm and soft.”

You try to turn around to face him but he’s holding you tighter, only making you rub your ass against his erection. “Stay.” He rolls his hips against your ass, burying his face in your neck, “Just a little.”

“Satoru…”, you mumble and press your ass against him harder, making him hiss, “Fuck, you feel so good… just stay like this…”

The friction of his hard cock grinding into you from behind makes you clench your thighs together and you whisper, “You’re unbelievable..”

“You make me like this.”

One of his hands slides under your shirt, warm against your skin, splaying out over your stomach. The other hand on your hip, keeping you close against him. He rolls his hips against you in slow, firm grinds, breath hitching against your neck.

The friction of it sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making you ache for more.

“Satoru, more…” Impatiently, you try to turn around in his hold again, “Let me on top.”

He stills his movements, letting out a groan against your neck. “Fuck, baby, you can’t just say that and expect me to stay sane.”

You manage to turn around, thighs sliding over his hips to straddle him, His hands immediately flying to your hips as he shifts his own, bucking up slightly to adjust.

“God, look at you.” His eyes are trained on you, filled with want. “Prettiest thing i’ve ever woken up to.”

And so is he, with his white hair sticking up, messy from sleep, cheeks flushed and looking at you, with his beautiful blue eyes like you’re the only girl in the world.

You grind your hips down over his, feeling the friction of his hard, clothes cock against your clit. Every slow roll of your hips, every impatient thrust of his, sends shivers down your spine and pleasure up your core. Soaking through your panties and his boxers as both of you keep moving against eachother.

It doesn’t take long for your dizzy, sleepy selves to come, simultaneously finishing in your underwear as you keep rolling your hips, more desperately now.

He pulls you down to his chest, “I don’t think i can wake up any other way from now on.”

If it was up to you, he wouldn’t have to.

You settle for kissing him sweetly and falling back into his arms instead.

A breeze of wind cools Satoru’s face as he rolls own the window of his car, eyes narrowing as he looks out to assess the other contestants, looking for someone who can challenge him, looking for Sukuna, with whom he had an ongoing rivalry and who never failed to put up a good race.

When the next car pulls up, his head turns towards the sound and he has to do a double take at the car in question.

It’s not just a car. It’s the car, a dark red Mazda rx-7.

The car that you drove when he first met you and raced him through Tokyo’s streets with.

But instead of you being inside your car, it’s a pink haired man with face tattoos and permanent scowl. Sukuna.

Something in his head clicks into place.

Leaning his elbow out of the window as he drives up next to him, he whistles, “Nice car. Where’d you get that tuned?”, His lips turn into a dark, smug smile, “Looks like whoever worked on it must really know what she’s doing. Must be a pretty amazing mechanic you got.”

Sukuna’s eyes immediately snap to him, jaw tightening. He hates that tone, all too cocky, all too knowing. Knowing about you. You know Satoru. Is he the reason for your distant behavior? Is he the one behind the calls and texts you’ve been hiding? His hand tightens on his steering wheel, forcing his eyes back onto the road. He can’t afford to snap before the race, it could start any minute now. “Watch your mouth and worry about yourself.”

He rolls up his window and focuses onto the guy giving the signal for the start of the race. But the tension hangs thick between them.

This rivalry isn’t just about who crosses the finish line first anymore.

Now it’s about you.

The start signal is given shortly after.

Engines roar and they’re off in the blink of an eye.

Tires screech, rubber burns against pavement.

The other contestants far behind, Sukuna and Satoru racing for first head on.

The world blurs past in streaks of light and sound. Every turn is precise, brutal. Every second is a battle. Sukuna gains on the straight. Satoru steals it back on the curve. They’re neck and neck, barely a breath between them.

And in the end, a millisecond decides.

The difference between fury and victory.

Satoru won. Sukuna came in second.

You didn’t even want to come here today, but Sukuna had insisted on stringing you along, in case he needs your skills.

But now he lost, came in second, barely missing first place and makes snarky side comments like you intended for this.

You don’t know why he is so pissed off at you like it was your fault he only came in second.

Snapping at you over something you didn’t care to listen to, again. you’ve seriously had enough of his attitude.

“Sukuna, what the fuck is your problem?”

His eyes snap to you and he walks closer, towering over you as his voice sharpens, “What’s my problem? Do you think i’m stupid? You’re really fucking around with that bastard behind my back like it’s nothing, like i—“

A familiar voice cuts through the tension.

“Back the fuck off of her!”

It’s Satoru. Striding over to you with determination and a fierce look of disgust in his eyes, but not directed at you.

That’s all the confirmation Sukuna needs. You really know that bastard. Had been meeting him behind his back— probably fucking him too. It’s not his business but you were apart of his crew. You tuned his cars, helped him strategize for years. All of that just to turn to his biggest fucking rival of all people? That’s a betrayal he’d never expected from you.

His glare snaps from Satoru to you, “You’re such a disloyal little whore, playing for both sides like you didn’t belong to me— my crew for all this time.” voice lowering, he adds, “for a moment, i thought something was genuinely going on with you, was worried too,” he laughs cruelly, leaning closer with a patronising tone, “but apparently it is about someone else. you really just can’t keep your legs closed like a—“

The seething tone makes your stomach turn, but before you can respond, can defend yourself, can explain to him how he treated you like shit for this to happen and you just got too tired to tolerate it for longer, that you never fucking belonged to anyone—

A sharp sound cuts through the air as Satoru’s fist collides with Sukuna’s jaw before he can even finish his sentence.

The force of it sends him stumbling backwards, Satoru now standing right next to you, eyes narrowed in disgust, “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

You’re frozen in place, staring at Satoru not hesitating to step in to defend you, until Sukuna charges at him, “You’re really going to fight for her? As if she’s worth it?”

His fist swings back at Satoru, who doesn’t flinch but meet his advances. “Oh, she’s worth far more than that, even you know that she is. Or else, why are you swinging back?”

A commotion starts to form from the remaining people who’d came to watch the race, now intrigued by the fight between the notorious rivals, surprisingly not about the race, but about you.

“You don’t know shit about her. She was mine—“

But you’ve seriously had enough, throwing your shoe, hitting Sukuna’s head with it, you snap, “I was never yours. I was never anyone’s. I never belonged to you nor your crew, not the scene. I stuck by you but i got too fucking tired of you treating me like shit. And i’m not sorry for choosing me first this time.”

You feel like you’re in some stupid tv-show with the people having formed a circle around you. The fight has died down and Satoru gently puts his hand om your lower back in concern for you.

Sukuna scoffs harshly and turns away, “You made your choice, picked a side. Just hope he’s worth it.”

Satoru leads you away from the people, who started to dissolve when the fight ended, some disappointed, some still curious. His voice is soft, nothing like the angry tone he had moments ago, “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t need anyone to fight for me, you know.” You nod and get in as he opens his car door for you, “but thank you for doing it anyways.”

He gets in on the other side, “Of course not. I just couldn’t listen to that bastard speaking to you that way.”

You nod, placing a hand on his thigh as he starts driving, asking you if you want to go with him to his place or if he should drive you to yours, to which you agree to go with him.

Unable to keep your eyes off of him, you assess the way he looks, hair ruffles and partly sticking to his forehead, light bruises forming on his jaw, some on his arm, and his knuckles split.

You can’t help but think the way he swung at Sukuna for disrespecting you, without a second thought, was incredibly hot and he looks so sexy like this too.

“You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it.” You shrug, caressing his thigh with your hand, “It’s unfair how hot you look right now.”

He chuckles, glancing over at you, “Yeah? Didn’t know you were into beat up men.”

Placing a small kiss on his cheek, you shift your hand upwards, “You didn’t get beat up. You did the punching. For me.”

He exhales sharply, glancing down at your hand that’s creeping dangerously close to his zipper. “Are you trying to make me crash the car?”

Unzipping his jeans slowly, you shake your head sweetly. “Just wanna show you my appreciation properly. You’re a great driver, you know, you’ll be fine.”

His breath hitches when you pull his cock out and lean down to lick a stripe up against it. You can feel it harden as you wrap one hand around him and swirl your tongue over his tip. Above you, he’s muttering curses under his breath, eyes focused on the road, knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel.

You take his cock into your mouth, slowly taking him in, inch by inch and hear a low groan from him.

Bobbing your head up and down around his shaft, you can feel him twitch inside your mouth already. “Fuck, fuck, baby, you’re killing me.”

You’re swirling your tongue around him, feeling every vein against it.

When you hollow your cheeks and suck him off faster, you feel his car swerve to the side, stopping on a secluded area of the road. “Oh, fuck… C’mere.”

He pulls you up by your hair and crashes his lips against yours fervently. His eyes are lidded, voice thick with need, “Backseat?”

And you nod, climbing into the back of the car, he follows and pulls you right into his lap there.

You’re both breathing heavily when he pulls your panties to the side and lines himself up with you, letting you sink onto his length.

But you need him too much to go slow.

You bounce up and down on his thick shaft, to which he grabs your hips tighter and bucks his own up into yours, meeting your thrusts.

The windows of the car fog up as both of you moan and pant in pleasure. your hands tangled in his soft white hair, tugging on the strands as he kisses all over your neck, mumbling curses and praises under his breath, “Fuck, you’re so unreal. Making me feel so good, baby.”

You keep up the pace, your hips stuttering as he rubs your clit with his fingers, messy and fast. Your vision goes blurry and you feel him twitch inside of you as you clench around him, falling apart over him. He’s spilling inside of you, gripping your hips tightly and letting out a loud moan into your ear before stilling entirely.

A few minutes of sitting in his lap, basking in his comforting warmth pass and now you’re both gathering your clothes, so you can drive back to his home. While doing so, you notice something missing. “My shoe…”, you’d left it where you threw it at Sukuna.

Satoru laughs, full of genuine mirth and something akin to pride for you as he remembers the moment and ruffles your already messy hair. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He pulls you into him with an arm on your waist, his voice shifting to something more serious. “I want to. I’ll buy you anything else you need or want too. Because you’re the most amazing woman i’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.”

You blush, stomach fluttering with joy and he cups your face, “I know it may sound crazy but when i’m with you, everything just makes sense and feels right.”

Your heart skips a beat and you’re silent for a moment, hesitating slightly. But it just feels right— exactly like he said, here in his car under the nightly lit streets of Tokyo, and most importantly with him.

“What he said isn’t true, by the way.”

“Huh?”, his brows furrow in confusion for a second, before he nods, taking your hand in his reassuringly. “Oh, no of course not. I never thought you were any of these things—“

You squeeze his hand and shake your head, “I mean, about you, that you don’t know me. I feel seen with you. Really seen. Like you get me.”

There’s a pause and you steady your breath, mustering up the courage to confess, “I think i’m falling in love with you. Maybe i already have.”

His pupils are blown as he looks at you, his hand still cupping your cheek, gently stroking it. “I’m glad. Because i already have.”

You lean into his hand, looking at him with your lips slightly parted and he chuckles lightly.

“Don’t be surprised. How could i not love you?”

For the first time since you stopped racing, the growing hole that has been eating away at your heart has been fixed. Patched and filled with Satoru.

You aren’t numb to it anymore. You feel everything, you feel him.

And you allow yourself to.

art by _3aem & divider by @bernardsbendystraws

[easfdasfas]

People's Daily commentator: With firm confidence, the private economy has broad prospects for development and great potential - On studying and implementing General Secretary Xi Jinping's important speech at the symposium on private enterprises

"In the new era and new journey, the development prospects of the private economy are broad and promising." At a symposium on private enterprises held recently, General Secretary Xi Jinping made an in-depth analysis of the opportunities and challenges currently facing the development of the private economy from the perspective of the overall situation of China's modernization construction, and deeply encouraged private enterprises and private entrepreneurs to "see the future, the light and the future in the face of difficulties and challenges, maintain development determination, enhance development confidence, and maintain the spirit of hard work and winning."

The private economy is an important part of the national economy. Supporting the development of the private economy is a consistent policy of the Party Central Committee, and promoting the development and growth of the private economy is a long-term strategy. Since the 18th National Congress of the Communist Party of my country, one of the important aspects of the rapid progress of China's private economy is that it has always adhered to the "two unshakable" principles, ensuring that all types of ownership economies use production factors equally in accordance with the law, participate in market competition fairly, and are equally protected by law, creating good conditions and opening up broad space for the development and growth of the private economy. At present, China's modernization construction has unfolded a magnificent picture and presented an extremely bright prospect. my country's private economy can only grow, not weaken. We have the confidence and ability to maintain sustained and healthy economic development and promote the high-quality development of the private economy to a new level.

Looking at the development foundation, my country's private economy has now formed a considerable scale and occupies a heavy weight, and there is a solid foundation for promoting the high-quality development of the private economy. In terms of scale and quantity, the number of registered private enterprises nationwide exceeds 55 million, and private enterprises account for more than 92% of the total number of enterprises. In terms of innovation capabilities, the private economy has contributed more than 70% of technological innovation results and has become an important subject of scientific and technological innovation in my country. From the domestic AI large model empowering the industrial chain to the humanoid robot stunning the world, it all proves that the scale, strength, innovation level and market competitiveness of the private economy have been greatly improved. As a new force in promoting Chinese-style modernization, private enterprises will surely play their strengths and prepare to set sail in achieving high-level scientific and technological self-reliance and promoting high-quality development.

Looking at the development stage, the development of my country's private economy is welcoming new opportunities and greater development space. Take the super-large market with a population of more than 1.4 billion as an example. With the implementation of the "two new" policies, "potential consumption" and "effective investment" will be further stimulated, driving the rapid growth of machinery and equipment, new energy vehicles, home appliances, retail and other industries. In the new era and new journey, my country's social productivity will continue to leap, people's living standards will steadily improve, and reform and opening up will be further deepened in an all-round way. These all contain huge development potential. By making full use of the advantages of a large number of talents and labor resources with excellent quality, and a complete supporting industrial system and infrastructure system, and seizing the opportunities of industrial and consumption upgrades, the private economy will be able to move towards a broader world.

Looking at development guarantees, the "Opinions of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China and the State Council on Promoting the Development and Growth of the Private Economy" issued in 2023 covers aspects such as continuing to optimize the development environment of the private economy, increasing policy support for the private economy, and strengthening legal protection for the development of the private economy. Since last year, various reform measures deployed by the Third Plenary Session of the 20th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China are being implemented, from improving the long-term mechanism for private enterprises to participate in the construction of major national projects, improving financing support policies and systems for private enterprises, standardizing enterprise-related administrative inspections, and accelerating the legislative process of the Private Economy Promotion Law. The socialist system with Chinese characteristics has significant advantages in many aspects. The continuous improvement and improvement of the socialist market economic system and the socialist legal system with Chinese characteristics will provide a stronger guarantee for the development of the private economy.

[famousgardenpoetry]

People's Daily commentator: With firm confidence, the private economy has broad prospects for development and great potential - On studying and implementing General Secretary Xi Jinping's important speech at the symposium on private enterprises

"In the new era and new journey, the development prospects of the private economy are broad and promising." At a symposium on private enterprises held recently, General Secretary Xi Jinping made an in-depth analysis of the opportunities and challenges currently facing the development of the private economy from the perspective of the overall situation of China's modernization construction, and deeply encouraged private enterprises and private entrepreneurs to "see the future, the light and the future in the face of difficulties and challenges, maintain development determination, enhance development confidence, and maintain the spirit of hard work and winning."

The private economy is an important part of the national economy. Supporting the development of the private economy is a consistent policy of the Party Central Committee, and promoting the development and growth of the private economy is a long-term strategy. Since the 18th National Congress of the Communist Party of my country, one of the important aspects of the rapid progress of China's private economy is that it has always adhered to the "two unshakable" principles, ensuring that all types of ownership economies use production factors equally in accordance with the law, participate in market competition fairly, and are equally protected by law, creating good conditions and opening up broad space for the development and growth of the private economy. At present, China's modernization construction has unfolded a magnificent picture and presented an extremely bright prospect. my country's private economy can only grow, not weaken. We have the confidence and ability to maintain sustained and healthy economic development and promote the high-quality development of the private economy to a new level.

Looking at the development foundation, my country's private economy has now formed a considerable scale and occupies a heavy weight, and there is a solid foundation for promoting the high-quality development of the private economy. In terms of scale and quantity, the number of registered private enterprises nationwide exceeds 55 million, and private enterprises account for more than 92% of the total number of enterprises. In terms of innovation capabilities, the private economy has contributed more than 70% of technological innovation results and has become an important subject of scientific and technological innovation in my country. From the domestic AI large model empowering the industrial chain to the humanoid robot stunning the world, it all proves that the scale, strength, innovation level and market competitiveness of the private economy have been greatly improved. As a new force in promoting Chinese-style modernization, private enterprises will surely play their strengths and prepare to set sail in achieving high-level scientific and technological self-reliance and promoting high-quality development.

Looking at the development stage, the development of my country's private economy is welcoming new opportunities and greater development space. Take the super-large market with a population of more than 1.4 billion as an example. With the implementation of the "two new" policies, "potential consumption" and "effective investment" will be further stimulated, driving the rapid growth of machinery and equipment, new energy vehicles, home appliances, retail and other industries. In the new era and new journey, my country's social productivity will continue to leap, people's living standards will steadily improve, and reform and opening up will be further deepened in an all-round way. These all contain huge development potential. By making full use of the advantages of a large number of talents and labor resources with excellent quality, and a complete supporting industrial system and infrastructure system, and seizing the opportunities of industrial and consumption upgrades, the private economy will be able to move towards a broader world.

Looking at development guarantees, the "Opinions of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China and the State Council on Promoting the Development and Growth of the Private Economy" issued in 2023 covers aspects such as continuing to optimize the development environment of the private economy, increasing policy support for the private economy, and strengthening legal protection for the development of the private economy. Since last year, various reform measures deployed by the Third Plenary Session of the 20th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China are being implemented, from improving the long-term mechanism for private enterprises to participate in the construction of major national projects, improving financing support policies and systems for private enterprises, standardizing enterprise-related administrative inspections, and accelerating the legislative process of the Private Economy Promotion Law. The socialist system with Chinese characteristics has significant advantages in many aspects. The continuous improvement and improvement of the socialist market economic system and the socialist legal system with Chinese characteristics will provide a stronger guarantee for the development of the private economy.

[magnificenthottubtriumph]

People's Daily commentator: With firm confidence, the private economy has broad prospects for development and great potential - On studying and implementing General Secretary Xi Jinping's important speech at the symposium on private enterprises

"In the new era and new journey, the development prospects of the private economy are broad and promising." At a symposium on private enterprises held recently, General Secretary Xi Jinping made an in-depth analysis of the opportunities and challenges currently facing the development of the private economy from the perspective of the overall situation of China's modernization construction, and deeply encouraged private enterprises and private entrepreneurs to "see the future, the light and the future in the face of difficulties and challenges, maintain development determination, enhance development confidence, and maintain the spirit of hard work and winning."

The private economy is an important part of the national economy. Supporting the development of the private economy is a consistent policy of the Party Central Committee, and promoting the development and growth of the private economy is a long-term strategy. Since the 18th National Congress of the Communist Party of my country, one of the important aspects of the rapid progress of China's private economy is that it has always adhered to the "two unshakable" principles, ensuring that all types of ownership economies use production factors equally in accordance with the law, participate in market competition fairly, and are equally protected by law, creating good conditions and opening up broad space for the development and growth of the private economy. At present, China's modernization construction has unfolded a magnificent picture and presented an extremely bright prospect. my country's private economy can only grow, not weaken. We have the confidence and ability to maintain sustained and healthy economic development and promote the high-quality development of the private economy to a new level.

Looking at the development foundation, my country's private economy has now formed a considerable scale and occupies a heavy weight, and there is a solid foundation for promoting the high-quality development of the private economy. In terms of scale and quantity, the number of registered private enterprises nationwide exceeds 55 million, and private enterprises account for more than 92% of the total number of enterprises. In terms of innovation capabilities, the private economy has contributed more than 70% of technological innovation results and has become an important subject of scientific and technological innovation in my country. From the domestic AI large model empowering the industrial chain to the humanoid robot stunning the world, it all proves that the scale, strength, innovation level and market competitiveness of the private economy have been greatly improved. As a new force in promoting Chinese-style modernization, private enterprises will surely play their strengths and prepare to set sail in achieving high-level scientific and technological self-reliance and promoting high-quality development.

Looking at the development stage, the development of my country's private economy is welcoming new opportunities and greater development space. Take the super-large market with a population of more than 1.4 billion as an example. With the implementation of the "two new" policies, "potential consumption" and "effective investment" will be further stimulated, driving the rapid growth of machinery and equipment, new energy vehicles, home appliances, retail and other industries. In the new era and new journey, my country's social productivity will continue to leap, people's living standards will steadily improve, and reform and opening up will be further deepened in an all-round way. These all contain huge development potential. By making full use of the advantages of a large number of talents and labor resources with excellent quality, and a complete supporting industrial system and infrastructure system, and seizing the opportunities of industrial and consumption upgrades, the private economy will be able to move towards a broader world.

Looking at development guarantees, the "Opinions of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China and the State Council on Promoting the Development and Growth of the Private Economy" issued in 2023 covers aspects such as continuing to optimize the development environment of the private economy, increasing policy support for the private economy, and strengthening legal protection for the development of the private economy. Since last year, various reform measures deployed by the Third Plenary Session of the 20th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China are being implemented, from improving the long-term mechanism for private enterprises to participate in the construction of major national projects, improving financing support policies and systems for private enterprises, standardizing enterprise-related administrative inspections, and accelerating the legislative process of the Private Economy Promotion Law. The socialist system with Chinese characteristics has significant advantages in many aspects. The continuous improvement and improvement of the socialist market economic system and the socialist legal system with Chinese characteristics will provide a stronger guarantee for the development of the private economy.

[asfdsadsa]

People's Daily commentator: With firm confidence, the private economy has broad prospects for development and great potential - On studying and implementing General Secretary Xi Jinping's important speech at the symposium on private enterprises

"In the new era and new journey, the development prospects of the private economy are broad and promising." At a symposium on private enterprises held recently, General Secretary Xi Jinping made an in-depth analysis of the opportunities and challenges currently facing the development of the private economy from the perspective of the overall situation of China's modernization construction, and deeply encouraged private enterprises and private entrepreneurs to "see the future, the light and the future in the face of difficulties and challenges, maintain development determination, enhance development confidence, and maintain the spirit of hard work and winning."

The private economy is an important part of the national economy. Supporting the development of the private economy is a consistent policy of the Party Central Committee, and promoting the development and growth of the private economy is a long-term strategy. Since the 18th National Congress of the Communist Party of my country, one of the important aspects of the rapid progress of China's private economy is that it has always adhered to the "two unshakable" principles, ensuring that all types of ownership economies use production factors equally in accordance with the law, participate in market competition fairly, and are equally protected by law, creating good conditions and opening up broad space for the development and growth of the private economy. At present, China's modernization construction has unfolded a magnificent picture and presented an extremely bright prospect. my country's private economy can only grow, not weaken. We have the confidence and ability to maintain sustained and healthy economic development and promote the high-quality development of the private economy to a new level.

Looking at the development foundation, my country's private economy has now formed a considerable scale and occupies a heavy weight, and there is a solid foundation for promoting the high-quality development of the private economy. In terms of scale and quantity, the number of registered private enterprises nationwide exceeds 55 million, and private enterprises account for more than 92% of the total number of enterprises. In terms of innovation capabilities, the private economy has contributed more than 70% of technological innovation results and has become an important subject of scientific and technological innovation in my country. From the domestic AI large model empowering the industrial chain to the humanoid robot stunning the world, it all proves that the scale, strength, innovation level and market competitiveness of the private economy have been greatly improved. As a new force in promoting Chinese-style modernization, private enterprises will surely play their strengths and prepare to set sail in achieving high-level scientific and technological self-reliance and promoting high-quality development.

Looking at the development stage, the development of my country's private economy is welcoming new opportunities and greater development space. Take the super-large market with a population of more than 1.4 billion as an example. With the implementation of the "two new" policies, "potential consumption" and "effective investment" will be further stimulated, driving the rapid growth of machinery and equipment, new energy vehicles, home appliances, retail and other industries. In the new era and new journey, my country's social productivity will continue to leap, people's living standards will steadily improve, and reform and opening up will be further deepened in an all-round way. These all contain huge development potential. By making full use of the advantages of a large number of talents and labor resources with excellent quality, and a complete supporting industrial system and infrastructure system, and seizing the opportunities of industrial and consumption upgrades, the private economy will be able to move towards a broader world.

Looking at development guarantees, the "Opinions of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China and the State Council on Promoting the Development and Growth of the Private Economy" issued in 2023 covers aspects such as continuing to optimize the development environment of the private economy, increasing policy support for the private economy, and strengthening legal protection for the development of the private economy. Since last year, various reform measures deployed by the Third Plenary Session of the 20th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China are being implemented, from improving the long-term mechanism for private enterprises to participate in the construction of major national projects, improving financing support policies and systems for private enterprises, standardizing enterprise-related administrative inspections, and accelerating the legislative process of the Private Economy Promotion Law. The socialist system with Chinese characteristics has significant advantages in many aspects. The continuous improvement and improvement of the socialist market economic system and the socialist legal system with Chinese characteristics will provide a stronger guarantee for the development of the private economy.

[iyrthdfvdfsfeasd]

People's Daily commentator: With firm confidence, the private economy has broad prospects for development and great potential - On studying and implementing General Secretary Xi Jinping's important speech at the symposium on private enterprises

"In the new era and new journey, the development prospects of the private economy are broad and promising." At a symposium on private enterprises held recently, General Secretary Xi Jinping made an in-depth analysis of the opportunities and challenges currently facing the development of the private economy from the perspective of the overall situation of China's modernization construction, and deeply encouraged private enterprises and private entrepreneurs to "see the future, the light and the future in the face of difficulties and challenges, maintain development determination, enhance development confidence, and maintain the spirit of hard work and winning."

The private economy is an important part of the national economy. Supporting the development of the private economy is a consistent policy of the Party Central Committee, and promoting the development and growth of the private economy is a long-term strategy. Since the 18th National Congress of the Communist Party of my country, one of the important aspects of the rapid progress of China's private economy is that it has always adhered to the "two unshakable" principles, ensuring that all types of ownership economies use production factors equally in accordance with the law, participate in market competition fairly, and are equally protected by law, creating good conditions and opening up broad space for the development and growth of the private economy. At present, China's modernization construction has unfolded a magnificent picture and presented an extremely bright prospect. my country's private economy can only grow, not weaken. We have the confidence and ability to maintain sustained and healthy economic development and promote the high-quality development of the private economy to a new level.

Looking at the development foundation, my country's private economy has now formed a considerable scale and occupies a heavy weight, and there is a solid foundation for promoting the high-quality development of the private economy. In terms of scale and quantity, the number of registered private enterprises nationwide exceeds 55 million, and private enterprises account for more than 92% of the total number of enterprises. In terms of innovation capabilities, the private economy has contributed more than 70% of technological innovation results and has become an important subject of scientific and technological innovation in my country. From the domestic AI large model empowering the industrial chain to the humanoid robot stunning the world, it all proves that the scale, strength, innovation level and market competitiveness of the private economy have been greatly improved. As a new force in promoting Chinese-style modernization, private enterprises will surely play their strengths and prepare to set sail in achieving high-level scientific and technological self-reliance and promoting high-quality development.

Looking at the development stage, the development of my country's private economy is welcoming new opportunities and greater development space. Take the super-large market with a population of more than 1.4 billion as an example. With the implementation of the "two new" policies, "potential consumption" and "effective investment" will be further stimulated, driving the rapid growth of machinery and equipment, new energy vehicles, home appliances, retail and other industries. In the new era and new journey, my country's social productivity will continue to leap, people's living standards will steadily improve, and reform and opening up will be further deepened in an all-round way. These all contain huge development potential. By making full use of the advantages of a large number of talents and labor resources with excellent quality, and a complete supporting industrial system and infrastructure system, and seizing the opportunities of industrial and consumption upgrades, the private economy will be able to move towards a broader world.

Looking at development guarantees, the "Opinions of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China and the State Council on Promoting the Development and Growth of the Private Economy" issued in 2023 covers aspects such as continuing to optimize the development environment of the private economy, increasing policy support for the private economy, and strengthening legal protection for the development of the private economy. Since last year, various reform measures deployed by the Third Plenary Session of the 20th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China are being implemented, from improving the long-term mechanism for private enterprises to participate in the construction of major national projects, improving financing support policies and systems for private enterprises, standardizing enterprise-related administrative inspections, and accelerating the legislative process of the Private Economy Promotion Law. The socialist system with Chinese characteristics has significant advantages in many aspects. The continuous improvement and improvement of the socialist market economic system and the socialist legal system with Chinese characteristics will provide a stronger guarantee for the development of the private economy.

[ovaryacted]

Even though I know it’s all intentional, I truly hate how we’ve become forced to normalize AI. I do think that the manufacturing of Artificial Intelligence was not done with malicious intent and has the capabilities of actually doing good, but time and time again ai is being used in literally everything for the worst reasons and getting its getting harder to escape.

From AI being used to scrape people’s hard work all over the internet, to giving predators and abusers more power in fabricating porn of strangers, to being used to strengthen racial bias in surveillance technology and aid in the development of weapons of war and mass destruction against marginalized groups of people…it’s just too fucking much. It’s so exhausting wanting to live in a world where we just didn’t need or have any of this shit, and it wasn’t like this a few years ago either. But now you can’t step outside without seeing something about AI, or a promotional ad for a new system to install. You can’t engage online anywhere without coming across AI software, and literally every single device in our present day implements AI to some degree, and it’s so fucking annoying.

I don’t want to keep worrying about the next idiot that’s spoon feeding my work into their AI system because they lack humanity and imagination. I don’t want to have to manually turn off AI detection on all of my apps and my phone just to use something. I shouldn’t have to be more mindful about the media I consume to distinguish whether or not it’s original or just more AI slop. I know it’s all intentional since we live in a hyper-capitalist world that cares more about profit margins & rapid productivity. But I really do vehemently hate how artificial intelligence has become such a fundamental aspect of our day to day lives when all it does is make the general population dumber and less capable of thinking for themselves.

Sincerely fuck AI. And if you use AI, I really do suggest you read up on how the data centers built to manage these AI systems suck up all of our resources for a simple prompt input. Who cares about answering a question in ChatGPT, entire communities don’t have water because they’re too busy cooling down the servers where people ask what 6 + 10 is cause their brains are so fried they can’t fire a single fucking neuron.

[caitlinbueckers]

ok Ik you said Pazzi fic in studio but will never get the idea of Paige calling azzi mamas out of my head so just felt like I needed to share an idea for a blurb or to include in anything you write PAIGE CALLINF AZZI MAMAS

anon ur a genius but i am simply a fool who took this prompt and then ran with it and turned it into a random oneshot soooooo i apologize for the minimal use of ‘mamas’ but hope u like it anyway and will implement that in all my writing deadass

pet names.

paige bueckers/azzi fudd.

2.8K.

kinda bullshit rambling but a lil more of a structure to follow???

minimal nsfw so 18+ as fuck

Wait guys let me know how u rly feel bcuz im not suuuper happy w this one

at first, it’s a subtle change.

it’s not like paige is ever actually serious enough for her words to be taken to heart or with any ounce of meaning behind it— she’s a fucking idiot, and azzi was more than well aware of her incessant antics, and the fact that she just played too much.

so, of course it surprises her, but she can’t say it really means anything, until it does.

it’s funny to azzi, really, when recently, all of a sudden, paige will get caught up in her usual tangents that she’s started letting these random, little pet names slip from her lips, mouth moving so fast, almost as if she barely meant it, could barely even call it out herself.

it happens usually when they’re tired— or, at least when azzi’s tired, and paige is excited. sweat clinging to the back of azzi’s neck, her curls drawing up and away from the edges of her hairline, skin flushed and hot to the touch when paige is suddenly breezing past her. she’s somehow still in a jog despite the rigorous drills they’d done, oblivious to the redness of her face or the plastered strands of blonde hair against her forehead. she’s at the tail end of a conversation with KK, still grinning like a fool about whatever they must’ve been chattering about, yelling out some type of phrase or joke that only those two could conjur up.

azzi’s right eyebrow is already lifted, somehow already suspicious and unimpressed of her intentions when paige is launching straight into a new conversation, cheeks still pink and teeth on display as she skips backwards to keep her eyes on azzi.

“i think me an’ KK are ‘finna go play 2K when we get back to the dorms— i told her ass she doesn’t stand like, a single chance when I’ve been on my grind, and she don’t believe me, like, baby, you know i’ve been on that shit,” she clicks her tongue, rolls her eyes before she’s smacking azzi’s arm, giving her a sneaky grin, one that signaled whatever she was offering was really gonna be a delight, (it never was), “you should come chill. you don’t gotta play if you don’t want, you can always be my lil’ cheerleader.”

it wasn’t like her high energy, rapid movement behavior was anything unusual, but that little, barely missable word was.

baby. it rolls off her tongue like it’s been waiting around the whole time, lingering beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to strike. she says it with an ease of comfort she can’t necessarily place, and azzi doesn’t necessarily hate it, but it’s there, nonetheless.

it momentarily stunts her, but azzi still finds herself smiling— not from any type of fluster or flush miraculously, but one that she usually gives paige when she’s amused by her, eyes wide and exaggerated as she huffs out a chuckle. “that sounds… boring, honestly.” but, she’s laughing at the gape on paige’s face anywa, “i need to shower, dude, i don’t wanna watch video games.” she scoffs, before she grins at her, only because she knows it’ll piss paige off.

and it does, so, of course the walk out to the parking lot is filled with a whole lot of, ‘oh my god, bro, you’re so lame.’ or, ‘like, azzi, you can have a turn ‘forreal, like just come over for like, deadass a second.’

ultimately, and unsurprisingly enough, paige ends up getting her way. though, she’ll swear it’s only because azzi takes her shower, does some homework and is in the middle of taking out her braids when the word hits her again, and again, and again.

babybabybaby.

she can’t really blame the way she rolls her eyes despite herself. her and paige had been close for fucking ever, so there wasn’t necessarily much between them that was off limits, but it still resonated within her as something azzi couldn’t just brush off. whether that was more damaging than pretending it never happened, she didn’t have a single clue.

all she did know, was that paige bueckers got her way entirely way too much. so much so, that azzi has to let out an audible groan reserved only for paige, before she texts that she’s on her way over.

and yeah, whatever, maybe it wouldn’t matter so much if it was just a one-off, or if maybe their friendship wasn’t so fucking complicated in the first place.

but then, it does matter, because it doesn’t stop happening.

when paige is frustrated at her homework, sitting plainly with her legs at full extension in the study room with aaliyah, ice, and azzi, it leaves her lips in a huff of exasperation, “azzi, babe, this shit really makes no sense, swear.” even if she’s saying it in the voice that clearly states she hasn’t attempted it for nearly long enough to proclaim she doesn’t get it, “az, can you please just come check it out.” azzi can’t tell what’s worse; the fact that paige had said it, or the fact that nobody had even looked surprised that she did.

or when they’d gotten dressed for media day, everyone milling about as they try not to wrinkle their uniforms or crease their concealer, it’s paige (and eventually nika and aaliyah) that whoops and hollers during azzi’s solo pictures, something like, “yeaaaah princess! nation’s best, babyyyyy! work that shit!” followed by a series of whistles that sounded so off pitch it makes azzi snort, rolling her eyes as she purposely avoids the gaze that paige so obviously wants to capture, teetering at the edges of azzi’s peripheral with a grin so wide it threatens to make her blush.

and, she swears she doesn’t, and instead turns back to the photographer with cheeks only a touch pinker than they were previously, “sorry— can we do that again?”

really, the only time she’d ever allowed herself to actually enjoy it, was on the last night at the hotel after a game. it couldn’t have been later than two or three in the morning, paige and azzi having spent the majority of it whispering beneath the covers, anything to not wake up the two other girls asleep in the other double bed.

it’s not too bad, having to share beds— except that, paige is a chronic cuddler and azzi would rather sleep on the shitty futon than be subjected to paige’s unrelenting weight against her back, or her arms slung lazily over her, but it was because of that precise position that azzi could even hear the words when she says it.

“mmmh-,“ she hums tiredly first, speaking mostly out of her ass, like paige always did when got too tired and let herself start rambling “night, pretty girl.”

it’s soft, and sort of raspy— the way paige gets when she’s been screaming all night on the court, and azzi can really only tell by the amount of ibuprofen that she’d downed before bed being somewhat more than her usual, that she’s probably got a headache. it’s a voice she uses when she’s being sincere.

the quiet sentiment, however insignificant to anyone else, replays in her mind. almost like a secret. almost like the closer she keeps it to her chest, the harder it’ll be to lose it.

it makes her whole body warm all over.

her response comes a few beats later, when she’s sure paige has drifted, and nothing but her measured breath is puffing against azzi’s neck, heard only between the two of them.

“night, p.”

but then, suddenly, everything sort of changes. azzi doesn’t know when this part happened— maybe it’s between the time she kisses her at that bar, tipsy and too close, unaware of the camera that set the internet aflame, and now, where it was customary that paige did homework with her, or ate dinner with her or slept over all the time. perhaps, it’s one selective moment in the chaos between that had suddenly transformed paige’s subtle casualty of the pet names, to something more intimate. more for them, rather for anyone else.

or, maybe it was exactly where they knew they’d end up all along.

it’s after a night out, after neither of them had ever really questioned how this had became their routine. that now, it had become something unspoken, an inherent rule that was followed without it needing to be stated. that, when they got too fucked up with the team, and the ubers were being ordered, azzi and paige always went together, that the address would always end up being paige’s dorm, and that azzi would always be curling into purple sheets by the time she sobers up enough to sleep.

but, she’s not sober. she’s drunk, and her face is flushed hot, sticky with the bar atmosphere. “paige, you’re making me too hot.” azzi complains with an impatient lilt to her voice, lifting her right shoulder up to her neck as if to shrug paige off, but the girl is relentless, humming her denial as she slid a hand across azzi’s thigh, grasping it hard enough that her nails dug into the skin there.

“psh, you’re already hot, shut up.” the words are spoken clumsily, lips brushing against the bare skin of azzi’s shoulder with each word, while a sudden surge of annoyance and somehow gratitude courses through azzi for having worn a sleeveless top, “c’mere, mamas, ‘lemme lay on you.”

she’s being whiny, and it only makes azzi roll her eyes before her gaze flickers to the screen of the car, giving her another light elbow prod, only this time, a short, sneaking smile is crossing her face. “paige, ‘forreal, we’re about to be back anyway.”

this, somehow, only fuels her. “i’m wounded,” she complains, before she’s pressing a little smack of a kiss to azzi’s neck, “my girl’s so mean to me, shit.”

my girl.

what the fuck ever.

azzi should’ve demanded an explanation then, but she doesn’t.

in fact, there’s not an explanation waiting for them when they stumble into paige’s room, their hands in a tight grasp, pulling each other in so that they can both fall against the bed, and azzi really shouldn’t have been expecting one. it’s definitely not explained when they’re somehow under the blankets, and paige has an arm, long and lean, wrapped around azzi’s waist to end somewhere between her legs, fingers finding a rhythm that seems to pull the very air from azzi’s lungs.

it’s not what azzi was expecting to happen, and yet somehow they’d fallen into place like it something they’d done a million times. paige had undressed her, after azzi’s complaint of still feeling too hot, and paige— not even a singular bit sober— finds her hands along the bottom of azzi’s top, tugging it over her head before she tosses her an old basketball camp shirt that had been slung across her dresser.

“you gonna sleep in jeans?” is really what had started it, paige’s pointed tone making azzi’s face burn hot, but the smirk on her face never faltered. “you’re so annoying.”

because then, paige has her fingers hooking into azzi’s waistband, eliciting a string of giggles that escape because fuck, she’s ticklish and paige knows. “what? what am i doing?” the blonde is grinning too, snickering under her breath as azzi’s pants are yanked down her hips, kicked from her feet with minimal effort until azzi feels it. a featherlight kiss was placed to each of her scarred knees, the inside of her thigh, eyes flickering up to azzi’s hazy but steady gaze, “this okay?”

god, azzi hadn’t realized until just then how fucking okay it was.

it’s quiet, sensual even, the way that paige talks her through it— heel of her hand dragging endlessly against her swollen clit, fingers thick as they arched into her, teeth grazing the back of azzi’s shoulder with each word of encouragement.

“c’mon, mamas, jus’ like that.” had anyone known better, they’d think paige must’ve been getting off just to this, by the way her own voice hitched and caught, her own hard swallows that reverberated in azzi’s ear, each laced with little gasps as she plunged into her wetness.

but, azzi did know better— paige was absolutely getting off to it. her voice is all breath, crackling and barely audible, murmuring incoherent mumbles that make it almost incomprehensible to decipher, yet, azzi swears she can understand.

it’s in her ear, over and over, that heat and pressure between her legs building as her hips twitched involuntarily against her knuckles, feels the way they slide deeper within her and azzi lets out a noise that even she’s too embarrassed to recount. “fuck, i wanna hear that shit, need to hear you baby, please.”

it coaxes the orgasm straight from azzi’s core, thighs involuntarily squeezing around paige’s hands, to which the blonde is silent in muted awe. she watches with bleary eyes but bated breath, sitting up only a bit to really witness it. the way azzi’s face drew up, eyebrows furrowed and lips parting, the whimper edged breaths that huffed out of her, the tight clamping of her eyes shut.

“so fucking pretty,” each word is punctuated in a kiss, “so good.”

really, it should’ve been a lot worse for them the next morning. azzi can’t help the wave of a ground shaking realization she gets when she rolls over to inspect paige’s sleeping expression, lips slightly parted, her blonde hair mussed on the pillow behind her. there should’ve been some type of lingering awkwardness that hung above them, some type of trepidation or fear, maybe even regret.

it definitely wasn’t like they talked about it, but they’d also never quite gone this far. did they need to? probably, because azzi knew that the guilt would probably hit sooner or later.

in fact, azzi waits for it to hit, all the way until paige wakes up, and her eyes are a little puffy, watery blue and clear as she blinks up blearily at azzi like she’s the finest thing she’s ever laid eyes on (because she is), and whispers with a grin, “distracted by my beauty?”

she waits even until the next away game, when her legs are propped up over paige’s lap and her fingers are drumming absently against azzi’s thigh, humming something in her headphones with her eyes shut, looking like a complete idiot, before their eyes meet by chance when paige opens them, and suddenly, they’re both grinning.

she even waits for it to hit when the buzzer goes off after the fourth quarter of that game, an easy win, and confetti is thrown. it’s chaos really, with all the girls rushing through the tunnel to get back to the lockers. that is, until, paige pulls her aside for half a second, hidden away from the hungry eyes to press a solid, sweet kiss to her lips.

but it doesn’t end there. azzi waits for it during her injury, when enough nights in linoleum covered white floors with the constant smell of antiseptic start to pierce the inside of azzi’s brain, ruins her attitude enough that paige’s texts go unanswered. and yet, everytime azzi wakes up, the pain in her leg flared and angry, it’s paige that’s sat in the corner of the room, huddled under a shitty hospital blanket, waiting for her to wake up.

it went even as far as the loss against IOWA when the roles are reversed— after the excitement of final four had became real, after the grueling, rampant preparation, and then ultimately, a loss. it’s when azzi gets permission to stick around in paige’s hotel room until she gets back from the game, and the way that the blonde, finally in the safety of the four walls, found herself crumbling to azzi, becoming nothing but a shell of what everyone perceives her to be, everything paige wishes she fucking wasn’t.

it’s only then, that azzi finds herself returning the favor— arms wrapped tight around paige’s waist with a burning, sting in her own eyes that she can feel the moment she sighs against the crown of paige’s head. she can smell the sweat, the smell of a basketball court that had just gotten waxed, but really, azzi just smells paige, and that’s enough to give her the composure she needs to whisper against her head, “don’t be so hard on yourself, baby… you guys did so good.”

and they don’t talk about it, because they don’t need to. the same way they never had to ask the other when it came to the hospital or bus rides or homework dates or hotel rooms— it was unspoken, implied but never mentioned. the same way back when they’d met at USA camp, it was never a matter of conversation for their plays to work, it was all in the matter of a look, or a slight of hand.

and when the team starts asking, giving paige shit about how she’s missing video game nights with KK or azzi’s getting shit about caroline missing her study partner, everybody already knows. when paige tells nika, voice only a little timid as she gives her a condensed version of the last few months like it was a ground shaking news, head tilted to lean on the older girls shoulder, the brunette bursts into laughter. ‘finally, took you guys long enough.’

and really, it was a wonder they hadn’t been like this the whole time.

a wonder that it had taken this long in the first place.