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sceletaflores · 16 days ago

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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.”

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front.

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted.

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after.

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

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batsandbirdbrains · 9 days ago

Text

Okay but I love the thought of Dick being the only Wayne kid that was never actually adopted. He was only ever a ward. As soon as he turned 18, Bruce technically had no further responsibility for him.

And perhaps that has always sort of fucked with Dick’s head. He always feels lesser than compared to the rest of his siblings. Half the time, he questions if he can even actually call them his siblings.

He and Bruce fought so much when he was a teenager, and Bruce never formally adopted him, and Dick had been living exclusively at Titans Tower for over a year by the time his 18th birthday rolled around, and the rest of the Fab Five may have had to make sure at least one of them was with him at all times for a few days around his birthday because he was so upset, because he was officially no longer Bruce’s problem, because Bruce didn’t even text him a happy birthday message, because he was mourning the loss of a second family and he had no idea what to do.

He and Bruce have since made up, and they’re on much better terms now, but the fact of the matter is that Dick is still technically not a Wayne.

And maybe none of his siblings even know about it until it’s brought up during an interview. Dick gets nervous, but no one can tell other than his siblings. He looks cool as a cucumber to the interviewer and the audience, but his siblings can all tell he’s upset. The interview ends soon after.

And now they’re all in the dining room at the manor, questioning Bruce, questioning Dick, asking them what the hell the interviewer meant by Dick not being adopted. And Bruce has to nervously admit to all his pissed off children that he never adopted Dick. That he and Dick had been on the outs when he was a teenager, and he turned 18 while living away from the manor, and he’d just never adopted him. But that didn’t mean he didn’t love Dick, because he absolutely does, and still thinks of Dick as his son, still loves him.

But that’s not good enough for the others. They refuse to let another interviewer upset their oldest brother like that again. They insist that Bruce needs to adopt Dick now. Immediately.

And now it’s Dick’s turn to get awkward, to get nervous. Because he insists it’s not necessary. He knows Bruce loves him. He doesn’t need to be adopted, he swears.

Turns out, it’s because someone already beat Bruce to adopting him.

“Deathstroke adopted you?” Tim shrieks.

“To be fair, I didn’t realize it was real until a few years ago!”

“What do you mean you didn’t realize it was real?” Jason questions.

“I thought we were just posing as father and son, I thought it was fake documentation!”

“When the hell did this happen?”

“When I was sixteen.”

“Dick,” Bruce says slowly, and Dick sinks in his seat a bit as he turns back to Bruce. “Why would you have thought Slade Wilson had fake adoption documentation for you when you were sixteen?”

Dick laughs nervously, his fingers tugging at the ends of his jacket sleeves.

“Funny story,” he says, his voice getting higher. “So he sort of kidnapped me and blackmailed me to be his apprentice for a while? When I was with the Titans?”

Bruce blinks at him, and all of his siblings are staring at him with open mouths.

“How long were you his apprentice?”

“Oh, you know,” Dick tries to laugh, waving a hand in the air to try to look nonchalant, “eight months or so? It’s such a fuzzy time, who could know for sure!”

“Eight months?” Bruce repeats slowly. “You were held captive by him for eight months, and you never told me?”

“You just said it yourself, we were on the outs!” Dick says quickly. “I didn’t wanna bug you!”

“Bug me?” Bruce looks like he’s about to start panicking. “You thought telling me you’d been kidnapped and blackmailed for nearly a year would bug me?”

“Well, you’d just replaced me,” he ignores the way Jason lets out a strangled sounding noise, “and by the time I got back you seemed so happy with your new kid and everything and I just didn’t wanna get in the way? Or like, bum you out?”

Dick’s own breaths are starting to come in too quickly, and he’s damn near hyperventilating, and he standing from his chair and making his way towards the door as if no one will notice if he moves slowly enough.

“Anyway, I was in a pretty bad place once the Titans got me back, and I probably would’ve been no fun to be around anyway. It’s all fine though! Everything’s fine! And Slade’s not even a total asshole anymore, he even actually checks in every so often. He’s a decent dad, all things considered. Speaking of which, look at the time, I think he wanted to get dinner with me and Joey and Grant, I better get going! Kay great talk good seeing you catch ya later!”

He bolts out of there so fast, Wally would be so proud. He didn’t mean to mention the dinner with the Wilsons he was headed to, but he was nervous, dammit, it just slipped out.

He’s a total wreck by the time he gets to Slade’s, and they all notice. When Dick tells them what happened, they all laugh at him.

Dick has really not had a very good day. It’s been a very bad day, actually. And now he’s stuck ignoring a million texts and calls from Bruce and his siblings.

He asks Slade if he can hide at his place for a few days. Slade easily agrees.

#dick grayson #bruce wayne #slade wilson #batman #nightwing #dick is like 23-26 for this in my head #and I think it’d be fun if he’s the oldest kid amongst the Wayne’s but the youngest with the Wilson’s

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with-my-calamitous-love · 2 months ago

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if you love me right then who knows? ✧.*

bnha various x pop star! reader

ya! pro-hero characters (teacher! izuku for his section), a little nsfw but mostly cute/fluff headcanons, as always please read responsibly🤍 i love you ms carpenter

song (album, technically): short n’ sweet

KATSUKI BAKUGOU

- katsuki at the height of his career, may possibly be the most famous person in the country. men and women alike adore him, and its rare he can go out without cameras in his face and people asking for autographs. he, of course, doesn’t filter any of his annoyance. his pr team works overtime for him. he’s learned that being famous is fickle and fleeting. he’s made up his mind that if the world only gives him 15 minutes, he’d light it up so bright no one could forget it. its who he is ˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

- he’s already very popular. so when the news of pro-hero dynamite and rising star [y/n] [l/n] had allegedly begun seeing each other? they freak out.

- he doesn’t bother to hide it, anyway. you meet at some fancy gala. you’re both there for publicity, and by the time you run into him, he’s ready to go home. but there’s something about your voice, the way everyone seems to adore you, that reels him in. somehow, he finds himself in your good graces, and now he’s thought of you every night since then.

- before you, he’d only listen to hard rock, and was kind of an asshole about it. that doesn’t change, but now when he hits shuffle one of your glittery girly songs will play. and yes, he listens all the way through. ꕥ

- theres video compilations of him bringing you up during interviews. its second nature to him, being wrapped around your finger. but he’s also quick to bite anyone who even thinks of talking bad about you. he’s yours, and wants the whole world to know it. he’d never admit this, but he’s scared of messing up. he doesn’t want to give you reasons to him, or to be a motherfucker that embarrasses you. if he can help out, he never wants to be the reason for your next breakup album.

- he’s your biggest supporter. he often gets fed up with the paparazzi and their invasiveness, especially when all he wants to do is watch his partner perform. however, he has a soft spot for your fans, the ones who have supported you and gotten you all the love you deserve. he claims friendship bracelets and hats are dumb but doesn’t hesitate to receive bracelets your fans make at concerts. most of the time, its brightly coloured beads with song lyrics or little inside jokes from your fandom. he once got a bracelet that was dynamite-themed and he keeps it on his dresser. he loves being accepted by you and the people that love you.

- he has 100 reasons to be cocky, and the fact that theres songs you’ve written about him is one of them. you’re out here singing about good bed chem and making tongue paintings and everyone knows he’s what inspired it. makes sense when you look at him.

- oh, and speaking of concerts? he can’t be there every time- hero work is demanding- but for you? he’s flexible. watching you perform makes his entire week. he’ll watch from the wings, nodding along with the beat, his heart swelling when he hears you belt and hold the note. the best part is what the audience doesn’t get to see- him catching you as you run to him, kissing your head and spinning you around, telling you how proud he is.

“i’m glad you made it.” you gleam, almost forgetting to turn your mic off so no one else gets to hear. he wipes a little sweat off your head, almost a little envious at how good you can look after a 2 hour show.

“of course, idiot.” he smirks. “wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

- that night, he gives you 8 inches and 3 new song ideas ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

SHOUTO TODOROKI

- fun fact: shouto is voted most handsome pro-hero of the year, right after hawks ᢉ𐭩

- despite his massive popularity, he’s the most private on this list. he knows what its like to have to smile for the cameras, to keep things looking neat and pretty, all for an act. so as much as possible, he tries to keep the good in his life to himself. he’s never seen an ugly truth that couldn’t be bent into something that looks better.

- he worries he’s making it hard for you to love him. you’re always patient, saying you can take it, that you also want something very private. but god, do you make it hard for him. even when the rumours of your relationship swirl, he’s tempted to just come out and confirm it so he doesn’t have to feel the uncertainty.

- all of his worries wash away, however, when he hears lyrics about him. it makes his heart ache, even when it’s something simple, that you want him to miss you or want him to think of you when he holds someone else (not that he’d be holding anyone other than you). people can speculate who you’re writing about, but its little gift to him that he’s privy to it.

- he will not miss a single award show with you. because you two are so private, the fans go crazy or even small interactions between you two. theres grainy footage of you two talking and holding hands with everyone crashing out in the comment section (😭)

- his siblings loveeeeee your music. them, living more normal, less famous lives, have the privilege of seeing your concerts without being bothered or questioned. fuyumi streams your album’s religiously and drags natsuo and his girlfriend along as well. you tossed her a guitarl pick once and she hasn’t emotionally recovered from it, let alone the fact that her little brother is dating you ৻ꪆ

- he takes it as a blessing everyday that he gets to see your process. he specifically loves creating album covers with you. you asked him if, hypothetically, he wanted to be on the cover for the deluxe version and he blanked out. you have to remind him that he’s literally the entire package, that he fits perfectly, and that you can’t resist that face of his, and that you both arrive at the same time.

- like katsuki, he also enjoys attending your concerts. he happily embraces you, knowing that while the audience got you for an entire show, he gets to have you for as long as you’ll love him. he makes sure to hold you on his right side in case you’re overheating from the performance.

“here, let me grab these for you.” he says, helping you undo your performance outfits, unzipping the chunky glitters and fluorescent fabrics. he thinks that there isn’t a single colour that looks bad on you, but can’t imagine what its like to wear these for hours at a time.

“thanks, shouto.” you hum happily, already looking at the tweets.

[randomfan1]: guys i swear i saw shouto at [y/n]’s show tonight

IZUKU MIDORIYA

- unlike the other two on this list, he’s not famous. he’s spent a few years now teaching, and its a job he’s learned to love. its humble, and quiet, but he can’t help but feel like some part of it is missing. he started to entertain the idea that he’d end this life alone.

- he meets you at a party. you’re a friend of a friend, and he still can’t believe that he has a real, breathing famous singer in front of him. not only that, but you notice him in a room of other celebrities. he was bound to fall for you the moment your eyes made contact.

- much like shouto, he keeps it private. even if he did, he wouldn’t have very many people to tell. his friends were the reason he even met you. his mom adores you. who does that leave, his students? he’s humble, even when he’s dating the most gorgeous and talented person to ever breathe.

- he loves being in the studio with you. it started out with just little sessions, kissing while talking, watching you tune your guitar and play little notes on your piano. then he became the first person to hear your demos and rough drafts. now? he has song writing credits in your newest album ❤︎₊ ⊹

- his ideas give you so much more than just butterflies. he has this way of finishing your sentences, knowing and feeling the exact vision you had for a piece. every now and then, he’ll flick through your notebook and find verses that sound awfully familiar. he wonders if he’s the guy who’s “jacked and kind” and who “talks sweet when you’re doing bad things.” he won’t say anything at first, but he’ll nestle his head between your legs and give you more things to write about.

- he’s an empath. he knows how exhausting it is sometimes, having all your moves watched and studies and scrutinized. he sees you always acting, always trying to be beautiful, and it kills him that its such a natural part of fame. for that reason, he makes sure his apartment is a safe house for you, and that his bed is a secret oasis. he’d do anything for you. ❦.

- he attends when he has the time, standing in the crowd alongside your other fans. he always feels a rush to his cheeks when he hears you belting those lines, knowing their for him. its a secret he loves having, and one that he’d love to talk about when you’re ready. he always puts you first.

“stuck?” he asks, wrapping his arm around you, watching you as you tap your pen against the paper.

“yeah, i keep thinking of you instead of the song.” you groan, laying your head back on his bicep. he just laughs.

“i thought i inspired you?” he kisses your cheek. while normally nervous around others, you bring out the side of that’s comfortable teasing and playing with you.

“you do inspire me.” you smile. “but its not helping right now.”

he cups your face in his calloused, lips ghosting over yours. “maybe i need to give you better ideas, then.” he says, before kissing you deeply.

“yeah, maybe.”

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fawnsuga · 3 months ago

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⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎢𓎟𓎡⠀ ݁🕯️⠀⠀dylan bennet klebold⠀⠀၇ৎܵ⠀𓎢𓎟𓎡

Dylan Bennet Klebold Date of Birth: September 11, 1981 Height: 6 ft 2.5 in Weight: 143 lbs

Dylan Klebold was the 17-year-old son of Mr. Thomas Klebold (then 52) and Mrs. Susan (Yassenoff) Klebold (then 50). He was the younger brother of Byron, who was 21 at the time.

Tom Klebold was a geophysicist, and Sue Klebold worked with individuals with disabilities. Both were originally from Columbus, Ohio, and were alumni of Ohio State University. Sue hailed from a prominent Jewish community in Columbus and was the granddaughter of the late philanthropist and construction magnate Leo Yassenoff, who established the local Jewish community center in Columbus that bears his name. Dylan was born in Lakewood, Colorado.

Dylan attended Normandy Elementary School in Littleton, Colorado, for first and second grade before transferring to Governor's Ranch Elementary School, where he participated in the CHIPS (Challenging High Intellectual Potential Students) program for gifted and talented children. His parents reported that he was somewhat sheltered at Governor's Ranch Elementary and believed his transition to Ken Caryl Middle School was challenging due to his quiet and shy demeanor. Transitioning from elementary school to middle school can be difficult for many adolescents, so his parents were not overly concerned.

During his earlier school years, Dylan participated in T-ball, baseball, and soccer. He was in Cub Scouts with his friend Brooks Brown, whom he had known since first grade. Dylan met Eric Harris while attending Ken Caryl Middle School in seventh or eighth grade. Brooks lived near Eric's new home and rode the same bus as him. The three boys soon formed a close friendship. Subsequently, Eric introduced Dylan to Nathan (Nate) Dykeman, who also attended Ken Caryl, and the boys became good friends. Dylan also met Chris Morris around that time, and they would eventually become best friends.

In 1995, all four boys transitioned to Columbine High School as freshmen. At Columbine, Dylan was active in school productions as a light and sound coordinator and was involved in video productions and the school’s Rebel News Network. He created several videos with Nate for the Rebel News Network announcements and another in November 1998 to show Nate's father his school and home environment.

Klebold received commendation for assisting during Rachel Scott's performance of "Watch the Lamb" when technical difficulties arose; he provided a backup tape to ensure the show could continue. He served as a computer assistant at school and helped maintain the school's computer server. He regularly played Fantasy Baseball with Chad Laughlin. Other players noted that he discussed plays happening the week of April 20, giving no indication he would not be present after that Tuesday.

Neighbors of the Klebold family described them as a model family. Sherry Higgins, the mother of a friend of Dylan and Eric, commented on the teens' "Hitmen for Hire" video, stating it was presented to her as a spoof about hitmen avenging the weak at Columbine. In retrospect, she acknowledged that this should have been a warning sign regarding Dylan's state of mind.

Following the shooting, Dylan's parents initially maintained they were unaware of their son's troubling behavior. Reports indicated that Sue was shocked by her son's actions, stating she had no forewarning of the forthcoming tragedy. Dylan's older brother Byron also expressed surprise at his younger brother's actions. The only firearm the family owned was a BB gun intended for pest control. Friends of Dylan noted that, while they observed Eric being bullied at school, they did not witness similar treatment directed at Klebold, who was perceived as too tall, too lanky, and too overlooked by those outside his friend group.

However, it was evident that Dylan was grappling with internal issues. Years later, Dylan's parents acknowledged in interviews that they had overlooked signs of his unhappiness, failing to recognize the clues that were apparent in hindsight.

Columbine's senior prom took place on April 17, 1999. Dylan attended the event by limousine with 12 friends. Nate Dykeman reported that nothing seemed amiss that evening; everything went "perfect." Dylan spoke enthusiastically about his future plans, which included attending the University of Arizona to major in computer science. He conveyed to his friends that he was genuinely excited about his future. His parents had already secured a dorm room for him. The entire family traveled to Arizona on March 25, 1999, to finalize Dylan's accommodations.

Dylan's prom date was Robyn K. Anderson, a friend he had met at a Christmas party years earlier. As a senior at Columbine, she attended the event with him as a platonic friend, not a romantic interest. Contrary to early media reports, Robyn and Dylan were not involved romantically; while Robyn had a crush on him, Dylan did not reciprocate. She proudly proclaimed to another male friend shortly before the prom, "I convinced my friend Dylan, who hates dances, jocks, and has never had a date, let alone a girlfriend, to go with me! I am either really cute or just really persuasive!"

Robyn Anderson assisted in the purchase of the two shotguns and the rifle used in the assault, acting as a middleman since Dylan and Eric were not yet 18, the legal age to purchase firearms in Colorado. Dylan boasted on one of the Basement Tapes that the seller was aware he was purchasing the gun. Shortly before the acquisition, the owner of Dragon Arms gun shop in Littleton reported that five teenagers attempted to purchase an M-60 machine gun and a silencer-equipped assault pistol in early March. Although the five appeared on store surveillance footage, it remains unclear if any of them were Dylan or Eric.

Dylan was frequently described as a follower, heavily influenced by Eric, particularly after 1998. Those who knew him characterized him as a young man lacking self-confidence—"painfully shy," according to some—but not prone to anger.

This shy demeanor is not universally recalled by those who knew him, particularly those closest to him in the months leading up to the shootings. His and Eric's behavior at Blackjack Pizza, where they worked, did not conform to this image. When bored, they purchased dry ice from a nearby Baskin-Robbins to create small bombs for detonation behind the pizza establishment. Dylan was once reprimanded for bringing a pipe bomb to work. He resigned shortly thereafter but was rehired when the restaurant required staff. On at least two occasions, the previous owner permitted Dylan and Eric to ignite aerosol cans—once in a mop sink and another in an oven. They frequently engaged in reckless fireplay behind the establishment, resulting in a dumpster fire that necessitated intervention from the fire department.

Dylan was known to use profanity in front of teachers and was suspended from school (along with Eric and another student) for hacking into the school's computer system to obtain locker combinations, which they used to leave a threatening note in an adversary's locker. Nate Dykeman reported that Dylan and Eric had taken computer parts from the school without permission. Dylan's father had previously compelled him to return a stolen laptop computer. A dean of students, who had seen Dylan and Eric in his office multiple times, told police he was not surprised they were involved, having observed "the potential for an 'evil side'... that there was a violent, angry streak in these kids."

Students in their early morning bowling class reported that Dylan and Eric would shout "Heil Hitler!" after rolling a good ball. Tom Klebold stated he was unaware of the origins of the Nazi references or the violence. The Klebolds were Jewish. Nate mentioned he had seen Eric draw swastikas, but Dylan never did, making it difficult to ascertain how much Dylan supported the Nazi movement. This inclination would seem inconsistent with the background of a Jewish-born individual, as would the violent tendencies he concealed from his family.

Dykeman informed police that he had witnessed Dylan making a purchase behind Blackjack Pizza, giving Philip Duran, a co-worker, approximately 200−200−300. Nate suspected Dylan was buying drugs, but Dylan clarified he was purchasing a gun (the TEC-DC9, which Mark Manes supplied with Philip's assistance as an intermediary). Following the acquisition of weapons, Eric and Dylan filmed a video at Rampart Range, where they practiced shooting the sawed-off shotguns and the TEC-DC9. Mark and his friend Jessica Miklich were present during this session. The videotape of their target practice was recorded in March and shown to Nate just two weeks before the Columbine shootings. Dykeman reported the existence of the tape to investigators three days post-tragedy.

In the weeks leading up to the massacre, Dylan submitted a school report that was graphically violent, prompting the teacher to inform his parents. Dylan rationalized, "It's just a story," an explanation readily accepted by his parents. The narrative detailed a lone warrior in a trench coat who—described in gruesome detail—beat, stabbed, and shot a group of "college-preps." The character then detonated bombs to divert the police's attention. The language used to characterize the "enemies" was so extreme that the teacher, Judy Kelly, refused to grade the paper until she spoke with Dylan. The families of three victims named Kelly, alongside other school employees, filed wrongful death lawsuits, arguing she should have taken more action to highlight Dylan's violent fantasies.

The Klebolds fully cooperated with Denver police in the aftermath of the massacre. Among the evidence confiscated were five videotapes, three of which featured the teens in the basement of Eric's home. In these videos, Dylan's darker side emerged; he was not merely a hapless follower of Eric. Instead, he exhibited characteristics of an angry young man intent on causing harm, evident in both his words and body language.

Dylan and Eric vented frustrations about their peers, referring to them as "stuck-up bitches." Dylan specifically named two individuals: Rachel and Jen. Clips from the videos were censored by the media due to the vulgar epithets he directed at the girls, making it difficult to interpret their full context. They also mentioned someone named Nick. Rachel Scott—the first victim—was the prom date of Nick Baumgart, a childhood friend of Dylan and a mutual acquaintance of Eric. Dylan had known Rachel since kindergarten, though it is unclear if these were the individuals referred to in the video.

In October 1999, the Klebolds announced their intention to sue the Jefferson County police department. Their claim was based on the assertion that had the police taken the Browns' report about Eric's threats against Brooks more seriously, the situation might not have escalated to tragedy. Several families of the victims expressed support for this position, including the family of Daniel Rohrbough.

There was some controversy surrounding Dylan's death; he succumbed to a single gunshot wound to the left temple. Investigators initially posited that if Dylan intended to commit suicide, he would have shot himself in the right temple. However, Dylan was left-handed, and his use of firearms with his left hand is evident in the video footage he left behind. The coroner classified his death as a suicide in the autopsy report. The Klebolds' attorney, Frank Patterson, confirmed on behalf of the family that Dylan was indeed left-handed, and they supported the medical examiner's findings.

Open Letter from the Parents of Dylan Klebold:

Nearly a year has passed since tragedy changed the Columbine community forever. A day that began innocently ended catastrophically. The healing process has moved slowly as we all attempt to cope, not only with our own despair but also with the distractions and intrusions that result from world attention.

There are no words to convey how sorry we are for the pain that has been brought upon the community as a result of our son's actions. The pain of others compounds our own as we struggle to live a life without the son we cherished. In the reality of the Columbine tragedy and its aftermath, we join the rest of the world in seeking to understand how such events could transpire.

We are convinced that the only way to truly honor all victims of this and other related tragedies is to move clearly and methodically toward an understanding of why they occur, so that we may work to prevent such madness from happening again. It is our intention to pursue this goal, believing that answers are likely within reach, though they will not be simple. We envision a time when circumstances will allow us to engage with those who share our desire to understand. In the meantime, we again express our profound condolences to those whose lives have been so tragically altered. We look forward to a day when our collective pain is replaced by peace and acceptance.

Finally, we wish to extend our gratitude to those who have sent their kind thoughts, prayers, and expressions of support to our family. We are constantly surprised and heartened by the gestures of understanding and compassion that have been extended to us. This support has been both humbling and inspiring, and we are truly indebted to those who have offered it.

The Klebold Family — April 15, 2000

September 11, 1981 - April 20, 1999 Dylan was a reserved individual who enjoyed playing computer games such as Duke Nukem, Quake, and Doom, and he built his own computer with a Linux operating system. He exhibited high intelligence and was enrolled in the gifted program at Governor's Ranch Elementary School known as C.H.I.P.S. (Challenging High Intellectual Potential Students) by third grade. This program concluded after sixth grade. While attending Columbine, Dylan took pleasure in creating home videos for his video production class and was heavily involved in theater productions, managing the sound system.

Dylan often felt awkward around his peers and was unaware of the extent to which he was loved by his friends and family. He experienced feelings of isolation and alienation and longed for a type of love he believed was unattainable.

Dylan's funeral was held at St. Philip Lutheran Church, the family’s place of worship. The service was private, attended by only 13 individuals, and was officiated by Reverend Don Marxhausen, who subsequently resigned from his position in August 2000. Reverend Marxhausen also officiated the funeral of basketball star Greg Barnes. Dylan was cremated, and there is no known physical memorial location.

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thewinter-eden · 2 months ago

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That Your Man? pt. II

pairing: Lee Minho x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: mugger!Minho patrols his usual haunts, one of which being the parking lot where you first met. One night, mid-mugging, he sees you through the window of the coffee shop where he first bought you cake--but you're there with the man he thought you were going to break up with. He decides stealing girlfriends (or, rather, you) is now included in his job description.

warnings: Mugging, Minho still has a gun, asshole bf (still), evidence of past successful muggings, cats, fake boyfriend, angst, Ateez (one member), more crack/slice of life than horror.

Author's Note: I don't even know what to say about this. It just kind of happened and then it kept going. Oh well. Here we are.

Word Count: 15k

series info PART 2 INFO

< part 1

You’re newly single, newly apartment-broke, newly jobless. Happy birthday to you. Your alarm wakes you at 5am even on Sundays, your phone battery refuses to last longer than two hours unplugged, and your printer is sick of spitting out wads of mangled cardstock for your resumes.

Three weeks after that fateful birthday night in the parking lot, when Jake gave you the last bit of persuasion you needed to stop putting up with his cool detachment from your relationship, and you’re already struggling to make ends meet. You hadn’t quit your job, nor would you ever have dreamed of it. You’d worked and schooled infinite hours to get it, at last landing the vet tech job of your dreams in a private boutique clinic, only to lose it with one phone call.

You’d never realized how very small Jake was until he coped with your breaking up with him by informing your place of work that you were implicated in an armed robbery.

It’s not true; the police never even looked you up after Minho called them and reported that some nondescript, unidentified woman had been robbed; your name wasn’t in any reports or investigations, but Jake had decided since it was his company card that had been stolen and maxed out on gift cards, you must have given it to the mugger (and, technically, true enough).

But the phone call was more than enough reason to your vet clinic, and they let you go without even a week’s warning.

You’re halfway through a stale, microwaved breakfast burrito, sitting in the dark at your kitchen table with only the painful light of your laptop screen beaming stubbornly through the tinted lenses of your blue light glasses when an email pops up in your inbox. The subject line reads INTRODUCTORY INTERVIEW - WAYWARD STREET CAT HOTEL.

You’ve never clicked into an email so fast.

A quick scan tells you they liked your resume, they want you to come in for an interview tomorrow afternoon, and their address is only four blocks away from your apartment—a major plus when you don’t have a car and you’d rather avoid public transportation if at all possible.

Typing back a hurried—and quadruple spelling checked—response accepting the invitation, you immediately add the appointment to your calendar. It fits snugly between two other interviews, one with a coffee stand that just barely promises to pay minimum wage, and the other for a receptionist position at the biggest commercial vet clinic in town, that made sure to inform you in their very first email that there were over a hundred other applicants being considered.

You don’t want to be a drive-through barista, and you don’t want to diminish your college degree to a receptionist job (although a foot in the door is a foot in the door), so your heart is fully set on Wayward Street Cat Hotel. There’s so much bubbling hope in your chest that you have to close your computer and eat the rest of your burrito in the dark, praying with all your might that the hope doesn’t pop.

Trudging through your full day of first interviews (and one second interview that definitely doesn’t seem like it’s going to lead to a third), you finally make it back home and crash into bed, barely managing to change out of your day clothes and brush your teeth before sinking into disappointed slumber.

Night turns to day, and after another chalky burrito and another cup of cheap coffee, another fruitless morning of refreshing your email inbox, you step into a fresh set of professional interview attire and try to face the day with renewal. It’s not like you try to anticipate another booked schedule of unsuccessful interviews, but after so many days of getting punched by one rejection after another, it’s difficult to approach each appointment with an open mind.

After a pleasant but uninspiring meeting with the manager of the drive-through coffee stand, you leave the interview with basically the promise of the job if you want it, but you don’t see yourself jumping at that opportunity until you absolutely have to. After the two remaining interviews of the day, you may reassess, but you withheld your commitment until you could actually be sure that it was your only chance.

The Wayward Street Cat Hotel is a charming little house-like structure on the corner with a picturesque coffee shop and a small business ice cream shop on one side and a positively blooming little florist on the other side.

As you approach the door, there’s a number of cat-related signs on the window. “No dogs allowed,” “This property is protected by attack cats,” “Free range cats at work, please knock before opening.” The soft and quaint feel of the warm green door and front step of the facility draws you in immediately, thinking of those hand-drawn greeting cards or water color canvases that portray little cottages surrounded by flowers. You knock on the door.

Not even a full minute later, a young man’s face pops into view, dimples cratering his cheeks as he tosses you a wave and then gestures for you to wait. You smile back awkwardly, watching as he bends down and scoops up a small white cat into his arms, cradling it to his chest and hurrying to close it into a room in the back. Moments later, the man comes jogging back, unlocking the door, and letting you inside.

“Hi there,” He greets cheerfully. “You’re the interview?”

You nod, pressing your hand into his palm to shake, and tell him your name.

He gestures for you to come in and sit with him at the tiny desk in the back, picking up a clipboard and brushing cat hair off of his black shirt. “I’m San. I’ll be heading our conversation today, is that okay?”

You’re confused. “Um. Yes?”

“It’s just that I’m only an employee, and that the owner won’t be in until tomorrow. But I promise I’ll be thorough in my notes.” He grins at you, encouraged by the polite laughter you give him as you wave off his concerns.

“That’s completely fine, no worries.” You spend the next few minutes discussing your education, your work history, and your personal experience with animals. He’s polite, charming, and pleasantly engaging as he runs you through a list of scripted questions, pausing between each one to pen down your answers and offer kind little comments as you bounce back responses.

“Okay!” He sets the clipboard down at last and fixes you with another dimpled grin. “Well, I feel good about this. You seem great, and I love your background for this. Why don’t you accompany me on my rounds this morning and we’ll see what you think of the actual work?”

This suggestion thrills you. No polite, tight smiles and tense handshakes and empty “We’ll be in touch” promises. Even if he decides that you can’t be trusted to work in cat boarding, at least you get to meet some kitties before you go home and cry into a vat of ice cream. You get up, leaving your bag on the chair you were just sitting in, and quickly follow him back towards the door.

The facility is a single large room, one half wall dividing the front from the back, with the desk you just had your interview at set on the back side of said wall. At the front of the room, there’s a sink, a set of cabinets, and a supply closet on the same wall as the door you entered through. To either side of you, the walls are lined with doors, all the way to the back of the room.

Each door is solid on the bottom and grated at the top so you can look in and see the kitty guests lounging in their own private rooms, blinking lazily at you as you pass by the windows. It’s not what you would have thought—all of the cat boarding facilities you’ve seen online look like sterile vet environments, with boxes in the wall that have barely enough room for a cat bed and a portable litter box.

This is small and cozy, but genuinely akin to a hotel for cats.

“So we have two shifts per day—but the boss said maybe we’d add a third since we’re looking for another worker. Every morning I come in around six am and check on everybody.” San begins, peeking into all of the rooms. It’s almost noon, so you figure he must have done all of this already, but that doesn’t stop him from chatting blithely about his entire morning routine.

When he’s finished his spiel, he guides you to a room about halfway down the row. “This is how far I got before your appointment. This is Bbam.” He steps aside so you can peer in and find the big gray tabby lounging comfortably on a plush bed. “He’s either an animatronic cat or a changeling.”

You give a shocked laugh at his playful words, but as you look at Bbam, you realize exactly what he’s talking about. The gray tabby has perfectly round eyes, about half the size of golf balls, which he pins to you the moment you appear in his line of sight. He meows at you, and when he does, his mouth hinges down at the jaw like a robot kitty. He does look like an animatronic cat. “Oh my god, he’s kind of freaking me out.” The moment you speak, Bbam’s eyes flick to the side, then down to the floor, then back at you—like he’s actually understanding your words.

San laughs at the sudden look of discomfort on your face. “Yeah, he appears in my nightmares sometimes. I frequently ask him not to answer me, if he has the ability to do so. Just in case. But he’s a huge sweetheart. Step back.” San turns the knob and swings the door open, and Bbam immediately jumps down from the bed and winds himself around your feet. “He’s a total love, once you get past the horrible expression on his face. So, he’s here for three more days—his owners went to Costa Rica.” He tells you every detail about the cat as he shakes out the blankets and the bed, sweeps the floor, cleans the litter box, changes the water, and then fills the food dish. “He gets totally nutty about meal times so he gets a Prozac at dinner.”

“Aw, poor Bbam.” You’ve spent the entire demonstration crouched in the doorway, letting the kitty bonk his head against your knees and curl himself around your hand and purr deep guttural grumbles at you. “He’s just a hungry little guy.”

“Bbam weighs thirty-one pounds.”

“He’s a hungry big guy.” You’re totally in love. Bbam the freaky animatronic changeling cat is the sweetest thing you’ve ever put your hands on, and every little mew he gives you digs right into your heart.

San notices the dumbstruck puppy love look on your face. “You haven’t even met the kittens yet. Come on.” He takes you all through the facility, introducing you to each of the cats and talking to them sweetly in a low, soothing tone. Some of them jump out and practically maul you for affection, while others tuck themselves safely under the stools that are set up specifically for the purpose of hiding. Every time one of them hides from you, San seems to know exactly why.

“She just got here this morning,” He’ll say. “That’s Bobae, she’s still nervous. She probably won’t eat her food tonight but I put just enough in to cover the bottom of the bowl, so I can see if she’s comfortable enough to try.”

Or— “That’s Kyong, he’s a little nervous. He hisses but as soon as we open the door he’ll run over here and start demanding affection, hissing all the while, see?—yep, there he goes. He won’t hurt you, just wants to make sure you know he’s a big scary cat.”

You follow along, soon jumping in to hand him things or going ahead to read the charts and starting on the food prep, even taking a few litter boxes from him to clean so he can focus on tidying up the rooms. By the time you’ve helped him finish his shift, your head and heart are chock full of cat information and your interview clothes are positively covered in kitty hair.

“Yeah, so that’s the morning shift. Evening shift starts at 4, and we do pretty much exactly the same thing, and then in between washing dishes and doing laundry we take care of emails and phone calls. It’s really simple, really rewarding if you like cats—you just have to hope the clients are nice. Most of the owners are little old ladies, and it’s kind of hit or miss with their temperaments.” San beams at you, standing back after letting you wash your hands and borrow one of the many lint rollers. “So? What do you think?”

“I think you must be the most peaceful person on the planet, if this is your day job.” You respond, somewhat in disbelief at the calm atmosphere and the instant gratification of seeing all of your efforts be either appreciated or at the very least quietly tolerated by all of these cats. “But I was wondering how our schedules would work? Like would we swap mornings and evenings, or do you do full days?”

He passes you a towel to dry your hands. “Since right now it’s just me and the boss, we’ve been trading days. I do the first half of the week, we both work Wednesdays, he does the second half of the week, and we alternate so that we can have weekends off. If he likes you and hires you on, then we’ll have more flexibility, which I’m excited for.”

You can’t think of a single better place to work right now, where your still emotionally-reeling brain can take a break and get 6-8 hours of kitty love as your day job. “That sounds great. So, um…” You clasp your hands. “I guess you’ll call me, or?”

He flinches a little, like he totally forgot that you weren’t a done deal yet. “Oh, gosh, yes. Hold on.” He runs back to the desk and returns to you with your bag, passing it to you as he scribbles a note on his clipboard. “The boss told me if I like you for the interview and the rounds both to go ahead and invite you for the morning shift tomorrow. I get here at 5:30, drink my coffee, look at emails and the schedule for the day. You’re welcome any time between then and 6am. Just knock on the door and I’ll let you in. If he signs off on you by the end of the day, I’ll get you your own door code. This is my personal cell number in case you need to reach me, and the internal email address for employees.” He gives you the piece of paper.

You hold it like treasure, your hands shaking as you tuck it carefully into your bag and then double check that it’s safely inside one of the pockets.

“I say employees,” He laughs at himself. “Right now it’s just me and the boss. But we both check it every day, so don’t hesitate to email for any reason. I’m kind of a stickler for punctuality, so please shoot an email or a text if you’re going to be late for traffic or something. Sound good?” He sticks out his hand, and this time you’re greeted with a warm and friendly handshake rather than the tight ones that reek of hand sanitizer from all of the other places you’ve been to this week.

“It sounds great. Thank you so much for having me in, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” You’re practically vibrating with excitement. He sees you out the door and waves through the window as you head for the sidewalk, and as you all but bounce your way home, you couldn’t pry the toothy grin off your face with a crow bar.

You don’t go to your next interview.

Instead, you finally take the time to cook yourself dinner. The first real meal you’ve had since the night you got robbed at gunpoint by a strangely considerate criminal who bought you cake on your birthday. You actually use pans and cutting boards and the oven fan and an egg timer and by the time it’s done, your stomach is growling so loudly that it’s automatically the best food you’ve ever eaten.

You take the time to shower, and wash your hair and shave your legs and then moisturize your skin until you’re glowing and pink in the dingy light of your cramped bathroom. You’re five seconds away from tumbling into bed in a set of matching cotton pajamas and a microfiber towel turban and the book you’ve been dying to read but haven’t had the energy to even look at when your phone dings.

Your heart slams like a jackhammer.

What if it’s San? Or the owner of the cat hotel?

What if they changed their mind?

You can just see the text—’sorry, we’ve selected another applicant. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow.’

You snatch the phone off the nightstand, thumbing past the password and blinking hazily down at the dim screen. It’s not San, or anyone who works at Wayward Street Cat Hotel.

It’s Jake.

‘911—need to talk to you. It’s urgent.’

Your eyes reflexively well with tears, the raw edges of your heart still bleeding from the difficult emotions of breaking off your lengthy relationship, and you feel a clenching in your chest. Despite knowing that nothing Jake has ever thought of as urgent has ever been actually urgent, you glumly type back a response and get an address in return.

You blink at it in disbelief.

It’s that coffee shop.

The one in the parking lot that you got robbed in. The one in the parking lot that Jake left you in, with an armed robber. The one across from the McDonald’s where Jake tried to make you eat (and pay for) your birthday dinner. The one across from the movie theater where he made you feel like a child for crying through a sad movie on your birthday.

The one that Minho took you to and begged you to eat from after your heart broke into a million little pieces.

It doesn’t matter. Jake says it’s urgent, so you have to go. You toss back your covers, dig through your drawers for something to wear—and you’re far too committed to the comfort you’re currently wrapped in to go for any of the jeans, so you pull out your coziest sweats and swap one cotton set for another.

Shaking out your hair, scrubbing your fingers through the stringy wet tendrils, you fold it into the fastest, sloppiest braid you’ve ever embarrassed yourself with, grab your purse, and head out the door. Cool air wraps around your damp throat, digging fingers into your dripping scalp, laying it’s icy palm against your back where your hoodie is catching all of the water from your hair.

One hasty Uber and about twenty minutes of anxious hand wringing and mentally chanting reassurances to yourself, you arrive at the coffee shop with almost rock-solid certainty that you’re going to be able to face Jake without completely falling apart.

Yeah, you’re the one who broke up with him.

Yeah, he definitely had it coming, and you definitely deserve better.

But you’ve been with him for so long that sometimes you still feel like he’s missing from you, and to see him again after three weeks might just be the straw that breaks you. Running your hands over the awkward fly-aways that float around your hairline, already feeling the knobby lumps of your terrible braid but not wanting to prolong the inevitable by stopping to fix it, you make your way up the sidewalk, adjusting your jacket collar under the hood of your sweater.

In the darkening light of evening, the coffee shop glows a warm golden light out onto the sidewalk, and you take a deep breath to brace yourself. You can see him just inside, in a thin t-shirt and a pair of jeans that you’ve seen a million times before—clothes that he barely manages to drag on before going out in public without a care.

You feel just a little miffed. This meeting had better be an actual emergency if he pulled you out of bed to spend money on an Uber and didn’t even bother to dress appropriately for the high-dollar coffee shop.

A bell rings softly when you push the door open and step inside, instantly enveloped in a rush of warmth. The air smells like hot sugar and cinnamon and rich coffee, and your eyes automatically slide to the display case full of aesthetic cakes.

Even after your hard earned dinner, your stomach grumbles at the thought of that cake.

You make your way to the small table where your ex is seated, going around to stand across from him, one hand gripping the straps of your purse in a fist. “What is it? What’s wrong?” You didn’t realize your voice was going to come out with such a hard edge, but it’s too late to soften your approach now.

Jake looks up from his phone, brow furrowing at your words. “Can we talk?”

Frustration fills your entire chest cavity. “You said it was urgent. What’s wrong?”

He pushes his phone away and drops his hands into his lap, staring at you pitifully. “I just want to understand. I don’t get it. Why would you throw everything we had away like that? How could you do that? I thought we loved each other.”

You want to scream with disbelief and anger and the heartbreak that is rapidly evaporating to be replaced by incredulous resentment at the utter gall of this man. “What am I doing here, Jake? What do you want?”

He gestures for you to sit, and you stare at his hand blankly. “I need closure, babe. Please. I want to understand. I think we could give this another chance if we just talk about it.”

You slam yourself down in the seat and have to stop your body from lunging across the table and strangling the living daylights out of him. “You texted me 911 so that you could get closure? I was in bed, Jake. I have work in the morning—and don’t call me babe.”

His lips twist in confusion. “What work? I thought you got fired.”

You’re about two seconds away from having a psychotic episode in the middle of a coffee shop. “Yes. I got fired. Because you lied to my boss. And you expect me to come here and hold your hand?”

“I called your boss after you broke up with me. That’s not why you ended things. I want to know why. Was it the mugging? You know I called you all night long. I was worried sick about you, babe, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and you ignored me.”

All you can do is breathe.

Just keep breathing.

“I just think you could have at least talked to me before you ended it. I took you out for your birthday. I gave you a scarf, do you know how much that cost?”

“Yeah, about a buck fifty.”

He blasts right past the revelation that you somehow knew he thrifted it out of the clearance bin. “I was up the whole night just hoping you were okay, and the next thing I hear from you is a full 48 hours later, breaking up with me. How can you think that’s fair? How can you say I deserve that after everything we’ve been through?”

A waitress swoops by the table then, smiling sweetly at you. “Can I get you guys anything? Our cakes are incredible, or we have savory options as well.”

“Just a coffee for her, but I’ll take a slice of the chocolate cake, please.” Jake says softly, giving the waitress his most pitiful smile, and then fixes you with the same look. “Babe, please. Please, I just want to work this out.”

Your mind is so completely blown by everything that’s just happen that you can’t even pull a facial expression to reflect the shock consuming you. “What did you do?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“For the 48 hours. What did you do?”

Stammering, surprised by the question, he lifts one hand in a pointless gesture. “I…I waited around. I mean, I had to go to work, of course. And then I caught up with a friend for dinner, because they were going out of town the next day, but you understand that I had to go. But I waited around for you the whole time, just hoping. I couldn’t even sleep, baby, I was so worried.”

“You left me. You left me there.”

“The guy had a gun! Everybody makes mistakes. Not everybody responds well under pressure. I was stupid, and I regret it, and—oh my god I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

His gushing words fill you with revolted disgust. “Please stop.” Nausea floods your senses. “Seriously, just knock it off. We’re done, Jake. There’s no talking about this, there’s no fixing anything. I will never consider it okay, or just a mistake, that you left me with an armed robber in a dark parking lot. You left me there.”

You don’t say anything about the fact that you ended up feeling safer with the armed robber than you had felt with Jake in a long time, because that’s entirely beside the point.

He doesn’t need to know that.

“I would never do that again. I could never dream of leaving you. Please, baby, please, I swear—”

“So this is the jackass, huh?” Somebody slips into the booth next to you, and you’re startled to find a warm arm looping around your back, fingers tickling you where they brush softly at your sides. “He looks like an accountant.”

Both you and Jake turn to the newcomer, wide-eyed, but you recover first.

Minho is sitting next to you.

Minho, the armed robber who held you up on your birthday. Minho, who took pity on you when you cried your eyes out in the cold. Minho, who took you to this very coffee shop and bought you warm food and a warm drink (with your boyfriend’s card) and told you that you were worth more than he made you think.

For a second, your gaze snaps to Jake, terrified that your cover is blown and that he’ll only be further convinced that you and your mugger were in cahoots against him—when you remember. Minho had taken his mask off only after Jake had burned rubber out of the parking lot.

You recognize him.

Jake does not.

Your ex straightens, instantly offended by the cool smirk and downward gaze of the criminal who currently has his fingertips playing with the hem of your sweater. “Who is this?” Jake snaps at you, scooting his chair back. “You moved on from me already? You were cheating on me, weren’t you? Who are you—what the fuck are you doing with my girlfriend?” He’s practically combusting with derision.

Minho just blinks lazily up at him, reminding you of the way the cats from the boarding facility earlier calmly stared at you as you walked with San. “I’m the one who knows everything about you, and, may I say, this charming display is entirely consistent with what I’ve heard.”

You gawk at him, only managing to close your mouth and swallow your surprise when he gives your side a little pinch. Clamping your jaw, you let him tug you into his side and smile smugly at your ex as the other man sputters angrily.

“This is why you broke up with me? You had some fucker on the side?” He snaps at you, and you really wish you had an answer for him, but you’re just as surprised as he is.

“I never cheated on you, Jake, this isn’t—”

“I think you should leave.” Minho says simply, interrupting you. “You’re disturbing the customers here, and your voice irritates me.”

“You expect me to stand here and believe that this guy with his arm around your waist isn’t some secret boy toy that you’ve been screwing while I’ve been taking care of you? Do you know how hard I worked to provide for you? I was going to give you safety and security and—”

“And McDonalds every year for her birthday? That she pays for and you bill your company for?” Minho finishes lightly. His hand slides up your side to smooth over your shoulder and then drag back down to your hip. Every inch of his touch is possessive and unthreatened by Jake’s presence. “I think she can do better. Can’t you, jagi?”

Your stunned expression meets his cool smile, and he blinks at you in a way that somehow very clearly and very subtly tells you to stop your gaping and pretend that you’re comfortable in his arms. Strangling the part of you that wants to ask just as many questions as Jake is asking, you force your eyelids to lower to a normal degree and finally turn to face Jake again. “We’re done, Jake. You should leave.”

Jake bursts out of his chair with frenzied outrage. “I asked you here to give you another chance, but that’s over.” He snaps, jabbing a pointed finger at you.

Pressed against you, you feel the solid muscles along Minho’s side tense as he closes his hand firmly around your hip and narrows his eyes at your ex.

“Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t even fucking try to explain.” He yanks his jacket off the back of his seat and then slams the chair up so hard that the edge of the table thumps harshly against your ribs at the impact.

“Then stop throwing a fit and get on with it.” Minho says harshly. “And calm down before I make you.”

From anyone else it would sound like your average amount of masculine posturing, designed to make the other man uncomfortable and test the boundaries of respect, but from Minho—the man who spends his nights holding people at gunpoint—it strikes you as a sobering promise.

Jake shoots you one last petulant glower and then storms out of the coffee shop, slamming the door behind him.

The moment he’s gone, you twist yourself to face Minho, seeing the cool smile drop from his face as his arm slides away from your back. “What are you doing here?” You hiss. “What was that? Last time I saw you, you were robbing me. And now you’re pretending to be my boyfriend or some shit? Are you bipolar?”

His eyes are hooded, and he picks up the coffee that the waitress left for you and sips at it quietly. “So you do remember that night,” He says. “And do you happen to remember the part where we discussed getting rid of assface?”

Your mouth falls open. “Excuse me? The part I remember is you pointing a gun in my face.”

He rolls his eyes, leans forward, hooks his finger on the lip of the plate with Jake’s untouched cake, and drags it towards you. “Eat. I saw you eyeing the cakes when you came in here.”

You push the plate away. “Minho.” The name is hissed through gritted teeth.

He pops an eyebrow at you. “And you remember my name. I’m flattered, jagi, you’ll make me blush.” The smirk drops once again and he scoots the plate back towards you. “It’s nine o’clock at night and you look like you got your hair caught in the door of a car. Eat the cake and go home.”

“I don’t want to eat the cake. I want you to tell me what the hell you’re doing here—and how long have you been watching? What do you mean you saw me eyeing the cakes?”

“I’ll tell you if you eat it.”

“I don’t want to eat it. I don’t eat in public, remember?”

“You do with me.” He’s watching you, expressionless, firing back responses as quickly as you can scrounge up an argument.

“I was under the unique pressure of being held at gunpoint.” You snap under your breath.

“I wasn’t holding you at gunpoint when we had birthday cake together. Eat it while I’m still trying to persuade you unarmed.”

You grab the fork on impulse, a jolt of fear striking you before you realize he’s kidding. His eyes are tracing your face, reading the reflexive terror as it rises and then fades slowly, and he settles on a small smile when you breathe again. “I don’t feel like eating this here.” You tell him quietly. “I still have the—” You break off, filled with frustration. “Look, I’m already thrown off by you being here, sitting here, I don’t really want to feel even more vulnerable by eating in front of you, too.”

“I want you to. See? I can be vulnerable too.”

“Why are you being so damn pushy? Who cares about the cake? Why won’t you just tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

“Because you’re shaking. And you’re uneasy, and eating the cake will distract you. And you deserve it after that prick didn’t let you order one for yourself.”

God, how long had he been watching?

“That’s because it’s embarrassing.”

“It’s cute. Your face scrunches like a baby’s, like you’re afraid of what you’re eating but you want it anyway. It’s cute. Eat it, jagiya, I’ll answer your questions.”

You scoop a bit of the cake onto the fork and stare at him, heart pounding. “Are you sure?” Like you’re giving him an out. This fucking criminal who has inserted himself into your personal space and considered it a personal favor that he’s not pointing a gun at you while he’s doing it. There’s no reason for you to be offering him the chance to not be seen in public with you, twitching every time you take a bite.

“I’m sure, babyface, just eat it.”

You scowl. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then eat it.”

You do. Finally, after practically wearing yourself out arguing over your biggest, deepest insecurity, you begin to eat the cake, and do your best to ignore the warmth you feel when Minho’s arm settles against your back again.

“I was outside with…some friends, when I saw you show up. I recognized you, I got curious, and imagine my surprise when I see you meeting good ol’ assface for coffee, like we hadn’t already promised each other we were gonna break up with him.”

“We?” You mumble around the tiniest bite of chocolate cake. “I don’t remember us being in that relationship.”

“Tell me you haven’t been dating him all this time.” Minho leans back with a sigh, watching you pick daintily at the cake, his fingertips walking up your spine to tug at the lumpy, damp braid that’s still soaking through your sweater.

“I haven’t. He said he needed to talk to me. Said it was urgent.”

“It’s always urgent.” Minho mumbles, and you feel him picking at the end of your braid. Suddenly the elastic is gone, your hair stiffly unwinding against your shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t go back home to him that night.”

“I didn’t.” You twist your neck around to see what he’s doing, but he puts one finger to your temple and turns your head back to face your cake, and then continues unraveling your hair. “I went home. To my apartment. I didn’t talk to him for two days and when I did, I broke up with him. I didn’t even get my iPad back from his house.”

“Good girl.” He twists your hair into a firm knot at the base of your skull and fastens it with the elastic. “There. Try not to contract pneumonia next time you get played by your ex.” He pats your back firmly, and it’s jarringly platonic after the tenderness of his hands threading through your hair. He pushes himself to his feet and holds his hand out, palm up. “Come on. Bed time.”

“Bed time?” You repeat, absolutely stunned.

Whatever he’s expecting from you right now is nowhere near what you’re prepared to give to the man who has at one point pulled a gun on you.

He turns his hand and flicks your arm softly. “Stop your blushing. I know you took an Uber here. I’m taking you home. You said you have work tomorrow, so let’s go.”

You just blink at him. “I’m not riding home with you. You have a car?”

“Of course I have a car, I’m not destitute.”

“You rob people.”

“It’s really more of a hobby.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely not going home with you.”

“Again,” He flicks your arm once more. “I’m not taking you home with me, I’m taking you home. Your home. Finish your cake and get up.”

Moments later, you are making the second inexplicably foolish decision of your life to follow Minho across the parking lot to the small gray car in the shadows. He opens the door for you, waits for you to get inside, and then closes you in to spend the next few seconds wondering if you’re going to survive the rest of the night.

Because there is stuff everywhere.

Purses. Backpacks. Wallets. A gun in the floorboard. A small document safe, busted open on the back seat. A crowbar. Numerous disposable masks. Multiple boxes of latex gloves.

The instant that Minho crosses around to the driver’s side and gets in, your fingers are grasping for the handle, seconds away from leaping out into the night. He frowns at you as he puts the keys in the ignition. “What? Where are you going?” As you gawk at him, terrified, his eyes skate the condition of his car. “Oh. Shit. Right, sorry.” He leans into your space, scraping up a handful of purses and wallets and tossing them in the back seat. He ducks back down one more time, grabs up the gun, tucks it in the glove compartment. “You can put your feet anywhere, it’s fine.”

You gape at him. “Minho, this is—”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a prude. I robbed you, too, and look at us now. I’m a nice guy, I swear.”

“Have you ever killed anybody?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Well, let me know when you figure it out, and I’ll give you my answer.”

He wheels the car smoothly out of the driveway, and when he asks for your address, it takes an infinity for you to decide to give it to him. You live in a nice apartment building, with good security, and watchful neighbors. Even if he’s been nice to you so far, possibly scoping you out and getting you to trust him, it should be difficult for him to actually gain access to your apartment later.

“Block his number.” He tells you quietly, one elbow propped up on the window sill. “Don’t go chasing after his 911 texts anymore.”

“Why do you care?”

Silence.

Streetlights and traffic signals shine into the space between you, flashing over his face and illuminating the quiet consideration that he wears in place of the smug expression he had only moments ago. “I care.”

“Why?”

“God knows.”

He drops you off at your apartment, peers at you quietly through the window as you back away from his car, your eyes dubiously fixed on him as you scoot backwards into the building, and then he’s gone, racing off into the night, and taking all the evidence of his transgressions with him.

By some stroke of cosmic grace you get yourself to bed and convince your brain to abandon all thoughts of Minho and get a bare minimum amount of sleep. By the time your alarm sings its obnoxiously cheerful jingle at you, it feels like you only just closed your eyes. But it’s 4am and you have a day of kitties ahead of you, so you put your feet on the floor and trudge to your bathroom to get yourself awake.

Two pieces of toast, the last of your Folgers instant coffee, and one glass of water, off-brand orange juice later, you’re bundled up in your favorite winter jacket, watching your breath appear in the dark of morning as you walk to the Wayward Street Cat Hotel.

By the time you knock on the warm green door and watch San’s head pop around the corner of the half wall, your nose is pink and your fingers are cold but it’s only served to get your heart pumping and your brain wide awake.

San approaches the door with a sauntering gait and a dimpled smile that is far too kind for 5:30 in the morning, but he unlocks the door and ushers you into the golden warmth of the facility. “Good morning!” He greets, standing back as you unzip your jacket. “You are prompt, right on time.” He holds out a hand and takes the garment, showing you to the storage closet where he hangs it next to his own jacket.

“I hoped you might be punctual, so I brought you a coffee. Cream and sugar on the side, you can fix it how you like. Is that okay?”

You’re warm all over. “That sounds amazing, thank you.”

He leads you back to the desk and pulls up your chair for you. “So right now I’m just going through emails—oh, here.” He passes you a blue paper to go cup and a handful of cream and sugar packets. “If all goes well today, give me your usual coffee order. The boss pays for coffees on Wednesdays to warm me up for when he comes in and extends the shift by two hours.”

“By two hours?” You repeat, popping the lid off and dumping four of the creamers into the dark liquid that smells about a thousand better than your Folgers instant. You’re halfway through wondering if you should be reassessing your excitement for this job, adjusting your hope for success today and a contract by evening, mentally filing through labor laws, when San waves your worries away with one hand.

“Accidentally. He doesn’t make me stay, but I usually stick around and do emails or laundry and it gives me two more hours on my time sheet, so who cares? If you work here, he’ll let you go home at your normal time, don’t worry.”

“How does he make it so much longer? Is he a slow cleaner or something?”

“No, no, not at all. He’s the one who taught me how to be as efficient as I am, and he can still clean a room about two minutes faster than I do. No, he runs an Instagram page so owners can see their kitties while they’re gone. So when he comes in on Wednesday, he takes all kinds of photos and videos—plus he’s a total lush for cats so he spends like ten minutes with each one, just hanging out with them.” He sips from his coffee and lets out a slow hiss as the heat hits his tongue.

“Oh.” You blink, pressing the lid back onto your cup. “That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, he’s really great. I think you’ll enjoy working with him, if you’re good with rolling with a wry, dry sense of humor. He’s super chill and easy going and even though he looks at you sometimes like he can’t remember your name, he’ll listen to anything—even if you’ve forgotten for the fifth time how to print out the daily schedule.”

“Is this…experience speaking?”

San chuckles, ducking his head and sighing at his keyboard. “Ahhhh, yes, unfortunately. I was so nervous my first day. I thought he hated me until I asked him my hundredth inane question of the day and he noticed how bad I felt about it and he just took the time to kindly walk me through it again.”

You’re a little nervous now, both about the complexity that the shifts must be if San was so psyched out about it, and about the apparently closed off demeanor of your potential boss. “So, he’s nice about it, though?”

“Oh yeah.” San clicked through a couple of emails and then leaned back in his chair, spinning it lightly back and forth. “No he will full on stare at you like you’re speaking another language and then just when you think you’re going to cry for being the dumbest person on the planet, he starts talking to you in this very sweet, like, don’t-spook-the-kittens voice and answers whatever you’re unsure about and then tells you that you aren’t completely hopeless.”

“Aw,” You’re laughing at the utter embarrassment on San’s face.

“I had such a hard first day. I was so nervous. So please, whatever you feel about today, barring a medical emergency, it can never be worse than mine.”

You’re at ease almost immediately after that, relaxing in your chair and sipping at your coffee as he chatters about the process of checking emails and showing you where the form letters for rote responses are, and showing you how to use the database to check the schedule and make bookings and check kitty records.

By the time 6am rolls around and San pushes himself back from the desk, he’s finished his coffee. He shrugs out of his hoodie and gets up, instructing you to start on one of the rooms while he gets started on the other. For the next hour, you clean kitty rooms, check the database for feeding and medicating instructions, refresh water bowls, and clean litter boxes, all the while getting positively coated in kitty affection.

San keeps up a regular dialogue, occasionally breaking off to laugh as you react to whichever cat you’re interacting with at the moment, from a couple of calico kittens who jump on your shoulders while you clean their litter box, to Kyong hissing at you whilst demanding affection, to a little old lady cat who meows at you like she’s been smoking for fifty years.

“Why don’t you go do the last room and I’ll start washing the dishes.” San suggests at some point around 7, gesturing for you to go get started on a little black cat named Jia, who has been not so patiently waiting for her turn to be fed since you started. He begins pulling on dishwashing gloves and setting to cleaning the previous night’s dinner dishes while you hurry to comply.

“Hi Jia.” The moment you open the door, the older cat scoots out into the hallway, winding around your legs, whisper-meowing up at you constantly. She follows you back into the room, pawing and headbutting you as you shake out her blankets and sweep the floor. It takes you a few minutes to clean little splatters of her drool off the floor and sift out the litter box, but finally you scoop her up in your arms and begin the less pleasant task of giving her her daily medications.

“This is gonna be so fast, baby.” You whisper, letting her lean her head back against your chest. “Just a couple of nasty pills and then it’s canned food galore, I promise.” She squirms and cries at you as you push the pills into her mouth, and in a matter of seconds she’s swallowed both of them. “See? You did so good, and now it’s all over. What a good girl,” You lean over and pick up her bowl of wet food before she can get too upset about swallowing the tablets. “See? There you go, pretty girl.”

You lean back on your heels and stroke her as she abruptly forgets all about the terrible medication and chirps her way through her breakfast.

“Look who the cat dragged in.”

Before you can shoot San an unimpressed look for his very unoriginal one-liner, you realize that that wasn’t San’s voice. And the not-San voice sounded very, very familiar.

You twist around, nearly falling on your ass in the middle of Jia’s room, to see fucking Minho staring down at you through the window in the door, that smug smirk on his face. His eyes glance to Jia, then around the room, then to you. “She’s sweet, isn’t she?”

Jumping to your feet, thoroughly appalled by his sudden appearance, you glare through the grate. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks at you. “I’m the owner.”

Your eyes fall back down to Jia. “Oh. Yes, she’s very sweet. She took her medicine very well and her appetite is fantastic this morning. Are you checking her out?” You don’t remember San saying that Jia was going home this morning.

Minho’s smirk widens. “Isn’t it cute the way she whispers?”

Your patience is thinning. “Yes, Minho. She’s very cute. Can you just take your cat and go?” You’re praying, hoping beyond hope that San or the boss doesn’t show up and watch you snarl at a client, but you cannot cope with running into your robber for the third time.

This is it.

You’re going to lose another job before you even get the chance to have it, all because of the same night that lost you the first job.

You hate him.

You hate Jake.

You hate Minho.

You hate everybody right now except for Jia, and the knowing look on Minho’s face is not helping matters.

It is too early in the morning to be playing mind games with a criminal.

“Why are you still here?” You hiss. “Why are you even here at all? If you want your cat, take your damn cat.” You see San approaching from behind Minho, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder.

“Maybe I just can’t stay away from you.” Minho raises an eyebrow at you, eyes trailing down your body to examine the long sleeve button-up and soft, stretchy slacks that you’re wearing whilst crawling around on your knees in cat rooms. “You’re just so damn enchanting.”

“Do not bullshit me right now—” Your hiss is broken off and transformed into a sweet smile as San sidles up next to Minho and smiles that cratered smile at you.

“Looks like you’ve met the boss, huh? She’s pretty great, right, hyung?”

Your entire body stops functioning. Minho’s lips are spreading into a cheshire grin, watching your face go through all the stages of grief, looking one hundred percent pleased with your sudden inability to form words.

“Like I said, I’m the owner.” Minho tells you. “Of Wayward Street, not Jia. Though she’s quite the little sweetheart. I could just take her home with me.” The significance of his words settles on you with horrible weight, and your mouth falls open.

“Right, right, yes, this is Minho, he’s the boss. Hyung, this is our new prospective worker. She’s already done half of the rooms by herself, and I gotta be honest, she just took the routine and ran with it. She’s got it down.” That means a lot coming from him, especially now that you know his first day had been an utter disaster.

“Is that so?” Minho’s humored eyes haven’t left yours. “Does she maybe want to let Jia eat her breakfast and come back to the main room now?”

You scramble to grab up your cleaning supplies, leaving the kitty with one final scratch between the ears, and follow the men back to the desk. Minho sits before the computer, glancing at the empty email inbox, and sets his own coffee down next to your cup. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come in at 6 this morning, San, I had a task to do. Looks like the rooms are already done?”

San nods proudly. “All done. I just finished dishes and I was about to fold the clean laundry. Other than the floors, we’re pretty much good to go.”

Minho glances to the schedule. “Any appointments this morning?”

“Dakho and Hei are going home at eight, Ppang goes home at ten, and we get Mihi into room 4 at nine thirty.” San rehearses easily. “I’ve got Dakho and Hei ready to go, and I just need to prep Mihi’s room.”

Minho glances between you and San, San who is eager to get through the rest of his tasks, and you who is both too mortified and too frustrated to meet his eyes. “Alright, teach the newbie how to get Ppang ready to go, and show her how to reset room 4 for the new one. Then have her greet clients with you.” His eyes settle on you. “You can stand there and listen, just let him do it and pay attention.”

You nod quietly. “Will do.”

“Alright. You two get to work and let me know if you need anything. I’ll be reaching out to upcoming reservations so just give me a yell.” Minho meets San’s gaze, ensures that he’s been heard, and then shoots you another sideways glance. That same wicked smirk plays at the edges of his lips as you turn to follow San to Ppang’s room, your shoulders hunched almost painfully.

So much for your fresh beginning.

So much for your new start.

So much for Minho being an isolated incident—or even two isolated incidents.

You spend the rest of the morning shift doing exactly as you’re told, expertly finagling Ppang into his kitty carrier—a skill you acquired at the vet’s office and impressed San with when you completed the task with a few soft words and firm hands and got away without a single even attempted scratch. He chit chats companionably as you clean the room and start a load of laundry with the old blankets and beds that Ppang had used, washing the dishes and sanitizing the entire room from floor to ceiling.

Minho’s eyes can be felt on you as you move back and forth from the sink and the supply closet to Ppang’s room, hurrying to do San’s bidding, careful not to disturb any of the other cats with any clanging noises or anxious energy. The two of you handle both of the kitty pick-up appointments and Mihi’s intake, settling her into a freshly prepared room and leaving her to hide under her blankets until she feels comfortable enough to come out on her own.

When the shift is finally over, Minho dismisses San for the day and then turns to you with a levelling stare. “While I admit that we have a rather unconventional relationship that we just can’t seem to get away from, I want you to know that your performance is being fairly assessed.”

He’s giving you the courtesy of professionalism (sort of), so you relax into the role of prospective employee and fold your hands in front of you. Even so, you’re not entirely sure that you’re hoping you get the job anymore. While the work is simple and the cats are thoroughly enjoyable to be around, you can’t see yourself reporting to a known criminal every day.

That’s not ethical, right?

Shouldn’t you report him?

“Wayward Street is very important to me.” Minho says solemnly, eyes hooded as he speaks to you in a lazy drawl. “I won’t have some stranger come in and automatically be given trust over my cats without consideration for her existing or non existing ability to properly care for them.” His eyes scan you again. “No matter how intriguing I may find her to be.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and you look away. It bothers you that he’s speaking so frankly, but you’re not decided about your plans for the job yet, so you don’t say a word.

“I’ve arranged for San to take the evening shift off so that I can watch you work more closely. Come back at 3:30 and be prepared to take the reins. I’ll be available for any questions you might have. It’s not a trap, the work is just as straight forward as you’ve seen so far. I want my cats and my people and my company to be cared for. Do you understand?”

You nod soberly. “I understand.”

“If your work tonight satisfies me, I will be happy to offer you the job.” He leans forward in his desk chair, the cunning gleam finally disappearing from his eyes. “I also want you to understand that you can choose not to take it. It will not be offered with some kind of implicit agreement that you are expected to keep silent about my extracurricular activities. If you choose to go to the police, then so be it.”

You’re surprised by the sudden claim of accountability. Perhaps it’s some form of manipulation, that he’s wanting you to shirk away from accusing him while he’s being so kind to you, or that he thinks you’ll take pity on his boarding business and save it from going under if he were to go to jail. Either way, you’re now watching him with guarded interest.

“Additionally, if you choose to take the job and work here, with me, you can consider our previous interactions a wash.” He observes the slight confusion on your face and taps his fingers on the desk. “My behavior towards you to this point, extracurricular activities notwithstanding, would be inappropriate for an employer to express towards a subordinate. I will not be pursuing any kind of dynamic which might make you uncomfortable. Do you understand?”

You feel strangely calmed by this. “I understand.”

He leans back in his chair and slides his eyes back to the computer. “Come back at 3:30. Dress for comfort and utility. This business casual get up you’re wearing now is fine but it’s unnecessary. San prefers to work in a t-shirt and joggers, as the job requires us to be down on the floor quite a lot. You’ll see me in jeans most days. Please represent my company appropriately and choose attire that reflects self-respect, and that will suffice. Do you have any questions?”

He’s not looking at you, not smirking at you, not even treating you like he’s witnessed you bawling your eyes out and being humiliated by your ex boyfriend. “I don’t.”

“You can go, then. I’ll see you this evening.”

You check your watch. It’s only 10am. With hours of 6am to 10am and 4pm to 7pm, you have a good majority of your afternoon to do with as you please. You collect your things from the closet and head out into the bright, sunshiney morning.

When you return for evening shift, you’ve changed your clothes. Minho lets you into the facility with a quick glance at your cotton sweatshirt and breathable pants and gives an approving nod. “Did San show you how to answer emails?”

You nod.

He gestures to the desk. “Go ahead and start there. Ask me if you have any questions.”

You sit at the desk and spend half an hour shooting back emails, updating bookings, making reservations, and filing vaccination records. He watches in silence, occasionally spending time on his phone to give you space. When you finish, he follows you as you begin the rounds. He lingers quietly, doing little tasks like refreshing water and handing you supplies, but he lets you take the lead.

When clients arrive for pick-up and drop-off appointments, he chats with them pleasantly but lets you discuss care instructions and payment info on your own.

At seven o’clock, you’re standing in front of him, hands clasped once again in front of you, surprised to find yourself hoping that he’s pleased with your work. He sits at his desk and pulls a few pages off the printer. “I think the first thing we should talk about is whether or not you want this job.” He says quietly. “I think we’ve assessed each other fairly well today, don’t you?”

He’s right. His constant presence today has been one of steadiness and stability, not at all someone that you were worried to turn your back to or feel nervous questioning. He had been polite, unassuming, helpful, and temperate all day—excluding your brief fiasco with Jia.

“That depends.” You hear yourself say softly.

“On what?” His eyes are gentle, wondering, searching.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

A light smile plays at his lips. “You’ll trust my answer?”

You will. He can see that on your face.

“I’ve never hurt anyone. I swear on my cats.” The words are delivered with a playful smirk.

You take a deep breath. “I don’t appreciate your extracurricular activities.” He watches your eyes dart around the desk, watches your mouth form the words. “But I do love your business here. I think I demonstrated a fair command of the work today, and if you’re willing to take me on, I would be grateful for the opportunity to be employed here.”

Minho grins at you. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He slides the pages from the printer towards you. All of a sudden you’re signing your contract, setting up your banking information, receiving a door code. He discusses a schedule with you, and the next time you meet his eyes, you have a job.

“Thank you, Minho.” You tell him quietly.

“I’m glad you want the job.” He responds. “I liked the way you handled Jia this morning.”

Your face scrunches in confusion. “The way I handled Jia?” Trying to think back to the moments before he made his presence known and made you assume he was here to take the little black cat home, you struggle to come up with whatever he’s referring to.

“She gets nervous when she knows the pills are coming. You were sweet with her, and she recovered with no hurt feelings. You’re good with them. You’re kind. I want someone like that taking care of my guests.” He leans back in his chair and places his palms flat on the table. “Now, if you’ll walk me out to my car, I’ll let you get home and we can start over again in the morning.”

You balk immediately. Follow him out to his car? What happened to him not trying to make you uncomfortable?

He sees the apprehension in your eyes and he gets to his feet, a chiding expression on his face. “Don’t look so scandalized. You’re safe with me. I just have something of yours in my car.” He scoops up his keys and tosses his jacket over his arm, gesturing for you to follow. “Keep your distance if you must, but it’s really no big deal.”

Resentfully, you follow him to his car.

He digs around in the passenger seat for a minute and then turns back to you, producing a familiar purple case. It’s your iPad. The one you had left at Jake’s house and never gone back to get. You gawk at him, snatching the device from his fingers. “Where did you get this?”

“You don’t want to know.” He’s smirking again.

“You robbed him? Again?”

“Shhh.” His eyebrows lower, glancing around the dark sidewalk. “I’d rather not announce it in front of my place of business.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help the grin that tugs at your cheeks at the thought of him breaking into your ex’s house and robbing him without a care. “Thank you, Minho.” You shouldn’t be thanking him. You really, really shouldn’t be thanking him. But god, does it feel good to be holding your iPad and knowing that it’s only back in your possession because a smarter man than Jake got it back for you.

Minho struggles to control his own smile, forcing an aloof shrug. “Couldn’t have you coming up with any more excuses to see the assface again.” He shuts the passenger side door and moves away from you, around to the driver’s seat. “Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You walk home with the iPad clutched to your chest, shocked and a little disappointed in yourself that you’re actually excited about how the day turned out, despite everything that’s happened to try to persuade you otherwise.

The next few weeks are spent accompanying San and Minho on their shifts, working under their supervision while they finish training you and getting a solid feel for your ability to manage the dynamic workspace and client concerns. San grows fond of your presence rather quickly, and soon enough you’re often getting lunch together after your morning shift.

Minho maintains a strict air of professionalism with you. He’s gentle, available, and cautious about your space, and it doesn’t take long for you to all but forget about the strange way in which you first met him.

Finally, at long last, you’re given your first independent schedule away from both San and Minho. It’s your first weekend by yourself, and the facility is yours to run and enjoy in solitude. Everything goes peacefully and beautifully well, until Sunday morning, when you step into your last room of the shift, and little Jia doesn’t wake up.

Your heart shatters.

You call San first, weeping over the phone in garbled words that he barely understands, until suddenly he gets the gist. “Calm down, it’s alright. I’ll call hyung, and I’ll be over there in two minutes. It’s alright. It’s not your fault, alright? I’ll deal with it. I’ll come deal with it. Sit down at the desk and wait for me.”

Less than a minute later, the phone rings, and it’s Minho. You answer in a storm of tears and apologies, your heart breaking into a million pieces over the phone. “I’m going to call the client,” He tells you. “I’ll handle it. I’m a little farther away than San is, so wait for him to get there. Just sit tight and wait, okay?”

You can’t stop crying. You can’t stop apologizing.

“Just wait for San. I’ll call the clients.” He hangs up the phone.

San arrives shortly after and finds you slumped over the desk, pouring out your tears into the keyboard, fighting the memory of discovery. He immediately shrugs off his jacket and pulls you into his embrace, letting you fling your arms around him and cry. “She was an old cat. She was old, it’s not your fault.” He holds you tightly, rubbing your back, letting the moments pass slowly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

It doesn’t help.

You know you didn’t do anything wrong, but it doesn’t help.

The little bell chimes and quiet footsteps approach the desk, and then San is easing away from you. You lean your weight on the counter and try not to listen to him telling Minho that he’s going to go back there and take care of Jia so you don’t have to. The next thing you know, Minho is kneeling in front of you, tapping your hand lightly with a finger. “Hey. I talked to them.”

You turn your eyes to his and find him tense with anger, and your heart sinks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Minho, I don’t know what happened.” The clenching of his jaw and the tightening of his fists fills you with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong. You hear me?” He covers your hand with his. “The client told me that Jia’s been sick. She got a new diagnosis about two months ago, and they chose not to take her in for the treatments. They said they didn’t expect her to last until they got back.”

His words feel like a punch. “They knew she was going to die?”

“They left her to die with us.” He confirms. The outrage on his face makes more sense now, that it’s not directed at you, but rather at the negligent owners who preferred to send their cat away to live the rest of her weeks with strangers and keep their vacation plans. “You did nothing wrong, okay?”

Your head droops, tears rolling down your cheeks, and he tilts your chin up with a finger. “You hear me, jagi?” The words are barely a whisper.

He doesn’t have a chance to apologize or take back the endearment that he promised he wouldn’t use anymore, because you’re blinking at him tearfully. “Can I not be your employee?” You ask brokenly.

He blinks, disappointment flooding his expression.

“Just for a second?” The rest of your sentence breathes past your lips.

Now more confused than anything, Minho’s brow furrows in consternation. “Okay.”

In the next second your arms are around his neck, your face buried in his shoulder, clinging to the comfort of the person who chose to comfort you when he was supposed to be robbing you; searching desperately for the man who protected you from your ex instead of just leaving you where you stood.

Minho returns your embrace without hesitation.

He holds you so tightly that he pulls you out of your chair, falling to your knees on the floor in front of him, trying desperately to close your ears to the sound of San taking care of Jia. “It’s alright.” Minho murmurs. “It’s okay.” But he’s fuming. He’s on fire with rage, mind racing through a dozen plans to access client records and track down their address and make them regret ever doing such a cruel and calloused thing, and leaving you to deal with it.

It takes a few minutes for you to pull yourself together, awkwardly shuffling out of the half-in-his-lap position that you’d fallen into and seating yourself back at the desk. He kneels on the floor and remains quiet as you wipe at your face, sniffling pathetically into your sleeve. “I’m sorry.” You say again. “I’m so very sorry, I know that this weekend was my first time in the hotel by myself, and I know it was supposed to be an exercise of trust and faith and everything went wrong—”

“Jagi.” Minho lifts himself on his knees so that he can better look you in the eye. “Everything didn’t go wrong. Something happened that was out of our hands before you ever got a job here. Don’t put this on yourself.”

Your eyes close painfully. “Minho, you trusted me with your cats and one of them died. Tell me you don’t have even a second of doubt about trusting me.”

“Not a second.” He says immediately. He takes your hand again. “Not even a second.”

“You don’t know me.”

Minho’s gaze traces every inch of your face, slides down the shaking length of your arms, watches your fingers clench into fists on the surface of the desk. “I do now.”

“Here you go, girlie.” San puts your usual coffee order down on the desk in front of you, pulling up a chair to peer at the computer with you. It’s been just over a week since the incident with Jia, and you’ve finally managed to come to work without feeling heart-shattering panic every time you approach any of the kitty rooms. You smile at him, accepting the hot beverage with grateful hands.

“Thanks San, I’ve been jonesing.”

“I can tell, your foot is doing that twitchy thing.” He rubs your shoulder and props one elbow on the desk. “We busy this morning?”

“Looks like five appointments, most of them pick-ups. We’ll have a lot of rooms to clean.”

“I’ll help.” The voice is succeeded by Minho’s sudden appearance around the corner of the half wall, carrying a pink donut box. “We’ll get it knocked out in no time.” There’s a second of shuffling papers and office supplies around so he has a place to set the donut box, and then he comes around behind your chair to peek at the screen.

You fight a shiver as his breath hits the back of your neck.

“Oh, Ara goes home today.” He murmurs, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “I’m gonna miss her.”

You’ll all miss the tiny Russian Blue who stares at you patiently as you clean her room, and then makes her request with a single, kitten-pitched chirp so that you’ll pick her up and let her snuggle her little head into your throat and purr all your troubles away.

“Have a donut, girlie, he got your favorite.” San picks up an old fashioned cake donut wrapped in a napkin and passes it over to you.

You accept the pastry in silence, feeling Minho’s eyes on the side of your face as you pick crumbs off of it and try to nibble as minutely as you can manage. “Looks like we also have a cat named Bong coming in at eight.”

“Bong’s a sweetheart, he sits on my lap while I do emails.” San says, glancing at you right as you take a small bite and feel your cheek twitch involuntarily. He gives a soft snicker, mouth opening immediately to comment on it, but he never gets the chance.

“Do me a favor and go get started on food prep, would you, San?” Minho requests abruptly.

Glancing at his watch in surprise, San lifts his eyebrows and stands slowly. “Sure thing. Don’t eat all the donuts.” He grabs his coffee and disappears to the front of the facility, leaving you with Minho at the computer.

The boss comes around to sit in the seat that San had vacated. “Can you print the client info for Ara?”

“Of course.” You click around the screen to do as instructed. It’s easy now, navigating the database and booking system, and San regularly complains about how much faster you picked it up than he did. “He wasn’t laughing at me.”

“Sorry?” Minho’s voice is a light hum, but he knows what you’re referring to.

“San. He wasn’t laughing at my face. He knows about the twitch. You’re not the only person I’ve ever eaten in front of.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you?”

You meet his eyes, surprised. “You are special. In an armed mugger kind of way.”

He nudges his knee against yours, jabbing a finger into your ribs at the risk of your voice carrying to San at the front of the room. “Would you shut up?”

“So sorry, boss, I thought you wanted to feel special.”

He frowns, rolling his eyes at you and focusing on the printout you’ve given him. The displeased silence is rolling off of him in waves of tension, striking you with sudden realization.

“Oh my god.” You utter, gaping at him. “You want to feel special.”

He scowls, closing off his expression entirely. “I want to feel like you’re about to get up and do your job.”

The interaction sticks with you for the rest of the shift, tumbling through your thoughts at every turn. No part of it is a surprise or revolutionary in anyway, not after he called you jagiya five minutes after meeting you, or after he basically took you on a sorry-your-boyfriend’s-a-douchebag-but-I-can-do-better date on the night of your birthday, and then he strongly suggested and fully intended for your ex boyfriend to believe that he was your new boyfriend.

No, his attentiveness and interest and softness towards you, while inexplicable, is not a surprise.

What is a surprise, however, is the girlish fluttering happening in your chest at the realization that this man, dubious morals or not, just became flustered in the place of business that he owns because you teased him.

An entire world of possibilities opens up to you.

Possibilities that will come with a very firm, very condition-heavy conversation, but exciting possibilities nonetheless.

Your entire demeanor shifts by the time evening shift rolls around. Punching in your door code, already knowing that San won’t be here since most of the appointments are already done, you shuck your coat and bag into the supply closet. Minho is already here, you can tell by the scent of his laundry detergent and subtle cologne, and for a minute you wonder if he ever left after the morning shift.

He’s in the back with two white kittens named Choco and Nabi, sitting cross-legged in the floor and letting them scamper all over him with frenzied energy.

“Look how cute.” You ease yourself down to the floor next to him, wiggling your finger at Nabi and smiling as she immediately engages in a series of pounces.

“Good evening,” Minho greets flatly, once again maintaining his detached mannerisms.

Your shoulder brushes his as you lean forward to play with the kittens, and you feel him immediately move away from you.

“You can go ahead and get started on rooms whenever you’re ready.” He says, and moves to get up.

“Oh, sure, but, Minho?”

When he turns around, he finds you looking up at him, hand extended for him to help you to your feet as well.

“What?”

“Help me up?” You smile at him, eyes wide and innocent.

He frowns at you, begrudgingly stabbing his hand out to hoist you upright. “Let’s get our work done quickly, I have some things to do tonight.”

“More people to rob?” You chirp cheerfully, like you’re asking him if he’s going to run to the grocery store.

Minho’s expression flattens into severely unimpressed. “Are you never going to let that go?”

“Are you never going to stop mugging people as a hobby?” You grab the broom, dustpan, and trash can, and move into the first room to begin cleaning.

“My personal hobbies are none of your business.”

“They became my business when you held me up on my birthday.”

“I didn’t know it was your birthday.” He steps into the room, leaving a bowl of food for Eun, a big brown tomcat who immediately bumbles over to bury his face in the dish. “And I didn’t mug you.”

“You did, too.” You fire back, sifting the litter box.

“I stole the assface’s company credit card, bought gift cards, and used them to buy kitty litter and latex gloves and cat food. Fucking sue me.” Minho takes the water dish and dumps it, filling it fresh from the tap.

“No, you robbed me, too.” You flash him a sweet smile as you move from Eun’s room to the next one, saying hi to Bobae as she stretches and comes out from her covered bed.

Minho’s face appears in the door window, frowning with confusion. “I’ve never taken anything from you.”

You fake a gasp, pressing one hand to your chest like you’ve been emotionally injured. “You stole the very thoughtful and expensive gift that my loving boyfriend gave me for my birthday.”

There’s a second of recollection before Minho rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Fine, you can have it back.”

You immediately hold out your hand expectantly.

He just gestures to the supply closet. “It’s in there. We use it to clean the litter boxes.”

Your mouth falls open, shocked laughter bursting from your lips. “Oh my god, you’re so bitter.” You turn back to Bobae, kneeling down to run your hands over her white coat. “He’s so bitter, Bobae, baby.” She blinks one blue eye and one green eye up at you. “I think he’s jealous of the assface.” Bobae purrs loudly, bumping your hand with her freckled nose.

“I am not jealous of the assface.” Minho’s voice comes from the front of the room, and then he’s grumpily bringing a bowl of Churu for Bobae. “Here you go, sweetheart, don’t listen to the bad lady.” He scratches her between the ears, shoots you a surly look, and leaves with the water bowl.

“I think he is jealous.” You continue, shaking out the blankets. “Big bad Minho couldn’t even point a gun at me without feeling bad about it, Bobo.”

“Stop lying to my guests.”

Your voice lowers into a sweet croon. “He bought me cake and coffee, and called me cute names, and he told me I deserved better than the sucky boyfriend who forgot I existed.” You pause in sweeping to scratch Bobae’s back. “I think he’s secretly a softie, Bobo.”

“Are you done being delusional?”

“And right when I thought I was never going to see this insane psychopath again, Bobo, you’ll never guess what happened. Guess what happened? That’s right, he found me in trouble again, and jumped in to rescue me again. Does that sound like a big bad man to you, Bobo? I don’t think so.” You get on your hands and knees to run a sterile wipe over the floor, keeping Bobae up on her shelf while it dries.

“Do you mind not feeding your lies to my innocent cats?” Minho glares at you as you exit Bobae’s room and step into Kyong’s. Past the lowered brows and clenched jaw, you can see a flush of heat tingeing his ears a delightful pink.

The big orange cat immediately jumps off his shelf to greet you, no longer hissing his empty threats as he winds around your legs and demands affection. “You would probably understand him better than anyone, wouldn’t you Kyong? Why would a big bad mugger have mercy on me and choose to keep helping?”

“Maybe because he’s used to pathetic charity cases and can’t help himself.”

You start the cleaning process on Kyong’s room. “Why do you think he insisted so strongly that I get rid of my ex boyfriend? Huh, Kyongie? Do you think he likes me? Do you think maybe the big bad mugger Minho likes me just a little, teensy, weensy bit?”

He’s had enough of your ribbing, all delivered in a condescending baby voice for the sake of your adoring kitty guests. Minho opens Kyong’s door, drops off a bowl of food, and stands there, glaring at you. “Are you done making a spectacle of your boss, or are you going to keep talking your way out of a paycheck?” His ears are bright, flaming red.

You turn your back on him, shrugging innocently. “I’m just wondering when my big bad boss is going to go back to being the guy with his arm around my waist who called me jagi like he couldn’t remember my name.”

Utter silence follows in the wake of the bravest thing you’ve ever said to another human being—who carries a gun.

You’re too scared to let the silence fester. “What do you think, Kyongie, do you think he doesn’t like me anymore? Did I put my big fat foot in my big fat mouth? Wasn’t that silly of me? Yeah, I think it was—woah!” You’re halfway through bending down to scoop Kyong up off the floor and set him on his shelf when a pair of hot hands land on your hips, yanking you backwards away from the big orange cat.

The hands slide to your waist, spinning you around, and then you’re pressed into the chest of your boss, who is both entirely fed up with your patronizing crooning and just barely containing his evident excitement at the words that you’re saying to the cat instead of him. “Say that again.” It’s almost a whisper, breath tickling over your cheekbones, arms circling your waist like he doesn’t actually need you to say whatever you’re supposed to be repeating.

“Say what?” You can’t speak, you can’t breathe, you can’t feel anything but the hard lines of his body pressed against the soft ones of yours, and the frantic slamming of your heart.

“The part you didn’t say. The part you implied. The part that makes me think that this is exactly what you wanted to happen.” His eyes are darting back and forth between yours, hooded and piercing as they search for the words you haven’t had the guts to say directly.

“I think you like me, Minho.” Somehow you manage to peel off your latex gloves without ruining the moment, resting your clean, bare hands against his chest and breathing in the scent of him, feeling the hammering of his heart against your chest. “I think you like me, and I wish you would stop trying to make me comfortable and just say it.”

His arms tighten around your waist. “And if I say it?”

“You can’t mug people anymore.”

“What about really, really bad people?”

“You can’t be mugging anyone.”

“What if the person is the assface and he definitely deserves it?”

“Maybe I make an exception for the assface.”

“And if I stop mugging people?”

“I’m serious, Minho, I’m not going to jail for aiding and abetting or harboring or whatever crime I automatically commit by doing this.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.” His hips are pressed into yours, his face so close to yours that you’re breathing the same air, and you’ve only got a few more seconds of strangled focus before he completely breaks.

“I’m really, really hoping that the guy I like won’t make me kiss an active criminal.”

You can feel when his heart starts thudding infinitely faster. “No more mugging.” He breathes.

“Just like that?”

“Nothing bad will ever happen to you because of me, jagi. Just like that.”

This is nothing like how you thought this would turn out. You thought you would test the waters, see if your assumptions were correct, spend a little time teasing him and see if you could get a reaction. You never thought you’d lay him bare to a bunch of cats and wait for him to shut you up. You never thought you’d be crushed to his chest, breathing him in, watching his molten eyes burn into yours.

“Are you going to keep distracting me from Kyong or are you gonna do something?”

He kisses you. Hard and feverish, tugging you impossibly closer, his hands gripping your waist like you’re about to slip right through his fingers. Your hips feel like they’re going to give, your knees pressing together to keep you up. This is everything you never thought it could be.

Your hands go around his neck, letting him drag you up against his chest. His mouth presses and sucks and moves against yours, closing around your bottom lip, pushing at your top lip, and when he pauses to see just how badly you regret teasing him, you chase him.

He’s walking back, hitting the wall, fingers kneading at your hips, uttering a low groan as your teeth scrape his lower lip.

“I hope you don’t treat all of your employees like this,” You gasp when you break for air, your body leaned against his and his hands holding you securely by the waist.

He smirks that cunning, catlike smirk at you. “San doesn’t usually pressure me to kiss him this much.”

You scoff, smacking a hand against his chest, only to bite your tongue as he ducks in for another kiss, stealing your breath away. “Just let me do one more job.” He whispers against your mouth.

Your brain physically blinks. “No, Minho.”

His nose pushes at your cheek, lips littering kisses across your jaw. “Please. I promise they’re really sucky people.”

“No, Minho.”

“I’ll bring you back something pretty.” His lips latch to your throat, tongue tickling your skin as you beat lightly at his chest in protest.

“No, Minho!”

“What if they’re really, really sucky people?” He’s making his way down your throat, back up your throat, across your jaw. “What if it’s something really, really pretty?” His lips seal over yours again. You melt into his touch, wishing it didn’t absolutely reduce your brain to mush to be kissed and held by this relentless deviant, but you are completely enchanted by the heat of his touch.

“No more mugging.”

“God,” He kisses you again. “Fine. No more mugging.”

“Are you going to let me finish Kyong’s room?”

“Kyong can wait five more minutes. I’m not done with you yet.”

< part 1

bonus feature banner because I probably won't write a separate cat cafe Choi San fic but the vibes are too good:

tag list : @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @eastjonowhere @its-stayville-forever @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @jinniejjam @blackberryrains @feetoffthemalfoy @highandalive @scarlet789 @ramadiiiisme @thecutiepieme @lemonn015 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @dreamingartist13 @ebnabi @bangtan-sonyeondamn8 @lemonn015 @thepoeticpurplepotato @brbwritingfanfic @skzlover24 @stephanieeeyang @my-neurodivergent-world @xgridx @igotajuicyass @annovaz @robinnotgood24 @butterflybananabread @tirena1 @nougatjade @wickedbutlovely @justiceforvillains

#skz #stray kids #lee know #lee minho #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #skz x you #stray kids x you #lee know x you #lee minho x you #crack horror #choi san #ateez #san #minho #fluff #angst

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incognit0slut · 1 year ago

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PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Behind Closed Doors 3

Despite your promise not to sneak behind the team again, you find yourself in a compromising position when you’re forced to ride in the same car as him.

Warnings: (18+, MDNI) Nipple/breast play, dry humping, semi public, dirty talk, and technically this isn’t car sex but everything happens in a car, there’s just no penetration. ~2.5k words (not proofread)

A/n: This wasn’t supposed to be in my WIP but… I blame him for looking so slutty in that shirt. Btw, this is shorter because I already have a lot on my plate but I really wanna squeeze this in, so enjoy! If you’ve been following since the first part, our kinky, slightly exhibitionist duo is back

You liked to think you had a good sense of self control when it came to your sex drive. In your past relationships, you were rarely the one to make the first move. It wasn't that you didn't enjoy sex—far from it, actually—but you didn't see it as the centerpiece of a relationship. Sex was enjoyable, yes, but it wasn’t everything.

At least, that's what you thought until now.

You recently reached a realization that three factors led you to reconsider this long-held belief, and unsurprisingly, they all revolved around Spencer Reid.

The first one was his choice of clothes. It seemed like he had woken up one day and decided that undoing the top buttons of his shirt was the new norm. It was as if he was taunting you, and it was working. The moment you saw him wearing that shirt this morning, all you could think about was dragging him into a storage room and have your dirty, nasty way with him.

The second thing was the way your heart raced when he accidentally brushed his hand against yours as you both reached for the car keys. Emily had asked you both to interview a key witness, and naturally, you assumed you’d be the one driving because Spencer rarely volunteered to take the wheel. But to your surprise, he insisted on driving.

It was strange. You wondered what had prompted this change, but you didn’t protest. In fact, you let him. Happily. Because this set the stage for what became the third significant moment that made you reconsider everything.

Him driving the damn car.

You found yourself unable to keep your eyes off him. The way his hands gripped the wheel, moving with effortless control that hinted at a confidence he rarely displayed. Your gaze traveled up his arm, noting the tension in his muscles, and the way his shirt tightened across his shoulders with each turn.

Then there was his face. Your gaze drifted to his jawline, appreciating the sharp angles and the way it tightened slightly when he was deep in concentration. You had to squeeze your thighs together because watching him drive was enough to make you wet.

It was highly inappropriate, of course. You were both on the job, and there was a witness to interview. So you forced yourself to stay professional. It wasn’t until after you finished, after you and Spencer had informed Emily of what you had found and given her the necessary details over the phone, that your ogling became more prominent on the drive back to the station.

And despite being subtle about it, Spencer seemed to know the effect he had on you.

“Is there something you want to say?” His voice was low, slightly amused, as he spared a quick glance in your direction before focusing back on the road.

You forced yourself to look away from his hands. “What do you mean?”

“You seem… distracted.”

You swallowed, trying to muster up an explanation that wouldn’t give away too much. “Just thinking about the case.”

The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting back a smile. “Really? Because it looked more like you were deep in thought about something else.”

You felt a flush of warmth rise to your cheeks. “Well, maybe the case isn’t the only thing on my mind.”

“Oh? And what else were you thinking about?”

“I don’t know if you’d be interested.”

“Try me.”

You turned your body towards him. “It’s highly inappropriate.”

“Now you’ve really got my attention.”

You hesitated, feeling the car’s warmth envelope you, making the space seem smaller, more intimate. “Okay, but remember, you asked for it,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I was thinking about... how well you handle the steering wheel.”

Spencer laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the car. “Is that your way of saying you like my driving, or something more metaphorical?”

“Maybe a bit of both. I mean, a person’s driving does say a lot about them, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he agreed. “And what does my driving say about me?”

“That you’re good with your hands.”

Spencer’s eyes met yours briefly, and you squeezed your thighs tighter.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said finally, his voice low. There was a brief pause and you wondered whether you had gone too far, whether this wasn’t the right time or place to flirt so openly, but then he spoke again.

“And since we’re sharing, I was thinking about something a bit inappropriate too.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “Like what?”

“Like how it’s hard to focus on the road when you’re looking at me like that.”

“…how am I looking at you?”

He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. “Like you want me to pull over to the side of the road and kiss you.”

A silence fell between you, and for a moment, you could hardly breathe. You felt a flush of warmth spread through your body, and you bit your lip, considering his words.

“And what if I do?” You asked softly.

You noticed his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, clearly fighting to maintain his composure.

“Then I’d have to find a quiet place for us.”

Your body responded immediately, a wave of heat coursing through you as your breath quickened. You could feel your pulse thrumming in your veins, an urgent, needy beat that matched the thoughts racing through your mind.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Pull over.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours. Then, without hesitation, he scanned the road for a safe spot. The anticipation was almost unbearable as you watched him steer the car onto a narrow, dark lane shielded by dense shrubs. The path seemed to swallow the sound of the engine as he drove further away from the main road.

The silence that followed was thick as he turned off the engine. You both stared at each other, acutely aware of what you were about to do, about the potential consequences, but everything blurred as you both moved at the same time.

Everything was fast, a rush of motion and emotion as Spencer leaned over the console. His lips met yours with an urgency that left no room for hesitation.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, while you clung to his arm. He kissed you hungrily, desperately, as if trying to communicate every unspoken word through the press of his mouth against yours. The more he kissed you, the more you felt the heat between your thighs and you realized that, in fact, you really had no control over your sex drive.

You then opened your mouth, letting him sink his tongue into you, pressing your body against his. But he was too far away, and you needed more of his heat, more of him. So, you undid your seat belt and did the only thing that felt natural—you climbed onto his lap.

You both moaned when his cock finally pressed against your core, and he found your lips again, his hand cradling the back of your head while the other rested firmly on your hips, urging you to move. The movement was instinctive, a rhythm that was driven by desperation.

You felt his mouth kisses trail from your lips down to your neck, marking a trail of heat that had you burning for more. Your fingers found the buttons of your shirt, and before you could second guess yourself, you undid them one by one.

Spencer’s hands followed the path you created, tracing the newly exposed skin. His large palms moved along your ribs before they rested just beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hard nipples through the fabric of your bra. You gasped, your head falling back in sheer pleasure.

His lips found your neck again, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin. His fingers pulled down your bra, exposing your breasts, and when he quickly sucked on your sensitive nub without warning, you bucked your hips, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

His sound of pleasure vibrated against your skin when you moved your hips at a steady pace, the friction driving you both to new heights. You could feel the material of your underwear sticking between your wet folds, and you wished desperately that there was no barrier between you. But time was ticking, and you both knew you were on the clock.

This had to be enough.

Spencer pulled back slightly, your nipple stretching with him, your supple skin following his movements until he let go with a soft pop. He then turned his attention to your other breast, his tongue teasingly circling your hardened nipple before hungrily engulfing it in his mouth.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, your nails digging in slightly as you arched your back. You felt his hands roaming over your waist, holding you steady, grounding you even as you felt yourself spiraling higher into a state of pure ecstasy.

“Spence,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. His response was to look up at you with those intense, brown eyes as he continued to suck on your nipple.

His mouth moved with deliberate precision, alternating between gentle licks and firm sucks, driving you completely insane. You could feel your control slipping, your body responding to his every touch, and you found yourself unable to think of anything but him. The way he made you feel, the way his touch ignited every nerve in your body.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, urging him on, lost in the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. His lips left your breast, trailing kisses up your chest and neck until he reached your lips, capturing them in a searing kiss that left you breathless.

The taste of him, the feel of his body against yours, was everything you had been longing for.

“More,” you whispered against his lips, your voice a desperate plea.

“I know, I know,” he murmured back. “I got you.”

You shook your head, breathless. “I wanna feel you.”

He groaned. How he wanted that to happen, but you were both gone long enough and reality was beginning to intrude on your stolen moment.

“We can’t, not here,” he said, his voice strained with desire as he rested his forehead against yours. “We don’t have enough time.”

You bit your lip, trying to push back the disappointment. “I know, but I-I need you.”

“Soon,” he promised. “When we have more time, I’ll give you everything you need.”

Your hips moved faster. “Everything?”

He nodded, his eyes fluttering close when he felt you pressing harder on his cock. “Everything.”

“You’ll finally fuck me?”

His breath hitched at your bold words, his control slipping further.

“Say it. Say you’ll fuck me.”

His self-control wavered, the raw desire in your voice pushed him to the edge as his palms gripped your ass.

“Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you?”

You never thought there would be a time when you’d hear those words from him, and yet here you were, craving for more. You nodded and grinded against him, trying to find that delicious pressure on your clit.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice laced with urgency. “I want you to fuck me hard.”

Spencer groaned, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in closer. “Then imagine me inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “Think about my cock sliding into you, filling you up completely.”

“F-Fuck,” you gasped, moving against him rhythmically. Who would’ve thought he’d be good at this?

“Imagine my hands gripping your hips, pulling you down onto me,” he continued, his breath warm against your neck. “You’d feel every inch, deep and perfect.”

Your heart pounded as his fantasy played out in your thoughts. “Yes,” you gasped, finding it hard to keep steady. “Please, keep going.”

“I’d set a rhythm that drives you crazy,” he murmured. “Fast, then slow, teasing you, drawing out every moan and gasp until you’re begging me not to stop.”

“Oh God…” you moaned. “Please…”

He continued, relentless and commanding. “And when you’re close, when you’re right on the edge, I’d look into your eyes, whisper how beautiful you are, how good you feel wrapped around me…”

“Spencer, I—”

“And then I’d thrust harder, deeper,” he cut off your words, his tone intense. He pressed a hand against your lower abdomen as if to illustrate his point. “I’d fill you completely, over and over, until all you can do is cling to me and take it.”

You were practically trembling now, his words and slight touches driving you wild.

“I’m so close,” you managed to breathe out, your movements becoming less rhythmic and more desperate. His hands went back to your hips. His grip tightened, steadying and encouraging your frantic movements as he felt his own orgasm nearing.

“Come with me,” he whispered, pressing himself closer to you.

His words, his grip, his presence overwhelmed you. You felt the buildup, almost unbearable, as if every nerve in your body focused on the impending release. Then, with a final, mutual push, you felt the wave break.

Pleasure surged through you, intense and all-consuming. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you down as he drove himself up, his name spilling from your lips in a cry of release. You felt him tense, heard his own cry muffled against your skin, as he reached his climax with you.

Panting, you both slowed, the car filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the soft hum of the engine in the background. Spencer’s hands softened on your hips, caressing now, soothing the spots where his fingers had pressed.

You ran a hand through his thick hair. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a dirty mouth?”

His grin was both sheepish and proud as he met your gaze. “You’re actually the first person to hear it.”

Your eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his hands carefully adjusting your clothes. “It seems you have a way of bringing out a side of me I didn’t know I had.”

You watched him, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. There was so much you wanted to say, so many feelings swirling inside you, but the words felt too fragile for the moment. Instead, you settled for the silence.

Spencer didn’t seem to mind. He tapped your hip gently, drawing your attention. “Come on, I think we need to drop by the hotel before we go back to the station.”

When he caught the startled look you sent him, he laughed.

“To change my pants. Nothing else.”

“…oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

You blushed, caught off guard by his remark and your own reaction. “No, I just—” you started, then paused, searching for the right words. “I mean, yes, maybe a little.”

His smile widened, pleased by your response. “I’ll tell you what,” he began. “After we finish this case, after we fly back, let’s spend time together. Just you and me.”

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. You wondered what it would be like to have him pressed against you with nothing between you, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat directly under your palms.

The thought made you both nervous and excited at the same time.

“Really?”

He leaned in for a kiss. “Really.”

“You promise?”

He smiled against your lips.

“I promise.”

#behind closed doors #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencerreid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fluff #Fanfiction #gifwriting

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whoopsyeahokay · 4 months ago

Text

Fifty Seven

summary: prompt fill. between 1982 and 1983, Wally meets and falls completely head over heels for a girl who changes everything. his biggest fan, his greatest love. you. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: fluff. AU - pre-canon. dorks falling in love. author doesn't know American football. total disregard for canon lore. HEA.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🏈

Fifty Seven

It was gradual, how things developed between you and Wally. Slow and peripheral at first. Then, like a confetti cannon—pop💥—instant, exciting; a pocket of fresh air in a dense smog. And it was all thanks to Wally's best friend, Rodney.

See, Wally was a baseball guy. Had planned to continue being a baseball guy through high school. He was an excellent pitcher with an impressive BA, and his mama had been over-the-top supportive for Wally to join the team—believed in him so much that she'd even strongarmed Coach Burns to let Wally try out for varsity.

But Rodney? Had wanted to join the football team. And Wally had wanted to do everything with his inseparable since birth best buddy, so he'd found himself donning a helmet and nailing technical drills like it was paint-by-numbers. Obviously, he'd made the team. Had started winning games, gained popularity and praise and attention from girls. Had fast become Coach's MVP only to, in sophomore year, be transferred to the varsity team. Go Devils!

That'd meant training longer, playing harder, and receiving interested elevator-looks from the hottest chicks in school. Seniors who'd graduated out of the awkwardness of puberty and had learned how to flaunt their curves. Don't worry, Rodney had been along for the ride, built like a brick shithouse and equally as formidable on the field, and he'd kept Wally humble.

Not that he'd needed to, because the thing about attention was the more Wally got, the less he was seen.

Yeah, he was the star receiver, the guy whose name everyone knew. But...that was about all they knew about him. People summed him up to the number on his jersey. Shallow. Detached. The girls he took on dates wanted the infamy of having made out with him—"he's such a fantabulous kisser,"—and the guys admired the hell out of him, clapped his back and handed him beers, but no one expressed an interest in peeling back flesh and bone to see what made Wally tick.

Wally wasn't lonely; he had Rodney and Don and Keith. BFFs since kindergarten who gave a real shit about him. It was just that, if people approached him to ask questions, he wanted it to feel less like an interview and more like a connection. Small talk was exhausting.

He'd been contemplating this when you'd first popped onto his radar. Shooting hoops in the gym at lunch to brood over his latest failed effort with a girl—Sarah Miller from History—when, oh shit, look out!, you'd walked through the door the second Wally had decided to unleash his frustration by whipping the ball at the wall. He'd overcompensated. The ball had curved to the left. Smack, you'd taken it square in the head.

Somehow, you hadn't been hurt, though the sound had convinced Wally you should've had a bruise blossoming on the area of impact. He'd run over, eyes wide in panic, visually checking you over to ensure he hadn't concussed you.

He'd rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah," You'd grinned, friendly, not even a little bit upset, "Happens more than you think." Which would've raised flags if Wally hadn't been preoccupied by how your proximity smelled like summer.

After a moment of uncertainty, Wally had stuck out his hand and introduced himself, "I'm Wally Clark. I, uh... I'm better at football." He'd felt like an idiot five seconds later when you'd merrily declared:

"I know," still smiling like he hadn't just thoroughly embarrassed himself. "You always feint left." Then, in general consideration, "I'm surprised no one's figured that out yet."

Wally had stared at you in surprise, "I mean... I do what feels right in the moment."

You'd raised your hands, "I'm just saying, your recovery's weak on your left backfoot, so you might wanna switch it up soon."

Wally had crashed through a gamut of emotions in under a second, beginning with insecurity and ending in shockawe. Because you'd noticed something. And, okay, yes, it'd been jersey-number related, but it hadn't been how well he filled out his uniform.

"You come to the games?" He'd wondered as he'd valiantly ignored how his stomach had started to feel squirmy.

You'd nodded, "You're fun to watch." And you'd said it so...casually. Like it'd been part of the Split River High zeitgeist: The stadium became a sardine can because Number 57, Wally Clark, was fun to watch.

"So, I guess you're gonna be there tomorrow?" He'd asked, the seed of an unfamiliar sense of intrigue planted. He'd watched you tilt your head, watched your eyes light up when you'd smiled. Wally had felt his cheeks heat and his eyes go soppy in response.

"That's the plan, Stan," You'd gleefully confirmed.

That'd been where it'd all started.

You and he hadn't become friends or anything like that, but Wally had felt a connection. Like you and he had clicked. From then on, he'd sought you out in the crowd at every game. Where's Waldo between plays. You'd never been in the same place twice, and as soon as he'd find you, you'd hold up a poster-board boasting a glittery '57' in school blue, and cheer him on with gusto.

It'd swiftly become Wally's favorite part of playing football.

Tonight, Wally was mid-search, batting away Rodney's reminder that the team planned to hit Max's Diner after the game, win or lose, when Number 36, Matt Wilson, advised, "Dude, don't interrupt. It's like a good-luck ritual at this point."

Rodney frowned, "What're talking about?"

Even Wally broke his concentration and swiveled his head to look at Matt in confusion.

With a snort, Matt pointed out, "Clark always looks for the girl, finds her, then plays harder than ever and we win the game. He's been doing it for weeks." He shrugged, "I mean, whatever works, right?"

He did? Huh. He guessed he did...

"You got a girlfriend and didn't say anything?" Rodney accused, a little hurt. "Ouch."

"It's not like that," Wally assured him, though he felt his cheeks flush and his lips curve into a dopey smile.

Rodney studied Wally for a moment and then, "Alright, my man, what's her name?" A big, teasing grin on his face.

Wally opened his mouth to answer before he realized, shit, he actually had no idea. You hadn't given him your name the afternoon he'd accidentally pelted you with a basketball.

"You're not serious." Rodney said flatly, "you don't even know her name?" while Matt slapped his knee and crowed.

Wally was about to defend himself when, just over Rodney's shoulder, there you were, gaze already on him. His insides instantly went gooey, broad smile stretched across his face, and Rodney leveled him with an unimpressed look that Wally refused to acknowledge.

"For the love of God, ask for her name." Rodney commanded before he stuck his mouthguard between his teeth.

The whistle blew and the game continued.

The Devils won.

‗•‗

Taking Rodney's suggestion was somewhat harder than Wally had anticipated. He just couldn't bring himself to do it, nerves piqued whenever he caught sight of you in the hall. He wasn't a nervous guy—Wally was a big, brave boy, thank you very much—but something about you made him stutter and overthink and, aaah, what would he even say!? Hey, thanks for coming to watch me play after I hit you in the face. Also, what's your name, girl who I share a new, ongoing at-game tradition?

Lame.

He needed more information. ✨A r e a s o n✨. Some unavoidable situation wherein Wally had to go up to you that didn't insist upon itself. Or he could actually be a big, brave boy and just say hi as casually as you'd told Wally he was fun to watch.

Between the last game and the next, Wally began gathering facts from a distance (while Rodney's gaze burned a hole into the side of Wally's head).

He learned that you sat with a group of sophomores in the cafeteria, laughing along yet not interjecting, comfortable giving the stage to your friends. Being a year below him explained why Wally hadn't noticed you before, but since that fateful day in the gym, he hadn't been able to stop noticing you.

You were quiet, though not in a shy way. You often spent time in the library—or, rather, you were always in the library when Wally happened to be, nose in a book on the windowsill. You stepped aside to let people go through a door first, and smiled at everyone; and on Mondays and Thursdays your fingers and jeans were smeared with charcoal from your Art class.

Your clothes changed, but your shoes didn't. Beat up Converse you clearly loved to death. You carried around a Sony walkman like the one Keith had, headphones on in the mornings and around your neck in the afternoons. Wally wanted to know what music you listened to.

Truth be told, he wanted to know a lot of things. Like your favorite movie and what you did in your spare time. If you went to parties or preferred to stay home and play boardgames (he wouldn't mind trading a sticky ping-pong ball for a Monopoly shoe). Were you strictly a cassette girl or did you listen to vinyl, too? Bike or license? Star Trek or Star Wars? Tom or Jerry?

God, Wally had it bad. He wanted to know everything. Every detail.

And, finally, after several failed attempts to muster the courage to cold approach you, ✨a r e a s o n✨ fell into Wally's lap and he decided it was now or never.

Practice had just ended. He was loose and warm and in a good mood, and after saying goodbye to the guys on the field, he turned and saw you sitting alone on the bleachers. Headphones on like a headband, the earpieces behind your ears. You scribbled in a notebook, tongue peeking out of the corner of your mouth, clearly 100% focused on whatever you were working on.

Wally's eyes softened and his heartbeat sped up. You were adorable.

Clearing his throat to announce himself, he climbed the bleachers and shuffled across the middle bench to take a seat beside you.

"Hey," He smiled, broad and hopefully not too eager.

Your head lifted and you smiled back.

Wally melted inside.

"Hi, Wally Clark," You said as you closed your notebook and shifted to give him your full attention. "Not practicing your free throws today?" You teased with a glint in your eye.

Wally ducked his head as he chuckled, "Nah, not today. I decided to leave that to the professionals."

"Mm, yeah, that might be for the best," And then, fixing him with a cheeky grin, "You know, if dodgeball ever becomes a recognized sport, you should totally join a team."

Wally pressed his lips together, doing his best to hide how big his smile would be otherwise, before he glanced at you with a raised brow, "Oh. So, you're funny?"

You giggled like sweet melody, "Let's call it observant."

He released his smile, heart fluttering in his chest, eyes flickering across your face to take in every detail. There was something in him—a magnet behind his ribs—that drew Wally toward you. He couldn't explain it. Barely knew you enough to label it as more than attraction, but it was more. His gaze dipped to your lips, traced the shape of your smile, then skirted back up to meet your eyes.

"Alright, let's call it observant." He agreed, his smile somehow widening.

After a moment of comfortable silence, "Your feints are getting better," you commented, "I can't predict which way you're gonna go anymore."

And he positively preened; spine straight, chest puffed out, proud to have earned your admiration. Maybe that's what'd always been missing. He'd never had to work for it, everyone throwing themselves at his feet just for a split second of his attention. Wally had always been approached, never had to do the approaching.

Was that the thrill of the chase?

No. Of course not. You weren't the deer to his crosshairs. But he had to admit, it was nice that he could trust you weren't talking to him to get something out of it. Which is probably why, before he could stop himself, Wally blurted:

"Do you wanna hang out tomorrow?"

You seemed surprised, brows shooting up. Still, your smile remained and, with a chuckle, you nodded, "That would be nice." And then, eyes narrowing, "Nowhere that involves you having to throw things, though, right?"

Hand to his heart, "I'll save it for the field," Wally promised, suddenly feeling giddy and overwhelmed. He had to resist the urge to bite his lip in excitement. Raked his fingers through his hair and glanced bashfully away to compose himself.

"Very appreciated." You bumped your shoulder against his arm.

The brief contact ignited a thousand butterflies to take flight in his belly. He stood, gathered his sports bag and beamed down at you. You looked back, all cute and sweet and appearing nowhere near as affected as Wally felt which made him feel a little silly for the intensity of his body's reactions to you.

"How about the arcade...around 3?" He suggested, putting as much confidence behind his words as he could.

After a moment's thought, "Can we make it in the evening? Say around 6?" You asked.

"Yeah," Wally replied, "Yeah, we can make it 6." He took a couple of backward steps, "I can pick you up at your place."

You shook your head, "I'll meet you there."

"Great, it's a date," He nearly choked when he registered what he'd said, face absolutely flaming, though he didn't take it back. He almost tripped over his own feet when you didn't correct him.

Instead, all you said was, "Can't wait."

You didn't see it—God, he hoped you didn't see it—but as soon as he was off the bleachers and a good enough distance away, Wally fist pumped, practically vibrating out of his skin. Holy crap, he was going on a date with you! He was going to spend time with you, get to know you, connect with you the way he'd always wanted to connect with someone outside of Rodney, Don, and Keith.

It was only when he was in his car and on his way home to shower that he realized he still didn't know your name.

He could hear Rodney's eyeroll from there.

‗•‗

You'd noticed Wally from the start. It was difficult not to, the guy a high-rise human, towering over most of the student body. But, it wasn't just his physical presence. Nor was it how good he was at attracting attention on and off the field with his exuberance and abundance of energy.

It was the moments between the jokes he made with his friends. Between performing for the crowd when he led the Devils to victory. The somber, introspective moments he thought he had to himself. And he did, for the most part. You'd never meant to intrude. It just so happened that he often used the same spaces you did to find peace.

You weren't surprised that he hadn't noticed you before he'd lodged a basketball at your head. Few people did. Not bitterly; that was just simply how things had befallen you and you'd learned to adjust. In fact, you had approximately two people you considered close and had realized that was more than enough. Still, you enjoyed meeting people where you could. They were fascinating. And, these days, none were so fascinating as Wally Clark.

He had hands that swallowed whatever they held; a smile that brightened a room; and eyes that made your skin tingle, their gaze soulful and heavy whenever they landed on you at his games like a prize. You craved those eyes on you, a flower to sunlight, and were excited beyond measure that you'd have them all to yourself for a night.

When he'd asked you out, it'd taken everything in your power not to kick your feet and giggle in delight. Be cool, you'd told yourself, acting as though you hadn't been daydreaming about Wally Clark since you'd first heard his name in the halls. What you wouldn't have given to spend more of Saturday with him, but things were somewhat strange for you, and you'd had to shave the hours down.

As restrictive as it was, you were only able to go out when the town was sleepier. The streets less crowded, the energy laggard; the shadows darker and the moon visible. You had hard rules to follow, but after sundown, you had freedom you didn't otherwise have. You could sneak out unnoticed and do as you pleased so long as you were back before sunrise.

It sucked, but it was what it was and there was nothing you could do about it, so you'd set the time for your date with Wally later and hoped you'd be satisfied with the hours you and he did get to be together.

When you arrived at the arcade, Wally was already there, leaning against the exterior wall, hands shoved in his pockets, his expression transforming from teen mag sultry to puppy bright when he caught sight of you. Don't squeal, don't squeal, don't squeal—you did great, kid—you waved sweetly and took measured steps toward him, matching his expression with a happy one of your own.

"Hey, you made it," Wally said as if he'd been worried you'd flake.

"Like I'd miss the chance to kick your ass at Space Invaders." You scoffed, hands on your hips as you pinned him with a challenging look.

Wally laughed and the sound when straight to your chest, settled between your ribs, and you knew your eyes were likely doing something dreamy and dazed. If he noticed, he didn't comment; held out his arm like a gentleman and escorted you inside.

You did, in fact, kick his ass at Space Invaders.

‗•‗

Whatever, you may have beaten him at Space Invaders, but Wally wiped the floor with you at Time Pilot. To further impress you with his skills, he won you a prize from the claw crane. Overlooking the fact that it'd taken several coins and a lot of cursing, Wally felt like the king of the world having handed over a plastic ball stuffed with enough raffle tickets that you could take home a plastic necklace.

He looked for any and every opportunity to touch you; grazed the back of his hand across yours, then, bolder, squeezed you into his side as you and he moved between machines. Just as you were about to beat his score at Pac Man, he grabbed you around the waist and spun you away from the control panel, watching in triumph when the monitor announced Game Over and Wally's score beat yours by more points than you could come back from.

You shrieked and giggled when he slung you over his shoulder to carry you to the new air hockey table. You sprung into his arms when he defended your honor at the foosball table against another pair of patrons. By the end of the night, he had your hand in his, fingers laced, as he walked you home.

It'd been the most fun he'd had in—God—forever. Yeah, he hung out with the guys, went camping and played videogames and did things. Always busy, always entertained. Or, rather, he did the entertaining. A constant performance to keep people interested. Tonight, with you, it'd been different. He was relaxed, completely at ease, feeling like himself for the first time in too many years. His chest felt lighter.

When you and he reached your house, not too far from the arcade, you stopped and positioned yourself to face him, beautiful smile on your face that softened under his gaze. He didn't want tonight to end. Wished it could go on through tomorrow and the next day and the one after that.

"This was a lot of fun, Wally," You murmured as you stepped closer, bottom lip caught between your teeth in a way that made his heartrate spike and his head foggy.

He nodded, "Yeah," and lifted a hand to trail his fingertips along the slope of your jaw, "I wanna do it again, like, now."

You chuckled, and when did your lips get so close to his? "You just wanna try and beat my Donkey Kong score." You accused, breath hitching when the tip of his nose grazed your cheek.

Wally couldn't refute that, but didn't want to, his mind already on other things. Better things. Things like—his lips brushed yours, soft and gentle at first, testing the waters, and when you gasped so prettily, he pressed in. Kissed you slow, his hand climbing to rest on the back of your head to angle you just right. The kiss let in and took out, over and over, until Wally was breathless and dizzy.

He kept you there, one hand trailing down your side to your hip, the other tangling in your hair, for what felt like hours though it must've only been several minutes. He couldn't let go. Couldn't stop. Your tongue against his the most incredible thing he'd ever tasted.

But, eventually, you had to pull away, "It's late."

He kissed you one more time for the road, watched you stealthily maneuver around the side of your house and disappear around the corner, probably to sneak back into your room before anyone realized you'd been gone. Something about the fact that you'd risked getting in trouble for him thrilled Wally.

Once you were out of sight, Wally turned in the direction of home, an obvious bounce in his step as he replayed the night—the kiss, how your lips had yielded under his—on a loop.

Again, it wasn't until much later that he remembered he still hadn't asked for your name.

Fuck.

‗•‗

In typical 1980s fashion, this movie had a montage that Wally revisited almost obsessively. Sure, things had progressed rather quickly between you and him; one minute you were the stranger he viciously—but not on purpose!—attacked with a ball, and the next you were every thought, desire, emotion, response Wally was capable of.

After sundown, like hoodlums, he took you to the roller rink and skated on legs made of Jell-O because you insisted you needed his limbs to support your stilted efforts. Except, as soon as a single-digit child cried his frustration, there you were, a professional ballerina on wheels, teaching the child how to balance and move. You weren't even sheepish when you fessed up to the ruse.

"I like how it feels," You said simply, shrugged, and tucked yourself into Wally's side to prove the point, "You feel safe."

Yeah, Wally couldn't argue to save his life, addicted to how you felt in his arms as much as you seemed drawn to be there. You and he danced under the colored lights, spun and chased and discoed like divas, deliberately falling into each other at every chance. Wally didn't complain when you brought him to the ground with you after a miscalculated dip.

Days later, you and he jumped and screamed along to live music (the lyrics all totally wrong, but the melody right), crashing bodies pressing you together. Halfway through the concert, the surrounding mania receded as he rocked you gently, kissed you with meaning in the eye of a mosh pit; squawked when you poked his side to tickle him and then booked it through the crowd for an impromptu, wild game of hide-n-seek.

An empty movie theater for a screening of last year's horror films. Popcorn missiles thrown when he dared suggest Halloween was better than My Bloody Valentine. Finger to his lips, his hand firm around yours, crouched as he led you into another theater after the first movie. Four altogether, most of them ignored in favor of making out in the back row until an usher kicked you and Wally out for inappropriate behavior.

Heads close, toes pointed toward opposite walls, listening to Nebraska in a patch of moonlight on Wally's bedroom floor after a grueling week of exams and Wally's mama nagging him to get fitted for new skates before hockey season. He turned his head, admired your profile, lashes fanned on the arches of peach-blushed cheeks. His heart fluttered and his eyes softened as he watched you doze to the music. Between Used Cars and Open All Night, Wally propped himself on an elbow and kissed you upside-down. Chuckled when you nipped his chin and retaliated by adjusting his position, pinning you beneath his body, and kissing you senseless.

Throughout it all, you never missed a game, football or hockey or lacrosse. You'd put an end to the scavenger hunt, now a pillar of motivation—front row, center—and waved that glittery poster with an enthusiasm that outshone his mama's. The new arrangement made it easier for Wally, sweaty and hot, to leap over the barrier and lift and twirl you after each victory. Or, alternatively, for you to hurdle into his arms to comfort and reassure him after each loss.

Over the summer, Wally reminisced fondly on his junior year and everything you and he had done together. He missed you, a deep ache in his heart while your family apparently traveled for the months between school years. You wrote letters and used payphones to speak to him every Wednesday and Saturday, and it helped sustain him until you returned, but, God, he couldn't wait to see you again. To have you cuddled against him on the couch or in his lap on the bleachers at lunch or under him in his bed.

He craved you like a bad habit. Your scent, your touch, your taste. The soft affection you and he traded; lips stamped to a shoulder, fingers carding through each other's hair. How Wally held you, arm banded around your chest, hand under your chin to angle your face up so he could kiss you from behind.

Soon, he reminded himself. Three more days and he'd have his girl at his side again.

His girl whose name continued to elude him.

‗•‗

The night of the '83 Homecoming game, Wally felt a dread unlike he'd ever felt before. A lump of lead in his stomach. He had you in his lap. Light, gentle brushes of his lips memorized the shape of your neck and jaw, his arms tight around you, as you helped distract him from his uncharacteristic pre-game nerves.

"I'll be right there, Wally Clark," You promised with a sweet smile.

And you were. In the seat beside his mama when the crack of bone echoed across the stadium like thunder.

He spent the following weeks oscillating between grief and rage, too consumed by the confusion and fear and loss of his own life to find the strength to seek you out. He didn't want to know how you handled it. Him. His no-longer-thereness. If you were as deeply sad as he was or if you could move on and make it through. Wally didn't think he could handle it if he saw you smile again if he wasn't responsible for it.

Eventually, though, he couldn't deny it anymore. Had to see you. That magnetic pull led him to find you outside, basking in the December sun, no jacket, laying across the middle bench on the bleachers that overlooked the field behind the school.

He climbed up and took a quiet seat beside you. You didn't look any different. Serene, in fact, as you lay there, your notebook rested on the bench above. Wally sighed heavily, traced the air around your cheek as his breath choked and his heart shattered. He had so much he wanted to say to you, but didn't know where to begin—I miss you, I wish I didn't die, I need to hold you again. Sentiments that didn't make a difference anymore. He gazed at your notebook and wondered if you'd written anything about him.

And then, to his surprise:

"I was wondering how long it would take before you'd come find me."

His eyes whipped to you and he saw you staring upside-down at him, neck craned back slightly and a warm grin on your face.

"Y-you can see me!?" Wally gaped as you sat up and scooched closer to him.

"Of course I can." You said so easily that Wally had to think for a second if he was supposed to understand how it was possible. No one else had been able to see him, hear him, feel him.

"...how?"

You giggled, the sound a boon to his despairing soul, "Being dead isn't so bad, you know. I mean, it sucks, but you get used to it pretty quick." Taking his hand in yours, fingers laced, "And, when the memory of you starts to fade, you start to absorb the insane amount of teen angst." You snorted at something Wally assumed was supposed to be funny. "Makes you solid for awhile. You'll even be able leave the school at night which I'd consider something to look forward to, no?"

"I guess," Wally wheezed as his brain tried desperately to catch up to what was happening. He stared at you, bewildered, lost, hopeful, elated, "You're dead?" One, two beats, "You were dead the whole time?"

You smiled and nodded, leaned away from him to hold out your other hand for him to shake. That's when he heard it for the first time, your name, the syllables like angelic melody to his ears. You added, "Class of '57. Nice to meet you."

"But...I walked you home. I saw your house."

"You saw a house." You corrected.

He couldn't believe it. You were dead. You were like Wally. You were with Wally.

Without hesitation, Wally scooped you into his arms and kissed you like he'd wanted to since he'd risen from his body. He soaked up all the comfort and reassurance and love you offered with your lips. The idea of eternity no longer seemed so permanent and awful if you were in it.

You pulled away just enough to bump the tip of your nose against his, that smile he adored melting every worry and fear that'd followed him off the field.

"So, how do you wanna spend your afterlife, Wally Clark? We could play dodgeball now that you know you can't actually hurt me."

He felt a grin form, wide and joyful, and answered, "However you want." After a soft lull that Wally used to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and cup your cheek, "I just wanna spend it with you." His girl, whose name he would treasure forever in his heart.

🏈___________fin.____________

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fluff. smut lite. a flashfic exploration of Wally's inability to be anything but a plural image when you're within reach. aka: he's codependent as fuck and neither you nor he care.

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kamiversee · 1 year ago

Text

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 42 || The Assumption

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language & heavy sexual tension.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 4k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——HOW LONG WERE HIS eyes on yours? Did he see you checking him out? Holy shit you're sweating now. Is this how Ino felt just a few moments ago because as you met Nanami's eyes, chills slithered down your spine and you swallowed hard due to the eye contact.

Nanami opens his mouth and you swear every second is killing you. "I've seen you before," He points out.

And boom, you're a mess already. His voice is so damn sexy you don't think you're going to be able to have a calm conversation like you planned to.

You just nod for a second and then you get the words out, "Y-Yeah, I've seen you before too."

Get yourself together woman.

Nanami narrows his eyes at you, "You were in Mr. Fushiguro's room that one time." He recalls.

Your brows furrow. Oh, that's what he remembers you from? Not the weeks you've been in the same building as him or even the times you bumped into him on 'accident'?

"U-Uh, yeah, I was." You nod again, the motion done slowly as you try to collect yourself.

The sound of Ino snickering nearby helps you snap out of your daze. "Not so confident now, hmmmm?" Ino teases, his words making you turn your head to him.

"Hush," You say with a playful glare.

Nanami raises a brow, his eyes yet to leave you. While you checked him out, he had long since done that from the moment he walked in and saw you chatting it up with Ino.

You then return your attention to Nanami after making back-and-forth silly faces to Ino before his attention is called elsewhere. Now you are alone with Nanami...

You swallow and take a deep breath. You swear you've been rehearsing this moment for months now, "Nanami Kento, right?"

He nods, just barely, "Mhm."

Is he even interested in anything you have to say? What's with the simple hum...?

Turning a decent portion of your body to him, you flash a kind smile, "I've been wanting to talk to you, y'know..."

"Have you?" Nanami asks, stern eyes boring into your own.

You nod your head, "Y-Yeah," God you need to stop stuttering. "I was just wondering if-"

"Sorry but," The man interrupts, almost as if he knew what your intentions were. "I don't sleep with women I've just met."

You blink. Oh, you're just baffled by his words. What the hell does he mean by that? And why did he say it so suddenly?? He can't just know you're talking to him because of Gojo... right?

"Uhm," You scoff, "Excuse me?"

Nanami's eyebrows raise for a moment, "Sorry, am I misinterpreting something?"

"Yeah, actually," Technically, no. But you were going to try to have an actual conversation with him before making any moves so it's almost rude of him to say such a thing to you, "You major in business, yes?"

He's almost thrown off by you and his head nods, now he's embarrassed he made a mistake. "Yeah-, yes, I do." Nanami stumbles over his words a bit.

"Right, well I'm a psychology major and I'm trying to land an internship at our university," You start explaining to him. Everything you're about to say is some bullshit you've come up with to have a conversation about but, you're sure it'll work out. "As of now, I was doing a personal study about which students in what majors experience more stress and I plan to use that data to get this position so,"

And that's when he realized he fucked up with his assumption. Nanami stares and his words come out very slowly, "...You're here to study me?"

"I prefer the term interview but, yes." You hum.

He grows a bit more serious, "I see. Well, I apologize for my earlier assumption, I just thought..." Nanami trails off a little and you watch the way he glances down.

You follow his gaze and look down at yourself. Then, you scoff again, the sound making him tense up in embarrassment and a bit of shame, "Did you assume I was some kinda' whore?" You ask bluntly.

His entire body freezes and he's visibly worried, his gaze flicking right back up to your own as he swallows, "I don't mean any offense by my assumption. It's just... Not that you look like a prostitute but, I get approached like that often and-"

"So, you thought I was a whore?" You repeat. Again, he's nervous and this time he avoids your eyes, the sight of him slightly fearful making you smirk.

"I'm sorry but, yes." Nanami says honestly, "That's my mistake, truly."

"Right..." You say dryly, your tone making him uneasy. "Well, it's a common mistake, unfortunately," You murmur, thinking back to Sukuna who previously joked about it to you, "But you can make it up to me."

Those stern eyes of his snapback over to you, "How uh, how so?" Nanami stammers, clearly again assuming you mean something else.

You chuckle and playfully hit his arm, "By letting me interview you, of course!" Your voice is suddenly cheerful and it makes him relax.

Nanami sighed heavily and then straightened up in his seat, visibly pulling himself together after the little mishap that occurred. "Right, of course." He says.

Your hand goes to your glass, "Did you assume I meant some other form of making it up to me?" You ask tauntingly.

"No," Nanami claims, his voice light, "Of course not."

You have one leg crossed over the other so you subtly move it and make light contact with his shin using the tip of your heel. Nanami's entire body goes rigid but he hopes you don't notice it.

"Of course not?" You repeat, chuckling a bit, "It's okay if you thought I meant something else, y'know."

He swallows, "I didn't." The man replies as he tears his eyes from you, glances down at your foot against him, ignores it, and then goes for his drink.

"I mean," You tip your head to the side and your confidence has returned to you, courtesy of your liquid courage coursing through you, "If you have another way to make up for mistaking me for a prostitute, I'm all ears, Mr. Nanami."

The title makes him swallow again, his Adam's apple seen moving down and then up in a slow manner. "I have no other way in mind, unfortunately." Nanami states simply, flicking his gaze to you for a moment, "Sorry to disappoint."

You grin, "Oh, I'm not disappointed at all. It just seemed like you had an idea in mind so," You shrug.

He stares for a second, thinking for a long moment before taking his eyes off you again, "Are you insinuating something right now?"

"No?" You laugh, "But, although I'm no whore, you are an attractive man so, naturally, I'm curious what you thought I meant when I said you could make it up to me."

Nanami sucks in a deep breath of air and then takes another sip of the drink he's had prepared for him. Then, as he places it down with a light tap to the bar, he turns his head to you, "Is this a part of your interview?" Nanami questions, raising a brow, "Is this some kind of reverse psychology question that'll help you get to know me?"

"There's no reverse psychology in my question at all," You giggle, "I'm being rather direct with you." The feeling of your heel slipping up his leg slightly makes him tense up, "First you assume I'm a whore, and then you think I'd want something naughty from you for doing so."

That statement causes the man to choke a bit, "N-Naughty?" He echoes, following the question with a hefty clearing of his throat and a turn of his head, "What-, I... I wasn't-"

You smile at the man and notice the tips of his ears are shaded the lightest bit of pink, "It's okay if you assumed that, y'know..."

Nanami keeps his gaze straight, "I did not-"

You move, leaning to his ear for a moment, "I'm no prostitute but, the more I talk to you, the more I think you'd prefer it if I was."

A sharp breath of air is sucked in and he doesn't dare to look at you. With a chuckle, you pull away, your eyes never leaving his face. It's so clear you have him nervous now, men like him are rather easy to work around. Show them you're not a whore but you wouldn't mind being treated like one and all of a sudden they don't know what to do with themselves.

The blond turns his head away completely, taking in the scenery of the rest of the bar before then turning back to you, "So what is it you want from me? Be honest. I can't tell if you're here for knowledge or..."

"Or?" You hum, raising a brow.

"Or if you're here to seduce me." Nanami finishes.

You shrug, "Maybe both."

It was like you could see the gears in his head turning, like he was in deep thought as his brown eyes met yours. Then, his brows tense slightly, "I didn't consider both..."

And just like that, you have an idea of where you can take this. "You should've." You reply.

"I am now." The blond responds, weighing his head to the side slightly as he maintains eye contact.

You pinch your brows together, "Mr. Nanami, have you ever slept with someone after meeting them at a bar?"

He freezes but you have him interested, so after a moment, "No, why?" He questions in return.

"Are you open to?" You proceed. And no, you're not trying to seduce him just yet. Instead, your plan here is to have him be the one to pine after you.

Nanami swallows and he's very careful with his words, "Typically no."

You pick up on it instantly, "Typically?"

"I may do something different tonight," Nanami explains, finally turning away from you. He glances past you a bit, watching Ino attend to others further down the bar.

"Yeah?" You grin, "And what's changed your mind?"

The male in front of you keeps his eyes away from your own but all his attention is still on you, "A woman who's intrigued me."

"And who might that be?" You quiz further.

He scoffs lightly, "Obviously, you."

And just like that, you've got him exactly where you wanted him. Now it was part of the next part of your plan where you reverse the flirting and force him into a situation where he reveals more of his thoughts and flirts with you.

You definitely have the alcohol in your system to thank for how smoothly this is going so far, "I'm flattered but, when I asked my question, I wasn't offering to do so."

Nanami grows embarrassed again, assuming he's made some kind of mistake as he shifts his gaze to you, "Oh, I-"

"I'm not a whore," You sigh, "But I do notice that sex-pertained questions always get the best answers out of men so," You shrug. "That was my first."

He catches on and nods his head, the slightest and simplest smirk spreading across his peach-tinted lips, "So... the interview has started now...?"

"It has," You say enthusiastically, "I'm glad you're keeping up with me."

Amusement sparks across the male's expression, "Cleaver woman you are."

"Mhm, I'm aware," You hum, smiling at him cheerfully.

With a sigh, Nanami places every ounce of his focus onto you, "Alright then, what's your next question for me?"

"Don't get too excited, not all of them are about sex." You say with a laugh, "Only the first one was. Y'know, to gain your attention since you already thought I was a hooker."

He swallows, "I really am sorry about that."

"You'll make up for it, relax," You brush off.

Then this 'interview' of yours proceeds and you ask him more mellow questions, questions that are rather simple and just help you get to know him. Such as asking about his age, whether or not he has a job, and what his day-to-day schedule looks like.

You continue the conversation, delving deeper into Nanami's personal life and interests. Asking him about his hobbies, interests, and goals for the future, all of which is done to make it seem like you're actually going to use this information. Nanami opens up more as the conversation flows, his stern demeanor softening ever so slightly.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

As you engage in the interview, there's this underlying look in his eyes. Perhaps it was the alcohol the two of you consumed but there were definitely some teasing touches and glances throughout all the talking.

Before you realized it, your questionnaire had transitioned into simply just two adults conversing. It was almost as if you'd approached the man naturally. He told you how his major in business was done with the intent of becoming the CEO of some famous company one day.

The surrounding nightclub is almost forgotten with how engaging the conversation carried on to be. Every time you made the stiff man laugh your heart would flutter a bit. You were beyond thankful for the drinking because it was clear that's what was opening him up to you.

Ino was to thank as well, as he had come to the two of you multiple times to offer another round, flashing you a cute smile and a taunting thumbs up to encourage you with Nanami.

Unbeknownst to you, your starting question weighed heavily on the man's mind. Your foot would constantly brush up against his leg and every time you giggled, he felt odd. Not to mention the sultry look in your eyes as you intently watched him speak.

Your eyes were on his lips at one point and your staring made him stammer for a moment before he decided to just point it out in hopes you would focus elsewhere. Nanami leaned in a bit and a gentle hand went to your chin, tipping your face up and trying to force your gaze to his.

"I understand you're interested in what I have to say but please," Nanami's voice is still as deep as ever but it's more relaxed and almost soft, "Keep your eyes on mine."

You're slow to drag your vision upward, "Can you handle that?"

The question throws him off and his brows push together, "I have been all this time, haven't I?"

You tilt your head and lean closer to the man, one of your hands suddenly going to his thigh to hold yourself up, "Not the whole time, no."

"Really?" He hums, ignoring how close your face is to his, "Where else have my eyes been? Hm?"

You giggle and pull your lower lip into your mouth. It's so obvious that you're slightly intoxicated, "Your eyes have been all over me," You say, your voice suddenly dropping into a whisper, "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

He tenses as your hand starts caressing his thigh, trying to ignore the sensation. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about. I've kept my eyes on respectable areas at all times."

Another giggle slips out your lips, "I never said you didn't." Again, he freezes and this time you snicker, "You just told on yourself."

Nanami swallows and removes his hand from your chin, turning his head away from you, "You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

Your hand goes up without a second thought and you force his head to turn right back to you, "I wasn't," You murmur, inching closer, "But now I am."

The feeling of your thumb caressing his jaw makes the man's breathing pick up. He's not sure if it's the alcohol or just you in general but his body is suddenly so much more attentive to your touches. The sensation was so soft and small but it was steadily driving him crazy.

"Nanami," You murmur, breaking him from his thoughts.

His eyes dip down to your lips, "Kento," He corrects, "Just call me Kento."

Again, you have him exactly where you want him. "Earlier you said you don't sleep with women you've just met, nor have you ever slept with a woman you've met at a bar before..." You recall in a gentle tone.

He nods, unsure of where you're going with this, "Mhm..."

You bite your lips, "Perhaps we should change that tonight."

Nanami hums deeply, the sound vibrating against his throat as he struggles to lift his gaze from your lips. You're so close to him and your words and entire aura are intoxicating.

"How so?" He whispers in return.

"Take me home tonight..." You offer, soon shifting to the man's ear, "...and fuck me like a slut."

Those lewd words of yours went straight to the man's cock. Of all the things he could've expected from you, that was by far the last thing he expected to hear come out of your mouth. Sure, you flirted with him subtly here and there within the past few hours but...

That sudden offering of yours was entirely different.

There is no way you would've gotten this far without the alcohol in your system. As it is well known by now, you get horny when you're drunk so gradually throughout you and Nanami's conversation, you could feel your arousal building up.

Everything the man had done or said was noticed by you. From his large hand wrapping around the glass as he took a drink, to the way the smooth liquid flowed into his mouth, the way his voice got deeper and more relaxed, and even how he was looking at you now.

You could've never made such an offer if you didn't drink and Nanami would've never even considered it if he didn't either.

The stoic blond clears his throat and you pull away from his ear to meet his eyes, only to be met with a low and lustful gaze that makes your heart skip a beat. A careful brow is raised before you watch the man move out of his seat.

Standing at his feet, your head inclines up as nears you and that wonderful and dizzying scent of his cologne rushes into your nose. Nanami has the face of a young yet hardworking man and simply looking up at him as you are now gives you that urge to want to drop to your knees.

Perhaps the list truly has changed you. Maybe it wasn't the alcohol you drank tonight or the man in front of you. Maybe the problem here was you and your mind. Sure, you used to get horny before but to have the urge to suck someone off just because they've stood to their feet in front of you is...

Well, it makes you feel like the very thing Gojo tells you you're not; a whore.

Breaking you from your thoughts, Nanami leans down and places a hand on the bar beside you. You gulp as his face nears your own and then tense up when his other hand goes to cup your jaw, keeping your head angled up.

The man tilts his head and studies the look in your eyes closely, "You want me to take you home and... what?" He whispers.

You wished your confidence from moments ago had remained but as this man stood over you and held your face in his hands so delicately you could feel your thoughts turning to mush and your mouth going dry.

"Uh..." You mumble, staring back and forth between the man's eyes.

Nanami scoffs lightly, "Don't get all shy on me now," He says, "Tell me what it is you want me to do."

Your voice is small and barely even there, "Take me home..."

"And...?" He urges.

You swallow, "Fuck me..."

Nanami smirks, the reversal of roles here is driving him crazy. You were such a confident woman just moments ago, "Like...?" He murmurs, trying to get you to say the entirety of your initial statement.

You take your eyes off him and even try to turn your head away, "A uh-"

"Eyes on me, darling," Nanami voices out in that sweet yet husk tone of his.

You blink a few times before looking at him, taking a deep breath before speaking, "Like a slut."

He smiles just barely, "See? Was that so hard?" His voice and way of wording things are adding to your arousal for some reason.

"N-No..." You murmur.

Nanami's thumb moves to your bottom lip and his eyes sink to his actions as he swipes over it, "Exactly. And y'know what," He scoffs again, "You really aren't a whore." He says, almost as if he's surprised?

"I told you I wasn't," You whisper, pouting a little bit as he feels your lip against his thumb.

"Right, right," He hums, nodding a little, "Instead, you're one of those good girls who like to be treated like one, huh? Pinned against a wall, maybe with your hands tied up, and taking cock like it's the only thing you know how to do properly."

And just like that, you were soaked. Gulping, your breathing grows noticeably slower and Nanami could tell by your facial expression that you were aroused.

He chuckles, "We spent all this time talking, and yet I'm pretty sure the only thing you've been thinking about in that pretty little head of yours is how you're going to convince me to fuck you."

Your eyes widen and you genuinely don't understand how you let the dominance in the situation flip so quickly, "I-,"

"Don't worry," Nanami moves his thumb and he inches closer, his lips almost on yours as he whispers, "I'm convinced."

Your lips brush over his and your eyes threaten to close, "A-Are you?" Damnit, you need to pull yourself together.

The man nods ever so slightly but what he didn't expect was for you to move his hand away from your jaw and then stand up. You still have to incline your head up but as you stand, you don't miss the way his breath hitches when your chest presses into his.

Despite that, his head tips to the side again as he gazes down at you, "I am." He hums, shrugging a bit after, "I'll take you home and do just as you asked."

You hope he doesn't notice the way your eyes light up, "Yeah?"

"Mhm," His hands carefully go to your hips and you try your best not to tense up because his touch is so rough and yet oddly gentle at the same time, "Consider this my real way of making up for my assumption."

You chuckle, "You're gonna make up for thinking I'm a whore by-"

"Fucking you like one." Nanami finishes for you, even though that's not exactly what you were going to say.

The man suddenly spins you around and he begins to urge to to start walking away from the bar, moving to your ear as he does so, "This'll also help with your 'interview'." He claims.

You scoff and walk with him right behind you, his hands on your hips and his crotch bumping into yours briefly with every other step taken, "How so?" You ask in return.

Nanami stops the two of you from walking for just a second and pulls your body back into his. You can feel the large bulge in his pants pressing up against your ass and it makes your breathing stutter.

The man goes to your ear one last time and his voice is low but direct, "I'll show you just how 'stressed' I am."

GOJO SATORU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

GETO SUGURU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

TOJI FUSHIGURO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢

KAMO CHOSO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢 / 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ZEN'IN NAOYA ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ITADORI SUKUNA ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮???

NANAMI KENTO ☐ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙙

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sungbeam · 1 year ago

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nonidol!jeong yunho x f!reader

yunho might have been the superstar out of the two of you, but you have always been the center of his universe. (you — it's always been you.)

▷ genre, warnings. bffs2l, childhood friends 2 lovers, pining, popstar/singer au, swearing, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/comfort, kissing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of anxiety/nervousness, they physically cannot be apart for too long sorry they've got Attachment Issues low-key..., one kiss (is all it takes—)

▷ word count. 16.3k (guys,, this was supposed to be only like 6-8k i swear 😭)

▷ associated tunes. keep smiling (demxntia), gone too long (lullaboy), tear in my heart (twenty-one pilots)

a/n: hope u guys like this :'))) i had one of the scenes from here stuck in my brain for awhile and so i had to build the rest of the fic around it, and it turned into this monster, so uhm yes... also much love to @jaehunnyy tysm for reading thru it for me 💖

THE DAY YUNHO'S ALBUM hit the Billboard Hot 100, you knew that you were going to need a lot more hands on deck than just you, your roommate, and Jeong Yunho himself.

“There's not enough albums, not enough time in the day, not enough of you!” You exclaimed with your fingers shoved into your hair as you took in the landscape of chaos before you on your living room floor. “Yunho, why couldn't you be ambidextrous?”

His eyes widened, body frozen where he was shoving a slice of beef jerky into his mouth. “Mwe? Pwhy are pyu yellinh ap mwe por?”

“I'm not yelling at you; I'm just wondering why you weren't born with eight arms instead of just two.” There were simply too many albums for him to sign before his agent came to pick them up in two hours, and there were also too few albums for the amount of demand. You always knew your best friend would make it big one day, but you also thought he would have had a whole team by that time.

Technically, you were his team—you, your roommate Trinity, and Mingi who was at his grandmother's for the long weekend. Mingi was five texts away from driving back down to help you guys four hours ago though. But his family needed him right now, and Yunho was firm in ensuring Mingi didn't have to come down and help. We got this, he'd said. It'll be easy, he also said.

Sure. Easy.

“We can't just forge his signature?” Trinity joked in a sleep-deprived daze as she leaned back against the couch cushions. Her mouth opened wide in a yawn. “I'm kidding. Let's not ruin his career.”

Yunho swallowed his bite. “That would be nice.” He cleaned his fingers on the Wet Wipe he had handy by his thigh, then picked up his black Sharpie, spinning the writing utensil between his fingers. “Now where were we? Album number fifty-six—?”

This had taken place just four months after Yunho released his second album, Aurora. It had been nearly a year and a half since Yunho debuted himself onto the music scene, and it was about time people finally began to recognize your best friend for all that he was—multi-talented, charismatic, handsome (on some occasions; you wouldn’t let him catch you slipping up there, though).

Within the next year and a half, Yunho skyrocketed into further altitudes of fame.

There were plenty of changes that occurred, many evolutions to Yunho's team and additions to his discography, but you were always a part of it. Even with your own career dealings, you would drop anything to be there for him, and him for you. Between the morning show interviews and late night recording sessions, there were also the research presentations and study session pick-me-ups.

“Are you sure you don't wanna come with?” You asked from where you were stationed in front of the bathroom mirror, putting on the final touches for your look this evening.

You could hear Trinity's fingers clacking away at her keyboard at the speed of light through her open bedroom door. “I'd love to, but I unfortunately did screw myself over by procrastinating on this paper. Have fun though, and tell Yunho congrats for me.”

Tonight was the album release party for Yunho's third full studio album entitled Youth. It was something he had been working on for years now, only recently having become satisfied with the tracks he chose and produced for it. Due to his sudden rise in fame, the release party was said to be hosting a myriad of big name celebrities and figures in the music industry. And of course, you. You were no one special, in hindsight, but Yunho couldn't begin to imagine celebrating a milestone without you by his side.

By eight o'clock, you were ready to head out.

You bid Trinity goodbye as you hustled out the front door of your apartment and down to the street below. Yunho and Mingi and everyone else would already be at the party; you would arrive on your own via Uber. You wished you could've been with him to get ready like all the other times, but your schedule had been unfortunate as of late. You were lucky enough to have gotten off of work this early.

As you sat in the backseat of your ride, you anxiously fidgeted with your phone in your lap.

(You were, without a doubt, excited to arrive at the party. Due to yours and Yunho's ever-busy and ever-conflicting schedules nowadays—yours because of work and PhD candidacy stuff, Yunho's because of rehearsals for his upcoming world tour—it had been awhile since you were able to hang out in person. You missed your gentle giant of a best friend.)

A loud vibration from it made your heart leap into your throat, and your face lit up in the dark with the incoming notification.

rockstar 🤟: pls tell me you've left the house

You snorted and typed out a swift reply. If I told you I was still in my pajamas…

rockstar 🤟: then i would call u a liar cuz u don't go to work in pjs, weirdo rockstar 🤟: just getting antsy tbh rockstar 🤟: need my star here w me :’)))

You couldn't help the touched pout that came to your face. I'm almost there, don't worry. And who are you calling a star when that's you? He always got a little sappy when he was nervous.

rockstar 🤟: im literally not having fun here without u hurry up :// your phone: isn't this UR album release party 😭 yun, why aren't u having fun? rockstar 🤟: just hurry up your phone: aish okok 🤧 eta 8min mr. impatient

You knew it was the jitters making him say things like that. Once you got there, you hoped you could help reassure him that he could stop worrying for just a second to enjoy himself. Even if Yunho worried about the album and what people thought, you were just as nervous. You hadn't even heard the entire thing—he’d been cheeky and didn't tell you he added a song to it last minute, but you'd listened to everything else.

You just hoped that people would continue to celebrate him and give him the love he deserved.

When your Uber driver pulled into the drop off loop at the front of the venue, you thanked him on your way out and threw the strap of your small purse over your shoulder. Already, however, as you were met with the residuals of flashing camera lenses and frantic paparazzi calls just a little ways down the driveway, the anxiety slowly began to settle in the pit of your stomach.

You could see the celebrities going up the entrance with people asking them to pose for their cameras, to say a word into their recorders.

Immediately, you turned on your heel and began slipping your way to a side entrance. The last thing you wanted was for dozens upon dozens of people to be staring at you, wondering who you were and why you were important. There were definitely people who knew you—you were plastered all over Yunho's social media because that was just what best friends did. But compared to everyone else walking up that driveway? Not a chance. You were nobody, and that was ay-okay to you.

Just as you thanked one of the employees coming out the side door for letting you in, you felt your phone buzz in your hand again, this time with an incoming call.

You picked it up and squeezed it between your ear and shoulder. “You're gonna need to speak up—the kitchen is super loud.”

“You're here finally!” Yunho said to you through the phone. “I was starting to get worried.”

You chuckled as you ducked out of the kitchen and into the main lobby to get to the elevators. The party was taking place somewhere on the seventh floor… if you could get there without getting lost. “Hey Yun, do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Calm down, man.”

The elevator sang its arrival and you stepped inside to the sound of Yunho sucking in a deep breath, then exhaling slowly. “I am calm… wait, are you in the lobby? Let me come down and get y—”

“I just got in the elevator, so don't worry—and I really don't think you should be leaving your own party, rockstar,” you teased. “Man, Mingi and Hwa really pulled out all the stops for this place,” you marveled quietly as you gave the elevator carriage a thorough look. It was made of marble and mirrors, every surface polished and crisp, like that of a tailored suit if tailored suits were made of crystals.

“Yeah, it's really great,” he agreed. “Remember the release party we threw for Crescent?”

A fond laugh tumbled out of your lips as you stepped out of the elevator and onto the seventh floor. Your mind filled with memories of his debut album's release party hosted in yours and Trinity's living room with three extra large Domino's pizzas, root beer floats, and a cheap disco ball. It had been a party for four that night—you, Yunho, Mingi, and Trinity—but your friends didn't need the fancy shit to have fun. “Definitely leagues away from this.”

There was a bouncer at the far end of the hallway, and you were certain now that you were in the right place.

“I kind of miss it,” Yunho murmured. You heard the sound on his end shift, simultaneous to watching the doors in front of you crack open and see Yunho's head pop out into the empty hallway.

“I kind of miss it, too,” you said into the phone, your eyes locked on his and a smile blooming over your features at the sight of your best friend, in the flesh.

There was a tender gleam in his eyes as he took you in and said something in a low tone to the bouncer. He stepped out into the hallway, letting the doors behind him shut fully.

“Slowpoke,” was his greeting to you as he scooped you into his embrace. The smell of his cologne was something familiar and delicious, and permeated your senses.

“Worrywart,” you quipped back, wrapping your arms around him to reciprocate.

When you both pulled back, he kept you at arm's length so he could take a better look at you. “I can't believe you're calling me the worrywart! I do recall that one night when Aurora hit the Top 100—”

You silenced him with a look and a playful punch to his shoulder. You pressed your lips together to suppress a smile as he tilted his head back in a jovial laugh. “Quiet, you. For once, I can't believe you're more nervous than I am.”

He gave a sheepish grin, fussing with the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt, adjusting the chain he wore on his collarbones so the clasp sat right at the hollow of his throat.

You softened. Oh, he was really nervous.

“This album's just big for me; you know that,” he said, almost like he was trying to brush it off.

“I do.” The two of you began slowly making your way back towards the party doors. “Though, I'm excited to hear this mystery song that you snuck on there. I'm sure everyone will fall in love with the album, just like I did.”

He peered over at you then, and you couldn't understand why you were unable to read his expression then. It was… different. “Really?”

You blinked. “Of course,” you replied automatically. “I mean,” you added, “it's you, Yun. What's not to love?”

Yunho seemed speechless for a second, but moments later, he was breaking into a soft-cornered smile. “You always know what to say, Yn. Come on, there are some people who are dying to meet you.”

“Dying to meet me?” You laughed as the bouncer let the two of you into the party.

The party room was a rented out lounge space with wraparound windows that looked out at the skyline in the valley below. The main lights were kept low and warm, illuminating strategic places throughout the space to highlight the prohibition-like interior design. It was something out of a 1920s speakeasy with its velvet couches and dark mahogany wood finishes.

Yunho took you over toward the side of the room to get food first. There was a variety of snacks and small bites on the buffet table, and there was a bar counter shoved into the far corner where a bartender served drinks.

“I've pretty much socialized with everyone in this room already,” Yunho murmured to you as he shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned. “Meaning I can bug you for the rest of the night.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “There has to be, like, fifty people here. We still have the whole party left.”

“Yeah, but I have more fun with you anyway,” he said with a shrug. He reached for one of the little serving cups that held a little roll of rice armed with a slice of wagyu beef on top, all wrapped together with a strip of nori. “Now these—these are fucking amazing, dude. You have to try one.”

You snorted, but grabbed one of the little cups. “How many of these have you eaten already, Yun?”

He tapped his cup against yours like he was clinking glasses together. He chuckled, averting his gaze. “We don't have to talk about that…” His eyes caught onto someone nearby, and he perked up, shoving the entire bite into his mouth so he had a free hand to flag down whoever it was. “Mmh!”

You nearly choked on your own bite as you watched your best friend, who's cheeks were stuffed like a chipmunk's, flap his arm around in the air to get this person's attention because his mouth was currently occupied.

You turned your head to see who he was waving over, and nearly choked again, having to cup your hand over your mouth to prevent rice from falling out. Your eyes widened an alarming amount. “Mmno—!” You mumbled through your bite.

“What? I can't hear you,” he snickered. “Hongjoong hyung! There's someone I want you to meet.”

You made a crazed gesture—no, no, I'm not ready! How dare you ambush me with social interac—you swallowed the food in your mouth as Hongjoong made his way over. You had never met the famed Kim Hongjoong—legendary producer, prodigy musician, favorite model to ever strut down the Paris Fashion Week Runway. He dropped off the grid for a brief three-month hiatus until he suddenly reappeared, but in your best friend's Instagram story. At some point, Yunho had met Hongjoong and won his favor. Then again, it was easy for Yunho to win over anyone's favor.

No one really knew why Hongjoong disappeared like he had, but some speculate it had something to do with his new relationship status: single.

You were always starstruck seeing Hongjoong on Yunho and Mingi's social media, as well as Hongjoong's own platforms. Tonight was no exception.

Hongjoong's hair of the season was a simple light brown that complimented his skin tone and the warmth in his smile. You were used to seeing him in more extravagant garb, but tonight, he chose something very simple, but chic like Yunho.

Yunho and Hongjoong clasped hands in greeting. “What's up, man?” The latter chirped, eyes flickering over to you as you attempted to behave normally.

Yunho gestured toward you, his eyes twinkling as he swept his arm around your shoulders to bring you forward. “This is Yn. Yn, this is Hongjoong. He's the one who produced the album—”

“Now, don't downplay your own efforts, Yunho,” Hongjoong cut in with a knowing look. “You produced so much of it on your own; I fine-tuned and made a couple tracks, but the rest was all you, man.”

“I always tell him he's far too humble,” you agreed.

Hongjoong sent you a smile, extending his hand out. “Great minds think alike, Yn. It's very nice to meet the person this guy doesn't ever stop talking about.”

You laughed good-naturedly and saw Yunho's flushed sheepishness out of the corner of your eye. You shook Hongjoong's hand with a firm, confident grip. “Nice to meet you, too. You're—you’re incredible, by the way. I remember when Yunho posted a photo with you, and I literally screamed his ear off over the phone.”

Yunho winced and held a hand up to his ear, as if remembering the physical sensation of that phone call. “Yup, definitely damaged my eardrum that day.”

“Well, thank you; I'm flattered,” Hongjoong replied pleasantly. “So I'm assuming you've probably heard as much of the album as I have then?”

“I'm sure you've heard the whole thing,” you said. “Yunho has withheld one of the tracks from me, but I've listened to all the rest.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Oh? Which track did—oh.” As he and Yunho made eye contact, you watched as a silent understanding passed between them, and Hongjoong's mouth tugged upward in a teasing smile. “That song.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

Hongjoong flourished his hand as if to wave away the thought. “He just wanted it to be perfect, so we were working on it up to the last second. Nothing terribly concerning.”

Ah. You relaxed, but the curiosity still lingered in your mind's eye. “I'm sure it's great, nonetheless.”

“Oh yeah, you're gonna love—”

“Oh-kay! That's enough about the song,” Yunho chuckled nervously as he grabbed your shoulders and began steering you away from a clearly amused Hongjoong. “Let's go say hi to Mingi, hm?”

You threw him a look from over your shoulder, but went along with him toward wherever he'd seen Mingi wandering around. “What has gotten into you tonight?” You teased, though, you also hoped to know why he was so jittery. He wasn't even this nervous about dropping his debut album.

Yunho showed you a bright smile, the same kind of golden-retriever expression that the media knew him well for. It would have been enough if you didn't know him. “Again, it's an important album to me. And the song I added last minute is on the deluxe version, so I wasn't really confident in putting it on the original release.”

“Ah,” you murmured. You reached up to pat the hand that rested on your left shoulder reassuringly. “I'm sure it really is a great song, Yun, and I'm not just saying that. You can make an awful omelet, but you can't make an awful song.”

Your best friend bursted into laughter at the latter comment, and your heart soared to see the genuine smile on his face now. That was your Yunho shining through. “You're right—if I can't scramble eggs, at least I can write a song.”

Over the next hour and a half, Yunho took you on a tour around the room, jumping from friend to friend to introduce you to more of his world. For the most part, however, it felt like an excuse for you to bond with all his friends in teasing him about something or other. But he seemed content enough to see you getting along well with the other people close to him.

He had met plenty of your friends at your work, so it was only fair that you got the same opportunity.

At some point while you were with Wooyoung and San discussing all of the rehearsals for Yunho's upcoming world tour, Hongjoong summoned everyone's attention to announce that it was time to listen to the album. It would be a rather casual affair with the Youth album playing in the background of the party, but you were certain people would minimize their conversations to listen in.

You craned your neck to peer around the crowd to see where Yunho had gone off to. “Wait, guys, did you see where Yunho went?”

Wooyoung and San joined your search, but quickly hustled you into a nearby booth to sit and enjoy the album with your drinks. “He'll find us,” Wooyoung assured you as the three of you slipped into the leather seats. “He wouldn't miss this.”

“He'll at least be here by the last song,” San said offhandedly, his eyebrows wagging up and down.

Your lips parted, your face morphing into feigned offense. “Wait. Did he let you guys listen to the deluxe edition song, too?”

“Maybe,” Wooyoung giggled.

San cooed at your pout. “Awwh, don't take it to heart, Yn-ie. It was supposed to be a surprise for you.”

You raised your drink to your lips, sighing before taking a sip. “Everybody talks about this damn song as if he wrote it for me.”

Unbeknownst to you, the two others at the table exchanged pointed looks between one another when you were looking away. It was a wonder how Yunho was able to keep this all a secret from you. Though, even San and Wooyoung knew how busy you could get nowadays, so perhaps it really was just that easy. Plus, they had all at one point or another been privy to Yunho’s feelings—

“Speak of the Devil,” you perked up at the sight of your best friend emerging from the crowd with the others—Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Mingi, Jongho (vocal coach and album feature), and Yeosang (PR management)—in tow behind him. “We were wondering where you had gone off to.”

Yunho grinned as the lot of them squished into the circular seating arrangement with you, San, and Wooyoung. “Sorry, had to go round everyone up. The album should be queued up and ready to go.” He chose to sit on the end of the booth to your right while everyone else filled it up from the other side.

You offered him a sip of your drink, and he gladly took the glass from you. “So San and Woo were just telling me about how their tour prep is coming. You guys are leaving—what was it—two weeks from now?”

He hummed, smacking his lips as he set the glass back down on the table. “Yeah, it should be just about two weeks,” he said. His arm came up to rest against the back of the booth seat behind you. “You know, you can still come to the first stop with us…” This was said with a very pointed look at you from Yunho, followed by similar expressions from everyone else around the table.

“And you know that day’s when my supervisor holds quarterly meetings that are mandatory,” you shot back. As much as you hated the timing, the day that Yunho and the team planned to fly to their first stop on his world tour, you were required to be present for a very important meeting at work.

The Youth World Tour was something Yunho had been looking forward to and preparing for a long time. Besides working on the Youth album itself, his working hours extended over the past year or so to get ready for this major milestone. You would definitely be able to meet up with them at one of the tour stops, you just weren’t sure which one yet.

Things at your workplace were a little rocky as of late due to shifting management, but you would play it by ear. For your best friend, of course you would make it work somehow.

Your ears pricked up at the sound of strings strumming overhead and your heart leapt out of your ribcage for a moment. “Oh my god, I love this song.”

“You and me both, Yn,” Hongjoong chuckled across the table from you, reaching over so you could bump fists with him, “you’ve got good taste.”

“You’re only saying that because you wrote this one specifically,” Yunho sputtered out a laugh while rolling his eyes.

“It’s a good message,” you said, picking up your drink to take a generous gulp of it. There was a little left at the bottom of the martini glass and you swirled the liquid around before handing it over to Yunho to finish. “I think this one will definitely make it onto my work playlist.”

Yunho draped the back of his hand over his forehead, setting the now empty glass on the table. “Wow, relegated to the work playlist. Is that all I am to you?”

“You are a mood maker,” you pointed out with a teasing smile.

“Bro, you're complaining as if Yn doesn't put her work playlist on for everything she does.” Mingi arched his brows over the rims of his sunglasses. (Why was he wearing sunglasses indoors and at night? You didn't know; he said something about looking cool.)

Wooyoung chuckled. “What? So let's say you're trying to sleep—”

“Yah, I have a different playlist for that! I'm not completely unreasonable.”

“Completely,” Yunho and Mingi said at the same time, then looked at each other with wide, excited eyes. They bursted out laughing at once, too, leaving you to deadpan at the two clowns to your eleven o'clock and three o'clock.

You sighed. “I hate you guys.”

That only made them laugh louder, spurring on the others to crack smiles and for you to do the same.

Yunho calmed slightly, his cheeks hurting from smiling. “Aw, you walked right into that one, Yn.”

“So you're saying you are, in some capacity, unreasonable—oh my god, don't hurt me!” Mingi shrieked as he shoved Yeosang's body in front of him like a human shield as you lurched forward and threatened to grab him.

Yeosang sent Mingi a dirty look as he wrestled out of his neighbor's hold. “Dude.”

“Jongho, protect me.”

The vocal coach popped the olive from his martini into his mouth. “If you can't handle the heat, hyung, stay out of the kitchen.”

You nodded, raising your pointer finger up. “Exactly.”

For the next hour, you and your friends shared good company and conversation, while also commenting on, praising, and enjoying the tunes from Yunho's Youth album. There were a good thirteen songs featured on the album, and while most of them were inspired by real life, you remembered the days and nights when Yunho would break out the white board under his bed to draw out a concept map of the storyline he'd created in his head for some songs. It was like a miniature Easter egg hunt for fans to piece together from album to album.

When the clock hit nearly midnight, you recognized the song that marked the end of the conventional album—track number thirteen, 22. It was a song that reflected and lamented on his early stages of adulthood, all the goods and bads, all the hopes and dreams he had left. It was something that tied the regular album with a satisfying bow, but you were also giddy to hear the secret fourteenth deluxe track.

But as his ethereal voice from 22 faded out, the same guitar chords from the first song of the album began to play.

Everyone at the table paused in confusion.

“Uhh, I thought you were revealing the hidden track tonight, Yunho?” Seonghwa asked from across the table.

Yunho tilted his body out of the booth to peer into the sound booth at the very back of the lounge, a furrow in his brow. “I thought I was, too,” he said as he stood up. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Before anyone else could say anything, Yunho disappeared past the door to the sound booth. You frowned as Hongjoong excused himself to catch up with him, mumbling something about helping with any technical difficulties.

In retrospect, it wouldn't be the biggest deal if you didn't get to hear the song tonight. You would simply listen to it when the deluxe album dropped in about a week, but you wouldn't deny that you were a little disappointed. Everyone else at this table had already listened to it—why had Yunho not shared it with you yet? Did he think you would judge him or not like it? You didn't think you were ever so harsh a critic, but that would explain why he was so nervous all night.

Regardless, you remained positive.

When Yunho and Hongjoong returned to the table, the rest of you all looked on to them expectantly.

“Something wacky is going on with the system right now and won't play the file for the hidden track,” Hongjoong huffed. He passed Yunho a sidelong glance, and you saw how Yunho avoided his friend's eyes like the plague. “Sorry to disappoint, Yn.”

Everyone's attention whipped toward you, and you straightened like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh, uhm, it's no biggie,” you said. You glanced over at Yunho who, if anything, seemed guilty. Or maybe it was just something apologetic. “Really—I can wait for it to drop officially.”

You didn't like how the air seemed to shift during this exchange, as if all the other boys were sitting on the edges of their seats, faces morphed into mixed ranges of confusion and disbelief.

You cleared your throat. “Anyone want more drinks?”

As the night waned and the party came to a close, you found yourself being helped into another Uber car to head home. After the supposed tech glitch, the remainder of the party passed by without a hitch. At the very end, Yunho popped open a theatrical bottle of champagne for all his guests to close out the celebration.

The backseat door closed just as Yunho ducked in with you, his hand waving out the window to San, Wooyoung, and Jongho passing by along the curb.

The alcohol had gradually made its way to your brain, and there was a light buzzing at the base of your skull that made you feel all warm and fuzzy. You yawned, leaning your head against Yunho's shoulder.

He chuckled, one of his hands coming up to gently pat your head. “Tired?”

“Mhm,” you hummed as your eyelids fluttered closed. “You didn't have to lie, y'know.”

You felt his shoulder tense under your cheek. If only you could feel the rapid beating in his chest, then he'd be as good as done.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he replied innocently, nimble fingers running over the chain links of his wristwatch.

Your eyes cracked open slowly. “Yunho.”

A beat passed, then he sighed. “Are you mad?” He asked quietly and his hand nearest to you found yours as he began to mindlessly inspect the chipped nail polish on your fingertips.

“No, silly. Why would I be mad?” When he didn't respond right away, you let out an exhale of your own. “I mean, I could tell you were nervous about me listening to the song all night. And if you weren't ready for me to listen to it yet, then I totally get that, and I'm okay with waiting. I just would rather you tell me that instead of make Hongjoong lie for you.”

He stopped playing with your fingers. “I'm sorry, for the record. Thank you for understanding.”

You hummed in reply.

The drive continued on with the accompaniment of a random radio station playing on low volume. You weren't going to fall asleep just yet with the alcohol still working its way through your system, but you kept your eyes closed nonetheless.

“I missed you, you know?” Were his first words to break the next silence.

A small smile wormed its way onto your face. “I missed you, too. I feel like we haven't seen each other in forever.”

He chuckled, the low sound rumbling through his chest and into your ear. “Texting can only take us so far. Isn't that crazy? We can't even survive a week without hanging out, but we're… we're about to be separated for so much longer timewise and distance-wise.”

You grumbled. “Don't remind me—wait. Has it really only been a week?” You peeked one eye open, a frown coming to your lips. “No way.”

Yunho smiled, shaking his head. “Believe it or not, stargirl. It's been only a week.”

“In-fucking-sane.”

“You're telling me.”

“How are we going to survive?” You pondered aloud, genuinely. If you couldn't fly out to see him within the first handful of tour stops, you and Yunho at the soonest wouldn't be able to see each other for three weeks. And if you couldn't escape your work duties and your PhD responsibilities, then it would be longer than that. “You're gonna have a closer relationship with your Valorant account than me.”

Yunho snorted. “I already have a closer relationship with my Valorant account than you.”

“Shucks.” You breathed out. “Guess I'll just text Hongjoong then. You know what he told me tonight when we were exchanging numbers? All eight of you nerds have a group chat and he gets ignored like a mom in a family chatroom.”

Your comment made a laugh tumble out of Yunho's mouth. “Did he make that analogy?”

“No, Seonghwa did when he overheard.”

A wheeze. “That tracks.” Yunho licked his lips as he turned his head slightly to glance down at you leaning on his shoulder. With his free hand, he warmed his palm over your head like he could keep you here forever. “So what's this about texting Joong?”

You shifted your position to get more comfortable and clung to his arm to press yourself closer. There was still a little ways to go before you reached your apartment. “I told him offhandedly that I wanna pick up a new hobby… something about crocheting or something, and apparently that guy is like… amazing at everything, so he's gonna help me out.”

“Ah.” The sound was quiet. “I'm glad you guys got along.”

You smiled to yourself. “Me too. He's really cool.”

“Not cooler than me though, right?”

You blindly reached over to pat his chest in warm reassurance. “Don't worry, big guy. I guess you're still the coolest guy I know.”

He clicked his tongue at you with a weak chiding, “Yah. You only guess? Don't tell Mingi that.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dream of it.”

The Uber eventually pulled up along the curb outside your apartment complex. You lifted your head up from Yunho's shoulder and woke yourself up with a good stretch of your limbs.

He helped you out of the car, handing you your purse when you finally got your bearings. “Are you sure I can't walk you up? You look like your knees are about to buckle,” he chuckled.

You shook your head. The cool evening air was helping your brain to sober up. “No, no. Don't worry about it—I’m not as drunk as that one year.”

“Dear heart, how could I forget,” he teased. “Mingi still has the recording of when you begged to be bridal carried.”

Your face warmed at his mention of that memory and you wrinkled your nose at him. “I was gonna say ‘I love you’ along with goodnight, but I suppose not.”

Yunho froze. “What?”

Maybe you really weren't sobering up, because you didn't catch his strange reaction. “Nevermind,” you said flippantly. “Love you, Yun. Good night. Get home safe!”

He seemed to unfreeze, his lungs filling with breath again. A soft smile melted onto his pretty lips as he looked on toward you with a warm fondness. “Love you, too. Good night, Yn.”

He remained where he was outside the car door as he watched you dig your keys out from your purse and open the complex door. When you had one foot inside, you stopped, and turned back to him with a big grin on your face. “Hey!”

“Hey?” He laughed.

“I'm proud of you.”

For the thousandth time tonight, you made him lose his breath, his hold on reality. He swallowed—he wanted to kiss you. “I love you. Get some rest, stargirl.”

You waved to him in reply and he waved back. Then you disappeared through the door and left him there, his heart full and beating fast, the longing in his chest weighing heavier than before.

When you and Yunho were thirteen, you spent the longest period of time away from each other for the rest of your lives. It measured to about one summer break long when Yunho flew to South Korea to spend the entire vacation there and you could do nothing but chat with him via good, old fashioned e-mail.

Now that the two of you were older, even a couple days dragged on like an eternity. And because of your clashing and stacked schedules, a couple days almost always bled into a week.

A week since the release of Youth marked the inevitable release of its deluxe edition and the ever mysterious fourteenth track.

“Yn, wait, can you just help me finish this set of primers?”

You were this close to escaping the lab before one of your colleagues caught you. Taking a deep breath, you resolved to turn back and help them out. One less thing to worry about later, right? You could still listen to the track once you got home.

Except you couldn't, at least not right away. You saw the email on the bus ride home:

Hello TAs! One of your peers has unfortunately been involved in a motorbike accident early this evening. We have been informed that they will recover to full health, but because they are hospitalized, we will need to redistribute responsibilities regarding grades and as to who will cover their TA sections…

You skimmed down the email's contents, knowing you wouldn't be the one filling in as an actual TA. Because you were a first year graduate student in your first quarter, you opted to start off with grading work for now. But even if you didn't have to deal with a whole section of undergraduates, you could feel the blood drain from your face.

“You've gotta be shitting me,” you said, then slapped your hand over your mouth once you realized you'd said that aloud. You mouthed a sheepish “sorry” to a parent and her child nearby, then ducked your head to look at the contents once more.

There was no way they wanted—no, needed—all of those graded by tonight.

This was cruel and unusual punishment, but you knew you were going to do it anyway.

By the time you finished grading, shoveled dinner into your mouth, and took a therapeutically scalding hot shower, it was sometime past two in the morning. Thank fuck it was Saturday.

It was less than twelve hours later that you settled into the passenger seat of Yunho's Lexus sedan with a pair of shades covering your dehydrated, puffy eyes from the world and whatever paparazzi was stalking his car. Yunho glanced over at you with barely concealed amusement. “Well, good morning, princess.”

“You can't see it but I'm glaring at you,” you grunted as you strapped yourself in with the seatbelt. “I can't believe you wake up before noon now.”

“Unfortunately,” he chuckled, peeling his car away from the curb. After an unsatisfactory six hours of sleep, Yunho had woken you up with the obnoxiously loud sound of your phone ringing. You managed to negotiate for him to pick you up in two hours rather than half an hour—and now here you were. You never truly considered yourself a breakfast person and you would have happily slept all the way to lunch, but even through the exhaustion, you wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see you.

He would be gone by the end of the week, after all.

You leaned your head back against the headrest. “I used to have to lure you out of bed with the smell of bacon. Remember when you ate that entire plate of raw-ass bacon and pancake batter that Mingi made?”

Yunho let out a loud laugh that made you smile. He glanced over at you. “Bro,” he sighed, shaking his head, “you know I'll eat anything. Oh my gosh, I will never forget the horrified look on your face when you came out of the bathroom and found out what happened.”

“You looked like a kicked puppy when I told you that you shouldn't have eaten raw bacon,” you snorted. You'd felt so awful that Yunho was such a good eater who didn't complain; he didn't have any negative side effects afterward, thankfully, but you swore to never let Mingi in the kitchen or to let Mingi feed Yunho ever again, so long as you lived.

There was a café a few minutes drive from your apartment complex that the two of you liked to go to. It was a little hole in the wall, located on the second floor above a pet shelter, and the entrance could only be accessed through the stairs in the next-door alleyway.

Yunho adjusted the beanie over his bangs and you shifted your sunglasses up to the top of your head as you entered the establishment. There were a few people seated in the area to the right, but something you liked about this place was its hidden gem quality. (And the drinks and food they served, of course.)

“Hi, welcome in!” The barista behind the counter called before ducking behind the espresso machine. “Give me two seconds, and I'll be right with you.”

“No worries, take your time,” Yunho chirped back as he scoured the menu, eyes squinting and tongue darting out to wet his lips.

You had a general idea of what you wanted already, and you let Yunho know what it was before slipping off into the restroom.

By the time you emerged from the back hallway where the washrooms were, Yunho had finished ordering and was standing by one of the open two-seater tables by the far window with the soft autumn sunlight painting over his features. For a second, you stood at the opening of the hallway, just admiring him. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep making you envision the sunlight dancing around him as he sat down in one of the seats.

Heat rushed up your neck as your eyes met across the café. Gazes locked, you stood frozen, but a smile bloomed on your best friend's face like the coming of spring. It was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.

And then he made a face, cocking his head to the side like a puppy with a question. 'Why are you just standing there?’ He seemed to ask.

You shook yourself out of whatever strange daze you'd slipped into, then walked over to join him.

“You okay?” He asked as you took the seat across from him, a teasing lilt to his voice, yet there was still concern in the curve of his mouth.

You waved said concern away. “Yeah. I think I'm still waking up or something.”

“Ah,” he nodded in understanding. He frowned. “What time did you go to sleep last night?”

“Like… some time past two.” On cue, you let out a large yawn, lifting your sleeve up to cover your mouth. “It's okay. I'll just sleep early tonight or something. One of the other TAs got into an accident, so we just had to do some make-up work and I just happened to get home late as it was.”

You could already see the guilt manifest on his face for waking you up, and you were swift to add, “I'll be fine with food and coffee, so 's alright. What about you? How'd you sleep last night?”

“I slept decently,” he replied, leaning forward to rest his cheek against his fist. “I didn't end up dropping the deluxe album, so it was a little more restful than—”

Your brain took a second to catch up. The… the deluxe album… oh. Your eyes went from half-mast to wide open. “You—you didn't release the deluxe? Sorry, I was so busy yesterday that I didn't check my socials.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said with a sheepish smile. “But yeah, I told my manager that I still wasn't ready to release it to the public just yet. I don't know when I'll postpone it to, but it probably won't come out until while I'm on tour.”

Ah. There was that disappointment settling in the pit of your stomach again. This wasn't about you, but why did it seem like he was avoiding your eventual listening to this song? He was almost always sending you audio files without prompting, so what made this one different?

Nonetheless, it wasn't your song. You would respect Yunho's privacy if he wanted to keep this one to himself and his friends.

You unconsciously rubbed your arm. “Oh okay. Yeah, I mean—take your time, Yun. I'm glad you don't feel pressured to release it when you aren't ready.”

His expression softened to something tender that made your chest feel fuzzy. “You'll listen to it soon, I promise.”

The barista called out Yunho's order number, and your friend stood up to go retrieve it. You sighed as you fiddled with the sleeve of your shirt and peered over your shoulder as a pair of newcomers asked him for his autograph and a picture. You watched the pleasant smile spread on Yunho's face as he conversed with them as easy as breathing air, alongside the faint blush over his cheekbones.

No, you didn't know what had gotten into you this morning.

“No, no. You have to loop it through this piece here—yeah, there you go.”

You were so concentrated on following Hongjoong's directions that you didn't even register the sound of Yunho's front door opening and closing. Hongjoong clicked his tongue and scooted closer so he could direct your hands and the crochet hook himself.

“Uhm… hey?”

Both yours and Hongjoong's heads whipped up at the sound of Yunho's confusion. He stood at the entrance to the living room area where, scattered all around you and Hongjoong, were clothes, toiletries, and other essentials laid out for Yunho to throw into his bags.

Tonight marked the evening before Yunho and the team were to set off on the Youth World Tour. Tomorrow, they would fly out sometime in the afternoon, which meant that you would have time to send them off before heading to work and class. However, because you hadn't seen Yunho since this past Saturday when he dragged your ass out of bed for breakfast, you invited yourself over to his apartment to oversee his packing. Hongjoong just so happened to be swinging by Yunho's apartment and you asked if he was up for an impromptu crocheting lesson.

Hongjoong arrived some time while Yunho ran out to the Chinese place down the block to grab dinner, and the two of you had been hunched over the ball of yarn and hook ever since.

“Oh, you're back!” You exclaimed. In your distracted state, Hongjoong took the opportunity to take the crochet piece from you and subtly fix the mistakes you made.

Yunho's brows creased, eyes darting from you to Hongjoong as he slowly placed the takeout bags on the semi-cleared coffee table. “Yeah… Joong, when did you get here?”

You leaned forward to help clear off the rest of the coffee table and to also assist in unpacking all of the takeout containers. Yunho shucked the baseball cap he was wearing off to the side, carding a hand through his dark locks.

“Like… seven minutes ago,” he replied cheekily. His mouth curled into something mischievous as he locked eyes with Yunho. “I can leave, though, if you wanted to be alone—”

“Hyung—”

“I'm messing with you,” he snickered as he handed you the yarn and hook. “I only came by to drop off the emergency backup files hard drive and to give Yn-ie a sneak peek of her crocheting lessons to come.”

(Yunho's eyes narrowed a millimeter. Yn-ie?)

You set the unfinished crochet square down on the couch to walk Hongjoong to the door. “Are we still on for tomorrow, by the way?”

“What's tomorrow?” Yunho twisted around where he was seated on the floor to watch you and Hongjoong make your way to the front door.

“You,” said Hongjoong with raised eyebrows at your best friend, “are going on a plane with everyone else. Because I'm not leaving until the day after tomorrow, Yn and I are bonding over lunch after we see you all off.”

You and Hongjoong finished up finalizing plans in the doorway, followed by amiable farewells. Yunho called out a “good night” to his friend as Hongjoong slipped out the door, and left you and him to the apartment by yourselves.

You claimed the spot on the floor next to him and accepted the pair of wooden chopsticks he extended to you. “I'm sorry if I wasn't supposed to invite him in. I probably should've asked,” you said sheepishly as you snapped the chopsticks apart.

“Oh, no, he's been over quite a few times, so it's all good,” he replied swiftly. “I just didn't expect you two to be so close.” He added a laugh at the end that sounded more nervous to him than it was supposed to.

“We've been texting back and forth, but I guess so. Nothing like the two of you,” you jested, lifting your eyebrows up and bumping your elbow against his.

Yunho grinned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You guys spend all that time together in the studio—WHA—NO! Keep those hands to yourself!” You shrieked, rolling out of the way to dodge his hands that threatened to tickle you into submission. Yunho had thrown his head back in a carefree laugh, a beautiful expression in itself, that had you reciprocating.

When you were sure he wasn't going to attack you (affectionately), you scooted back over to your original spot next to him. He smiled to himself at the sidelong glance you casted him, and he went and grabbed one carton of rice for himself and the other for you.

“Thank you for dinner, by the way,” you told him as you opened up your carton, his somehow already opened and spilling over with food.

You once again caught him with his mouth full, and Yunho swallowed the bite of food he had before replying. “Yeah, man. Of course.”

“I swear that I will definitely get the next meal we have—”

“Yn.” He touched the back of his hand against your arm to draw your attention to him. “You literally were the one to make sure I made it out of college alive, like, I can never thank you enough for how much you did for me then and continue to do for me now.”

You swallowed, suddenly blown back by the way he looked at you right now. “I did it because I care about you, Yun. It's not something I expect to be repaid for.”

“I know,” he said with a nod, lips pulled into a tender smile that made your stomach do flips. This was the look no one else got to see from him. Sure, he could fill stadiums of people who would see his big, bright grin that shone brighter than the sun, but… but this one, this smile, was yours. “That goes the same toward this meal, okay?”

Yunho notched his finger under your chin and tilted your head up slightly to meet his eyes. “Don't worry about it.”

You set your carton of rice and chopsticks on the table, he copied your movements, and you wrapped each other in your mutual embraces. The startling realization that you wouldn't see him for longer than a week from tomorrow onward rushed toward you like the coming of a tide to shore. Before you knew it, the water was up to your knees, and you—what were you going to do without him here?

“I miss you already,” you whispered.

You felt him squeeze you tighter, nose pressed against the side of your neck. “I won't be gone too long.” A promise.

“Thank god Seonghwa and Wooyoung can cook.” At the sound of his snort from above your head, you squawked out in your defense, “Who else is gonna make you bacon and pancakes in the morning when you’re dead tired?”

“Hey! I can fry bacon, I’ll have you know!”

You pulled away from him so he could see the look of pure disbelief on your face. “Okay, rockstar. I believe you.”

He scrunched his nose up at you. “That’s not very convincing.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

Yunho scoffed, reaching over to flick your nose. You let out a sound of indignation and rubbed your nose, a scowl on your face at Yunho’s very pleased expression. And even if you were currently conspiring on how to get back at him, you couldn’t help but resolve something right that second—you would do everything in your power to see his show in two weeks’ time—to see Yunho in two weeks’ time.

The thing about cheap plane tickets was that the cheaper you bought them, the less “amenities” that it came with. The one you’d purchased specifically for two weeks in the future did not allow you a refund. This meant that if something were to arise, you would be a good several hundred dollars poorer, and your plans to surprise Yunho at his show would fall completely through the floor.

Good thing you weren’t about to let that happen, right? …Right?

“You’re sick.” Those were your roommate Trinity’s first words to you as you stumbled out of your bedroom and found her perched on one of the stools at the kitchen counter. She fixed you with an unimpressed look as she stirred around her morning coffee.

“I’m not—” Your own response was cut off by one very untimely cough into your elbow. You wrinkled your nose at the metallic taste at the back of your throat. Great. “—sick.”

“And I’m Oprah,” she deadpanned.

“You could be.” Did you really sound as much like a dying walrus as you thought you did? Holy shit.

She stood up from her stool, setting her coffee cup on the counter, then walked over to you to direct you back into your room. “I’m not permitting you exit from this apartment until you're better. Back to bed with you.”

“But—”

“No buts! If you wanna still be able to fly by the end of this week, then you have to get better, Yn.”

You really, unfortunately, could not argue with that. Nearly a week and a half had passed since Yunho started touring. Opening night had been a massive success, as you’d seen the broadcast and read the reviews on social media. In the concert photos and videos slowly being released online, there was no doubt in your mind that Yunho belonged onstage. He was radiant as a diamond in each depiction of him, and he sounded better and better each night.

Suffice to say, you were beyond proud and happy for him.

In order to make your surprise successful, you informed Yunho’s team of your plans so they could help you get into the concert once you arrived. Your part consisted mainly of finishing all of your work ahead of schedule so you weren’t swamped when you got back. It was nearing the end of the term, meaning there was lots to grade and study, but when you had a goal, you were determined.

The only downside was that, between the long days and nights of work, your body couldn’t fight against the swift rush of early winter air that swept through the city in the past week. Your working hours stretched out longer and longer until your body just… gave up. Or at least, it was giving up.

After calling in sick to your workplace, you crashed back into bed for what you hoped to be a restful nap. Maybe when you woke up, this would all just turn out to be a 24-hour fever.

(It was not a 24-hour fever.)

You didn't even know what time it was when you woke up groggy and your head pounding like there was an active construction site taking place in your skull. Your bedroom was dark, and the world outside your window was also dark. The sound of your phone ringing drilled into your cranium, and you groaned as you felt around your mess of blankets and sheets for wherever that damned thing was—

“Hello?” You croaked into the receiver when you finally grabbed ahold of your phone.

There was a pause on the other end, and you were about to ask who it was when they responded. “Oh my god. You're sick.”

Your heart leapt into your throat at the sound of your best friend's voice and you shoved your face into the pillow. “I'm not sick.”

“Yn, sweetheart, you literally have the sexy sick voice.”

“You think I'm sexy?” You asked in a drowsy, unwell daze. “But anyways, I'm not—” You lifted your face into your elbow in time to practically hack out your lungs. You groaned. “Okay, maybe I am sick.”

Could things get any worse?

You could hear the frown in his voice. “You sound like my worst nightmare.”

“Am I sexy or your worst nightmare? You need to pick an adjective.” You whimpered as you struggled to pull yourself up into a sitting position.

“At least I know it did nothing to that attitude of yours,” he laughed. He sobered for a moment when he heard you groan as the blood rushed to your head. “Hey, do you have meds with you? I can order some and have them there in half an hour.”

You waved him off, even though he wouldn't be able to see. “No, it's okay. I should have taken an ibuprofen before I crashed. I'm sure we've got extra Nyquil around here somewhere…”

You attempted to stand up, a swear falling from your mouth as the vertigo hit you and sent you tumbling back down onto the edge of the bed.

“Yn, I'm sending you medicine—and dinner. That one bistro near your apartment is still open, right? I'll let Trinity know that deliveries are on the—Yn?”

You lifted your head and broke out of your return to unconsciousness. “Hm? Sorry… I did not hear anything you just said.” You rubbed your hand down your face and scooped your phone up to make your way out of your room. You somehow made it to the door, and you leaned against the doorjamb as you pushed out into the dark hallway. “You don't have to send anything, Yun. Trinity's studying for her law school finals, so I don't wanna bother her. Plus…”

You opened up the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and bit back a sigh of disappointment. No cold medicine. There was pain medication, at least, so that should hopefully help you fall asleep again.

At your lack of words, Yunho asked, “No medicine?”

“No, I have some medicine,” you countered. “Just—not the right ones.” Before you could swallow any pills, you hacked out another lung into your elbow; you swore your coughs were sounding worse and worse.

“You know what? I'm flying home—”

You slammed the pill bottle on the bathroom counter. “Don't—what? Yunho, do not fly home. It's literally just a little—” You coughed, “—cold. You have another show in two days. If you show up on my doorstep, I'm not opening the door.”

From the silence on his end, you knew he wasn't in total agreement with you. Maybe the bottle slamming was a little much, but his statement had surprised you. It didn't make sense for him to drop everything for you when you were experiencing something so trivial as a cold.

Not unkindly, you said to him, “I appreciate the concern, but you have bigger things to worry about and care about.”

“You will always be the most important thing I care about.”

His admission was so sincere that your heart gave a violent palpitation in your chest. You struggled to swallow, and it wasn't just because your throat was sore. “And I feel the same way about you,” you murmured, “but I can take care of myself, okay? I'll be back to normal in no time.”

You heard a sigh from his end. “I know; you're right. I just… wish I was there with you right now.”

You could understand that—it was how you felt. But some things couldn't be helped, and Yunho needed to be where he was and you needed to be where you were. You could hold down the fort while he was gone taking over the world by storm.

You closed the bathroom door to give an extra barrier between your voice and where Trinity was studying in her room. After knocking back a couple painkillers, you seated yourself on the floor with your back against the bathtub and your knees pulled up to your chest. “You know what's kind of ironic?” You coughed into your elbow and wrestled down another one bubbling up in your throat. You shouldn't have been speaking so much, but you could deal with the repercussions later. “I think I freaked out when you said you were going to fly home, not just because that's insane, but also because I was going to surprise you by flying out to your show in a couple days.”

He sucked in a breath. “You were gonna come surprise me?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, swiping at your nose and tucking your chin to your knees. Then you had to go and screw it all up, and you couldn't even get your money back. You pretty much accepted that you weren't going to be better by the time the day rolled around, especially not for travel. “I'm sorry I couldn't come see you.”

“No, don't be sorry!” He cooed. “I'm—I’m really sorry you're sick and I'm sad you couldn't make it, but… but think of it this way, hm? As soon as you get better, I'll fly you out to whatever city I'm in and we can hang out and you can come to the concert. All you have to do is get better for me.”

You didn't know if your schedule would allow after this setback, but you were going to remain optimistic. With a small glimmer of hope peering through your chest, you replied, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he said, and you could hear the fond smile in his voice.

“By the way,” you began, and had to clear your throat from how congested it was getting. Maybe some hot tea would do you good. You clambered to your feet to get out of this bathroom and do just that. “Was there a reason you called originally or was it just to say hi?”

A beat of hesitation passed between your question and his answer. “Ah…” There was a wince in his voice, “I, uhm, called because I wanted to know if you'd seen something online, but obviously you haven't 'cause you were asleep, but…”

Seen something online? Your movements with your electric kettle paused. Had someone posted something about Yunho? “What is it, Yun?” Who's ass did you need to beat?

“Seonghwa hyung found out that someone leaked the hidden track online a few hours ago.”

You leaned your cheek against your palm, eyebrows knitting together. “Shit, dude. I'm so sorry,” you said with a frown. That meant some rando on the internet had hacked into someone's files and leaked the song.

A sharp exhale from Yunho's end. “Yeah, I dunno. We're working on getting it taken down right now, but in the event it can't be done soon enough, I think I'm just gonna release the deluxe version in a couple hours.”

It seemed by his response that it wasn't the hacking that was his primary concern. Leaked, unreleased songs happened to every major artist in the industry, and it had most definitely happened to Yunho before this. But this time… this time felt different. You knew how hesitant he was to release this, and having the track get released to the public on terms that weren't his? Well, that just wasn't fair.

“You don't,” you said softly, reaching for a mug in the top cabinet to plop your tea bag into, “have to release it officially right now. You can still wait until you're comfortable.”

You heard sounds of shuffling on his end, followed by the sound of a door opening. You thought you heard Yeosang's voice as he murmured something to Yunho. The exchange was swift, but it reminded you that your time with your best friend here was limited.

“Do you need to go?” You asked, trying to cover up your hope that he didn't have to with nonchalance.

He hummed. “It's okay, I have a few minutes left. They want me to 'okay’ a couple things out on set, but that can wait. Uhm… as for what you said about releasing it—I,” he sighed, “I think this was the push I needed to finally drop it, y'know? I think either way I was going to be scared for—for people to hear it—for you to hear it. But uhm… yeah. That's all I wanted to say. I think it'll probably be released whenever you wake up.”

You poured the hot water of your tea bag, setting the kettle down gently. Letting the steam rise up to help clear your congestion, you could finally think a little clearer now. “I'm sorry this didn't happen on your terms.”

“I appreciate that. I hope you like the song—I… I really hope you like the song.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “I'm going to like the song, rockstar. You have nothing to worry about, I promise.”

He let out a small laugh and the sound of his happiness, however big or small, made your chest feel heavy. “I’ve missed you so much,” he rasped out. “So much.”

You pressed your forehead to your fist, willing the prickling feeling of tears at bay. “I wish I was there—I’ve wished I was there with you the moment you left. But I'm so, so proud of you. I know I've said this before, but you belong on that stage, Yunho. I'll be there… I'm always there in spirit.”

“You can't say that and expect me not to fly my ass home right now.”

You sputtered out a laugh, which was probably a bad idea, because it led to an utter disaster of a coughing fit. When you finally managed to get a reign on things, you picked up your mug of tea and took a couple ginger sips. It was still piping hot, but whatever scalding temperature it was at somehow soothed your throat and your head.

You set the cup down. “Again, I'll be there in no time, I promise.”

“You swear on your life?”

You sighed, but you pressed your lips into a smile. “I swear on my life.”

Yunho's departure from this call was imminent, and so you made further promises to get plenty of rest and to take care of yourself. You only did so when he promised to do the same for himself. Just after you both hung up, you received a text message from him: Stay up for five more minutes!! The delivery's almost there.

You huffed out a rough-sounding laugh, and bit your tongue around a smile. Of course he had still ordered you stuff. You shook your head to settle on one of the kitchen stools to nurse your tea and wait for the delivery to get here.

When the driver was safely out of bounds of your door, you poked your head out into the hallway to grab the paper bags seated on your doorstep. You had only expected medicine and maybe dinner, but not only were there cold medicines, orange juice, and hot soup from the bistro down the street, but there was a bouquet of flowers there, too.

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you pulled everything into the safety of your apartment. Damn Jeong Yunho and his gestures. It didn't mean anything—they were just Get Well Soon flowers, but why did you kind of wish they were more than that?

The Youth album's fourteenth track entitled your space hit the charts at number two. By the time you woke up, still sick as hell, the track had been officially released for about eight hours. You rolled over in bed to guzzle down half a bottle of water and cold medicine, then grabbed your phone.

It seemed that social media blew up while you were asleep. The deluxe drop was trending under a couple different tags, and based on initial skims, you were happy to report that most had everything good to say about it.

Though, some of the commentary made you pause. He has to be seeing someone, said one user. Look at these lyrics. These could only be produced by a man in love.

You had to swipe out of the app at that point. Instead, you went over to yours, Yunho's, and Mingi's group chat together where Mingi and Yunho had waged a meme war while you were asleep after Mingi wished you a “Get Better Soon” message. You sent back your own meme in response and opened your music streaming app to find track fourteen.

The boys would probably all be asleep by now, so they wouldn't respond any time soon.

You found your space exactly where you thought it would be, at the very bottom of the deluxe album. You sat yourself up against your headboard, plugged your earbuds in, then hit play.

If only you knew how much it would rock your world.

Hongjoong was never wrong about his hunches. It had been about a week and a half since you came down with an awful cold and couldn't make it to your intended surprise show, and slightly less than that since the deluxe album dropped. Even before the tour started, life was a whirlwind, but now that the tour was only ramping up further from this point, it had been nothing short of a total rush.

Different cities every week, at least two nights a city—all of it took a toll on both the staff and artist involved. Hongjoong's hunch, however, regarded the artist in particular as he watched said artist keep his smile up to say goodnight to the remainder of the stadium workers who lingered for cleanup. Yesterday was their last show date in this city, and today, Yunho and his team had come by to help load everything up for transport to their next destination. Tomorrow, they would fly out and be in the next city to begin preparing for the next round.

But as Yunho began making his way toward the exit where Hongjoong was waiting for him, it was impossible to miss the immediate exhaustion that flooded his features. He carded a hand through his hair as he checked his phone, then pocketed it in the back pocket of his pants.

“Hey,” Yunho nodded to Hongjoong as he met him at the exit and they both walked out into the chilly evening together. There was already a car waiting at the curb to take them back to their hotel—there was still so much that needed to be done before they left for the airport tomorrow.

“Hey,” he said back. “Everything okay?”

Yunho glanced over at him. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I'm fine; just tired. I think it's a good thing I started packing before we came here earlier,” he mused. For him to pack early? A miracle.

Hongjoong bobbed his head in understanding. “Yeah, I get that, but that's not really—you know you can be honest with me, right? I know this has all been… a lot.” And Hongjoong would understand; he had been in the public eye for so long now, and all of that could be so incredibly draining. From catering to fans and journalists and sponsors, it could be difficult finding himself amongst all that mess.

Plus, Yunho had the added bit of being away from home for a very long time. From what Hongjoong understood, Yunho only used to tour relatively close to home, and when it was farther, it was during his school breaks. He also knew that you were an integral part of Yunho's sanity, and that even before he reached this level of fame, you were his rock, his anchor, his ground control.

Being away from you for so long was beginning to show. When Hongjoong brought it up offhandedly to Mingi, Mingi was swift to agree.

“I—” Yunho began as he slipped into the passenger seat and Hongjoong into the back of the car. He murmured a soft greeting to the driver before strapping himself in with a seatbelt. “—it definitely has been hard,” he admitted with a sigh. “I don't know, Joong. You know that rush you get while onstage, but it just comes crashing down a couple hours later? Like the adrenaline leaves you all at once and all you crave for is home?”

Hongjoong pursed his lips, watching Yunho lean the side of his head against the window as he watched the world pass by. “Yeah, I do,” he said quietly. “The moments between all the rush and excitement, you're no longer distracted from how much it all is.”

A nod. “Yeah.”

“You miss her?” It was less of a question and more so a statement. Hongjoong's hunches were never incorrect. It was both a blessing and a curse.

Yunho's quiet was answer enough.

Hongjoong played around with the back of his phone case. He knew you had listened to the song—he’d asked Yunho and you'd texted Hongjoong, too. Yunho reported that you gushed about the song and affirmed him in all his choices and lyricism as always, but he was certain that you didn't get it. But when you had run to Hongjoong questioning your own feelings and if Yunho had been scared to tell you if he was in love with someone, Hongjoong could confidently say that you did get it, just not one hundred percent.

There was still miscommunication in the message, but he knew that was only something that the two of you could sort out.

“Have you guys talked since last week?”

“Yeah, we have. She's been…” He pushed a breath out of his mouth, “... She's been working her ass off trying to make up for the amount of time she was sick. I don't even know how she isn't getting sick again. I mean—all the shit she has to weather through—I wish I could help.”

And he couldn't, not like how he wanted to, not from so far away. Maybe that was what was eating him up inside the most, besides the fact he believed his feelings to be unrequited.

The car pulled up to the back entrance of the hotel Yunho and his team were staying at for the time being. The two of them thanked the driver on their way out, and they were swiftly greeted by employees coming out of the back for their breaks.

When they reached the warmth of their hotel floor's hallway, Yunho said to Hongjoong, “I miss her so much.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his Youth World Tour hoodie, eyes lined in silver. “I worry about her so much, too. I'm sure she worries just as much about me and I know that she's more than capable about taking care of herself—’cause god, she was the one who kept me afloat all these years, and I—”

I love her.

He slapped his key card against the reader and shoved into his hotel room with Hongjoong trailing after with a sympathetic frown on his face.

“It just feels wrong sometimes when I can't be with her. Is that crazy?”

Hongjoong settled a warm hand on Yunho's shoulder as the latter sat down on the edge of his bed. “It's not crazy,” he said. He'd felt like that about a person, once upon a time. After everything Hongjoong had gone through with his last relationship, one might think he didn't believe in love, but he was still clawing for it. He wanted something that he could see manifesting between you and Yunho. He wanted to help you reach that.

He sighed and sat down next to him. “It's completely valid to feel this way, y'know? She's been a huge part of your life and your passions, and for you to see all this without her seems incomplete.”

Yunho nodded. “Yeah.”

“You can go home whenever you want, you realize that?” Hongjoong asked. “We have time built into each week to give you rest days, man. We can make that work.” It might be a little tiring for so much travel, but one trip back wouldn't hurt, especially when it could help his mental state more than simply powering through.

“I know,” he replied. “I don't… I just feel like I want her to see that I can do this, that she didn't put her trust and energy into someone who would fall so fast—”

“Do you seriously believe she would think about you that way?”

Yunho's expression shuddered, and he let out a shaky breath as he shook his head.

Hongjoong arched his brow. “Exactly. She would never fault you for needing a break. Being human is not a sign of weakness, Yunho. She's your best friend—I think she has more forgiveness and compassion for you than that.”

Yunho swallowed. Of course what Hongjoong said was right. You wouldn't look at him any different if he needed a break; it was just a thing about being kinder to himself. But sometimes it was hard to put that into perspective, and perhaps he just needed someone to do that for him.

With no good choice made without a decent night of sleep, Hongjoong bid Yunho goodnight.

As soon as Hongjoong slipped out of his friend's room, he sighed and mentally calculated what time it would be where you were. You should have been awake.

And awake, you definitely were.

You would be lying if you said you hadn't been listening to the song your space on repeat for the past week and a half. Even as you sat in one of the campus dining halls doing work and eating your crappy sandwich for lunch, your headphones were spilling with your best friend's gorgeous croons.

You questioned everything at the same time. You'd figured out two days after you first heard it that you were in love with your best friend.

The lyrics had resonated with you, and you had come to the startling conclusion that you felt the song's meaning toward Yunho.

All you could do since was freak the fuck out and tell Yunho that the song was incredible. You didn't know who the song was for or about, but you knew it was important to him because of how scared he was to release it. Had he been scared to tell you he was in love with someone? Why?

Sometimes you found yourself tearing apart the lyrics like a rabid trash panda.

I couldn't ever leave you behind They couldn't ever take me away Baby, if I could pick a heaven on Earth It would be anywhere in your space.

You broke away from your work and sandwich to the sound of a text notification. Suddenly remembering how loud your vibration ringer was, you silenced it, then opened up Hongjoong's message: I know you're probably moping and eating a shitty sandwich—what. You glanced down at said shitty sandwich that sat in its equally sad plastic container. How did he know…? —and he's not doing well either. He's miserable, dude.

Everything slowed for you, and it was no longer about your so-called epiphany. You felt your entire body and mood drop at the news. You'd seen social media posts commenting on Yunho's stage presence and brightness never fading, but there were always the one or two who noted something along the lines of him seeming too tired or that perhaps he didn't have enough stamina for this.

The latter comments made your blood pressure spike, but there was, unfortunately, some truth to it. You just didn't think it was this bad.

You pressed the backs of your knuckles against your eyes. You hadn't been doing the best, clearly, and you knew that it was largely because you missed him. Being away from someone you considered home for so long meant that you were bound to get homesick.

You didn't know what to do. There was so much work to be done, and you had just caught up. On top of that, you were short a few hundred dollars from the last time you tried to fly out.

Another message buzzed in from Hongjoong: I think you guys really need to talk.

The organ in your chest rattled around in its cage; it longed to be with its partner. You were starting to understand that now.

The song playing in your ear was slowly petering out, and all you could hear was his voice.

And I've kinda been wanting to ask if we can Skip the 'why’ and get to the 'our’ Because baby, I love your space But I love ours more.

Yunho had not flown home that week. Some emergencies had sprung up as soon as they landed in their new city, and all bets were off to be able to go home. All that he could do was buckle down and get comfortable. Even so, he knew how to make the best out of a situation.

As he stood at the very center of the main stage, he held a hand up to shield his eyes from the bright spotlights shining down on him now.

“Is that better?” Hongjoong's voice echoed throughout the near-empty stadium.

From one of the balconies, Jongho cupped his hands up around his mouth to scream at the top of his lungs, “LOOKS GOOD, HYUNG!”

“Jongho,” Yunho chuckled into his microphone, “did someone not get you a headset, bro?”

A beat passed, and then, “NO.”

Mildly amused laughter cropped up around the stadium in reaction to the youngest's troubles. It was little moments like these where Yunho could forget for one second just how tiring all of this amounted to become. His smile was genuine, and his tongue darted out to trace his teeth—

“Jeong Yunho, put your damn tongue away.”

Yunho's eyes went as wide as saucers, his expression morphing into something like childlike surprise as he immediately retracted his tongue into his mouth. But in the split second it took his brain to process the words that had been said, he also recognized the voice who'd said them. From the big screen, any one of the staff members or you could see the way his face stretched into the widest grin possible, his eyes lighting up like spotlights.

He lifted the mic in his hand up to his lips as he tilted his eyes up to the sound and lighting box far up in the stands. From where he was onstage, he could just make out the shape of you in the box next to Hongjoong—the sneaky bastard. “Ln Yn, get your ass down here right now,” he said, hardly able to contain the excitement in his voice.

You didn't need to be told twice.

You raced down the stadium steps from the box, your legs carrying you as fast as humanly possible without falling. Yunho leapt off the stage and left his microphone behind to meet you in the middle.

Somewhere between the pit and mezzanine, you flew into his arms and he caught you, spinning you around. The glee on both of your faces was enough to make everyone stop and appreciate the tangible love before them. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you pursed your lips to subdue them. You squeezed him as tight as you possibly could; his arms held you firmly around your waist, head tucked into the joint between your neck and shoulder.

“You're here,” he croaked with tears in his voice now. You heard him sniffle, and only held him tighter. He felt the added strength and let out a sob. “I missed you so much.”

Oh, for fuck's sake—you started bawling like a baby. “I—” you sucked in a breath, “—I heard—so I booked a flight—”

This only caused his body to tremble harder. “Oh god… Yn… I…”

You sniffled and brushed your hand over the back of his head in an attempt to get both of you to calm down. “Hey, don't worry about it, okay? It doesn't matter; you know I'd drop everything for you.” When his only response was to press his wet eyes against the heat of your neck, you blinked away your tears. “Plus, I missed you, too, rockstar.”

Yunho let out a watery laugh, gently setting you down onto solid ground. You both looked like a hot mess and a half: snot dripping out of your noses, eyes red and drowned in salty tears. The adrenaline rush from the surprise had trickled out of your system, but your heartbeat continued to rattle around in your chest with reckless abandon. His messy, damp hair; the wobbly shine in his dark brown irises; the way he smiled at you with that something on his face… he was everything to you.

“Glad to know the feeling's mutual,” he said, nudging you with his elbow, then pawing at his eyes to wipe the tears away.

“Good to see you, Yn!” San piped up from the stage with his microphone. He had picked up Yunho's microphone from where he'd abandoned it to come meet you.

You laughed, lifting a hand up in a wave. “Hey, San! Hi everyone!”

Chimes of greetings from all the other boys and staff members cropped up from all around the arena.

Yunho brushed a hand through his hair and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Did all you fuckers know about this?”

Mingi was perched on the ledge of the stage. His grin seemed to be the widest after watching your reunion. He tugged the microphone attached to his earpiece closer to his mouth. “Don't tell us you're not grateful now.”

“Nah, I'm just surprised Wooyoung was able to keep his mouth shut.”

Wooyoung didn't need a microphone to let you all know of his offense. You could hear his squawk of disapproval all the way from where you stood—crazy how acoustics worked.

Yunho heard your laugh from beside him, and he glanced over at you to catch the fond look on your face. He hadn't stopped smiling for the past five minutes, and it didn't matter how much his cheeks hurt. You were here; that was all that mattered.

“This place is—” you marveled as the two of you began walking down the stairs together toward the stage. The backs of your hands brushed against one another, breaths away from touching, from lacing, from being together. “—huge. It's so much more—” You felt your lip wobble again, “I don't even know why I'm getting emotional. It's all you dreamed of as a kid, wasn't it?”

The tears pricked at the edges of his eyes again, and the two of you looked back at each other with equally wet eyes and bright smiles. “Yeah,” he nodded, swiping at his eyes.

“You deserve it.”

“All thanks to you,” he said with a sniffle, hugging you to him again. You were solid and real beneath his fingertips—he was so happy you were here. This was where you belonged; none of this felt right without you.

When you finally reached the bottom of the pit, Yunho had to run back up to the stage, and you went through the aisles until you found your perfect seat. It wasn't long before Mingi bounded up the steps to come join you. He brought you in for a long awaited hug of his own.

“What's good, Yn?” He asked with a soft chuckle as he pulled away and settled in the seat to your left.

Just ahead, Yunho appeared onstage with his microphone in hand, and the two of you lifted your hands in sync to wave to your best friend.

You adjusted your bag in your lap, and clasped a hand on Mingi's shoulder. “This is surreal. Does it feel surreal?”

Mingi's lips pulled into a smile as nostalgia made his vision cloudy. “It does, every single time. I'm glad you're finally here—we’re all very happy that you're here now.”

You bumped your head against his shoulder and let it rest there for a moment, and his hand came up to gently pat your head to tell you he understood. You didn't need to say anything.

For the next hour and a half, you and Mingi got to watch Yunho and everyone else run through the last of the day's lighting checks. Periodically, someone else from Yunho's personal team would come and sit with the two of you, then leave quickly when they had something else on their to-do list.

At last, when the session wrapped up and everyone was sent to go home for an early night, you rushed down to meet with Yunho again.

He waited for you to be at his side before leading you down toward backstage. “There's a couple things I need to grab in my dressing room before we can head back to the hotel.” A thought suddenly interrupted his thoughts and his eyes widened. “Do you have accommodations? Please tell me you do.”

“Don't worry—I promise I'm not sleeping on the streets,” you teased. You'd figured all of that out pretty last minute with Hongjoong and Mingi's help.

Yunho nodded, a smile coming to his face. “Okay, good. I was gonna offer my room and I could sleep on the pullout couch.”

The thought of sleeping in the same room as him made your skin warm, and if you hadn't realized your feelings for him before, you would be confused as to why you were so flustered at the thought now. It wouldn't be the first time you had a sleepover. But this would be… different. Oh lord.

The backstage hallways were scarce and dimly lit in order to save energy, but it was enough to guide you and Yunho's way to the star dressing room. You swallowed as you reached the door—the facade plastered with a pretty, gold star with his name on it—and followed him inside.

“Hey, Yun?” You asked him as you lingered by the door and he rushed around to grab his things. The room was decently spacious, and definitely larger than all the other ones from his past tours.

“Mhm?”

“Could we… talk about something?”

He glanced back over his shoulder as he threw things into his bag. “Yeah, ‘course.”

You toed at the polished ground, fingers twisting and wringing in front of you. “It’s about the song. The, uhm, the your space one.”

His movements paused. He looked up and connected gazes with you through the vanity mirror in front of him. Yunho cleared his throat and ducked his head to zip up his bag. “What—what about it?” He asked, shouldering his bag and meeting you back at the door.

He seemed unable to look you in the eyes directly now as he closed the door behind the both of you as you stepped out into the empty hallway.

“I just,” you stammered. Blood rushed up to your face and you could hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears. “I needed to know—I didn’t need to know—it’s your life and your song, and you have every right to have feelings for someone without me knowing. And I think I’m asking this for selfish reasons, but… are you seeing someone?”

The question caught him off guard, his eyes blowing wide open. “Wh—no. No, I am not seeing anyone. Why do you ask?”

“The song—I know I shouldn’t be indulging in what people on the internet say, much less in the opinions of those who don’t even know you, but I couldn’t help but agree with them when they say the lyrics, the—the feeling of the song—you’re in love, and I—” Your breath caught in your throat as you choked on the words lodged there: And I am in love with you.

Yunho pushed an exhale out of his mouth and stepped toward you. So much shone in his eyes right then, and it didn’t matter how much light there was in this damn hallway, his eyes would always glitter like twin diamonds. “I am in love with someone. Yn, I’m in love with you,” he said. “I thought that the song would make it obvious, which is why I was so scared for you to hear it, but I realize now that this was just something I should have said outright.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest and it wasn’t from the nerves anymore. God, your knees felt like buckling from the force of the tenderness in his eyes alone. “You’re—you’re in love with me?”

“I am,” he nodded. He slowly reached for your hands and clasped them within his own. “I’ve been in love with you since that day you ran out of Science Olympiad practice to come to my audition; I’ve been in love with you from the moment you yelled at me for not being ambidextrous and I had beef jerky in my mouth—”

“I did not yell at you!”

He broke out into a cheeky, yet fond grin, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face with his hand. “I’ve been in love with you for so long that I can’t imagine what life was like before I was in love with you—and yes, you did yell, but you can yell at me as much as you like, and I would still be head-over-heels for you.”

Your lip curled in on itself at all of his words, at everything he was revealing to you now. You wished you had known—oh, god, you wish you had known. You didn’t know if things would have been different, but for some reason, you had a feeling that all paths might have led here nonetheless.

You squeezed his hand between your own now. “You’re everything to me, Jeong Yunho,” you rasped out, unable to put strength behind your voice for fear of all of the emotion about to spill out. “And I’m so stupid for taking so long to figure it all out, but I’m in love with you, too, and I’d be damned if I let another day pass without you knowing that.”

Something washed over him in that moment, and he laughed, leaning over to cup the back of your neck and rest his forehead against your own. It was ridiculous, the fact that both of you were giggling and smiling at such a precipice of emotion, but it felt right.

You could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips as he murmured, “Fuck, I wanna kiss you so bad.”

“Then come kiss me, rockstar,” you said, looping your arms around his neck. You drew him down to your mouth and felt his body mold against your own. Every crevice and curve slotted so perfectly with one another, and the heavy longing in your chest slowly eased.

“You guys have been incredible for me tonight—” Yunho beamed as he walked toward the front, center stage and looped the electric guitar strap over his head to the sound of the roaring crowd, “—so I've got a little surprise for you.”

One of the staff members had set out a mic stand and bottle water for him, and he approached both items to fit the microphone into place. Tonight was the Friday night concert being held in this city, and the energy was dialed to one thousand in all the best ways.

He held onto the microphone with one hand. “This song is dedicated to—written for—my best friend in the world, the love of my life, my stargirl. I'm sure you know it—you crazies debuted it at number two on the charts—this is your space.”

His smile tugged up wider at the reaction he received. If anyone in the crowd didn't know the song, they were about to fall in love.

Yunho laughed, shaking his head, as he began checking to make sure his guitar was tuned with practiced, nimble fingers. “Oh, by the way—” he pointed up at the accessory he wore, the crocheted headband holding his hair up and out of his face, with a row of stars across its band, “—she made this for me. Isn't it cute?”

The stadium echoed in choruses of “aw” and cheers.

He could only duck his head with a smile, eyes twinkling with fondness and tenderness at the thought of you. You were in the crowd, but you could be up here with him in spirit. “Yeah, that was me, too.”

After you and Yunho left the stadium yesterday, hands intertwined and a new page in your relationship turned, you’d gone back to his hotel to share a restful evening in one another’s presences. You revealed later that night that you spent the four or five days you were bedridden practicing your crocheting skills until you were able to make him a headband. A row of three stars studded the length of it—stars for your rockstar.

Yunho struck his fingers down the strings of his guitar with a gentle rocking motion from his opposite hand to let the sound reverberate around the stadium. The crowd cried in love as his soulful, beautiful voice filled their ears with love of his own. And as his fans filed out of the stadium for the night and headed home, Yunho could finally return to his home. Because you were here now… no matter how far, no matter the distance, the two of you would always find a way to be in the other's space.

a/n: pls remember to reblog, comment, and send asks if you enjoyed!

atz m.list

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