#testing testing is this thing on 🎵

[yoyle-the-gathering]

autism is crazy. when i see two of my special interests collide serendipitously i get heart palpitations from joy

[studioeisa]

keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH. 

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do. 

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents. 

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.” 

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall. 

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother. 

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE. 

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life. 

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.” 

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs. 

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort. 

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech. 

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles. 

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?” 

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on. 

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.” 

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats. 

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu. 

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was. 

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy. 

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu. 

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off. 

The feeling was most definitely mutual. 

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply. 

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol. 

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together? 

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding. 

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does. 

He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh. 

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills. 

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle. 

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR. 

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators. 

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax. 

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face. 

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff. 

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him. 

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though. 

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again. 

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine. 

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic. 

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back. 

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude. 

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way. 

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation. 

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT. 

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you. 

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it. 

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight. 

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself. 

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him. 

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights. 

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt. 

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend. 

It takes him all of three minutes to find you. 

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried. 

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick. 

He hates it. He hates you. 

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too. 

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump. 

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling. 

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most. 

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news. 

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you. 

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone. 

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—” 

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow. 

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?” 

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple. 

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you. 

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?” 

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same. 

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.” 

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this. 

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself. 

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth. 

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true. 

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’. 

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other. 

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement. 

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you— 

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger. 

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away. 

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss. 

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves. 

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car. 

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further. 

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.” 

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it. 

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle. 

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—” 

“I didn’t ask you to—” 

“Your mother asked me to—” 

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together. 

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.” 

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up. 

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night. 

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly. 

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—” 

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat. 

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago. 

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips. 

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground. 

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car. 

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER. 

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber. 

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab. 

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later. 

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. 

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible. 

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing. 

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME. 

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section. 

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time. 

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.” 

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.” 

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job. 

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen. 

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory. 

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes? 

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing? 

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s. 

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo. 

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires. 

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell. 

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you. 

(In the other side of the mall—) 

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP. 

You love shopping. 

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders. 

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it. 

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. 

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in. 

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching. 

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today. 

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage. 

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches. 

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. 

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night. 

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here. 

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION. 

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive. 

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered. 

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor. 

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it. 

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer. 

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks. 

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in. 

The moment is bizarre. 

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours. 

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit. 

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it. 

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor. 

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH. 

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching. 

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges. 

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team. 

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying. 

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough. 

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed. 

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.” 

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic. 

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon. 

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON. 

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately. 

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head. 

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you? 

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air. 

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you. 

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly. 

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs. 

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead— 

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful. 

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful. 

You hate it. 

You hate him. 

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players. 

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too. 

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option. 

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that. 

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse. 

He had pretended not to. 

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.” 

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut. 

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? 

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out. 

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant. 

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit. 

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away. 

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word. 

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause. 

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called. 

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE. 

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days. 

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority. 

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest.  “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump. 

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing. 

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess. 

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate. 

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told. 

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel. 

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have. 

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked. 

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING. 

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes. 

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it. 

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return. 

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole. 

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach. 

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating? 

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you���re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition. 

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted. 

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again. 

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead. 

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song. 

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?” 

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.” 

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas. 

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces. 

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered. 

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage. 

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women. 

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged. 

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like— 

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE. 

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is. 

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him. 

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom. 

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now. 

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter. 

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off. 

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself. 

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it. 

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE. 

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty. 

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated. 

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people— 

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim. 

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu���s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him— 

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter. 

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging 

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back. 

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe. 

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound. 

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.” 

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid. 

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.  

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.” 

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you. 

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.” 

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything. 

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—” 

“Let’s not go there.” 

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips. 

You take a deep breath, and then you follow. 

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes. 

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly? 

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red. 

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly. 

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’. 

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it. 

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant. 

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?” 

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet. 

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended? 

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung. 

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest. 

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—” 

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is. 

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen. 

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you. 

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels. 

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe. 

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night. 

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer. 

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years. 

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that. 

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there. 

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life. 

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE. 

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering. 

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask. 

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved. 

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it. 

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection. 

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking. 

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out. 

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now. 

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win. 

No. This is a game you no longer have to play. 

You lace your fingers through his. 

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

[jasminebythebay]

follow the travelers 🎵

Now available as a print!: https://jasminebythebay.etsy.com/listing/1863361575

Progress Shots below cut:

I started this piece shortly after I got home from LBX where one of the pieces of feedback I got was to take more time planning my piece and to not get attached to one composition before you've had the chance to try a few iterations of the idea.

So I really, really took my time working out a few drafts before I settled on the one that eventually became this piece and dear god that took so long. I spent nearly 2 weeks on JUST drafts. I normally only spend 2 days max planning a piece and that usually just involves moving things around and resizing things to try and get a good composition. This time I completely nuked my sketches (not actually, just hid them so I had a blank canvas) and tried completely different compositions. I also (for once) did some color tests before starting my final piece (my color composition can still use some work fkdslkfs). But also, this concept was just very difficult to execute because I really, really wanted to include music in the piece because it was my favorite part of the game, but it's also really, really difficult to work it into the piece in a way that looks good.

All in all, a good exercise and I'm pretty happy with how the piece came out! With time I will eventually make a habit of spending more time on the planning stage of my illustrations rather than just plowing through the first idea I have hehe

[cuteandhughesy]

Couldn’t Make It Any Harder╰┈➤ LD29

summary: you and leon draisaitl hate each other. point blank period. your best friend, lauren and her fiancé—as well as leon's teammate—connor are sick of it. they conjure up a plan that ends with you and leon sharing a rather passionate kiss. after that, you can't tell how much you and leon actually hate one another, but with lauren and connor’s wedding coming up, you both have no choice but to try and get along.

[word count] 18.9k

warnings: NSFW! enemies to lovers | bickering | angst with a happy ending | kissing | drinking | overall petty behaviour | reader deals with unwanted advances in a bar | leon punched a guy and there’s blood | smut | oral (f receiving) unprotected p in v intercourse | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: i’ve been saving this idea for the right player and as soon as my brain put leon with this plot….it was a done fucking deal. i’m so obsessed with this idea, and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as me ❤️‍🔥

🎵 couldn’t make it any harder by sabrina carpenter, you're so vain by carly simon, don't leave by snakeships, haunted by beyoncé, false god by taylor swift, + no i'm not in love by tate mcrae

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the crunch of the nut between your teeth echos through your skull, the slightly sweet taste accompanied by the perfect salty aftertaste wrapping around your tongue and attacking your tastebuds. you chew the beer nut slowly, like you're savouring each one you toss in your mouth like it's a game.

after all, it is a game. maybe not the actual eating part, but the part where you keep your eyes trained across the dimly lit bar, gaze never filtering from his as he too tosses individual beer nuts in his mouth.

you're waiting patiently for him to crack—pull a disgusted face, which inevitably he will do. because leon draisital hates beer nuts almost as much as he hates you. you know leon's distaste for the bar snack only because you heard him say the very first time you met 4 years ago, ironically in a bar.

your friend, lauren insisted that you had to meet her boyfriend's teammate—the infamous leon draisaitl. you let her drag you out to a local edmonton bar, one that was too dark and smelt like leather. you let her hype leon up like he was a trophy—like he was going to be your new best friend. but leon was not a trophy. he was pissed off, and when you smiled at him, he scowled in response. and when you tried to give him a handful of beer nuts as a piece offering, leon said; 'I fucking hate those things.'

you tried to chalk it up to a bad night, or maybe even a shitty week. but as months passed, leon never changed. he hated you. if he wasn't completely avoiding eye contact with you, he'd roll his eyes. if you were in the same room, he'd make sure he was across it and far away from you. if leon was anywhere near you, he'd make sure you knew he didn't want to be there. so in return, you decided you hate him more. and oh god, as the years have gone by has that hatred brewed and constricted into an endless loathing and bickering cycle.

slowly, you grab another beer but between your red painted finger nails—red because it's leon's least favourite colour—and bring it up to your lips. you let it rest there for a moment, testing him. is he going to do the same thing? is leon going to play the copy game? just as slow as you, leon reaches into his own jar of beer nuts on the other side of the bar, his much larger fingers bring a single nut up to his lips.

your lips part, and you toss the nut into your mouth. leon does the exact same. you chew as slow as you can once more, savouring the combined flavours because that means leon has to do the same, and you know it must be torture.

and that makes you smile.

just when you think you're going to have to repeat the whole process, there's the smallest pull of disgust across leon's face, and he takes a large gulp of his beer to wash down the nut.

your grin smugly, and without breaking eye contact, you raise the entire jar of beer nuts to your mouth and down the entire thing. you chew happily, and then look away with a satisfying feeling low in your belly.

you spin off the bar stool, fully intending to slink through the crowd until you find one of your friends and then force them to dance with you to take your mind of the german red flag across the bar. but as soon as you spin, you're meeting the eyes of lauren soon to be mcdavid—also known as your best friend.

you jump, a hushed curse passing through your lips as you clutch your thumping heart.

"what are you eating?" lauren asks like she didn't just send your stomach down to your ass. her blue eyes dart over your shoulder to briefly look at the empty jar before she curiously looks back at you.

you're still chewing the mouthful of beer nuts you just shoved in your mouth like a deranged chipmunk. "beer nuts." you say, although it sounds more like deer guts through your full mouth.

but lauren hears you perfectly fine. "beer nuts?" she asks, "seriously? are you and leon playing that stupid game again?" the words beer and nut combined together never fails to send a shiver through your best friends spine—mostly because she knows their tied to leon and your hatred for one another. and then when she remembers that her best friend and her fiances best friend hate each other, she gets another shiver and the whole thing repeats itself.

you swallow the remainder of food roughly, "it's not a game to me," you huff ludicrously, "he's the childish one that feels the need to copy every single move I make—"

"alright," lauren sighs, cutting off the ramble that was surely about to happen, "I get it. i've heard it enough times now, I think I could recite it for you—I'll save you the breath." her tone isn't serious, but you know your and leon's hatred upsets her.

you sigh softly, falling back against the backrest of the bar stool. lauren slips into the empty seat beside you, flagging down one of the bartenders and ordering herself another sex on the beach. once she's done, she turns to look at you. "are you guys going to be able to get along for the wedding?"

the wedding in question is her own—a wedding in which both you and leon where apart of. as much as you love your best friend, and you're looking forward to the royal wedding of the hockey community, you've also been dreading this summer for the exact same reason. and that reason being having to be apart of the same wedding party as leon fucking draisaitl.

your eyes dart back across the bar, and you find that leon is already looking in your direction. he's not alone now, connor and one of connor's childhood friends are sitting with him—chatting and laughing like they have no care in the world. once your eyes meet, leon looks away.

you roll your eyes before looking back at lauren. "if there's no beer nuts there, everything should be hunky dory."

the dig at leon doesn't go unnoticed by her, and lauren sighs again. "y/n, i'm being serious." her and connor's wedding is just under two weeks away, and she honestly didn't think she'd still be dealing with the bickering between you and leon—but here she is, stepping on eggshells around you both.

you frown and run a hand through your bouncy hair. guilt laces through you, "you're right, i'm sorry. I know it's important to you, and i'm trying my best but god, he just...frustrates me so much." you laugh like it's a joke, scratching at your arms as if you're trying to crawl out your body. "I feel like my body is on fire when he's around."

lauren nods emphatically, leaning against the side of your body like she's giving you a hug without arms. "I know it's hard but please, just try. for me."

lauren was one of those girls who has been planning her wedding since she came out the womb. when she was 10 she already had one of those scrapbooks that detailed everything she wanted included on her big day. she's been planning the entire wedding without a planner simply because she wants to. that combined with her clothing brand, you know lauren has enough stress on her plate without having to worry about you war with the german superstar.

that's also a reason you told her not to worry about your birthday that falls in a few days because you knew she had enough to worry about, and planning your party like she does every year needs to be the least of her worries. but you caught her ordering custom balloons two days ago, and you knew you shouldn't attempt to stop her. once lauren has her mind set on something, it's hard to change it.

reluctantly you nod, and a slow smile begins pulling at your lips. your wrap your arms around your small blonde friend, resting your cheek on the top of her head. "of course. i'll be good."

even though leon is the problem, your brain reminds you rudely. you ignore it though, because that's the last thing you should say to her right now.

you feel lauren relax in your arms, but not completely which makes you a bit anxious and feel even more guilty. "thank you." she pulls away, grabbing at your hands and pulling you both off the bar.

the tender slides her drink on the bar top, which connor had already paid for (praise that nhl money), and lauren downs the entire thing instantly. "let's go dance—this is my jam!"

"usher is your jam?" you laugh curiously, letting her bring you out into the heart of the dance floor.

she nods like it's obvious. "oh yeah," lauren's sarcasm is clear, "scream is actually going to be my first dance song."

you cackle your usual loud laugh, falling into lauren's arms as you both dance along to the upbeat bass. "you're such loser!"

"I know!" she smiles, spinning around so fast that her hair smacks your face. "but you love me!"

hours later, after connor has ordered you an uber and sent you home, him and lauren slide into their own. he can tell something is weighing on his fiancés mind by the silence lingering between them, gnawing on the skin of her thumb which she only does when she's anxious.

"hey," connor starts softly, "what's wrong, babe?"

his question is the final nail in the coffin, and immediately lauren is whining, falling against his shoulder dramatically. "what are we going to do?"

"what?" he questions, wildly confused. connor slips his fingers through lauren's straight hair, twisting the strands around his index finger to create little ringlets.

she huffs. "about leon and y/n."

connor's hand stills in her hair. "what about them?"

"connor, seriously?" lauren stresses, sitting back up straight as she turns to look at her fiancé like he just suggested they should call off the wedding. "they hate each other."

"they don't actually." connor laughs, pulling her back into his side. lauren goes easily, but her shoulders are still tense.

"they do." she whines again, "and i'm scared it's going to ruin our wedding. I know y/n, she'd never do anything to hurt me on purpose, but leon brings out this side of her and she just looses control." lauren's bottom lip wobbles as she finishes, and connor spots it immediately.

"hey, it's okay." he whispers, kissing her head. "why don't we like...stuff them in a room and make them sort out there differences. leave them for an hour or two and let them figure it out." connor laughs like it's funny, because for the most part his suggestion was a joke.

but lauren freezes, blinking at connor as she registers the idea. slowly, her lips turn up in a smirk. "actually, that's a great idea."

—

"hey!" lauren's cheery voice automatically makes you suspicious. this close to the wedding and a more than chipper tone is the recipe for disaster. she continues, her voice grainy through your phones speaker. "can you do me a huuuuggggee favour?"

there it is. you laugh gently, sitting up from your previously slouched position on your rather uncomfortable love seat, pushing the fraying knit blanket off your legs. "what's up?"

you can hear her smile through the phone.  "okay so i'm totally running late at my hair appointment, and I have the wedding chef coming over in 20 for some menu items for the rehearsal dinner, but i'm not going to be there."

your brow quirks curiously. "okay? what do you need from me?"

"I need you to just be there and make sure he gets settled," lauren says, "I'd ask connor but he's on the other side of town. i'll be there as fast as I can. If you could do this for me you'd be the best bridesmaid ever."

"alright," you chime easily, getting of the leather cushions underneath you. "i'll head over now."

"perfect," she says, sounding suspiciously smug. "you know the code! I can't thank you enough, this will be great."

your brows pull tightly and create a dimple in the middle of your forehead. before you can ask her why she's acting so weird, lauren rushes a goodbye and the line goes dead. you blink in surprise, chalking up her behaviour to pre-wedding jitters.

you toe one some flimsy sandals before grabbing your keys and sunglasses, making your way down to the lobby of your apartment building.

the air is warm, and smells like summer. you drive with the windows down for the entire ride to lauren and connor's condo, the air whipping through your hair and warming your skin.

once you arrive at her place, lenny greats you excitedly, tiny yips leaving his wiggling body as he licks your exposed skin—no doubt getting a salty taste of your fake tan. "hey buddy," you greet just as happily, baby voice in full affect, "I missed you my boy."

your phone pings with a text from lauren, 'I've got some menu samples in my beside table. can you grab them once you're there."

you respond quickly and then put your belongings on the crispy clean kitchen island—lenny at your feet as you move. he almost trips you twice, but he's so oblivious and happy with his tongue half way out his mouth, that you don't even care.

you quickly make your way down to her bedroom, pushing open the door and padding inside the carpeted room. you stifle through her beside table, but the only thing you find is a tangled pair of headphones, random hair ties and way too many sleeping masks.

you frown, but figured lauren just misspoke. you round the end of the bed and to connor's nightstand. like you expected, connor's nightstand is freakishly organized. everything has its own compartment—even the condoms for fucks sake.

behind you, lenny's ears perk up and just as quickly he springs out the room, leaving you alone and more than anything, confused. where are the damn menu samples? you scan the room quickly, hands on your hips as you try and think of where your best friend would stick them. the sound of socked feet approaching have you spinning to face the door. lenny bounds back in first, and then leon appears.

"what are you doing here?" he asks, face nothing but taken back.

you cross your arms, "what are you doing here?"

"I asked you first."

"you're so annoying, oh my god," you groan dramatically, and it makes lenny bark before he's running back out the room. soon enough, you think, you'll be following him. you continue, "i'm helping lauren. she needs me to get some menu samples and then wait for the chef."

leon chuckles like he's in on some joke you've been left out of, his hands tucked causally into the front pockets of his jeans. you grimace at the sight because it's way to hot out to have your legs fully covered. "well I'm here to do the exact same thing. except connor asked me."

you scoff. "lauren said he's on the other side of town and can't be here. that's why she sent me."

"funny," leon scoffs a laugh, "because connor said the same thing about lauren—hence why i'm here."

you drops your arms to your sides ludicrously, looking at leon with the upmost displeasure on your face. "okay, well clearly someone fucked up—you, most likely," you pause and leon rolls

his eyes. "but let's just find these menus so that we can both leave. I don't want to be in a confined space with you for any longer than necessary."

"awh, you're so sweet." leon says, voice dropping with venom and sarcasm. he walks further into the room, movements casual as he brushes straight past you, his bare bicep bumping your shoulder. "you can't find the menu's?"

"no," you stress, following him as he makes his way to connor's beside table. "and I already checked in there."

leon checks anyways and that has you rolling your eyes. "okay, well you're awful at looking for things, so double checking is necessary."

"double checking is necessary," you mock, voice all high pitched an annoying.

he sends you a look over his broad shoulder, "are you done?"

you don't answer, turning on your heels and walking over to the built in book cases that line the entire wall. the shelves they're packed, mostly with aesthetic looking pieces that are so shiny and white they make your head hurt. you begin poking through the collection of books, searching for the menu samples—huffing quietly to yourself anytime you remember that leon is also in the room.

he makes his way over to the book shelves as well, opting to look through the case on the opposite side of the open door. he is still too close for your liking, but you're not going to start that argument. you can't see him past the door, and you can only hear him mutter curse words to himself as his search is unsuccessful.

"why don't you just text lauren and ask her?"

you scoff, "why don't you just text connor?"

"my phones in the car."

"and mines in the kitchen."

"are you seriously that lazy that you can’t go down the hall and get your phone?" he asks incredulously, looking at you over the edge of the door, book shelf long forgotten.

you laugh. "of course not! I just don't feel the need when we can just look ourselves."

leon goes to take a step towards you, because he knows that you’re not looking properly through the books on that side, and he bumps the door, sending it to shut with a dull thud.

your breath hitches as the code system stares back at you. "you better know the code for that."

"why would I know the code?" his eyes find yours, looking at you like you've just suggested world war 3.

you try to open the door, but much to you dismay it's locked. you're locked in a room with leon draisaitl. "no," you whine, jiggling the handle more aggressively in hopes it decides to magically unlock. obviously, it doesn't.

"jesus," he huffs, "relax."

"oh, i'm sorry!" you look at him wildly, "i'm just a little bit upset about being trapped in a room with the spawn of satan—my apologies for trying to get out."

"spawn of satan?" he repeats, words laced with what you're pretty sure is amusement. it makes your blood boil. "don't call yourself that, y/n."

"you must have a death wish."

"oh, I must."

you squint pointedly, lips twitching in a frown. "whatever." you mumble dismissively, turning heel and making your way back to the perfectly made bed in the middle of the room.

leon watches as you sit down on the corner of the mattress, bringing your feet up and resting your arches on the frame of the bed. you're not wearing socks, and your toenails are painted navy blue. he notes that you must've worn some sort of flip flop.

you catch his eyes and scowl. "what?"

"should you really be sitting on their bed? rubbing your feet all over a frame that probably costs more than your monthly salary."

"would you prefer I do jumping jacks?" you question even though you're not wanting an answer. "hate to break it to you draisaitl, but this isn't the first time i've been in this room. or on this bed."

leon snickers, walking towards you. "right, yes I forgot that lauren is cursed with spending time with you."

you roll your eyes and don't say anything.

he continues. "they'll be here soon."

"not soon enough."

this time it's leon who doesn't respond to your condescending comment, but instead slumping down in the sherpa oversized chair in the corner of the room. he picks up one of the table books, some kind of chanel picture one, and begins flipping through the pages.

everytime he flips the page, much louder than necessary, you sigh in exasperation—which only eggs him on.

5 minutes later you hear two sets of feet padding down the hall, and your eyes widen, shooting off the bed so fast that you almost trip over your own feet.

"y/n?" the muffled voice of lauren calls curiously on the other side of the bedroom door. "leon?"

"we're in here." you say, jiggling the handle again for good measure.

"how'd this happen?" connor is the one asking, his voice laced with what can only be described as amusement.

leon joins you at the door. "the door shut obviously."

"no," you correct quickly, "leon's clumsy, big body knocked into it. trapping us." you stress wildly, eyeing the man in question with displeasure.

his brows raise in faux excitement. "you think i'm big?"

your eyes roll again—you won’t be surprised if they get stuck on the next round. you turn your attention back to the closed door, "guys, what's the code so we can get out."

neither lauren or connor answer. your brows pull, arms crossing roughly across your flowing summer top. you can hear their hushed whispers through the door, which only raises your and leon's suspicion.

finally, lauren says, "actually, I think you guys should stay in there."

leon blinks hard. "what?"

"yeah, sorry repeat that, I don't think I heard you right. because it sounded like you want us to be stuck in here together." you add, body feeling hot and itchy as the situation comes to light. or maybe it's just because leon's standing close enough that is cologne is all you can smell—practically choking you at this point.

connor's sighs, "you guys need to work it out."

your eyes flutter in disbelief, and you take a step closer to the door like it's going to change something. "okay, how about we do that somewhere else?"

leon hums in agreement which makes you scowl.

"no." lauren huffs, her voice determined. and you know, like usual, once she has her mind set, she's not going to change it. "in our room. with no escape."

after their conversation in the uber a few days ago, lauren and connor decided that yes, they were actually going to get you and leon together and force you to reconcile. it was actually connor who said they should separately tell you that they needed help with the chef and the menu samples, and then while you were distracted trying to find them—which were actually in the kitchen, not the bedroom—they would shut you in the apartment.

so when they showed up, ready to shut the front door that's unlock didn't work if it was locked from the outside, they were surprised to find neither of you in sight. thanks to their coded bedroom, you'd been already trapped.

to which they say, tomato tamoto.

"this is ridiculous." leon huffs in annoyance, reaching out to tug on the brass door handle. the action annoys you, even though you were close to doing the same.

lauren laughs like it's a joke. "no what's ridiculous is ruining a wedding because you two can't stop lunging for each others necks." her voice is firm, definitive as she continues, "so you have an hour and by then you better be friends. or friendly. whatever."

"you can't serious." leon's laughing is laced with disbelief, not even sparing you a glance as he stares down the wood paneling of the bedroom door.

"deadly." she says, "see you guys in an hour. we're gunna run some errands." her voice slowly begins to fade, walking away and leaving you.

"I thought that’s what you were just doing," you call out.

"we lied."

soon enough you and leon are enveloped in the silence, and once lenny's little nails click down the hall, you are left completely alone.

you exhale a scoff, turning away and practically stomp back to the bed. leon watches you move with an unreadable expression, but you’re too busy throwing yourself down onto the bed to notice.

the blankets puffs around you. its own of those feathered ones that poke you once it starts getting wear and tear, and that makes you more annoyed that it should. but you chalk that up to already being baffled by being trapped in your best friends bedroom.

leon's voice breaks through the quiet room, "well now what?"

you sigh, sliding up onto your elbows to send him an unimpressed look. "don't you know, leon? this is the part where we get out the tea set and play!" the faux smile on your face quickly drops as you finish, and that makes leon rolls his eyes with agitation.

"you're ridiculous."

you don't say anything and send him one more exaggerated grin. you flop back against the mattress. it's actually a heavenly bed besides the blanket, which thankfully hasn't poked you yet.

the first 30 minutes is nothing but silent. the only sounds coming from the air conditioning unit humming lowly through the vents and the blanket shuffling under your body as you squirm. you can't help it, the silence is eating you alive.

"can you stop moving so much?"

you make a show of moving even more as you sit up on the bed, shuffling down to the edge and letting your legs dangle over the end. "i'm a bit restless, you know being trapped in a room with nothing but you and your loud breathing."

leon's brows furrow. "I don't breathe loud."

"you do," you confirm, "it's fucking annoying."

"ah," he chimes, "like your sporadic limbs."

"that's a big word, leon. have you been studying the dictionary like the bore you are?"

he breathes a scoff, "you wish I was a bore, y/n. that way you wouldn't be so obsessed with me."

"obsessed with you," you repeat, laughing, "you are so full of yourself!"

leon stands up, and your face falls, watching him through hooded lids as his jaw ticks, eyes pointed in your direction. just when you think he's going to walk closer to you, he turns, looking through the bookshelves like he hasn't done that already.

you swallow roughly, staring the his back as he moves—slowly—reading the spines of designer books and hockey novels. his tight t-shirt is doing him all the favours, wrapping around his body in a perfect fit to display the muscles he's worked hard on. sometimes, you forget leon is an athlete rather than just your friends friend, and you’re always crudely reminded by his bulging biceps or his abs in the summertime as he lounges by the pool—seeing him like that is a rude awakening.

thinking about leon's abs, dripping with water while he lounges poolside has you feeling a bit funny, and you blink. hard. pulling yourself out of your own head. oddly enough, your mind trickles to lauren and the many times she's referred to abs as washboards.

you sigh gently. getting into a verbal ring with her finances best friend is the last thing she needs to be dealing with right now. a rush of guilt washes over you, and as not only her bridesmaid but her closest friend, you know you need to abide her wishes and figure your shit out.

"leon." you say his name firmly.

he looks at you over his shoulder, one of his eyebrows raised in question as he waits for you to continue.

"we have to stop fighting. for lauren."

leon turns his body completely, facing you. "you think I don't know that, y/n?"

you huff. "I never said that you didn't, leon. but this is my best friend's wedding."

"and mine."

"god, do you always have something snarky to say back?" you ask, exasperated. "this is exactly what we can't be doing. at least i'm trying, leon. ugh! you drive me insane.

his eyes widen slightly, taking a subconscious step closer to you. "and you think you're just some angel?"

you shake your head, shooting off the bed until you're standing—a subconscious attempt at trying to give yourself some leverage. "I think that you're stubborn and can't accept my ideas."

"and what 'Ideas' might those be?" he asks, mockingly.

"we need to pretend to get along," you pitch, voice still laced with venom and irritation. "if we can't get over this thing between us, then we have to fake it. you have to pretend like you can at least tolerate me—that you can stand to be in the same room as me without ripping me a new one."

his expression is unreadable, jaw tight and eyes unmoving as he looks down at you. then, slowly, his gaze changes. "you want me to act like you don't drive me insane?"

your face falls slightly at his tone—a tone that has a weird feeling bubbling low in your belly. you nod.

leon purses his lips, looking away from your face to take a deep, long inhale like he's trying to clam himself. it's making you feel woozy. he looks back at you, something like frustration clouding his expression. "you want me to just pretend that you don't make me want to argue every little thing you say? like everything little thing you do frustrates me in ways I cant explain?"

your lips part, searching for words that aren't there. the way leon is looking at you, with so much tension and frustration has you faltering. you've never been speechless in his presence, and leon knows that—he sees that—and takes the opportunity to continue.

"have I finally got you to shut your mouth? or do you want me to keep going?"

your breathe hitches, a wave of heat flushing over your summer tanned skin. the way his gaze is unwavering and so intense has your blood pumping so hard that the only thing you can hear is the heavy breathing between you.

"please," slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, the plea whiny and surprising to you—desperate.

leon exhales shakily, but the sound is just as desperate as the breath that gets caught in your throat. he lunges towards you, one hand sliding through your hair and tugging while the other finds the dip of your waist, dragging you against him as he kisses you.

his lips caress yours hungrily, sucking and licking along the plump flesh almost instantly. it's hurried and messy and intoxicating. both your your panting is combined, mixing with breathy groans and clashing of tongues and teeth. it's dirty and it's sure as hell needy.

and maybe it’s because you haven’t been with a man in years, or maybe it’s simply because you’re annoyed with the situation. but you want leon.

he grunts into your mouth, fisting your hair hard enough to illicit a whine from you. your hands, which were previously stationed over his torso, running over his shirt like a mad woman, slide into leon's hair, feeling his soft locks between your fingers—painted red nails scratching against his scalp.

his hands cascade down your body, wrapping around the backs of your thighs. before you can register what's happening, leon hauls you off the ground and drops you down against the feather filled duvet.

everything is hurried between you and leon, including the continuing kiss. his hands are running all over your body—up your thighs as he hovers over you, sliding under your summer top and feeling your soft, supple skin. and you're not any better, squeezing his arms and holding his face.

there's a burning tension between you, like there always is, expect now your irritation and frustration is channeled into a kiss—a hot, messy exchange that is leaving you so turned on.

leon's lips trail over your jaw, nipping and suckling along your skin like he can't get enough of your taste. you're withering against him, gasping as his lips travel down your neck, finding your pulse point and sucks.

the beeping sound echos through the room, barley audible over your panting and low moans, but you both hear it. the door is about to open. you pull away from one another at lightning speed, leon getting off the bed completely as he swallows thickly.

you run your hand through your messy hair just as the bedroom door opens, revealing a curious looking connor and a hesitant looking lauren. they're both eyeing you, but it's connor who speaks first. "so? can we count on you guys behaving?"

you blink before looking over at leon. but he's not looking at you, only at connor as he nods once—firmly. then leon walks out of the room, brushing past his teammate and fiancé without so much as a second glance at you.

you gulp, a million emotions clawing at your flushed chest.

lauren still looks unconvinced, raising one of her perfectly plucked brows in your direction—eyeing your slight pant and hazy eyes. "everything go okay."

"yeah," you nod, the smallest scoff leaving you. "and if it didn't, we can just pretend." the word feels like venom on your tongue. there's a part of you that thinks what just happened between you and leon was all pretend. a regretful moment that was nothing more than a source to channel pent up frustration and years of anger.

it meant nothing. leon still hates you. and you...don't know what the fuck just happened.

—

like you suspected, lauren throws you a birthday party. a surprise one at that, even though you knew exactly what was going on when connor texted you and asked you for help on picking out flowers for the rehearsal dinner.

bad distraction on his part, because lauren ordered the flowers for the rehearsal dinner two weeks ago while you were beside her. you went along anyways, and even acted surprised when everyone jumped out from different areas of the mcdavid/kyle condo.

lauren squeezes you tightly, "happy birthday!"

"thanks," you hug her back just as tightly, "I told you that you didn't need to do anything like this. I would've been happy with some wine and reruns of friends."

she rolls her eyes fondly, guiding you further into the crowded home. "I know you would've been, but I certainly wouldn't have." and that's the most lauren thing she could've said, and it makes your smile grow wide.

there's a lot of people here, you note. mostly mutual friends and connor's teammates and their significant others. it's decorated beautifully, with all your favourite picky foods laid out on the island and a makeshift bar along with it.

people greet you enthusiastically, wishing you a happy birthday as you make your rounds through the party, lauren at your side—who you're pretty sure is already halfway to hammered.

mikayla nurse gives you a bear hug, which she always does, and darnell follows suit. "happy birthday!" he says, pulling back and taking his original seat on one of the barstools against the stark white island. ryan nugent hopkins and his girl do the same, all of you flowing into easy conversation.

mikayla is in the middle of talking about something funny her oldest did before her and darnell left, when your body ignites. it's an odd feeling, but one you're used to at this point. subtly, your gaze shifts down the island and that's when you see him.

leon is leaning on the counter causally, fingers running along the neck of a beer bottle as zach hyman and him talk about whatever it is they're talking about—frankly, you don't care to know what their discussing.

you haven't seen or heard from leon since your kiss 3 days ago. you weren't expecting to feel so many emotions after getting kissed by your mortal enemy, but you are. you think it probably has to do with how he just up and left afterwards, like he couldn't give a fuck about you, which in hindsight he probably doesn't. he never has, your brain reminds you.

as if he can feel your state, his eyes flicker to yours. leon's expression changes, so subtle that it's almost unnoticeable. his fingers still on the beer bottle. you look away just as quick as you looked, turning your attention back to the group in front of you—nodding along like you know what they're in the middle of talking about.

you need a shot. or 6.

and shots you have. lauren is the one who starts it, like usual, insisting that the birthday girl needed a celebratory shot of tequila. then that turned into two, and then three and before you know it you can barley feel your limbs. you're loose, and happy and very much drunk.

it makes being in the same room as leon more tolerable for the mere fact that you keep forgetting he's there. it's only when he laughs too loudly, or someone says his name in your vicinity that you find yourself searching for him. not without immediately cursing yourself for it though.

it's nearing 2 in the morning when lauren grabs on to your arm, her expression hopeful and excited. "oh my god," she slurs, "we need to go swim."

you gasp with enthusiasm. "yes! oh my god, lauren I love you so much—what a good fucking Idea."

everyone has left by now. going home to their kids and going to sleep. the thought makes you feel a little down, because the only person you're going home to is damon fucking salvatore. ah, yes the old birthday depression moment. but thankfully lauren snaps you out of it, dragging you out of the apartment and down the hall to the rooftop.

the heavy metal door clicks open, revealing the blue light of the large pool. it smells so good—like summer—and you groan. "oh my god, yes!"

neither you or lauren bother stripping, and you jump into the pool fully clothed. the water splashes therapeutically as you are submerged under the warm water. it feels amazing, and you kick your legs until you're breaking through the surface.

lauren giggles, treading her hands over the waters surface. "it feels so good."

"I know," you agree quickly, eyes fluttering in bliss.

"lauren." connor's voice is stern, but there's a hint of amusement there that he only saves for his fiancé and her drunk shenanigans. "we're not supposed to be out here at night. let's go."

you didn't even notice he followed you guys out here and you blink in surprise—you also giggle, which has connor sending you a sharp look.

lauren makes a fart noise, but lets her fiancé help her out of the pool. water drips off her clothes like a waterfall, soaking the pavement under her feet. connor ushers her back to the door, saying something that you can't quite make out before leaving you alone.

the water is sobering you up a little, but you're still tipsy enough that everything feels like silk. you dip your head back, soaking your hair and covering the tips of your ears.

you're floating, listening to the muffled sounds of the city night life below. its peaceful, and you think you could stay out here forever. your eyes are only fluttering closed for a moment, and when you open them again you see leon.

he's watching you, hands on his hips from the side of the pool—looking anything but amused. you hadn't even noticed him come out, but you also didn't notice connor so that doesn't mean anything.

too drunk to be scared by his sudden appearance, you just laugh, swimming into an upright position and facing leon. your tank top is sticking to your skin uncomfortably, and if you were sober you'd probably be having a sensory overload.

"get out of the pool" his voice is demanding and unarguable.

you lazily shread water, blinking the pool sting out of your eyes. "why would I do what you ask me to?"

leon scoffs a half hearted laugh, looking away from you momentarily. when he meets your gaze again, you’re still grinning—a little up to no good smirk that has leon gulping. "don't be annoying," he says, "get out before something happens. like connor said, you're not supposed to be in here."

"oh wow is that a threat, mr. drasitail?" you laugh.

he tongues his cheek, "you're drunk."

you toe the rough side of the pool and gently kick off, sending yourself back floating through the water. "tipsy, but sure." leon's shoulder deflate in what's surely annoyance, and he runs a hand over his face. even drunk, you know you're being difficult, but you're not going to give up that easy. "you know, you can't annoy me today. it's my birthday."

leon licks his teeth slowly. he tries to keep his eyes off you and your completely see through tank top as you glide through the water, but he can't help himself, gaze flickering back to you. "I wouldn't have to annoy you if you'd just get out of the pool."

your shoulders drop. "you're such a buzz kill," you grumble, swimming to the edge of the pool once again, right in front of leon. your hands grip the edge, and you blink up at him with wet lashes. "can you at least help me out?"

he gulps, adam's apple bobbling under his stubbled skin. "legs broken or something?" he mumbles with something unknown lacing his tone—doubt, disbelief, want—as he looks into your wet eyes.

you ignore him, raising your palm in his direction and wiggling your fingers. for a moment the action sends you off balance, and you begin slipping backwards. leon’s eyes widen, twitching is if he's going to reach out and grab you, but you catch yourself before he can.

he huffs again, gaze darting between your hand and daring eyes. “don't leave me hanging on my birthday, leon,” you say.

"it's not your birthday anymore, y/n." leon deadpans after a moment.

you pout and he sighs, closing the distance between you and taking your slick palm in his. just before he pulls you out, you use the leverage to tug his arm down towards you, sending leon off balance and into the pool next to you with a loud splash.

he breaks the surface at record speed, looking at you with what can only be described as frustration. he splutters, wiping his face of chlorine scented water droplets. "seriously?"

you bite your tongue in an attempt to mask your growing smirk, "you looked hot."

"thanks," he mumbles playfully, shoulders dripping under the water as he treads.

"don't flatter yourself." you huff, momentarily stopping your own feet from treading water to nudge his leg under the surface.

a beat passes. the sounds of rippling water and heavy breathing the only things to be heard between you.

leon breaks the tension, voice gruff. "are you going to get out now?"

you shrug, and your chin dips under the surface. "are you not going to ask me how my birthday was?" ask comes out in a slur, and it makes leon's jaw tick.

"if I do will you get out of the pool?"

"yes." you grin softly, chin submerging once again.

"okay." he hums, looking very much unimpressed. "how was your birthday?"

your grin deepens, "it was good," you say, "got everything I could've ever asked for."

"mhmm," he hums, brow raised curiously, "and what did you ask for? one of those grow your own boyfriends?"

you laugh, the sound forced and very much sarcastic. "just a dart board with your face on it, actually."

he blows out some air, very amused, "ou good one." then like a child he shakes out his hair, water sliding off his strands and spraying you.

"hey!" you shout, turning your face away from the water attack.

"relax," he chimes, "you're not going to melt."

you look back at leon, a look of amused disbelief flashing over your features as your lip tugs upwards. "maybe I will. I am a witch after all."

leon hesitates, something he rarely does. he wants to look away, your wet lashes and pink lips too intense—too tempting—but he forces himself to to hold your unknowing gaze. "you're something."

your mouth parts, "you're something." you repeat, voice all high pitched and mocking as you splash some water in his direction, the small wave hitting his chin.

he licks onto his lower lip, watching your smile grow as you wait for his next move. just when you think you're not going to get a rise out of him, leon moves. he grabs your ankle under the water, so quick that it makes you squeal, and pulls you against his chest.

the laughter that had previously been bubbling up and past your lips comes to a sharp halt, and you’re left blinking in surprise as your body intertwines with leon's. you're both completely clothed, but it feels like your stark naked. the heat between you is implausible, chest heaving and breathes mingling.

his hand grips your knee firmly before he releases—but he’s not done. leon fingers skim up your thigh, so gentle that it's ticklish. you want to squirm, but you're too scared it will end the tension filled moment. his palm runs over your hip, feeling your soaked jean shorts under his palm.

your breath catches, the sound just gentle enough to reach leon's ears. his eyes dart to your wet, plump lips and he feels himself twitch. when his eyes meet yours again, you swallow, arms slowing down in the thread.

"are you going to kiss me and then leave again like nothing happened?" you don't have time to curse your drunk tongue, because leon answers almost instantly, voice surprisingly smooth and clear, but still deep enough to have your stomach swoop.

"you want me to do that?" he asks you, pushing some wet hair off your shoulder, further exposing your sun kissed, freckled skin.

you lick your bottom lip. "depends what part you're talking about."

his eyes dart back down to yours lips at the sight, watching as your tongue swipes along your lip. your faces are so close that the tips of your noses are almost brushing. you're practically panting, wrapped around leon like a koala as he threads water for the both of you.

you could be staring at each other for 20 minutes, or twenty seconds. you're unsure. time has gone completely still, slowing down like sticky molasses as you and leon exchange longing, needy stares.

your mouth opens, ready to beg him once again, but he unwraps you from his body, hands finding your hips and lifting you out of the pool. you blink, shock and confusion flashing on your face as leon sits you on the edge.

he doesn't look at you as he pulls himself out of the pool effortlessly, but you watch him. his biceps flex under his once light gray, soaked t-shirt, and if you weren't so overcome with frustration and confusion you'd be blushing.

he gets up on to his feet, "let's go, y/n." leon's tone leaves no room for argument, and he's already waking towards the heavy, metal door that leads back to the condo complex.

you scoff, getting up onto your own feet. "dick," you mumble to yourself, lips tugging down in a frown and gaze pointed as you watch leon's retreating figure.

you don't know if he hears your curse, but if he doesn't he doesn't turn around to dispute with you. you could be annoying, jump back in the pool and make him drown in his own frustration. but you don't. you're tired, shocked, angry and most of all, embarrassed.

—

"y/n!" lauren says your name happily, and tipsily, stumbling over to you through the party bus and practically falling into your lap. she smiles, thrusting a shot of some white liquor in your direction, "do this shot with me!"

you smile and that's when you notice she's got the same liquor in her shot glass—a gift from alannah hyman. it's milky white and says bride in script on the side in big, sparkly letters.

you take the shot from her, "are you trying to get me drunk before we even get there?"

she nudges it closer to your mouth, a giggle spilling past her painted lips. "well it is a wedding party! so yes."

fondly, your eyes roll which only makes lauren squawk. you send her a real smile before bringing the glass to your mouth and tipping it back, downing the shot of what you know know is vodka, in a huge gulp.

your grimace, body doing a funny little shiver as the liquor coats your throat and warms your skin. the air conditioning isn't a match for the humid july night, and you're practically dripping with sweat. actually, everyone on the bus is dripping with sweat, but most of them are already so tipsy that it doesn't matter.

when lauren told you in addition to separate bachelor and bachelorette parties she was going to throw a joint one, you were a little hesitant. I mean, you love your friend and will do anything to make her happy—so you bit your tongue—but the idea of having to spend even more time with leon has your blood curdling, especially after the whole pool indecent a few days ago.

once again, you haven't seen leon since the almost kiss in the pool, which has you feeling even more embarrassed than before. you're not sure what's been unlocked with leon, but since your actual kiss in lauren and connor's bedroom almost a week ago, there's been a funny feeling lingering in your head.

you're not sure what it is, or how it makes you feel. all you do know is that it makes you hot and nervous and angry all at once. so really, nothing has changed.

so today, you'd been feeling extremely anxious. you thought about reaching out to leon—having his number saved from many years of being in the same random group chats—but you decide against it. after all, he's clearly not interested in fixing the hostility between you, and you're not going to be some desperate, submissive girl who just backs down and lets him win. absolutely not.

when you were all piling onto the party bus, leon nowhere in sight, you couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement (and maybe a little disappointment, but you don't even admit that to yourself). when you casually asked connor about it in passing, he looked at pointedly, "he's got some shit he needs to figure out with his agent, so he's going to meet us there." 

you couldn't even hide your eye roll at that. you think the real reason he's not traveling on the party busy is because he probably just didn't want to get forced to dance on the stripper pole in the middle of the bus—he's so boring.

the bus comes to halt outside the bustling club, and everyone inside cheers. so loudly it makes your cringe a little, but you digress. lauren wraps her arm around yours, bringing you both off the bus and into the modern, sleek night club.

the music inside is instantly deafening, some kendrick lamar song that you've heard on the radio for three months straight. you're already feeling buzzed from the shot in the bus, and the one you did at connor and lauren's before your ride came.

"hey!" connor comes up behind you both, wrapping his arm around his fiancés waist as he speaks over the music. "we've got a table booked on the platform, so I'm gunna get up there."

lauren grins, placing a smacking kiss against the corner of his mouth. "okay," she shouts, "we're gunna dance."

he nods with one of those reserved-for-only-lauren grins before leaving you both, making his way through the crowd with the bachelor party.

lauren shakes your arm excitedly, "let's get a drink and then fucking dance, baby!"

you easily get lost in the feeling of the music and the warmth of the crowd. you and lauren dance together for what feels like hours, downing shots and sipping cocktails until way past the achy feeling starts in your feet. other girls from the bachelorette party join in, all of you screaming along to lyrics and dancing against one another like silly, drunk college kids.

leon walks into the club around 10, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to go home. for days he's been flustered and angry, brain scrambled with a mess of thoughts—working overtime and keeping him up at night. the meeting with his agent ended almost two hours ago, but he needed time to collect himself before joining the wedding party.

before seeing you.

connor's brother spots him first, calling his name in a sing song voice that instantly has leon peeking up, plastering on a smile as he climbs the stairs of the platform. the boys begin chatting his name like a group of seagulls, gathering the attention of many lingering bystanders in the night club—it makes leon shiver with discomfort. but thankfully, no one notices.

he's never been a fan of crowds, or attention, but being one of hockey's biggest stars quickly had him getting used to it. bars and clubs though, they will never be his thing.

someone thrusts a beer bottle in his hand, and he takes it greedily, popping off the cap before taking three large gulps. the foam coats his lips, dripping down his chin before he wipes it away.

the platform overlooks the face floor. it's secluded enough to feel private, but still open enough to not feel like you're missing out on the fun. leon finds himself looking through the crowd, beer bottle handing loosely in his grip as he searches.

it's not hard to find you, or any of the girls for that matter. you're all wearing variations of white and cream, which glows blue in the black lights scattered around the club. you're dancing against lauren, hands up in the air as you sway and sing along to some mainstream pop song leon has never heard.

you're covered in a sheer layer of sweat, making your tan skin glow. you look happy, and so tempting. as if you can feel his stare, your eyes find his. as they meet, your movements falter, and your face drops.

leon swallows roughly, pushing off the balcony and forcing himself to break eye contact. his blood feels like it's boiling, burning him from the inside out. he forces another mouthful of beer down, turning his attention back to some of connor's childhood buddies, easily sliding into their conversation.

your teeth clench as your eyes linger on the place leon was just stood, watching you with an unreadable expression. everything feels too constricting now, too warm. it feels like his eyes are still on you—even when you turn back to lauren and she starts doing a terrible rendition of the sprinkler. you can't shake him.

so when a large hand wraps around your waist, and an attractive man appears behind you, you don't stop him. he's not super tall, and his hair is so dark it's almost pure black. clean shaven, with soft hands and smelling like smoke and whiskey.

he's nothing like leon, and that makes you grin. you allow yourself to get wrapped up in the man, dancing with him like your life depends on it. his breathe is warm against your ear, "you're really sexy." his fingers dig into your arm, almost too roughly.

but you smile regardless, "you use that line on all the girls?"

"can't give away my secrets." he grins. his smile is nowhere as nice at leon's though. the man licks onto his bottom lip slowly, "wanna get out of here?"

you hum thoughtfully, looking around the crowded dance floor. when you meet mystery man's eyes, he's hopeful, and it makes you sigh regretfully. "sorry, i'm here with my friends."

"ah."

"yeah," you nod, "thanks for the dance but clearly we're not on the wavelength here. i'm gunna get back to them." you turn, but before you can disappear back into the heart of the dance floor, he grabs your arm.

leon is practically burning as he watches you dance with the short, finance looking bro from the platform. his teeth are aching from how hard he's clenching, and he's pretty sure the glass bottle is about to crack in his palm.

he's angry. he's in disbelief. he's fucking jealous. leon has never felt this level of jealousy before, and he's not even sure if that's what it actually is. it's a white hot fire stick, poking at his chest until he recoils.

you're laughing. and smiling. the guys hands low on your back and running over your hips. a few nights ago that was leon touching you there, and that only fuels his frustration. he watches the two of you talk, a hesitant look on your face that has his stomach dropping.

he stands up straighter, shoulders rigid. leon's scowling at the mystery guy, whispering in your ear as he says whatever shitty pickup line leon has no doubt the dudes used on multiple woman in this club.

then you start walking away, and relief begins to trickle in his bloodstream. unfortunately it doesn't last long, because when the guy reaches for you, grabbing you arm and tugging you back towards him, leon sees red.

you squeak at the feeling of the man's hand on your bicep, squeezing you hard enough that you can feel it in your bones.

"we can keep dancing," he tells you, firmly, "i'm not some dick who's going to act like getting rejected is a personal attack."

you tug your arm away, "i'm sorry, but i'm done dancing right now. it was nice meeting you."

the man's laugh makes you shiver unpleasantly. "you got a boyfriend or something? is that why you're acting like a-" his words are cut short as leon's fist flies, hitting him across the face in a quick, hard punch.

you gasp, a sickening crack echoing in your ears as his knuckles connects with the guys nose. he grabs it, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto his blue button up.

leon's not phased, flexing his fingers causally—like he didn't just punch a random guy in the face.

"oh my god," you shout, rushing forward to check on the guy and his obviously damaged face. the crowd stops all around you, whispering and pointing at the scene like it's a movie. your mouth opens, shocked, looking between the mystery guy and leon. "what the fuck!"

leon huffs, sending you a sharp glance before turning on his heels and pushing through the crowd. it feels like everyone is looking at him, judging him, and it has him feeling breathless. angrily, he shoves the doors of the nightclub open, stepping out onto the sidewalk and taking a deep breathe.

he rubs the back of his neck roughly, a curse leaving his lips. leon feels embarrassed about letting his emotions take control like that, but the anger seeing that guy grabbing you—pulling you—has his embarrassment fading away, replaced with fury.

the air feel nice, even though the july air is humid and thick, it's much better the the stuffy club. leon walks to the stone half wall that frames the greeny along the club, taking a seat on the lip with another rough sigh. he's only alone for about a minute before the club doors swing open, and you come storming out.

your eyes are wide—frantic even—searching the sidewalk until your eyes land on him. that's when your face falls, arms crossed defensively as you stare at him.

leon swallows, shrugging his shoulders. "is he hurt?" he asks, even though he already saw the answer.

"his nose is broken." you deadpan.

"good." he hums, checking his knuckles quickly. ones split, but he'll fix it later.

you laugh in disbelief, "good?"

"yeah," he confirms, eyes finding yours again. you've stepped closer in the time he was looking at his hand, and you look even angrier up close. "he shouldn't of touched you like that."

you shake your head. "I can handle myself."

leon snorts. "clearly not, y/n."

you make a scoffing noise, arms tightening further across the white dress wrapped tightly across your chest. "I was actually having a good time," you start, voice firm but tinged with something else, "but thanks to you, my night is ruined."

"I know you y/n," he deadpans, standing up from the wall, "your idea of a good time and his idea of a good time is vastly different. he was going to try something." leon walks closer to you, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.

the tone of his voice, so frustrated, has you shocked. the audacity of leon to be upset with you after he punched a poor guy in the face is beyond you. your arms uncross, falling against your hips with a smack. "and so what?" you question, "what's it matter to you? why do you care?"

your voice has gotten louder, more venomous. it makes leon laugh roughly, looking down you with cynicism. "why do I care?" he practically shouts, reaching out and almost touching your exposed shoulder. "you're..." leon stops himself, a gentle curse leaving him. he huffs loudly, running a hand down his face in a slow but rough way.

a moment passes. cars passing and honking down the street, club music vibrating the concrete below your heels. your eyes don’t leave leon's figure, which is practically vibrating with emotion.

you swallow, voice much more quiet when you say, "I'm what?"

"ungrateful." he grunts.

your lips pull into a frown as the bridge of your nose begins to string. "screw you." with one more furious look in his direction, you turn heel, shoes clicking on the pavement as you make your way back to the nightclub's entrance.

you're so angry. it's fuelling your blood stream and stopping your feet. your arms cross again, eyes pinched as you turn back around. you're not done with him yet. "do you ever think about things before opening your mouth?"

leon looks shocked momentarily, but he recovers quickly. he shoves his hands into his jean pockets, nodding slowly. "yes."

"oh really?" you ask, "like when?"

"I thought about not answering your question just now."

"oh grow up!"

"i'm grown."

"really?" you ask wildly, "is that why you punched a guy in the face?"

"a guy who deserved it!"

"for dancing with me?"

"for touching what's not his."

that has you faltering, leon's words hitting you like a slap to the face. he knows that what he just said was possessive—uncalled for. he has no right to say that to you, you're certainly not his to claim. it's the jealously getting the best of him and wanting to make you feel how he's feeling.

and it worked. guilt tickles your skin and pales your face, looking back at leon with a straight face. you feel like you've done something wrong by dancing with that guy—like you've done him wrong. "oh, okay then," you start, voice timid and so gentle that it has leon faltering. "who's am I? please enlighten me."

he knows he can't keep going down this route with you. he'll regret it.  leon takes a slow, deep breath, shaking his head. "i'm not playing this game."

that's rich, you think, considering he's the one who starts all these stupid games you find yourself unable to untangle yourself from. you can't help but laugh with false humor, "oh but you love games!"

"y/n," leon sighs tiredly, "stop."

connor comes bustling out of the club, and much like your expression and wandering eyes from 5 minutes ago, he's looking for leon just like you had. once he spots you in a stand off, leon's jaw tight and your eyes misty, he all but stomps up to the both of, face painted and livid. "are you guys seriously fighting? on top of everything else that happened tonight. I thought you guys stopped this fucking shit " he looks at you, still frustrated, "lauren is going to be pissed, y/n."

leon steps towards his friend calmly, despite his firm tone, "it's not y/n’s fault." he says definitively, a flash of protectiveness flashing over his face.

connor blinks, confused, looking between the pair of you. his jaw is tense, tendon popping under his beard as he tries to clam himself down. seeing his best friend punch a guy in the face for seemingly no reason, which obviously made his fiancé upset, combined with walking out and catching the two of you arguing when you'd already told lauren everything was squashed between you and leon, has connor spinning.

leon continues, "we're fine."

"are we?" you question, pettily.

connor shakes his head, a breathless laugh leaving him. the tension between the two of you is undeniable, and it doesn't matter what you say—you're arguing and leon's fight has ruined the night. "leon," he starts, eyeing his friend firmly, "you need to go. both of you. drive y/n home and while you're at it, make sure this shit between you gets sorted. for good."

"okay." leon nods after a tense moment, fishing his keys from his pocket and walking down the sidewalk. he glances back at you, "let's go, y/n." he doesn't sound angry anymore, but he is still very definitive with his tone.

it has you moving, following behind him timidly, arms crossed tightly and tears fall freely down your cheeks. the damage has been done. your drunk and tired. that combined with your argument, and connor's scolding has you feeling very guilty and emotional.

leon unlocks his porsche, the beep echoing through the back parking lot of the night club. it's the car he's always had ever since you've known him, and you always mockingly call it his, 'big fancy sports call', everytime you see it. yes, it's a porsche but not a sports model—leon never corrects you though.

but you stay silent behind him, the only sound coming from you is your shoes on the ground. it has leon pausing. he attempts to glance at you quickly—sneakily—but as he catches the sight of your glistening tears under the moonlight, everything shifts.

the sight makes him swallow down the immediate rising guilt and regret that threatens to make its way out of him, halting his movements by the passenger door of his car. you sniff, eyes downcast.

it sends a pang through his heart, sighing softly as he faces you fully. "come on."

your chin trembles and you shake your head. he watches as you dig through top of your dress, pulling out your phone from where it rested beside your boob. you begin thumbing the screen, unaware of how your boob is now practically spilling out of your dress, sitting perfectly plump and bulged in a way that makes leon shift.

"i'm ordering an uber," you mumble, blinking through tears as you try to navigate the uber app.

"no," leon breathes, opening the passenger door with an echoing click. "you're not getting in an uber while you're drunk and alone."

you roll your wet eyes. "connor would let me."

"i'm not connor."

you pause, eyes flickering up to meet leon's. he gestures to the open car, a pleading look in his gaze. not in the mood to fight any more, you sniffle, turning off your cell before dragging yourself to the passenger seat.

leon's shoulders slump in relief, moving to the side so you're able to get into his car properly. once you're seated, leon shuts the door and rounds the front to the driver's side, where he lets himself in.

you keep your eyes forward as he starts the car, letting the engine roar to life as he clicks his seatbelt into place. he glances at you gingerly, "put your seatbelt on."

you sigh but do so. once he hears the dull click of the buckle, leon releases a tension filled sigh, shifting the car into drive before slowly pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road.

you really wish you could stop crying, but controlling your emotions have never been your strong suit—fighting with leon for years because he didn't smile at you one time is enough proof of that. your quiet hiccups are heard throughout the car, too tired to attempt to mask them. your arms are crossed again, like you're trying to hug yourself. your chest shakes with every breath, inhale or exhale, as your continue to cry, eyes trained out the windshield.

you won't look at him. you can't look at him. you're embarrassed and still a little angry, and you've given leon enough of your range of emotions in the past week that he's probably sick of then by now—more than he normally is.

the car slows at a red light, the rumbling of the engine coming to a quiet hum as the car completely halts. leon taps the steering wheel with two fingers, licking his teeth as he glances at you. "why are you crying, y/n?"

his words bring another round of tears to your eyes. you huff, sniffling away your running nose. "because."

"just because?" leon pushes gently, eyes flickering back to the traffic light to check its status. still red. he looks back at you, bathed in the red glow. "c'mon, help me out a little bit here."

the sincerity of his voice makes you frown. in that moment you're in desperate need of an outlet, someone or something to talk to in hopes that your tears will stop. and right now, you don't care if that person is leon, especially with the way he's looking at you—despite his deadpanned expression, there's still a softness underneath it all.

you nod, as if you're convincing yourself to confide in him. with another sob and trembling breath, you say, "lauren is going to hate me now."

the lights changes to green, and leon blinks, turning away from you and shifting the car into drive. a moment passes before he sighs softly, shaking his head, "she's not going to hate you." he says, glancing at you quickly.

"i've ruined the night." you counter, bringing your knees up to your chest to cradle yourself. your dress shifts, sliding dangerously high on your thigh, and the sight has leon internally cursing, he licks onto his bottom lip, forcing himself to look away from your soft skin.

"you didn't ruin anything," he reassures you, "I was the one who got all...angry and punched that guy. trust me, lauren will be okay. you'll be okay." leon pauses, eyes flickering away from the deserted road and over to your tear stained face. "besides, how could anyone ever hate you?"

your lips part and you shift your head to look at leon. his expression in unreadable, but he barley lets you analyze it because he's turning his attention back to the road. finally, you find your voice. "you hate me."

leon shifts gears, and he does it so smoothly that you don't even jolt in your seat. that also means you don't look away from his side profile, eyes pointed and curious as you await his response.

"I could never hate you, y/n." he swallows, adam's apple bobbing under his stubble. leon doesn't look at you yet. he can't.

"that's a lie," you mean to sound firm, but your words come out nothing short of a whisper. your brows pull tightly, confusion etched across your forehead. "because you do hate me."

that makes leon falter, glancing over to you after he shift into a different lane. "do I?"

you don't answer, mostly because you're unsure what kind of response leon is looking for. you tear your eyes away from him, looking back out through the windshield and keeping your gaze trained on the pavement as it disappears under the car.

leon sighs to himself, running a hand through his messy hair. he eyes you again, but you're still not looking at him. your face is tight, but you've stopped crying for the most part, only the occasional tear that slides over your salty tight skinned cheek. a flash of fear comes over him—what if you're too uncomfortable with what he said to cry?

leon curses. the last thing he wants to do right now is make you feel worse. his eyes trail over your body as he hits another red light. your legs are still pulled up, hands wrapped around your calves like you're cradling yourself. it makes his heart sink, but then he sees it. your nails.

the usual flame red you wear is replaced by a neutral colour, accompanied by white french. his mouth opens before his brain can catch up, "taking a break from the red?" leon's words have you blinking, looking back at him curiously. his eyes flick down to your hands, "your nails."

"oh," you hum. you hadn't even known that leon had noticed the little red nail detail you've been committed to for years. the colour you'd pick solely because leon didn't like it. thinking about it now makes you feel a bit silly, but something about leon mentioning it has you feeling fuzzy. "yeah," you clear your throat, sliding your hands between your thighs shyly, hiding them from his sight. "lauren wants us all to have french tips for the wedding."

"that's a shame," leon sighs, stepping on the gas as the light changes. "you look good in red."

"you hate the colour red." you say quietly— cautiously.

"doesn't mean I hate it on you."

a beat passes as you sit with that confession. your drunk brain has a difficult time pacing the pieces together, brows furrowed in confusion as you keep your eyes trained on leon. you breathe a laugh that sounds like a scoff. "why are you being so nice to me?" you question, "is it just because im upset?"

"not just because you're upset," he replies quickly, "i've been enough of a dick to you to last a lifetime. and I know how important lauren is to you, and how much you want to fix this thing between us before the wedding so she's happy." leon stops himself, swallowing roughly as he looks back at you. "i'm trying my best to start fixing it."

"what is this thing between us?"

his thumbs strokes the leather wrapping around the steering wheel, "whatever you want it to be."

you make a funny noise. "what kind of answer is that?"

leon can't help the way his top lip twitches, the smallest grin threatening to take over. "the right one for how drunk and upset you are."

"I don't like that answer either."

that does make him smile. "I know you don't."

silence fills the car after that. you let your legs fall back to the ground, feeling much more relaxed then when you first got in. and leon notices out of the corner of his eye, which makes his shoulders drop in relief. they ache slightly from how tense he'd been, but he can't even think of that right now.

not when you start to talk, voice curious and gentle. "how come you hit that guy?"

he sighs lowly, not taking his eyes off the road as he flicks on his signal, car turning into the parking garage of your apartment complex. you blink in surprise—leon hadn't even asked for directions once. he remembers where you live.

"when you're upset, it's makes me crazy," he starts shamelessly, hands tightening around the wheel as he recalls the scene at the nightclub less than an hour ago. "and tonight, when that asshole grabbed your arm and the tiniest flash of distress crossed your features, I didn't even think." leon looks at you quickly, meeting your intent gaze. it makes him look away just as fast. "not only was I jealous but I was so fucking angry that I just lashed out."

he pulls into an empty parking spot, which is thankfully a few steps away from the elevator. leon shifts the car into park before he looks at you again. when he sees the slow smile on your face, his stomach swoops.

before he has a chance to question why you look so...pleased, you begin to talk. "wait, you were jealous?" you ask him, eyebrow raised curiously.

leon's neck feels hot, and he forces himself to laugh, even though the sound comes across awkward. he rubs the back of his neck and looks away from you, which only makes you giggle. "okay, let's not dwell on it." he mutters.

"oh my god," you tease, "big tough leon draisaitl was jealous."

"y/n."

"this is amazing"

his eyes twinkle with amusement. "i'm trying to apologize," leon tells you, the smallest smile pulling at his lips.

"I know," you grin, "I never thought this day would come! should I get my phone out and take a video of this? post it on my story so everyone can see?"

leon rolls his eyes fondly as you laugh, head falling back against the head rest as you look at him. you obviously are just teasing him, and that has leon's heart strings tugging. "are you done?"

"with this?" you question, knowingly, "never."

the smile that follows that is different, one of those smiles that you only save for lauren and when you're talking on the phone to your family. leon almost wants to get his phone out now and snap a picture of you—because he's never seen anything more beautiful.

—

the muskoka air bnb is beautiful. so much so that it doesn't even feel real. it's decorated in white, with lots of neutral florals and greenery that line not only the main house, but the multiple guests house littering the property.

connor and lauren had flown the wedding party out yesterday, and you had been so exhausted from travel, as well as trying to not stare at leon for the duration of the flight that as soon as you arrived you passed out.

since leon drove you home from the night club a few days ago, there's been a major shift. you'd seen him a few days afterwards at a dinner hosted by lauren's parents for the wedding party and family, and obviously he attended. there was a part of you that thought he'd ignore you like he always did, but he actually smiled at you. a half grin from across the room as he held a champagne flute that made your stomach flip.

and then two days ago, the day before traveling to muskoka, leon texted you. you were in such a shock from seeing his name flash across your screen, that you almost forgot to answer him. after 30 minutes you finally responded to his message, asking if you wanted a ride to the airport tomorrow—to which your answer was thanks. that be great, leon :)

immediately you cringed at your own message. it made you feel like a school girl with a highschool crush who was trying to come across casual but was miserably failing—wait, are you a school girl with a highschool crush who was trying to come across casual but was miserably failing? just as immediate you pushed that thought away, storing it on the back burner to later dissect.

this weekend is not about you or the sudden butterflies in your stomach when you think about leon—who a week ago, you thought couldn't stand you. you're still not sure if he even likes you, despite everything. so yeah, back burner it goes.

when you woke up today, much closer to the afternoon than the morning, you'd be in for a surprise when you walked down the hallway of your designated guest house and saw leon standing in the kitchen, sipping coffee while scrolling through his phone. shirtless.

"oh!" you practically squeal, jumping around and covering your eyes with a hand. you knew that you'd be sharing the guest house with some of the wedding party, you just didn't think it would be with him.

he laughs, clicking off his phone and setting it on the island. "i'm not naked, you don't have to hide."

you peek through your fingers first and see him looking at you, palms flat against the counter as he leans into it, mug sat in the space between his hands. when you catch sight of the sweat pants—although hung dangerously low on his toned hips—you drop your hand. "you just caught me off guard." you swallow.

he grins, all syrupy and slow before pushing off the counter. leon stalks over to you, and the closer he gets the more nervous you feel. just when you think he may stop, he walks right past you, hand brushing your wrist. "lauren and connor need us ready for 1:30 for something. connor's brother and jenni are already outside." he calls back at you, stalking down the hallways.

you had to wash your face in freezing water to calm yourself down from that interaction—mostly caused by leon’s shirtless torso, but that's neither here or there. you slipped on one of your white cocktail dresses, because even though leon didn't say what was happening, you knew it was the welcome party in the garden.

leon wasn't in the kitchen or the living area when you emerged from your room, thankfully, so you had another few minutes to calm down while you made your way across the property. guests have already started to arrive by the time you sneak up beside lauren, greeting her warmly while she beams at the sight of your face.

you help her make her rounds and tidy up whatever she feels needs it while people mingle, snacking on hors d'oeuvres and sipping alcohol under the july sun. when you get a free moment, you nudge her side to get her attention, "why didn't you tell me leon was in my house?"

she frowns slightly, "he is? thought he was in the other one but I guess not." before you can get her to elaborate on that, one of the waitstaff comes over, whisking her away to deal with whatever snack debacle was occurring.

you spend a few hours mingling with everyone, sharing laughter and drinks happily. you've never been to muskoka, and you can't help but appreciate how beautiful and scenic it is. lauren and connor couldn't of picked a better spot to get married.

on instinct you hear lauren’s laugh echo through the garden, and you spot her almost instantly. your best friend has never looked more beautiful or happy since you've known her. connor stands beside her, the two of them in their own little world. he's whispering in her ear which is the reason for her laughter. you love them so much.

your eyes begin to prick with tears, and you quickly look away before they can fall. you grab a napkin hurriedly, bringing it up to your lower lash line so it soaks up your salty tears. thank god you're alone right now, because it's so embarrassing.

"oh no," leon's says from a few feet away, eyeing you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "you're crying."

his voice cutting through the silence makes you jump slightly—when did you get so jumpy around him?—and you turn to look at him, a small bubble of laughter leaving you. you sniffle, balling up the napkin in your palm, "I know. i'm a mess."

he shakes his head, a half smirk, half frown on his face. you don't even know where to begin trying to understand what that means. leon walks closer, taking the napkin right out of you palm and throwing it in the small garbage underneath the long buffet style hors d'oeuvres table. "what's got you emotional?"

on cue lauren laughs again, and you sigh dreamily, glancing the happy couples way. "they're just so in love. this place is beautiful, lauren and connor are beautiful and i'm just...so happy for them."

leon watches you for a long moment, brows furrowed slightly as he listens to your confession. when you look back at him, there's new tears in your eyes, happy ones but laced with a longing you hadn't realized you possessed. leon's gut pangs with something all too familiar as you look up at him. he can't help but wonder if for years you'd been too worried about trying to get him to like you in some capacity that you'd been too busy to look for what you need. what you want. what you've always desired: to feel loved.

the way you're looking at him now, no trace of anger or resentment in your eyes, makes him feel comfortable—complete. it's then that he knows that yes, you'd been too focused on leon's stubbornness when it comes to you, to notice that he never hated you. not at all.

he gives you a closed mouth grin, reaching to wipe away the tear that's pooling under your lashes. "you'll get it too, y/n. love."

your lip twitches, and his eyes on you feel so intense you have to look to the ground. "think so?"

he guides your face back up. "I know so." leon swallows gently, eyes darting down to your lips just like they had in the pool many days ago. your lips part, nothing but a hitched breath coming out. he licks along his lower lip, "i'm sorry, y/n. for everything."

and you know he means it.

dinner time comes quickly, sneaking up on you. leon weighs heavy on your mind as you shove garden salad in your mouth—the conversation today, his shirtless torso, the way he notices your nails, the way he touched you in the pool, the way he kissed you. even the way he eats damn beer nuts.

you try and distract yourself with the conversation flowing all around you, stretching down the long dining table under the warm fairy lights dripping from the trees. but your mind always drift back to him. leon. leon. leon. the man who hasn't left your mind since you met him years ago, is still the man who you think about today.

it doesn't help that he's sitting diagonally from you, your eyes catching every few minutes like there’s nothing else to but to look at one another.

you need a cold shower and a long nights rest. and leon, you brain taunts you.

after desert and another hour of mindless chatting, everyone starts heading home and packing in for the night. tomorrow would be a long day of rehearsals and last minute prepping for the wedding on the following day.

you practically run back to the guest house, stealing one of two showers before any of the other house guests have a chance too. the water is relaxing, and helps ease the tornado of thoughts and unwanted questions in your mind.

whatever you want it to be.

you're glad you have a room to yourself because you don't want to put pyjamas on. you crawl under the covers completely naked, sighing as your head hits the pillow.

leon. leon. leon.

hours pass, the guest house bathed in the sound of water lapping against the stoney shore. sleep doesn't take you, leaving you tossing and turning like a child. you huff, reading the small alarm clock on the wooden beside table: 2:17 a.m.

you slip out from under the sheets and grab one of your oversized shirts, pulling it over your frame before making your way to the door. you're hoping some water and a change of atmosphere will help you feel a little sleepy. you toe down the dark hallway until you round into the kitchen.

the image of shirtless leon, leaning over the island this morning flashes through your mind. you shake your head, sighing again before going to the cupboard and grabbing a mug.

you fill it with the brita in the fridge, and then you drink it slowly, doing your best to calm your restless limbs and even more restless mind. after a few minutes you put the mug in the sink and make your way back down the hallway.

one of the bedroom doors creaks open, and you falter. even in the dim light, you'd recognize him. leon looks at you, curious, one brow raised the highest fraction taller than the other. he's shirtless again, which makes you swallow.

"hi." you mumble dumbly.

"hey."

you walk further down the hall, right by your bedroom door which before this moment, unbeknownst to you, is diagonally across from his.

you watch leon's eyes dart down to your legs, trailing up your soft skin and reaching the hem on your not so long t-shirt. his eyes linger there, and you flush. "sorry, I," you stutter, "wasn't expecting to see you. or anyone really, at this hour."

he finds your face. "don't apologize."

you nod, clearing your throat again. you've never been at a loss for words in leon's presence, besides the moment right before your kiss over a week ago, but right now you're rendered speechless.

"you okay?" he questions tenderly, assessing you.

"yeah," you say, thumbing down the hall in the direction of the kitchen. "couldn't sleep, so just had some water."

he nods once, "ah."

"are you okay?" you ask him.

leon blinks, nodding again. "yeah. just had to use the bathroom."

"ah." you repeat his earlier words, and his mouth twitches.

"yeah." he mumbles.

you breathe, "well, I should probably try and sleep. it'll be a long day tomorrow."

"yeah, me too." he say, but it doesn't sound convincing. leon eyes your legs again.

you squeeze your thighs together, a small gasp leaving your lips. the sound has leon's eyes snapping up to your face. you reach behind yourself blindly, finding the handle of the door knob. "goodnight leon."

"night." he says, turning the knob of his own door and pushing it open.

whatever you want it to be. the words taunt you as you look at leon's back, muscles pronounced and tempting. your mind is still racing with the unknown—your body on fire—and this interaction didn't help at all.

you're desperate for answers.

so before his door closes, you step forward. "leon?"

he pauses, pulling the bedroom door back open. not fully, but just enough so he can lean on the trim. "yea?"

you shutter as you inhale, fingers itching as you try and keep your hands to yourself. leon's skin is glistening. pecks and chest covered in a neat spread of hair that trails down his abs and disappears below those stupid low rise sweatpants. focus. you force yourself to look back up to his face.

whatever you want it to be.

"what would you of said the other night in the car if I was sober?" you ask him, "when I asked you what are we, you said whatever I want us to be."

leon remembers the conversation all too well. it plays on a constant loop in his head and it has since he dropped you home that night. "yeah, I did." he confirms lowly.

"so what's the real answer?" you swallow gently, "what would you of said? if I asked you right now, what would you say?"

a moment passes.

leon huffs, eyes finding the worn wood of the house as he rubs the back of neck roughly. he meets your eyes again—your curious, hopeful gaze. "I don't know." he says.

"you don't know?" you repeat slowly—hesitantly. like your testing out the sound of it on your tongue. a flash of sadness washes over your face, and leon feels awful.

he steps back into the hallway, "I don't mean it like that, I just..." he trails off, breathing deeply.

you don't give him the opportunity to finish that thought. your arms cross over your chest, a defensive stance that makes leon frown. "how come when we first met you didn't smile at me?"

the question catches him off guard. not because he didn't know the answer, but because he hadn't realized it had been in your mind. leon didn't realize that you noticed that when first time you met, he didn't smile back at you. heat flushes his chest and neck, "y/n..."

the look on his face has you stopping. he looks almost distraught, and that's not at all what you were expecting. there was a part of you that thought leon didn't even remember that first meeting. the solem look on his face suggests otherwise.

"please," you breathe, arms falling as you step closer to him. "I need to know what I did that made you so upset that you couldn't even smile. it's been years of racking my brain, desperately trying to understand what I did-"

"I couldn't smile because I was scared." leon cuts you off firmly, gaze pointed.

"scared?" you repeat curiously. "scared of what?"

"y/n." he says your name again. almost pleading with you.

you reach out, letting your nails trail over the side of his bicep. you blink up at him, "leon, please."

a beat passes.

"you had the prettiest smile i'd ever seen," leon mumbles, so quiet that you almost don't hear him. "that's what scared me. because I knew I would do anything to see it again, and from that moment I knew I had no control when it came to you." he shakes his head, a breathy laugh breaking the tense moment. leon meets your gaze, “I still don't have control around you and it scares me to this day."

your core flutters, and your heart thumps wildly. you lick your lower lip. "yeah?" you question softly.

"yeah."

leon watches as you take another step towards him, your chest pressing against his. you push up onto your painted toes, hands curling around his torso to balance yourself. he's practically panting as he watches you, nose bumping yours as he starts leaning down into your space.

"loose control, leon." you whisper sensually, nails digging into his flesh. "I want you to loose control with me."

leon kisses you hard, hands flying to your waist to keep you pressed against him. your mouths part, tongues swiping over one another as the kiss turns deeper—hotter. it's even better than the one almost two weeks ago. more intimate and more passionate.

you sigh into his mouth, hands sliding up the front of his chest and wrapping around his neck, pulling him into you even more. his fingers squeeze the fleshy part of your hips before travelling farther down, cupping the round of your ass and giving it a firm squeeze. then he drags you even further up his chest, and you can feel him hardening against your core.

"you have no idea how long i've been waiting for you," he mumbles into your mouth, grip sliding down your thighs painfully slow.

you whine as leon kisses you again, lifting you off the ground and wrapping your legs over his hips. the new position has your bare core resting just above his member, and just knowing that has your hips jerking.

leon's hands trail under your shirt, which is now almost completely exposing you, smoothing over your ass. he makes a growling noise, and in that moment you know he's discovered you're without panties. "you're gunna kill me." he mumbles, nipping your bottom lip and then soothing the sting with his tongue.

your hands run up through the back of his head, messing his hair. "leon," you pant, nipples pebbled and hard where they rest against him. "I need to feel you."

he doesn't answer you—not with words. his hands squeeze the meat of your ass again and spin you both around, slowly to not startle you, and walk you into his room. it's completely dark in there besides the single stream of moonlight through the window, leaving a barley there streak of light across the pillows.

leon blindly finds the bed, and once he feels the mess of blankets against his knees he lowers you to the mattress. he hovers over you, eyes flickering over your flushed face so intently—so tenderly. you sigh, a small smile blossoming on your kissed out lips.

it makes him follow suit, the two of just smiling at one another for what feels like the first time. slowly, one of leon's hands finds the side of your face, cupping your jaw while his thumb runs along the hallow part of your cheek soothingly. "you okay?"

your heart clenches, and you lean into the warmth of his palm. your eyes flutter as you nod, "yes. are you?"

"better than okay," he whispers, leaning in and reconnecting your lips. this kiss isn't hurried like the others. this one feels like molasses, slow and sweet and you can't get enough.

leon’s hand trails down your face, over the pulse point of your neck and down your t-shirt covered torso. he pays extra attention to your boobs, tugging and palming your nipples until you're arching into him.

when he reaches your hip bones—the edge of your shirt—he curses, pressing an open mouthed kiss to each side of your hips, and then another one right below your navel. your breath catches, watching as leon’s eyes flicker up yours—so close to where you want him.

leon smirks, kissing the inside of your thigh delicately. "what do you want from me, baby?"

the nickname makes your hips jerk, a breathless moan leaving you involuntary. leon's smirk deepens, hands sliding up your thighs and pushing them further apart, displaying your glistening bare pussy.

"I want you to touch me," you mumble desperately, hands fisting the bedding under you like your life depends on it.

"speak up baby." leon taunts, blowing air on your warmth.

you jaw goes slack as you squirm and wiggle against the mattress. "I want you," you swallow roughly, "to touch me."

he licks his bottom lip like he's in front of a five course meal, "good girl." leon mumbles before licking a firm strip up your pussy, tasting and spreading your sticky arousal. you gasp loudly, too loudly for sharing a house with other people, when he sucks on your clit.

leon hums at the sound, and it vibrates through your folds in a way that makes you shiver. his hands massage the meat of your thighs as he devours your pussy, keeping you spread open for him.

your panting, back arching off the bed as your core flutters pathetically. "i'm close." you whine, fingers threading through leon's hair and tugging his roots.

leon slurps your arousal, sucking your clit deliciously. just when you're about to teeter off the edge, he pulls away from you. his chin and lips are drenched in your juices, and when he smirks you just about melt.

"I wanna see your face when you cum," he admits shamelessly, already beginning to remove his sweatpants. his hard cock springs free, thick and red as it brushes against his stomach. as if leon couldn't get any more sexy, he's got the perfect cock as the cherry on top.

you bring your bottom lip between you teeth, watching him shamelessly. he catches your gaze, "take your shirt off."

and you do, quickly, like you can't take it off fast enough. you throw it to the floor and leon climbs back over your body, pressing tickling kisses against your neck that have you giggling and squirming.

"you're beautiful." leon hums, pressing a deep kiss to your mouth. you can taste yourself on his lips and tongue, and that makes you moan. he pulls away, forehead resting against yours, "I don't have a condom."

you shake your head, "i'm clean. I haven't been with anybody since—" since I met you.

you don't need to say it. leon knows. "me either." he kisses you again, chaste. "and i’m clean, if you’re sure?"

"yes," you tell him, "i've never been more sure of anything."

he smiles, lining his aching tip up with your sticky entrance. slowly, leon eases into your warmth. you both sigh shakily, mouth agape as leon's cock slides further and further into your pussy.

"holy fuck," he moans, "you feel so good."

you whine, wrapping your legs around his lower back, keeping him as close as possible. the feeling is electric and like nothing you've experienced before. it's years of tension, frustration, unspoken words and secret longing combined, and it feels like heaven.

leon begins rolling his hips into you, a slow pace that has your toes clenching and pussy oozing. your back arches off the bed, hands sliding up his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades as he rocks into your heat.

he curses lowly, the band in his stomach tightening as his impending orgasm nears. "your pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around my cock."

"oh my god, leon—mhpm." you mewl, walls fluttering and squeezing as he continues his now feverish pace. the bed begins to creak from the movement, a sound that surely gives away exactly what you and leon are up to. but neither of you care.

"fuck," he grunts, grabbing your leg and hiking it further up, almost holding it flush to your chest. the new angle is exactly what you needed, leon's tip kissing that spongy spot inside you repeatedly.

"i'm gunna cum." you whine, hands sliding around to his front, cascading up his chest to wrap around his neck. "don't stop." you beg desperately, jaw going slack at a particularly rough thrust.

"you like that?" leon asks, eyeing your pinched eyes and flushed face. he pushes on the back of your thigh, stretching you open even more and more. you shout, mumbling yes over and over again. "yeah?" he teases.

he thrusts into you three more times and you cum. you exhale breathily, falling back against the bed as your limbs go weak. your skin feels like it's on fire in the best possible way. leon's jaw goes slack, hips jutting into yours as he reaches his climax.

the feeling of him filling you up with his cum, pumping into into you softly with lazy thrusts has you cumming again, much softer than your first orgasm, but still powerful enough to have you whining.

your eyes flutter closed, exhaustion creeping into your bones. leon breathlessly kisses the line of your jaw, and then your cheek, then your nose and finally your lips. you smile into it, holding his face to yours tenderly.

"you okay?" he whispers, pushing some hair off your sweaty forehead.

you hum, kissing him one more time quickly. "yeah." you say, "i'm definitely tired now."

he grins fondly, dick twitching where it's still sheathed inside you. slowly, leon guides himself from your warmth, watching as his cum spills out your hole and drips onto the bedding. it’s truly a sight.

he curses, already half hard again. you giggle, and leon swears he's never heard a more precious sound. he cleans up your shared mess gently, pressing kissing against your skin every few seconds. it's so comforting and soft it has you falling asleep.

when leon finally climbs back up the bed, he pulls you against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. he pulls the blanket over your naked bodies, and kisses your forehead, so softly that you barley feel it. "go to sleep, y/n."

and you do.

—

you take a deep breath, letting the muskoka air fill your lungs completely before you let yourself exhale. the night sky is full of stars and constellations, adding to the already perfect night.

you can hear the chatter of the last half of rehearsal dinner from up the house, lauren's laughter finding your ears like it usual does. you're both cacklers, and connor often dubs you two as the cackle twins.

the dinner has been beautiful, as expected. speeches made you tear up and laugh at the same time, and the food was so delicious is made you moan.

you woke up this morning before leon, the sunshine streaming through the open curtains and caring him in golden light. seeing him so soft and tender was everything, but the unknown of everything between you still lingers in your chest.

yes, you had sex. yes, you kissed again. but what does that mean?

you left before he woke up.

the day had been so busy with you helping lauren and getting ready for rehearsals, that you didn't see leon again until the dinner. seeing him made your heart race, and skin heat. leon looked so handsome in his suit, hair styled and casual smile on his face—chatting with connor from across the table.

you thought you could handle your feelings and emotions through the duration of dinner, but that changed as connor made his toast—a stupidly perfect toast about love that made you think of leon.

you caught his eyes through it, and he sent you a sad smile. it breaks you. you're scared of the unknown, and you want him so badly. but not knowing what leon wants is torture, and frankly it’s holding you back.

so once all the toasts are done and dinner conversation is in full swing, you slip out of the house and make your way down to the waters edge. hoping to collect yourself. the sound of the water and the crickets are soothing as you look out on to the lake. you wrap your arms around yourself, taking another deep and much needed breath.

the sound of someone walking on the rocks behind you makes you spin around, white silk dress swaying around your thighs at your sudden movement.

"hey," leon says gently, hands shoved in his pant pockets. he's no longer wearing his jacket, he must've ditched it before coming out to find you.

"hey." you parrot.

he comes up next you, arm brushing yours. "you okay?"

you hum lightly, nodding once. "just taking a breather." your emotions betray your body as your lip quivers, a wave of fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

leon spots them instantly, rounding to your front to look at you properly. "hey," he starts tenderly, brushing some loose hairs away from your face, "why are you upset?"

"i'm just...emotional." you mutter pathetically, shrugging your shoulder.

leon frowns. "about the speeches?"

"yes," you say, "no. I don't know."

he clicks his tongue, tucking your hair. his touch makes you shiver. "what about it is making you upset?" leon asks, words patient and curious.

you shake your head, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand. "it's stupid," you laugh half-heartedly, "and I really should get back inside and be present! this is about lauren and connor, not me-"

"hey," leon stops you, "no. lauren and connor are fine. it's just me and you right now, okay? what's going on that head."

that's a good question. what is going on inside your head. for years you believed that leon hated you. you were certain of it. you two would always bicker and fight, couldn't be in the same room without it getting hostile. but the past few weeks something has undeniably changed.

you sigh, voice wobbly as you begin to speak. "for years, you only looked my way if you wanted to argue."

leon frowns, reaching out to cup your jaw. "that's not true." he says with determination, brows pulled so tightly that you'd be surprised if the indent between them isn't permanent.

"it is," you huff, "and sometimes I think that's still the case." a new wave of tears and doubt well in your eyes, heart thumping against your ribs wildly. "you hate me, leon."

a moment passes, leon looking down at you with an unreadable, almost sad expression. your words couldn't be farther from the truth. leon didn’t lie when he said he never hated you. it always been the opposite for him. "okay, sure," leon starts, "I hate you."

you gulp, eyes never leaving his.

leon continues, "I hate that I know your favourite necklace was gift from your grandma when you turned 18. I hate that I know you fiddle with your rings when you're nervous, and that you'll do anything for lauren and your friends, even if that means putting up with my terrible fucking attitude. I hate that I know your favourite lipgloss is bubblegum flavoured, and that your dream pet is a snake but there's also something about them that scares you. I hate that I made you hate me, because I sure as hell have never hated you."

you sniffle, shifting on your feet as his words warm your skin. you've never told leon about yourself, but yet he knew you well enough to know them. he knows you. you knows where you live, and your nail colour. he knows you cross your arms when you get defensive and that you love beer nuts.

"then why?" you ask gingerly "why did you act like you did?"

leon doesn't say anything. his jaw ticks, teeth clenched so hard that it hurts. leon's other hand comes up to your face, caressing your tear stained skin in his calloused palms. his lips part, tongue sliding along his bottom lip. "because I love you."

you blink. "what?"

"I love you like crazy," leon repeats, a breathy laugh following. "I loved you since you walked into that bar with lauren, all smiles and wearing that pretty yellow dress. sure, you scared me but you also intrigued me. when you started fighting with me, which was warranted, there was a part of me that hated it, but another part of me loved it because it was the only time you'd give me the time of day."

his thumbs smooth over your rosy cheeks as he continues, "so i'd argue with you and fight with you because I knew that would make you look at me and talk to me. and i'm so sorry. i'm sorry that I hurt you and embarrassed you and gave you all these mixed signals the past two weeks. i'm sorry that I was falling in love you more and more each day and didn't say anything until now."

"you love me?"

leon must think you're feeling skeptical about his confession, because his thumbs still on your cheeks and his face falters. "i'm not fucking with you."

"you love me." you state.

"yes," he breathes, "i've never not loved you."

"leon."

"I know. i'm sorry."

"leon...stop."

"you can hit me or smack me or drown me in this lake if that helps. i've been awful to you and then sending you mixed signals when it's the last thing I wanted to do. I got greedy with the sex and kissing but-"

"kiss me." you interrupt firmly, sliding your hands up his stomach and resting your palms flat against his pecks

"what?" leon breathes, blinking hard as your words register in his head.

"you heard me, leon," you smile, "kiss me. now."

and he does. leon kisses you with nothing besides tenderness and pure love, lips caressing and sliding along yours in a way that makes your knees feel weak. your hands slide around to his back, squeezing his muscles firmly as he continues the kiss. his tongue slides along yours, sending butterflies down your body. you pull away, both of you breathless and so in love.

"I love you too, leon." you smile, pressing another chaste kiss to his plump lips. "and I forgive you, if you can forgive me too."

he shakes his head, "there's nothing for me to forgive."

leon kisses you again, picking up right where you left off. his hands slide down your body, down to your lower back as his thumb glide over your tail bone in a soothing, gentle motion. the kiss doesn’t last nearly long enough, and you whine when he pulls away.

he grins, squeezing the flesh of your ass. "we should probably go back inside. lauren might bite my head off if I steal her best friend away any longer."

"are you sure we can't just go have a quickie first?" you ask playfully, fiddling with the hairs at the base of his neck.

he shakes his head in disbelief, a fond smile pulling at his face. "you're a freak."

"at least i'm not a freak who hates beer nuts," you tease, poking his stomach, "but forces himself to eat them."

leon wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as the two of you make your way back up to the house. "ah, but you see, I did it for the greater good."

you snort. "and what greater good was that?"

"getting the girl."

—

follow up part here

[hvseung]

open up (l.hs)

pairing: roommate!heeseung x f!reader

genre: smut

warnings: explicit smut, profanity, fingering, oral (f receiving), protected sex (🥳), minors DNI !

wc: 4.7k

🎵now playing: hush by the marias

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"Im assuming you're my new roommate." You spin around, almost dropping your coffee at the sound of the unexpected voice lurking behind you. A guy stood in the kitchen doorway with a lopsided grin and one hand resting on the frame. His voice had a warmth to it, like he was already trying to break the ice, but your eyes slowly grazed up and down his build.

He was tall; easily six-foot-something-and effortlessly good-looking in a casual, messy sort of way, with tousled dark hair and sharp features that probably turned heads everywhere he went. "I didn't hear you arrive last night?"

"I came in quite late," You sip your coffee. "I'm just glad I didn't wake you."

"I'm a pretty heavy sleeper - you don't have to worry about waking me up." He moves to walk beside to the kitchen island, leaning against the counter as he gives you a quick once over. "So, what's your name, then?"

"Y/N."

"Y/N..." a flicker of a smirk dances across his lips as he echoes your name almost immediately. He seems to be testing it out - like he's trying to see how it sounds coming from his mouth. "Y/N." He finally repeats, his eyes raking over your face.

"I'm Heeseung." He holds out a hand, waiting for you to take it. You clasp your hand around his. His grip is secure and steady, easily dwarfing yours as his fingers encircle your hand. As you shake, his eyes don't waver from yours; the lopsided expression hasn't faltered yet, if anything it's grown, his gaze seemingly drinking in your features.

You clear your throat, pulling your palms from his. He lets go of your hand just as quickly, a hint of a chuckle escaping his lips as he watches you pull away. "You're shy, aren't you?" He teases, his tone playful and light. "You're not going to be a very good conversationalist, are you?"

"Probably not no." You pull your lips into a thin smile, scratching softly at the back of your neck. "It's nothing against you though, I'm just not good at... talking."

A flash of a smile graces his face at your words, and he casually leans against the kitchen island, folding his arms over his chest. "Don't worry, I'll get you to open up to me eventually."

"I don't doubt that you will."

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Over the course of a few weeks, the pair of you had fallen into a pleasant routine. You had grown fairly comfortable with each other. Heeseung had somehow managed to coax you out of your shell and the two of you had an easy, friendly relationship now.

However, Heeseung seems to have grown into the habit of touching you. Nothing perverse or suggestive; it's all seemingly innocent. A hand on your shoulder to get your attention, a hand on your thigh as he squeezes past, a friendly pat on the back whenever he greeted you.

And it hadn't gone unnoticed... but you didn't mind either. It's not that Heeseung's touch is unwelcome - actually, you find yourself almost looking forward to these little touches and gestures that Heeseung seems to do without even thinking. They're all so nonchalant - it made you wonder if he treated everyone that way, or if you're the only one who got this special kind of attention. 

"You're up late."

You look up from your laptop, pulling your glasses down to avoid the glare from the screen that's been burning your retinas for the past two hours. Heeseung stands in the living room doorway, clad in a grey shirt and sweatpants. His dark hair is a tousled mess, the kind of mess that somehow makes him look better, like he’d just stepped out of a dream. Which, ironically, he probably had.

"You're awake?" You ask, blinking the bleariness out of your eyes.

"Mhm. Can't sleep." He sighs.

"How come?"

Heeseung shrugs and sighs again as he walks over, taking a seat on the edge of your bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. He’s been doing that more often lately — just showing up like this, quietly making space for himself in the corners of your day... or night, apparently.

"Just too much on my mind, I guess. I usually have trouble sleeping." His gaze finally drifts over to you, lingering in that way it sometimes does. It’s not uncomfortable, but you still feel your stomach twist a little under the weight of it. "But it looks like you're busy."

"I'm never too busy for you." The words leave your mouth before you have the chance to overthink them, which is rare for you. But it’s true. In all honesty, Heeseung was the only new friend you'd made over the last few weeks since starting college. So if that meant taking a break to spare him of his troubles, you would do it. "Gives me a reason to take a break anyway."

"Well, I'd say spending some time with me is a pretty good reason." He leans forward slightly, peering over your shoulder to get a look at what's on your screen. You're very aware of how close he is: close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne thats worn off during the day. "What’re you doing, anyway?"

"Assignment."

Heeseung reaches down to shut the laptop without even asking. A small, panicked part of you hopes everything just auto-saved, but you don’t stop him. You let him close the screen, like you're surrendering to a better offer. And honestly, you are.

"Alright," You nod, settling back slightly. "What’s preventing your beauty sleep?"

He pauses for a moment, mulling over the question. "It's just been a long week." His voice carries a weary note, something heavy and worn tucked between the syllables, but his tired smile never falters. "Nothing you need to worry your pretty head over."

Pretty? Your stomach churns a little. Did he mean that? Or was it something to say - easy, offhand? You smile softly, hoping to comfort him. "Is there anything I can do to distract you?"

"You're always distracting me"

You blink, tilting your head. "Whats that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come on.." He rolls his eyes, but there's no heat in it. Just that same tired smile. "You've got me all messed up."

You feel your heart climbing up your throat. For a second, you don’t say anything—just watch him. The way his eyes linger on you even when he’s trying to play it off, like it doesn’t matter. Like you don't matter. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is." He huffs a breath of a laugh, his gaze dropping for just a moment before coming back to meet yours. "At least, it was supposed to be."

You raise an eyebrow. "Supposed to be?"

"You weren’t supposed to mean anything." He trails off. "But now I can't stop thinking about you."

He's so close now, you can feel the heat of him, the tension pulling taut between you. "And what if I said I’ve been thinking about you too?"

You barely finish the sentence before he closes the distance, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that’s all heat and held-back longing. His hand cups your cheek, fingers trembling slightly—like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

At first, the kiss is frantic, but slowly, almost reluctantly, it softens. Heeseung presses closer, not to consume but to feel. His other hand finds your chin, tilting your face gently as if he's memorizing every angle, every breath. His thumb strokes your cheek with reverence, grounding himself in the moment.

Then, he pulls back, just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours. "I think you should get some sleep."

You blink, stunned. After a kiss like that, he’s telling you to sleep? "What about you?"

"I'll be fine without sleep for one night."

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The next few days were silent between the two of us.

Not cold. Not awkward. Just quiet.

Heeseung still lingered in the same spaces you did—hovering near the kitchen counter when you made coffee, brushing past you in the hallway with a murmured “excuse me". Your eyes would still meet every now and then, but each time, he looked away first. He didn’t avoid you, not exactly.

At night, you replayed the moment over and over. The way his lips had moved against yours like he was afraid he’d never get the chance again. The tremble in his hand. The softness that had crept in, like he was trying to say something without words.

You wanted to ask him what the kiss meant. You wanted to demand why he kissed you like he needed you and then vanished behind silence.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held onto the memory like a secret: the way he said, “I’ll be fine without sleep for one night.” like you were worth staying up for. Like you were worth something.

"He definitely wants you."

You give yourself a once-over in the mirror before scoffing, turning to face your best friend as she intricately curls her hair. "No he doesn't."

She turns over her shoulder, looking at you as if you were the most naive person in the world. "Come on, he kissed you. No guy does that if he's just looking for friendship."

"And he obviously regrets it." You mumble.

"You cant be serious right now? Are you-" She stops short when she sees the look on your face, softening her approach. "Is he gonna be at the party tonight?"

"Everyone is gonna be at the tonight." You reply, evasive.

"Then talk to him."

You sigh. "He wont even look at me."

She sets the curling iron down and walks over, placing her hands gently on your shoulders before sliding down beside you on the bed. "Okay, look. He’s an idiot." She wraps an arm around you. "But if he’s got half a brain, he’ll figure it out."

You nod, not quite convinced.

"And if he doesn't, I'll castrate him myself."

You laugh - genuinely.

"Now come on. Let's go get you some alcohol to drown your sorrows."

The party is in full swing by the time you both arrive. The house is packed; loud music and the smell of alcohol and sweat hanging heavily in the air. Bodies are pressed together, some dancing and some just trying to squeeze by.

You smiled on the outside—playing beer pong, throwing back shots and posing for selfies—but your gaze kept drifting to the door, to corners of the room he might be hiding in. You wondered if he had arrived yet, if he arrived before you, if he was even going to come at all.

Then you saw him.

Heeseung stood near the kitchen, half-leaning against the counter, drink in hand, talking to a girl you didn’t recognise. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times, and he was wearing that stupid black hoodie he always wears. For a second, you just watched. You couldn’t help it. That familiar knot in you chest tightened - nerves.

But you didn’t think. You just walked.

By the time you were in front of him, his eyes had already found you. He straightened up, the easy smile on his face faltering into something more guarded. You stopped just close enough for him to feel the tension radiating off you.

“You came,” you said, voice sharp but quiet.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Didn’t think I’d see you here, honestly.”

You folded your arms, tilting your head just slightly. “Why? Because it’s easier when I’m not around?”

The girl he was with had caught wind of how this conversation could go, and decided it was better if she left. He looked down, his thumb tracing the rim of his cup. “Thats not- It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Your voice was steady, but your chest was tight. You were both definitely a bit too drunk for this conversation, but if it didn't happen now it was never going to. “Because you've been avoiding me ever since... you know."

You both stood there for a beat, surrounded by noise, but wrapped in your own silence.

Heeseung sighed, setting his drink down. “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Let’s talk.”

You stepped outside, the hum of music and chatter fading behind you both as the door shut. The street was mostly empty, save for the occasional car passing by. Heeseung shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced at you, his jaw tense.

"So," you said. “Are you gonna pretend like nothing happened again?”

He flinched. “I’m not pretending.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” You gave a dry laugh. “You kissed me, Heeseung. And then you ghosted me all week. Not even a text.”

He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don't know what you want me to say.”

“Try starting with, ‘Sorry for being a dickhead’,” you snapped, then regretted the bite in your tone immediately. You softened. “I just… I thought it meant something to you. It did to me.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at you, eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. Then, finally, he murmured, “It did. It does. That’s the problem.”

You blinked. “How is that a problem?”

He took a step closer, not touching you but close enough that you could smell the remnants of his cologne and whatever bitter drink he’d been nursing. “Because if it meant nothing, I could’ve moved on. But it meant something... and that scares the hell out of me.”

You felt your breath hitch, emotions swirling too fast to catch one cleanly. “So you avoided me because you were scared?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t know how to be around you after that night. Everything felt… different.”

“It was different,” you whispered.

He looked at you like he wanted to say something else — a hundred things, maybe — but instead he reached out, gently brushing your hand with his. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just didn’t know how to face it.”

You stared at his hand for a second before lacing your fingers through his. “Then face it now.”

He looked at you and then stepped in, closing the distance between you. “If I kiss you again,” he said, voice low, “I’m not running this time.”

You swallowed. “Then kiss me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to say it a second time.

Then his hands are on you, cupping your face and pulling you closer, his mouth claiming yours in a needy, heated kiss. The kiss was sloppy and uncoordinated - probably due to the alcohol that still lingered on both of your breaths... but neither of you minded.

Heeseungs hands dropped from your face and found their way to your hair, hid fingers curling with a light tug, coaxing a sound from the back of your throat.

"I cant stop thinking about you." He murmured between kisses "I tried not to but -" he bit your lowers lip, then soothed it with his tongue. "But I want to."

It wasnt long until he had you pressed up against the door of some random bedroom - your thighs wrapped around his waist and his body flush against yours.

His hands were everywhere - in your hair, against the back of your neck, then slipping beneath the fabric of your shorts, touching and caressing every inch of exposed skin he could find. He groaned against your mouth, the sound desperate and needy, his hips rocking into you.

You tip your head back with a soft whine, your fingers splayed across his shoulders to keep you steady. Heeseung groaned at the sound, his hips jerking forward as his movements grew a little desperate. One hand slid up to tug at your shirt. “Can I-” he started, his voice raspy then trailing off.

"Please."

He quickly rids you of the material, lip snug between his teeth before practically throwing you on the bed. His body blankets yours in an instant. He takes a moment to look at you in the mess of someone else's bed.

"So fucking pretty." He grasps your chin, cooing at you.

You whimper, hands reaching up to eagerly tug at his hoodie strings. "Let me see you..."

He groaned, sitting up to let you help him pull his hoodie off. No shirt underneath. Surprising. "Your turn."

"My shirt is off."

"I wasn't talking about your shirt." He leans down to kiss you again, his tongue slipping into your mouth. He shifts, snaking his hand teasingly down your stomach to unbutton your shorts. Once unbuttoned, he dips his hand under the waistband as his lips leave yours with a smug grin. "Can I?"

You nod fervently, canting your hips up in an invitation. He obliges, wasting no time in peeling them off, then pauses for a second, looking at the lacy underwear you had on. His favourite colour. "You couldn't possibly have worn those for anyone but me."

"Only you." You breathed out, shifting your thighs to hide the obvious wet patch in the middle of the beige material. He was affecting you more than you would like to admit... but thats what he wanted.

"Don't." He lets out a disapproving tut, pining your thighs apart at the knees. "I wanna see them before I ruin them."

His head dips down, placing a wet kiss on the lace. You bite your lip, practically clenching around nothing - and you were sure he had noticed.

"I could just leave you here." His tongue runs along the fabric, pressing against you in just the right way. You whined, thighs twitching softly. "with these soaked panties of yours."

"No! Don't, please." You shake your head desperately. This was humiliating - you weren't one to beg. Usually.

He chuckled, the vibrations doing wonders on your sensitive core. He pressed another kiss, this one lingering and purposeful. He hums, gently pushing your legs together and watching the soaked fabric bunch between your folds. "Are you gonna be a good girl for me?"

"Yes."

"Good." He pushes your sticky lace to the side. He didn't wanna take them off - he wanted to eat your pussy whilst you wore his favourite shade of beige. He didn't waste any time either, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss against your clit. His tongue runs in a lazy circle, slow and sensual.

You gasp, almost a sigh of relief as you feel the heat pool in the bottom of your stomach. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling ever so gently.

He hums against you. He's always been weak for a firm hand in his hair, and he definitely didn't mind you using that against him right now. And then in one fluid movement, he's wrapping his arms around your thighs, pulling your legs over his shoulders and holding you in place.

He groaned against flesh, the sound sending little sparks up through your spine. He continued to kiss your sweet little cunt, lapping and slurping at your clit like it was his favourite meal, fingers pressing into your thighs so hard you were sure you would see remnants of his fingerprint in the morning.

You moan louder, causing him to cover your mouth gently. A warning. You were both aware of the party still going on downstairs - and whilst the music was loud enough to cover you both, if someone got close enough they would definitely hear you.

His grip on your thighs tightens, blunt nails digging crescents into the back of your knees. Your thighs are clenching around his face, desperate for more - possibly something a bit bigger. He sucks your folds into his mouth, swirling his tongue around before pulling off with an obscene ‘pop’.

You were an absolute mess, moaning and breathing heavily against the palm of his hand. You were trying your very best to stay quiet, but he was making it so difficult. But you were making it difficult for him too.

He moves his palm away from your mouth, just to shove two fingers in instead. "Suck."

You moan around them, sucking on the digits instinctively, your tongue swirling and coating them in strings of saliva. He could feel your walls clench around nothing, and he can’t help but be a tease. "That should keep you quiet."

He purses his lips, watching a glob of spit fall from his mouth and slide down between your folds. He bites his lip, a low grumble emerging from the back of his throat. And then he’s burying his face in you again, pressing his tongue flat against your clit and taking it into his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue over the sensitive spot relentlessly.

You feel the heat swirling in your belly, a pool of sweet pressure that feels so good, but not quite enough to push you over the edge. You clench your thighs around his head, arching your back desperately. A frustrated whine tumbles from your lips, muffled by his fingers. "Please-"

Your thighs are shaking, tears have spilled over your cheeks, but he’s still going. He could probably make you cum untouched like this - maybe he should, just to make you even more of a mess. But he's feeling kind.

He pulls off, giving you that insufferable smirk over glistening lips. He pulls his fingers from your lips and drags a finger through your folds, gathering your slick on the digit before plunging it past your entrance.

"Look at you, making a mess all over my fingers" he coos, pushing a second one in and watching it disappear with ease. You're clenching around his digits so desperately, and it makes him wonder if this is just a product of all those weeks of denied tension, or if you would have always been this desperate for him. "Such a whore..."

He curls his fingers in a way that has your toes curling, a strangled moan leaving your lips. Heeseung is past caring who hears you now. In fact, he hopes someone hears you.

"There you go- taking me so well" he coos once again. "Just like I knew you would." He pushes another finger in, rocking them with a torturous pace. His tongue finds your clit again, rolling over it gently to bring out more moans from your mouth.

"M'gonna cum seungie." You mewl, clenching desperately.

But he laughs - a cruel laugh. He pulls his head up, retracting his fingers and leaving your desperate folds empty. "No you're not." He says in mock sympathy, watching your eyes widen in protest.

"No! I was so close!" You sob out a whine. You were absolutely ruined - yet you knew this was nothing compared to what was coming next.

He stands up, undoing the button of his pants. They drop to the floor, and he’s left standing in nothing but a pair of black boxers - the same black boxers he was wearing the morning you met. You could tell from the distinctive waistband that was peeking out of his sweats as he greeted you.

Looks like you weren't the only one with purpose in your underwear choice. Maybe it's because deep down you both knew you would have ended up in this situation by the end of the night.

He pushes his boxers down, finally letting himself spring free. He's hard, leaking and clearly grown tired of waiting. Your stomach churned at the mere size of him. He reaches into his jeans pocket, pulling out a shiny gold wrapper.

"Prepared, were you?" You pant.

He rolls the condom over himself before throwing the wrapper in the bin. He grabs your thighs and hooks them over his hip - lining himself up with your eager entrance. "You're not gonna cum until I say you can. Understood?"

"Y-Yes" you choke out, already feeling him teasing your entrance and making your stomach pool. "Yes, sir."

Sir. He liked the sound of that. He clutches your hips, forcing you onto your stomach before guiding himself into you. You feel the stretch - not too much after the preparation, but it was more than enough to make you whine. He reaches forward, his fingers gently curling around your neck.

"Look at you taking me so well…” He hums softly, letting out a strained groan as he bottoms out. You clench around him, unable to hold back the breathy moans that escape your swollen lips.

He pauses, breathing harshly and grounding himself a little. Then he’s snapping his hips forward, driving himself so deep you swear you can taste him in the back of your throat. You gasp, your hands flying up to grasp at the sheets beneath you. He’s not gentle anymore, now grabbing your hips and shoving his cock into you like it’s all your good for.

"Fuck!" A moan rips from your chest. You could feel every inch of him; every vein as he filled you in deliciously.

"You like that, huh?" he grunts. He smacks your butt, making you jolt. "You like taking my cock like a good girl?"

"Yes sir

" You moan, managing to muster up a few words.

His grip of your throat tightens a fraction, making your back arch. It's not hard enough to hurt, but enough to feel a little light headed. Your stomach coils. "M'so close."

His hands move to the back of your thighs, shoving one up so your knee is pressed up towards your chest. "Not yet."

The new angle has him brushing against your sweet spot, hitting even deeper than you thought was possible. You were absolutely sure he had teared through your cervix at this point.

Heeseung was far from quiet now too, his grunts turning into deep moans. You turn over your shoulder. He looks wrecked; his hair sticking to his forehead and his head thrown back. If you weren't in the position you were in, you would have taken this time to admire him.

Your eyes rake over his body - the way his thighs tense, the beads of sweat rolling down his collarbone. You’re drunk on it - him, like his touch has turned you into an addict.

"You're so fucking pretty" He pulls you up by your throat, pressing his chest against your back as he kisses you desperately. You reach forward, using the headboard as leverage to push your hips back against his.

"That's it, princess" he groans, his voice almost wavering. "Just like that."

He almost stills his hips, letting you take charge as you forcefully shove yourself down on his length. Your movement is sloppy and messy, but he doesn't mind - can't mind, not when you feel this heavenly around him.

He moans, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek with such gentleness that it could have come from a different person if you didn’t know better. "My pretty girl, mmh?”

Your thighs shake as you try so hard not to cum; waiting for his signal like you promised you would. "Please... let me cum."

He debated denying you just once more, but his orgasm was approaching faster than he would have liked to admit. "Cum for me... make a mess of me baby."

And you didnt need to be told twice. You threw your head back against his shoulders as you shoved yourself down on him once more before finishing on his cock. You moan loudly, white-hot pleasure completely taking over you as he grasp the headboard to ground yourself. And like a chain reaction, Heeseung pulled you closer and moans lowly as he finishes too, filling up the condom.

"Holy shit." You whine as he pulls out, watching as your juices run onto the bedsheet below. You felt bad - for ruining someone else's bedsheets... but you didn't have the energy to care much.

"That was amazing." He sighs, kissing your cheek before gently manoeuvring you to lay down on the bed before lying next to you. He wrapped his arm protectively around you, kissing your forehead.

"Hopefully you're not gonna ghost me until I have to confront you. Again." You huff.

"Not a chance."

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taglist: @taeghi @hollyoongs @jaehoonii @prettygurlnikittie @kittympirty @hoonprksung @starggukies

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@ hvseung, 2024. do not repost or reuse in anyway. thankyou :)

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[fuckyeahgoodomens]

The Good Omens Musical Masterpost🎵❤

How it started :)

Some time before 2013: Vicki Larnach, the australian composer and lyricist, read the Good Omens book, imagined figures dancing on stage with brilliant music and thought, ‘Ah, I’m gonna ask Terry Pratchet and Neil Gaiman if I can turn it into a musical.’ and sent an email to the publishers. The next day she got an email saying, ‘We don’t want a musical but Terry’s coming to Australia, so come and say hello and tell us what you got.’

Rob Wilkins came down to meet Vicki and Jim Hare - Vicki's husband and writer - and took them to meet Terry. They spent an hour and a half with them where Terry asked ‘piercing questions’, had tea with them and they showed Terry a song that Vicki wrote (about the Chattering Nuns). Terry said to Rob, ‘Rob, write and email to Neil, “Dear Neil, this is Terry. I’m sitting in front of two hippies from Sydney and they want to make a musical out of Good Omens and I’m tempted to let them do it.”’ which was the best email they ever heard and then Terry said, ‘Okay, you have me curious.’ - it was because of the Nuns song which sounded like the book. ‘I’m gonna give you six months, come back with a first draft libretto and five songs.’

They then sent it to Terry who sent it to Gaiman. Terry said, ‘I really like it, you’re moving story, you’re doing all the right things, but where’s showstopper, where’s the toe-tapper, you know I need people to go to intermission just snapping their fingers with the song they just can’t get out of their head, and I haven’t heard that.’ - and they realized that they were so busy serving the story they forgot to do the wow-factor, but found it very encouraging from Terry that he wanted to make it better.

They went through the whole book again to find a centrepiece - and they found it  when Warlock is growing up and Aziraphale and Crowley are with him, and spent months working just on that one thing and called ‘All Living Things’ [the song at the start of this post :)] which is a line from the book.*’ Terry gave that song to a person he knew and asked him to play it to his wife with no context and when the next day the person said that his wife woke up still singing the song Terry said to Vicki and Jim: ‘Well, that’s what I asked you to do.’ 

* [“This here’s Brother Slug,” the gardener would tell him, “and this tiny little critter is Sister Potato Weevil. Remember, Warlock, as you walk your way through the highways and byways of life’s rich and fulsome path, to have love and reverence for all living things.” “Nanny says that wivving fings is fit onwy to be gwound under my heels, Mr. Fwancis,” said little Warlock, stroking Brother Slug, and then wiping his hand conscientiously on his Kermit the Frog overall.]

Vicki and Jim got the permission to being adapting it as a musical in 2013.

Vicki and Jim on it a couple of years ‘fumbling about’, took it as far as they could and decided to bring another person into it: Jay-James Moody

In 2015, Jay James-Moody joined the collaboration initially as a dramaturge and directorial eye, eventually evolving into co-book writer. Vicki, James and Jay have continued to evolve through countless more revisions and a number of private development readings with the support, time and talent of numerous wonderful Australian performers testing the material.

In November 2017, the musical was presented in its then-current form and entirety for the first time before an audience of over 500 eager attendees. The cast included Luke Joslin, Lachlan O’Brien, Nancye Hayes, Barry Quin, Brett O’Neill, Lauren McKenna, Nicholas Craddock, Paul Capsis, Rob Johnson, Amy Lehpamer, Debora Krizak, Blake Erickson, Nat Jobe, Ana Maria Belo, Jordan Hare, Bella Thomas, Anthony Abrakmanov and Samson Hyland.

Following a rapturous response to this reading it continued to be refined and developed.

In 2019, ten days before the show came out they did their last presentation, since then they’ve been to London and shown a videotape of that workshop to Gaiman and Rob Wilkins which was ‘a pretty heartstopping experience’.

Differences between the musical and the book

The ending of the musical is a bit different.

It opens with the burning of Agnes Nutter and Aziraphale and Crowley are introduced there. 

Act One ends with them ‘essentially breaking up’ because of a huge argument and they dissolve their friendship, Act Two starts with the first time they meet.

The Future?

What is the future for the musical: in 2021 they said that they need to work on some things and then they hope to do another run, initially in Australia.

There will be a CD of the soundtrack available when the show is produced in it’s full version.

In 2024 on insta they said that it is in "complicated process of rights to stage Good Omens" and "We appreciate your support and patience of the progress or seeming lack therof, of Good Omens the musical but we assure you, we will bring you the show in the next few years."

Videos

Vicki, Jim and Jay talking 46min about the musical (this video was shown at the Ineffable Con 3 in 2021 :))

Sizzle Reel 6min

Anathema singing The Perfect Place

Crowley calling Dagon to check on the hellhound

Shadwell and Newt

Aziraphale vanishing Hastur 👀

Links

Webpage

Instagram - a lot of more bts videos and pics :)

How to support?

Subsribe to the instagram page and like and comment that you want the musical on posts :)❤. If you want to be a sponsor or donor, there is contact on their webpage.

[astrotruther]

🔗 Lilith in the signs

their shadow side ft. songs that clock them too accurately.

♈️ LILITH IN ARIES

Their anger is a reflex, not a choice.

Secretly terrified of being controlled, so they control first—chaotically.

'I don’t hold grudges!' (rewrites history to paint themselves as the wronged party.)

Will fight you over a parking spot.

Smudged eyeliner, broken phone screens, unsent rage drafts.

♉️ LILITH IN TAURUS

Keeps a mental spreadsheet of every favor, compliment, or crumb of attention they’ve ever given.

"I’m not possessive, I just know what’s mine." (stares at you like you’re a straying pet.)

Silent treatment lasts longer than most relationships.

Will spend $200 on a candle to "treat themselves" after you forgot their coffee order once.

Vintage perfume bottles, handwritten lists with aggressive underlining.

♊️ LILITH IN GEMINI

Weaponizes forgetfulness to dodge accountability.

"It’s not lying, it’s narrative improvisation."

Starts debates just to watch you sweat. Changes sides mid-argument for fun.

Ghosts for months, then slides into your DMs like "you up? also, defend this political take."

Screenshots of deleted texts, meme warfare, unhinged Google Docs.

🎵 Who are you to recognize me / You frogs who live up to your name / I hope you die in that well - 땡 (Ddaeng) - BTS

♋️ LILITH IN CANCER

Cooks you soup while listing all the ways you’ve disappointed them.

'I’m fine :)' (cries in the shower for 3 hours because you used a tone.)

Collects your vulnerabilities like seashells—for safekeeping, obviously.

Will remember that thing you said in 2017 and weaponize it during a fight about pizza toppings.

Faded polaroids, saltwater-stained journals, cottagecore revenge plans.

♌️ LILITH IN LEO

Posts a thirst trap after any minor ego bruise. "Ugh, just feeling ugly today :/ (pls argue.)"

"I don’t need attention!" (sets themselves on fire metaphorically until someone notices.)

Secretly wants to be the ex you never get over. Leaves a sweater at your place on purpose.

Harsh flash selfies, dramatic Spotify playlists, Notes app manifestos.

♍️ LILITH IN VIRGO

"I’ll fix you :)" (proceeds to dismantle your entire personality like IKEA furniture.)

Nitpicks their own happiness into oblivion. "This joy is imperfect. I reject it."

Corrects your grammar mid-breakup. "It’s ‘you’re,’ not ‘your’ devastating me."

Neat highlighters, spreadsheets of your flaws, passive-aggressive sticky notes.

♎️ LILITH IN LIBRA

Flirts with the waiter to get free dessert, flirts with you to win an argument.

"I just want peace!" (stirs the pot, then acts shocked when it boils over.)

Dumps you but leaves the door open just enough to keep you orbiting.

Mirror selfies with cryptic captions, Pinterest boards titled "Vibe Shift."

♏️ LILITH IN SCORPIO

Asks invasive questions to "test your loyalty," then punishes you for answering wrong.

"I don’t trust anyone." (makes you earn it via psychological hazing.)

Their silence isn’t peaceful—it’s forensic.

Black candles, redacted text posts, unsent poems in blood-red ink.

♐️ LILITH IN SAGITTARIUS

"I just speak the truth!" (the truth is whatever hurts you most in the moment.)

Claims moral high ground from a moving vehicle.

Will backpack across Asia to avoid processing a breakup.

Blurry travel pics, deleted tweets, vaguebooking about "freedom."

♑️ LILITH IN CAPRICORN

Replaces therapy with productivity. "Can’t cry, I have a 5-year plan."

"I don’t get attached." (secretly mourns you for a decade.)

Rejects you before you can reject them.

Monochrome selfies, LinkedIn hustle posts, locked diaries.

♒️ LILITH IN AQUARIUS

"I don’t care." (organizes your entire life from afar to prove they don’t care.)

Treats love like a sociological experiment. "Fascinating. Now suffer."

Leaves group chats without explanation as a power move.

Glitch art, cryptic polls, unsent rants in the drafts.

♓️ LILITH IN PISCES

Love-bombs you into a daydream, then vanishes when it gets real.

'You misunderstood me :(' (you understood them perfectly—that’s the problem.)

Will forgive a crime but hold a grudge over how you said "good morning" in 2022.

Blurry film photos, deleted love letters, Spotify wrapped full of sadbreakcore.

🎵 In the dream I shortly went into / My agonizing phantom pain is still the same - Singularity - BTS

Donate 💌

[zepskies]

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 4

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: Now we get into the aftermath of the night before, with all the insecurity and heartbreak to go along with it. 💙

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “Danke Shoen” by Wayne Newton

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: Mentions of cheating, angsty angst, trauma/PTSD, and a cliffhanger…

✨ Series Masterlist

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 4: Complicit

Sam would give Michael one thing. The guy damn well knew how to drink.

He didn’t stop all night, throwing back whiskey like it was cheap beer. His words began to slur, his movements sloppy, but he was still coherent. When he got up to visit the men’s restroom, Sam got up as well. Maybe he could get Michael talking.

Sam stopped the other man from tripping into the urinal. The two laughed it off, with Michael thanking him before he unzipped to finish his business. Sam did the same.

After washing their hands, Sam looked over and noticed Michael’s gaze lingering on his own reflection in the mirror. It was becoming a rough sight—his blonde hair no longer neatly coiffed, purplish rings under his eyes, the stench of alcohol clinging to his skin and clothing.

“You all right there, Milligan?” Sam asked.

Michael ran a hand over his face, sighing when it didn’t get any better.

“Fine,” he replied. “So, Winchester. What did you say you do for work again? Something about your own business?”

Sam nodded. “I started up a law firm.”

That much, he had to be honest about. It was all too easy for someone to look up his name in the directory.

“Sounds like a good outfit,” Michael said, with an incline of his head. “Every lawyer I know wears a Rolex.”

Sam chuckled, glancing down at his father’s watch. “Well, I’m not quite there yet.”

“Someday soon, I’m sure,” said Michael. He bumped Sam conspiringly on the shoulder.

“And you?” Sam asked. “What’s keeping the lights on at your place?”

Michael raised a hand to sort through his unruly hair, a dirtier blonde in this unflattering light.

“Well, you could say I’ve inherited a business of my own,” he said. “I run a meat packing plant down in the district.”

Sam’s attention piqued. There had been a meat rationing during the war, even some rumors and propaganda about “meatleggers,” black market operators.

“How’s it been with the rations?” Sam asked. “Been hard to even find a good carton of eggs lately.”

Michael gave him a slight smile. “Been on the turnaround, actually. I’ve been able to make some connections with vendors outside the city. A little grease on the palms makes a little go a long way, if you catch my drift.”

Sam slowly smiled and nodded. A little grease on the palms, huh?

“Do what you gotta do in the times, ‘s what I say,” Sam agreed.

Michael snorted. “Now you’re talkin’. That’s all we can do, you know. Try to make a thing work, with whatever scraps we get. Try to stay afloat.”

“Try to stay alive,” Sam rejoined.

Michael made a low sound of approval. He became more contemplative, crossing his arms as he once again glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Sam’s gaze on the other man was perceptive, gaining ever closer to what seemed to be eating at the very core of him. Whether Sam actually believed what he was saying or not, each of his words was a test, a subtle nudge.

“You know,” Michael said. “I was shot down in France.”

Sam sobered further. Leaning against the counter, he retrieved two cigarettes and a lighter. He didn’t often smoke, but he thought it might keep the other man talking. He handed one over to Michael, and he took it gratefully. They lit up together and coiled musky tobacco smoke into the air.

“Where?” Sam asked.

Michael snorted, huffing a bit of smoke. “Lord knows. But when I woke up, I had stitches from here to here.”

He gestured to the back of his head, all the way to above his brow. It explained a small, but noticeable scar near his temple.

“And I had an angel standing over me,” he added, his eyes growing heavy. Guilty. “A bona fide angel. She’d stitched me up, she told me. She also told me I was lucky to be alive. The doc wanted to toe tag me and be done with it, but she thought I still had some fight left in me.”

Michael shook his head. “The next chance I got, I married her.”

Sam’s brows rose. He knew you had been a nurse, but he hadn’t known this part of your story.

“A wartime romance, huh?” he said. Michael quirked a smile.

“She was my anchor,” he said. “After it was all said and done, she followed me here, held my feet down to the ground. Sometimes she had to hammer me down, ya know.”

He hesitated, his eyes somewhat glazing over. He stared over Sam’s shoulder at something only he could see.

“But sometimes…sometimes an anchor just feels suffocating,” he said. “Sometimes, you need to forget your own damn name. Forget that your entire life and mortgage is in a warehouse that might as well be a freezer full a’ dead cow meat. And still, it smells a hell of a lot better than lying on a dirty cot—where the last guy who had your spot probably got his leg sawed off.” 

Michael considers the cigarette in his hand for a long while before he takes another puff.

Sam exhales smoke as well. He spent the last three years behind a desk, but he sees the same shaken core in Michael Milligan that he too often sees in his older brother.

“You know, Winchester, there’s two kinds of men,” Michael said, just a hint of a slur in his voice. “The ones who pray to live…and the ones who beg for it to be over.”

“And what kind of man are you now?” Sam asked. His tone was loose, but his gaze was sharp.

Michael snorted. He dabbed the butt of his cigarette on the inside of the sink before he threw it away.

“I’m the guy who can’t die,” he muttered.

He rolled his shoulders, as if to let the weight of his words and everything that came along with them to roll off his back. Then he pushed his way out of the bathroom, leaving Sam considering more than just half a cigarette.

That night after Dean left, you slept in the guest room instead of your bed. You couldn’t even bring yourself to sleep next to Michael when he stumbled in at four in the morning, especially now that you had seen his game with your own eyes. 

However, you also felt complicit yourself the next morning. You felt…ashamed. You took your vows seriously. You had never in your life thought you would be someone so brazen. You never thought you would dishonor your husband as well as yourself.

And yet. All while you got ready for work, hearing Michael’s snores from the other room, your mind was filled with warmth and memory—of Dean. His smile, his voice, his eyes, his lips, and of course, his hands. You couldn’t decide which of them was your favorite, but his hands were high on the list. 

You shouldn’t have let him in, you reminded yourself. You nibbled on your lower lip while you prepped the coffee maker. You should have told him goodnight at the door and saw him off. You should very well not have invited him up to the apartment, let alone drank with him, or let him touch you…

You paused while the sound of percolation and the smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. You looked up at yourself in the small mirror that hung on the wall. The woman looking back at you was conflicted at best.

Yes, you felt guilty. But at the same time, you didn’t. Was it really betraying your marriage if your husband had been doing far worse, and for God knew how long?

No. This wasn’t a marriage. This was a sham. A mockery of the very thing.

You frowned angrily and almost slammed the carafe on the counter when the coffee was done. Forcing yourself to take a few steadying breaths, you allowed that hate and anger to slowly drain out of you, and you smiled.

You marveled that you could smile at all, but it was only thanks to Dean Winchester.

What the hell am I doing?

Dean stared at the two bouquets of flowers. One was a bound bunch of red roses, the other was wildflowers and other colorful ones he didn’t know the names of. He was having a hard time deciding, namely because he didn’t know what kind of flowers you liked.

Because after all, he barely knew you.

He sighed down at the roses. They were pretty, but expensive. He could imagine your surprise, followed by your smile—the one that actually lit up your eyes and changed your whole face, made you sweeter, almost shy.

I’m buying flowers for a married woman.

The thought managed to make him pause, with a rough exhale of breath. The truth was, he’d crossed the line with you. More than once.

The hard part about it was, he didn’t really care. He did wonder if you cared.

He wondered if you’d be embarrassed to see him again. He wondered if you wanted to keep last night a memory, and nothing more. He wondered if he was better off booking his train home now, and leaving some kind of note for you with Sam. Dean didn’t think he wanted to see that look of mortification on your face, the whiskey finally cleared from your mind to see what he really was: a man with no job, no commitments, and very little prospects on the horizon.

“Ah, ‘scuse me,” a young man said from Dean’s left side.

“Oh, sorry,” Dean said, making way for the guy. He wasn’t quite as tall as Dean, lithe, blonde, and blue-eyed. He grabbed an arrangement of blue and yellow iris flowers from the case and took it up to the front. The florist seemed to recognize him.

“Oh, Michael! Been a while since I’ve seen you,” he said.

When the florist asked about you as well, the mention of your name rang between Dean’s ears. A feeling like inky claws raked through his chest; he raised his head from the roses and finally recognized Michael Milligan. He was the same man Dean had spotted in your wedding pictures hanging on the wall last night, right in the foyer.

“She’s all right,” Michael chuckled. “Truth be told, I’ve been working late this week. Hoping to surprise her tonight, take her out to dinner. Somewhere nice, you know.” 

“Oh, really? Why don’t you take her to that nice steakhouse off of Broadway…” the florist twittered on as he continued to ring up Michael’s order.

Anger and disgust prickled under Dean’s skin, his fists clenched at his sides. More than anything, he wanted to turn around and lay your husband out flat. If he thought one little bouquet and a Salisbury steak was going to wash him clean, then he was an idiot as well as a selfish bastard.

But Dean knew, deep down, that Michael would be just as justified to throw a swing right back at him.

So Dean left the flowers, the flower shop, and the entire busy street and all its blaring sounds behind.

During your lunch break, you quickly made the trek over to Sam’s office. He’d called you this morning with a story that only confirmed everything you’d inherently felt, and yet, some of it still managed to shock you. 

You didn’t even have the patience to wait until after work, but when you got there, he reassured you. It had taken him a few rounds of poker and discreetly following Michael and Dolores after they exited through the back of the club…but Sam had gotten the evidence not long after. They weren’t exactly discreet in the alley. Or in the nearby motel.

You had the envelope in hand filled with the pictures he’d developed from his camera.  

“You don’t have to look,” he advised. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“No, I want to see it,” you said. You took the pictures out, and your expression didn’t change as you look through them all. Each position captured was more compromising than the next between Michael and Dolores Daye. Apparently, he was paying most of her bills as well with your combined household funds. So part of your own money was financing his exploits.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. He was sincere, with those hazel eyes of his.

You nodded and gave him back the envelope. “What’s next?”

“I went ahead and filed the petition. I’ll take this right to the clerk’s office myself.”

“How long will it take to be over?”

“As long as Michael plays along, should be quick. A few months at most, after he’s served the divorce papers and signs them,” Sam assured.

A few months? That wasn’t quick enough in your book, but you agreed with a nod. You got up from the chair opposite his desk. You hesitated there.

“Oh, I meant to ask…how’s your brother?” you said.

Sam began to smile, but he tempered it. “He just called before you came in. He let me know he was stepping out for a walk.”

“Oh, really? Did he happen to say where?”

You not only found Dean in Central Park, but close to the very same bench you two had sat on yesterday and talked the night away. He was surprised, but he smiled when he saw you. Your pace quickened, until you were hastening over to him. He welcomed you into his arms. He bent his head towards yours, stopping just shy of kissing you. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours for a moment.

“Well, look who’s here?” he teased. “How’d you find me?”

“I stopped by Sam’s office,” you said, holding onto the lapels of his coat. A cold November wind pushed at you both, ruffling your clothes. “The paperwork is on its way. Soon enough, I won’t be a married woman anymore.”

He tucked a wild strand of hair behind your ear and smiled, but it didn’t altogether reach his eyes.

“How soon is soon?” he asked.

“A few months, according to your brother.”

Dean nodded, taking a deep breath. “That’s good…but, I need to head home for a little while.”

That made you pause, tilting your head in confusion. Though you supposed it made sense. He was only here visiting his brother. He was planning on going home eventually.

But surely, that was before we… You lowered your gaze.

“Back to Lawrence?” you asked. Again, he nodded.

“I need to take care of some things, figure out my next move,” he said.

You pulled away from him to brace yourself, and not just against the cold. “Well, when will you be back?” 

He stayed quiet, worrying you even more. There was a deep pit forming in your stomach, churning with unease.  

“Dean?” you prodded.

He stepped back in to grasp your arms gently.

“Sweetheart…the truth is, I don’t have much to offer you,” he said. “I don’t have a business to inherit from my folks. I don’t even have a job. I’m a man who was about as useful as a jackhammer, until the war ended.”

You frowned, resting a hand against his chest. “Dean Winchester, that’s not all there is to you.”

“Really. When did you figure that one out, in the whole week you’ve known me?” he asked. It was harsher than he meant to be, but he couldn’t help the words that were spilling out of his mouth. “Didn’t that get you in trouble the first time? I’d a thought you would’ve learned your lesson by now.”

You snatched your hand back, hurt filling your eyes. You turned to walk away before he saw your tears. You should have known. You should have known a man like him would never be serious. Not about you. 

As soon as he let the words go, Dean realized what he was doing. Yeah, he was frustrated, but it wasn’t aimed at you. It couldn’t be aimed at you.

God knew he didn’t want to hurt you, or for you to hate him. He really couldn’t stomach either thought, so he relented and reached out to grab at your hand, before you could get too far. 

“Wait,” he said, managing to pull you back to him. “I’m sorry.”

You tugged your hand to try and free yourself from his grasp. 

“You know what, maybe you’re right,” you said, your voice wobbling with anger, dismay, and tears. “Maybe I ought to stop letting a man get even an inch into my heart. At this point, it’s my own fault.”

“Stop,” Dean demanded. “No, it’s not.” 

He pulled you back into him, but you looked away from his imploring gaze. Your breaths grew shallow while you tried in vain to stop yourself from crying. It damn well broke his heart.

“It’s not your fault. I’m just an idiot,” He cupped your cheeks and wiped your tears as they fell. “But you…you deserve to be happy. With a man that can take care of you, protect you. A man who has a little more of his life figured out.”

“You’re just saying that so you have an excuse for toying with me. So you can keep chasing skirts,” you said, pushing at his chest. “Yes, your brother told me about all your little exploits.”

Dean took the blow, both proverbial and physical, with a raise of his brows. He guessed he couldn’t blame you for that one. Still, the disdain behind your words stung. He allowed you to break free of him.

You stepped back and straightened your clothes. You took in a deep breath that did nothing to calm you, and you uttered a humorless laugh.

“I suppose it makes sense. Why would you want anything to do with me?” You gestured down at yourself with a dismissive hand. “A-a walking mess. Even when I am divorced, that’s how people will see me. Damaged goods. I don’t even know how I’m gonna tell my parents.”

You covered your face against Dean and the rest of the world, and after weeks and months, you finally allowed yourself the one thing you hadn’t since your first inkling that your husband was being unfaithful. You finally allowed yourself to break.

The first sob shuddered through your body, followed by hot tears. You squeezed your eyes against them and wiped at your face in vain.

Dean broke too, in his own way. He gathered you into his arms, where he shushed you gently and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“I wasn’t giving you an excuse,” he said.

Despite how much you wanted to push him away, the deep, steady timbre of his voice pierced you and soothed you at the same time.

“I meant every word I said. I may not be the right guy for you, but don’t you dare take a scrap of what anyone else might say, you hear me?” he said firmly. “You’re beautiful. You don’t suffer fools like me, and you’re better than that sad sack excuse of a man deserves.”

You looked up at him with watery eyes.

“You’re a lot of things, Dean Winchester, but you’re not a fool.”

He shook his head, not wanting to argue with you anymore. He just kissed you, deeply, thoroughly, the way you always imagined a kiss should be.

Except that you realized…this was goodbye. So you took advantage of every second of it.

You met him with as much as he gave and reached up to touch his cheek. It felt a little rough under your fingers, just like you remembered. You would probably always remember that feeling, long after you left the park.

That evening, you packed as many bags as you could. You put together the savings you’d been collecting for a few months. It had been at your coworker Jess’s advice, ever since you started feeling the inkling that something wasn’t right in your marriage.

After you were all packed, you took one last, long look at the space you had tried to make your home. With one last tear trailing your cheek, you stepped out of the apartment. You took the bus uptown, where you later checked into a hotel. 

When your husband finally got home from work, he would find a one-page letter written in your own hand. 

For once, Sam was actually home in his apartment. He was helping Dean take his suitcase to the front door after calling a taxi to come shortly. Sam wasn’t happy about it though.

“You don’t have to go so soon, Dean,” said Sam.

Dean gave a humorless laugh. He grabbed his coat from the rack and threw it on.

“I’ve gotta get back to the house. It’s already been empty too long,” he said. Three years too long. “Fact is, I’m just getting in your way here.”

He couldn’t quite meet Sam’s eyes as he went to the door, but Sam stopped him with a pressing hand on his arm, tugging him back.

“Hey,” Sam said, his brows furrowed. “That’s not true. Where’d you get that idea?”

Dean raised his brows. “You mean the way you’ve haven’t been home more than a few hours a night? The way the only time I see you is if I go find you at that office. You should open up a Bed n’ Breakfast there. You’d make a double killing in this town.”

Sam wilted. “Dean, we opened the firm barely a month ago. I’m just trying to—”

Dean laid a hand on his shoulder, relenting.

“Hey, look. I’m not judging you, Sammy. I’m not,” he said. “You’re building something. I know that. I just need to go figure out how to do the same, whatever that means for me.”

Sam stared back at him, still with that frown. His guilt and reluctance to see Dean go was reflected in his eyes; those sad puppy dog eyes that used to get him out of almost any punishment with their parents when the boys were young. Before.

The corner of Dean’s mouth kicked up into a smirk.

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you again soon,” he said.

“How soon is soon?” Sam asked. It was something their mother used to say to John whenever he called late, promising he’d come home after long days in town buying supplies for the farm.

“The divorce papers will be served to Michael Milligan,” Sam added, pointedly raising his brows. “She…could use your support.”

Dean’s smile faded at the mention of you. His hand slipped from Sam’s shoulder.

“She’s got a strong head on her shoulders. She’ll be all right,” he said. He heard the honk of the taxi outside. He grabbed up his hat, set it on his head, and took up his bags. He turned back to Sam at the last moment. “I’m sure you’ll look out for her.”

It was somehow both a question, and an imploring charge. Sam sighed, but he nodded in agreement. His brother could be so very stubborn. Once he got an idea of what he thought he needed to do, there was almost no talking him out of it.

Sam opened the door for him and walked him out to the car, helping him with his bags. Before Dean could get into the cab, Sam stopped him. Their gazes met, but in that moment, no words were needed.

They pulled one another into a firm hug.

I’m sorry. I should’ve been there more for you.

Don’t worry about it. It’s already forgotten.

Dean released him first with a smile, and a heavy pat of Sam’s shoulder. He turned and climbed into the cab’s backseat. Afterwards, Sam watched the yellow cab take his brother away to the train station, feeling a weight in his heart that wouldn’t subside.

He would never know that Dean felt exactly the same way. Except that impossible weight felt a lot like your hand, gently laid over his heart.

Dean took up his suitcase as the train pulled into the station. He stepped up onto the platform and retrieved the ticket from his pocket, but he paused, hearing a familiar voice shouting his name.

He turned his head and saw Sam rushing to meet him at the platform.

“What’s the matter? What’re you doing here?” Dean asked in surprise. He didn’t like the wary apprehension written across Sam’s face.

“I just took a closer look at Milligan’s finances,” he said. “Before you go, there’s something you might want to know.”

AN: Come on, we needed at least one cliffhanger in this series! 😘 What do you think Sam rushed over to tell Dean? What did you think about their "goodbye," as well as her and Dean's goodbye? ...And are you ready for all the drama that's about to go down? lol 

Next Time:

Except the loud, insistent knock on the door broke you out of your thoughts. Straightening up with a frown, you set down your glass and went over to the door. Maybe it was Housekeeping coming up to bring you the fresh towels you asked for. The ones that had been laid out in the bathroom smelled musty.

You opened the door to a tall frame taking up room in the doorway. It was Michael, standing there both disheveled and steaming mad. He held your letter crumpled in his left hand. 

“Michael, what—what’re you doing here?” you gasped and stepped back. He followed you inside the room and slammed it shut. He looked around at your open suitcases in disbelief, then finally at you.

“What’s this supposed to mean, huh?” he demanded to know. He shook the flimsy piece of paper at you.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 5

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[kaleidoscopewritings19]

Bruce Wayne x Bat!Mom

Title: Please Come Home for Christmas

Warning(s): NONE

Character(s): Bruce Wayne, f!x reader/Batmom, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth

Prompts used are in bold and italicized; italicized paragraphs are flashbacks/memories; song used is Please Come Home For Christmas (words are in red/italicized.)

SONG CAN BE PLAYED AT THIS SYMBOL 🎵 and the song should end about the time the last verse has been typed out. Song will be linked at that music note for your convenience. But here’s the link to song

MY WORKS ARE NOT TO BE TRANSLATED OR POSTED ANYWHERE ELSE! ©️

______

Christmas was your favorite holiday; the Christmas lights, the ambiance, the decorations, and being surrounded by your family made you feel complete.

The boys were in charge of decorating the seven foot Christmas tree. It was the first year you and Bruce had decided to let them take over putting up the tree and decorating it. While the boys decorated the tree in the living room, you were in the kitchen baking sugar cookies with the assistance of Bruce, while Alfred instructed the boys.

Bruce was going through the box of cookie cutters, “Seriously? You have a Batman cookie cutter?” He asked and you smiled, while pouring the two of you a glass of wine. “Of course. I figured we could do a Batman Christmas themed cookie.” Bruce rolled his eyes, and found the ziploc bag full of the normal Christmas cookie cutters.

As the two of you rolled out the cookie dough and began cutting out the festive shapes, the boys could be heard arguing in the living room. You wiped your hands on your apron, and Bruce followed quietly behind you.

Jason and Dick were trying to pull the Christmas tree out of the box, with Damian instructing them. “You have to shimmy it!” He yelled at his two older brothers. “SHIMMY!…. SHIMMY!….. SHIMMY!!”

“SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” Jason yelled. Alfred walked over to the credenza and poured himself a glass of bourbon before downing it in one gulp. Tim was in the corner testing the lights, and Damian turned to look over at you and Bruce. “Don’t we have people to do this?” He asked and Bruce shook his head.

“No. Since your mom and I got married, we always decorated the interior of the house. You don’t need hired help for everything, Damian.” He said, and Damian flung back on to the couch.

You walked over to the couch and ruffled Damian’s hair, “These type of things take time. Decorating is supposed to be fun, and not a chore. So c’mon. Get up. Dad and I can help get the tree out of the box.”

You and Bruce helped get the tree out of the box and then fluffed out the branches. “There, now all you boys have to do is decorate it.” You stood up from the floor, and the tone in the room seemed more bright.

Alfred walked over to the record player and put on an old Christmas record, “It wouldn’t be Christmas decorating if we didn’t have on a record.”

The boys agreed with him simultaneously, and then got to work sorting out the different ornaments. Bruce followed you back into the kitchen, and continued to cut out and bake the remainder of the cookie dough. When you had placed the last sheet of cookies into the oven, Bruce pressed a kiss to your lips. “I’ll be right back.”

You sipped from your glass of wine, and Bruce brought a smaller record player into the kitchen. He delicately placed a vinyl down, and music filled the kitchen.

The all too familiar tune of Please Come Home for Christmas filled your ears- the voices of the Eagles (one of your favorite bands) sang the first lyric. You smiled at Bruce, and he walked around the kitchen island.

He took the glass of wine from your hands and sat it down on the marble counter top. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Wayne?” He asked and you pulled his body into yours. “Always.”

He held your hips firmly and you wrapped your arms around his neck.

My baby’s gone, I have no friends

To wish me greetings once again..

His forehead leaned against yours, and the two of you swayed to the music. Unbeknownst to you, Alfred and the boys watched from the pass-through window, but the two of you were too lost in each other to notice. “Why are they dancing to a sad song?” Jason asked and Alfred watched the two of you in awe.

“Let me tell you a story.” Alfred started and the boys turned their attention to Alfred. “Your parents had married on December 15th— this year will be their 15th wedding anniversary. Your mum was 22 years of age and your father 25. They had decided they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.” The boys listened intently,

“Your father, had just become the Batman, and didn’t want to take a break from it. Even if it was taking time from them celebrating this new adventure in life. Your mum had left, because he decided that being Batman was far more important than staying home for a couple of weeks.”

You and Bruce had insisted on Alfred taking the night off so the two of you could celebrate your honeymoon, and decorate the Christmas tree alone. Bora Bora was the plan, but you had wanted to celebrate Christmas at home, and Bruce agreed. You were sitting on the floor next to Bruce as he opened a box of Christmas tree lights. “I don’t care what the box says, these lights are definitely not untangled.” Bruce mumbled, and you smiled.

“There’s glitter in my hair, on my clothes, and somehow, in my coffee. This is chaos.” You replied and Bruce pressed a kiss to your temple. “Well, you look hot covered in glitter.”

The two of you helped each other decorate the tree, and shared kisses in between. Wayne Manor was being filled with Christmas music, laughter, and lots of love.

The Christmas tree was big, bright, and beautiful. It lit up the entire room, and the fire crackling set the perfect ambiance. Bruce laid out blankets and pillows in front of the fireplace, and he convinced you that instead of sleeping in the bed, the two of you could sleep in front of the fireplace.

The two of you had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, wrapped up in nothing but the blankets. When you had woken up, your watch read 11:47 PM, and Bruce was no where to be found.

You had checked the bedroom, bathroom, the study, and even the garage. Then it had dawned on you; he was probably down in the batcave. You slipped on your silk robe, and pressed the keys on the piano, and the bookcase had opened, revealing the long, dark cave entrance.

The cool air nipped at your skin, and sure enough, there was Bruce on the platform in the middle of the water. He was pulling on his armor, and you started to walk across the short bridge; the sound of the waterfall covering the sounds of your feet.

“Bruce, what are you doing?” You asked and he jumped a little.

“Well, I decided to patrol. There’s a lot of criminal activity tonight.” He said as he turned around in the chair to face you.

You stepped in front of him; his hands traced up your bare leg, then pulling you closer to his body. You looked down at him, your fingers running through his hair, “I thought we had agreed that you wouldn’t patrol for two weeks. That we would enjoy our honeymoon, and Christmas together.”

He stood up from the chair and he sat his cowl on the desk. “It will just be tonight, baby.” He said as his fingers combed through your hair.

His eyes were your weakness, and he knew you would break underneath his gaze, “I promise it will just be for tonight.“ he whispered, and you loosened the tie to your robe, revealing your naked frame to him. A smirk worked its way across his face, and he pulled you closer to him, “When I get home, I’ll make it up to you Mrs. Wayne.”

Bruce pressed a kiss to your neck, and you sighed while covering up your body. “Fine. But only for tonight.”

But ‘only for tonight’ turned into a week. He went out every night that week, and you had decided enough was enough. One night, when Bruce had left, you packed a suitcase and booked a trip to London. If you were going to spend your honeymoon alone, you were going to have fun alone- in a different country.

“So your mum left the country and went to London. Your father, of course, did not notice she was gone until the afternoon of the next day.” Alfred stated, and he brought the boys to the living room to finish telling the story.

“Master B called me in a panic, and I came home straightaway. I feared that one of the adversaries had figured out who the Batman was, and took Miss Y/N.” Alfred pulled a piece a paper from the display books on the coffee table. “I found this note on this very coffee table, explaining where she was. Your father back then… He could be quite oblivious to these sort of things.”

~~~~~~~~~

Dearest Bruce,

I love you with all of my heart, but spending these nights alone made me realize that maybe I wasn’t meant to be the wife of the Batman. I married you, Bruce. I find it tough to share you with the people of Gotham. Deep down, I know this city needs you- desperately. But I need you too. I am going to London for the remainder of our honeymoon, and I promise I will come back to Gotham so we can sort all of this out.

With love,

Y/N

~~~~~~~~~

The boys passed the letter around, “Why didn’t she just stay and tell him?” Jason asked and Alfred shrugged his shoulders.

“Your father could hear words, but he never truly listened. They were young, Jason. Communicating is something that is learned throughout the course of marriage. It’s not always easy, and it takes two to learn, grow, and adapt with one another. Luckily, your parents worked through it, and learned.” Alfred stated and no one noticed you and Bruce standing in the doorway.

“Well, what happened next?” Tim asked and Bruce answered.

“When Alfred found the note, I read it. I realized I promised to take time off from Batman and spend time with my wife. And I didn’t keep that promise.” Bruce sat down in the recliner, and you sat down on the arm of the chair.

His hand rested on your lower back, “I didn’t know how to distribute my time- she was my girlfriend when I started Batman. She had her own life, and it wasn’t until after she left I realized that she gave up a part of her life to create one with me. She couldn’t do that alone.”

You turned to look at Bruce, “I went after her, and the entire trip there, all I could think about was the promise I made and didn’t keep. Most people wouldn’t see it as a big deal, but I made a commitment to you. A life long commitment- and if I didn’t keep my promise for those two weeks like you had asked, how would you ever trust my future promises, or the promises I made when we exchanged our vows?” He spoke to you directly now.

Bruce stared up into your eyes, and he pulled you down to his lap, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Going after you, was the best decision I ever made.” He pressed a kiss to your lips, and the boys made gagging sounds.

“Ew! Please stop!”

“Get a room!”

“Wait- what did them dancing to that sad song have anything to do with their marital problem?” Damian asked, and you turned to look at them.

You looked at Bruce for confirmation to finish the story. Bruce nodded and his cheeks turned red, “Well, I left the 22nd, and he didn’t find out where I was until the afternoon of the 23rd. Then it took him until the 24th to find pilots to fly the Wayne jet, and that night he arrived in London.” You smiled at Bruce. “So on the night of Christmas Eve, I decided to have dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. I wore my best dress, and strange enough, there was no one else in the dining hall. The lights were dimmed, and the waiter took me to a table in the middle of the room.”

Alfred took a seat on the couch, and smiled. “There was a candle, and two wine glasses and a bottle of my favorite red wine. I turned to the waiter and explained that it was just me, but he pushed my chair in and walked away.”

Bruce hid his face in your hair, “The stage lights turned on, and there was a group of men on the stage, and the opening notes to Please Come Home for Christmas started to play. 🎵

When my eyes had adjusted to these lights, lo and behold, the Eagles, were standing in front of me.”

“Bells will be ringin' the sad, sad news

Oh, what a Christmas to have the blues

My baby's gone, I have no friends

To wish me greetings once again”

You sat there in shock, and then through the corner of your eye, Bruce was standing at the edge of the stage. Slowly, you stood up and Bruce walked over to you; he was wearing his best suit and tie. All you could do was stare at him and then back at the stage, “You did this?” You asked and Bruce nodded.

“May I have this dance?” He asked and you gave him your hand.

Bruce pulled you into his body, his right hand held your waist, and his left hand met your right hand. You stared up into his eyes, and he leaned his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, as he spun you out away from him, and then he pulled you back into his strong embrace. “I didn’t keep my promise. I feel terrible about it. But I feel even worse that it took you leaving for me to notice the broken promise.”

“Sure as the stars shine above

But this is Christmas, yes, Christmas, my dear

It’s the time of year to be with the one you love.”

“Will you forgive me, Y/N? There is no one else I would rather solve problems with, or experience life with. I only want you. Please come home for Christmas.” He whispered in your ear, and you pulled away from him.

All you could say was “Yes.” And Bruce’s hand held the back of your head as he pressed a kiss to your lips.

“There'll be no more sorrow, no grief and pain

And I'll be happy, happy once again.”

When he pulled away you pulled him back and pressed a long, needed kiss to his lips. “Thank you for coming after me.” You said against his lips, and then you smiled. “I guess there was a less dramatic way to discuss this. I’m sorry.”

Bruce shook his head, “Thank you for leaving. Otherwise, I don’t think I would have realized the error I made. I tend to hear, but not actually listen.” He said as he kissed your forehead.

“Ooh, there'll be no more sorrow, no grief and pain

And I'll be happy, Christmas once again.”

The final piano notes of the song played and you turned to Bruce, “How did you manage to get the Eagles to sing in a hotel restaurant? And why is there no one else here?” You asked and Bruce smiled as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I bought the restaurant. And as for them, I bought out an entire concert to get them here, plus some since it was Christmas.”

Bruce pulled you into a hug, and he waved for the band to play the song again.

_________

“He paid a for an entire concert? To play one song?” Dick asked and you smiled.

“No, they played their whole set list, and we had dinner with them. But it was after all of that, that meant the most to me.” You said as you looked at Bruce.”

“Ew, mom, we don’t want to hear this.” Jason said as he buried his face into a throw pillow. “Not that, Jason.” You stood up and picked up a small Big Ben ornament. Bruce stood up and followed you to tree, and his hand wrapped around yours, and he helped place the ornament on a branch in the middle.

“The clock is set to the time that your father and I kissed at our wedding, after saying I do.” You said and Bruce pulled you into a hug.

The boys surrounded the two of you, and even Alfred joined in on the hug. “So that’s why we take off from December 15th until the 29th.” Tim said and you smiled.

“Unless Gotham is in dire need of its Dark Knight. I too, have learned sometimes the city needs him more than I need him. But he somehow manages to be there for both.” You say, and Bruce pulls you into another breath taking kiss.

“Shall we go ahead and take our annual Christmas photo?” Alfred asks and you smile.

All of you gathered around the tree, and Alfred set the camera’s timer. He raced over and straightened out his suit and tie, “Everyone say SHIMMY!” Alfred shouted and everyone burst into laughter.

“SHIMMY!” Everyone exclaimed and the camera flash went off. In the photo, Damian’s mouth was agape, and he looked over at Jason who was laughing.

Then the fire alarm started blaring in the kitchen, “THE COOKIES!” You and Bruce screamed, and the two of you raced into the kitchen.

Bruce opened the smoke filled oven, and pulled out the cookie sheet with a dish towel. He dropped the pan into the sink, and after the smoke had cleared, everyone had a clear view of the cookies.

They were completely burned. All everyone could do was laugh, “They’re cookies are as hard as hockey pucks!” Jason said as he banged them in the counter. “I wonder if a bullet would go through them?” He asked out loud.

Bruce pulled you into his body and pressed a kiss to your lips. After what Jason had said processed, you looked at him, “Don’t you even think about it! No guns in the kitchen, and not shooting at the cookies!”

That night after cleaning the kitchen, the seven of you sat in the living room enjoying sugar cookies in front of the fireplace, and enjoying the view of the tree, all while playing some Wayne Family Christmas Games.

The End!

Authors Note:

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this! Comments, likes, and reblog are always appreciated. Please let me know what you thought!

xoxo

[yoyle-the-gathering]

my #1 parasocial relationship blog liked my flight rising fanart this is the best day of my life. @thegreatyin add my fallens london pearl clutcher is Marketplace and conflict is Plagueflash :3c

[bwobgames]

A pointy dart!

Maybe there’s a bar on the train? The worker’s cafeteria? Something from the other wagon?

Whatever it is, it’s dangerous to leave it out in the open like this, looks sharp.

Quite sharp, actually.

Oliver get’s a brilliant idea on how to kill two birds with one stone.

He calmy goes back to the cafeteria and settles in one of the tables.

He remembers when the upperclassmen at the academy dared him to do this with an equally sharp object. At first, he thought it was to test his motor skills, but when he told Ángel he said it was probably an intimidation tactic. Sadly for them, Oliver has incredible hand-eye coordination.

“Now, how did it went… Oh yeah! I have all my fingers 🎵 -“

“OLIVER”

And there it is. Ángel’s “Oliver is doing something dangerous” senses have activated.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

“How did you and Vivi get to the normal class wagon”

“Don’t change the subject! What do you have there?!”

“Nothing at all”

“Is that a dart?!”

Now it’s a great time to put into practice that trick that Owen showed him.

“Ta-da! It disappeared! How could this happen? Perhaps the ghosts stole it”

“You can’t out-trick me you scamp. I’ve done bigger illusions for mere emeralds! Empty your sleeves!”

“Hm? There’s nothing here, Ángel”

“The other sleeve!”

“Nothing here either”

“Oliver, I can see it!”

Messing with Ángel is so fun.

As he is about to make a daring escape, fit for his dominion imitation, one of the workers tell them is dinner time.

“You will not get away with this you thief! You shall be punished with the highest might of- Ooh milanesa!”

Turns out a few hours of travel is enough to open everyone’s appetite

Oliver looks out the window, he sees nothing but fields, trees and the mountains.

He likes seeing the mountains. It means they are far away.

He’s barely hearing what Natalia is saying to Ángel. Why she sat here? He has no clue. He feels like back at school when the teacher sat rowdy kids beside him, so they’d behave.

Well, he has plenty of practice trying to block his surroundings.

“And then it was the Death card! Can you believe that?!”

“I’m pretty sure the death card is not specifically meant to signify death”

“But still! That’s so creepy! This train is cursed for sure, even the cards say so!”

Ah, death. That thing has been haunting him all day. Truly can’t let a man rest for even a second.

Haunted houses, assassination attempts, drug busts, inheritance fraud… Death seems to follow him everywhere he goes.

He supposed is partly his fault, he is the one feeding the crows after all.

While looking in the distance, the almost unending fields, he can’t help but reminisce about the times when he was young.

When his parents worked on a field, and he was but a mere farm boy.

When he got close to death for the first time.

<PREV START NEXT>

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Making Space | Chapter 6

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 17.4k

Requested: No | Yes 

Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, miscommunication, intimate moments, and that heart-wrenching feeling when you're thousands of miles apart but somehow closer than ever

A Few Quick Notes: 📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open

Author's Note:

Distance has a way of crystallizing what matters. This chapter explores what happens in the aftermath of New Orleans—when color-coded calendars meet chaotic scheduling, when digital connections replace physical touch, and when the barrier between casual and significant starts to blur.

For Joe, it's the unsettling realization that he can't game-plan falling for someone. When a quarterback who's built his career on preparation and control suddenly finds himself refreshing his messages and calling from parking lots, something fundamental has shifted. The impersonal space he's carefully maintained suddenly feels empty without her chaos to fill it.

For Riley, it's navigating the weight of past relationships while trying not to repeat old patterns. It's about finding the balance between protecting herself and allowing this new connection room to breathe. When she instinctively keeps her birthday private, it's not about secrecy—it's about safeguarding something that feels too important to risk.

I wanted to capture that unique intimacy that grows in absence—how vulnerability sometimes flows easier through phone lines than in person. The way their connection deepens not just through desire, but through those quiet moments of honesty: Joe admitting he misses her, Riley sharing glimpses of her world in Italy, both of them realizing that "different worlds" might be exactly what they each need.

What happens when misunderstandings arise and boundaries are tested? When two people with fundamentally different approaches to life try to understand each other across oceans? This chapter explores these questions as Joe and Riley navigate not just distance, but the growing realization that whatever this is between them has quietly become vital.

The casual connection that began on Fallon's stage is evolving with every text, every call, every confession in the dark. And sometimes, it's the smallest gestures that reveal the most about where things truly stand.

Thank you all for your incredible comments on the last chapter! Each one fuels this story in ways you can't imagine. Your insights and reactions keep me going through every writing session.

I can't wait to hear what you think of this one! 🎵💫 Asks are open lets talk about this one.

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

Joe sat at his kitchen island, scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow. His body was still warm from his morning workout, his protein shake half-finished beside him. The adrenaline from New Orleans hadn’t quite faded—nine days since Mardi Gras, and he still couldn’t shake the way the city had seeped into his bones. He’d spent those nine days trying to settle back into his routine, but his thoughts kept drifting to emerald walls, jazz clubs, and a parade float where he’d had more fun than he’d had in years.

His schedule for March was brutal—training, sponsor meetings, media obligations, barely a handful of unscheduled days. Every time he looked at it, frustration settled in his chest like a weight. Finding time to see Riley again felt like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces, each glance at his calendar only heightening his sense of disappointment.

He typed out a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again. Too eager. Too formal. Too... He took a breath and just sent it.

Joe: Hey, this might sound weirdly formal, but what's your email? I want to share my calendar with you so we can figure out when we can see each other next.

That was at 7:42 a.m. By noon, she still hadn't responded. Joe didn't take it personally—Riley was not a morning person, a fact she'd made abundantly clear multiple times. He smiled, remembering how she'd groaned dramatically and buried herself deeper under the covers when he'd suggested a 9 a.m. breakfast during Mardi Gras. If she was that resistant about 9 a.m., a text before 8 stood no chance. But as the hours ticked by, he found himself checking his phone more than he'd like to admit, more than made any logical sense for someone he'd only known a few weeks.

He went through his usual routine—ate his carefully portioned lunch, reviewed game film with mechanical focus, sat through a tedious call with his agent—but his attention kept drifting, thoughts of New Orleans intruding at unexpected moments. The memory of Riley's laugh. The way her house had smelled like vanilla and something earthy. The feeling of her hand in his as they'd wandered the parade route.

It wasn't until well into the afternoon that his screen finally lit up with her name, and he was embarrassed by how quickly he reached for the phone.

Riley: rileycarter@gmail.com... 😂 sorry, just saw this. was very busy doing nothing important while recovering from actually important things I did until 3am

Joe immediately opened his calendar app, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with his earlier workout. He shared his entire schedule, color-coded by commitment type—green for training, blue for media, yellow for sponsor events—with every potentially free slot precisely marked. Without saying anything more, he sent the calendar invitation to her email.

A few minutes later, his phone chimed.

Riley: Your is schedule color-coded and annotated? I'm oddly charmed by this.

Joe smiled, pleased she'd noticed the effort he'd put into organizing everything.

Joe: Thought it would be the most efficient way to find when we can see each other again.

Riley: I guess this means I should send you mine too? Fair warning—it's chaos.

Minutes later, another notification came through. Joe tapped open the photo she'd sent and immediately huffed out a quiet laugh that echoed in his empty kitchen.

Her calendar was absolute madness.

Joe: This is... concerning. How do you ever get anywhere on time?

Events overlapped haphazardly, some had no times attached at all. There were cryptic notes ("G + L thing???" and "Call Pete re: bridges"), entire days blocked off simply as "WRITE", and—most concerning—things like "Existential Crisis Time" and "Don't Talk to Me" randomly scattered throughout like emotional landmines.

Riley: Bold of you to assume I do.

His eyes caught on March 14-22, completely blocked off in red with just the word "ITALY" in all caps.

Joe's thumb hovered over the screen, something tight and uncomfortable forming in his stomach. He set his phone down, staring at the granite countertop of his island.

Joe: You're going to Italy?

The three dots appeared quickly this time.

Riley: Yeah, annual trip with the band and my girls. We go every year. Tiny little vineyard in the middle of nowhere. Best week of the year.

Joe exhaled slowly, setting his phone down on the counter with careful deliberation. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly aware of how quiet his apartment was, how orderly and impersonal compared to the chaotic warmth of Riley's New Orleans home.

He wasn't sure why the disappointment hit so hard. They'd known each other less than a month. This wasn't—shouldn't be—something that occupied so much space in his thoughts.

He'd been hoping to fly her out to Cincinnati soon—maybe even next week—but now? Now, he had to wait.

Joe picked up his phone again, scrolling through April with renewed determination, already looking for their next chance, trying not to examine too closely why waiting another month felt suddenly impossible.

His own reaction troubled him. This wasn't like him—this itchy impatience, this disproportionate disappointment. He was Joe Burrow. He didn't get thrown off balance by a blocked week on a calendar. He adjusted. Recalculated. Moved on.

But as he stared at the screen, at the sea of commitments that would keep them apart for weeks, something tightened in his chest that felt uncomfortably like missing her—which made no logical sense at all.

Joe: We'll figure something out. I'm pretty good at finding openings in tight coverage.

He hit send before he could overthink it, and her response came back almost instantly.

Riley: Was that a football metaphor? God, you're such a dork. I like it.

Another text followed quickly:

Riley: But see all those little white gaps between the chaos? Those are yours if you want them.

Joe read the message twice, something warm blooming in his chest despite the lingering disappointment about Italy.

Joe: I want them.

Joe smiled, the disappointment easing just slightly. If he couldn't see her yet, at least he had this—these messages that somehow made his house feel less quiet, that made him smile at his phone while standing in his kitchen.

A few days later, Joe was at a high-end training facility, mid-workout, while a camera crew documented everything for his latest sponsorship deal. It was one of those "authentic but staged" shoots—him running drills, lifting weights, and wiping sweat off his face between takes, all while wearing the latest performance gear they were paying him to promote.

Mark Caldwell stood near the squat rack, scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing up to make sure Joe wasn't scowling too hard at the cameras.

When they called for a break, Joe grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. Mark took that as his cue.

"So," Mark said, leaning against the wall. "How was New Orleans?"

Joe took a long sip of water. "Good."

Mark gave him a flat look. "That's all I get?"

Joe shrugged, clearly not in the mood for a debrief. "What else do you want?"

Mark sighed, crossing his arms. "I don't know. Maybe some insight into why you suddenly decided Mardi Gras was the perfect time for a 'quick getaway.'"

Joe didn't answer. He just kept drinking his water.

Mark sighed. "You seeing her again?"

Joe shot him a look, then answered without hesitation. "Yup."

Mark huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Just… be smart."

Joe didn't respond. Mostly because he didn't have an answer yet.

Except he did.

Because later that afternoon, he was still thinking about her.

Joe was sprawled out on his couch, aimlessly scrolling through Instagram when he saw it. Riley’s latest post. A mirror selfie from yoga. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, damp strands clinging to her neck. 

Her skin was still flushed from exertion, lips slightly parted, leggings hugging every curve in a way that made his breath catch. The thin fabric of her sports bra clung to her body, leaving little to the imagination—and his imagination was already working overtime.

The caption?

Back at it. Barely.

Joe wasn’t reading. His thumb hovered over the screen, eyes dragging over the curve of her waist, the strength in her shoulders, the hint of collarbone visible above the neckline of her top. He exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly on the couch before switching apps.

Joe: Yoga, huh? A few minutes passed before she answered. 

Riley: You like what you see, Burrow?

Joe smirked, tongue running along the inside of his cheek. He hesitated, then typed:

Joe: Send me a picture.

Riley: You just saw one.

Joe: Yeah, but that one was for Instagram. Not for me.

A pause. Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. 

Riley: Demanding, aren’t you?

A moment later, another picture came through.

This one was different.

A mirror selfie taken in what looked like her bathroom, the vanity lights casting a soft glow around her. Her hair was wet and slicked back, water droplets still visible on her skin. She wore a leopard-print bra and matching underwear, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. The set sat low on her hips, revealing the toned plane of her stomach, her legs slightly parted as she leaned into the mirror.

Her posture was confident—one hip cocked slightly, her fingers just barely hooked into the waistband of her underwear. No teasing smile this time, just pure, deliberate intent in her gaze, like she knew exactly what effect this would have on him.

Joe exhaled sharply, gripping his phone a little tighter. His free hand ran over his jaw, a slow drag as he tried to temper the heat creeping through his body. He saved the image to his camera roll without hesitation, his thumb brushing across the screen as if he could somehow touch her through it.

Joe: That's more like it.

Riley: Your turn. Make it good.

Joe huffed a quiet laugh and lifted his phone, angling the camera downward. He didn't overthink it—just snapped the picture, raw and unfiltered.

One arm still behind his head, his body relaxed, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The frame captured just enough—the defined muscles of his chest and abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones disappearing beneath the waistband. His expression was calm, effortless, but there was an undeniable confidence in his eyes—self-assured, knowing exactly what he was doing.

He hit send.

Riley's response was immediate.

Riley: Fuck.

A pause.

Riley: Not that I forgot, but damn.

Joe grinned, rolling onto his side, phone still in hand.

Joe: We could always FaceTime.

The response came almost instantly.

Riley: Call me.

Joe tapped the FaceTime button without hesitation. The quiet of his apartment seemed to amplify as he waited for her to answer, his focus sharpening in a way that normally only happened on the field.

Three rings in, the screen lit up with Riley's face. She was in her bathroom, still wearing that leopard print set, hair wet from the shower and slicked back from her face. She'd propped her phone against something, both hands now free as she rubbed moisturizer into her neck.

"Well, hello there, stranger," she said, her voice a touch deeper than usual, eyes meeting his through the screen with a look that made the distance between Cincinnati and LA feel suddenly, painfully vast.

His gaze caught briefly on her wrist, where the faded purple and gold of his LSU bracelet stood out against her skin. The sight of it there, after he'd given it to her in New Orleans, sent an unexpected surge of warmth through his chest.

"Hey." Joe's voice was steady, deliberate. He adjusted his position on the couch, angling the phone with precision so the light from the window caught him better.

"I'm glad you took me up on the FaceTime offer," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

Riley raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. "How could I refuse after that picture?"

"Fair point," Joe replied, his eyes tracking her movements with unmasked interest as she continued her post-shower routine.

"You're staring," she noted, not looking away from the mirror as she applied something to her face.

"I am," he confirmed, not bothering to hide his appreciation. "Can you blame me?"

Riley smirked, finally turning her full attention back to him. "No, I guess I can't."

Joe exhaled a quiet laugh, shifting again on the couch, his fingers tightening subtly around his phone. She was doing this on purpose—moving slow, dragging her hands over her skin in a way that was casual but not really casual.

"So, what exactly were you thinking when you suggested this call?" she asked, voice teasing.

Joe arched a brow, letting the silence linger just a beat longer than necessary. "I wanted to see you," he said, his voice low and direct. "Not just talk. Actually see you."

The candid admission hung between them, more intimate somehow than the pictures they'd exchanged earlier. Riley's movements slowed, her eyes meeting his through the screen with new intensity.

"Well," she replied, setting down her moisturizer. She leaned closer to the camera, giving him a deliberate view down the front of her leopard print bra, her eyes never leaving his. "Here I am."

The move was quintessentially Riley—playful and bold, with an authenticity that made it seductive rather than performative.

"Here you are," Joe agreed, making no effort to hide the appreciation in his gaze. "And it's better than the picture."

Riley smiled, a flush spreading across her skin that had nothing to do with the hot shower she'd just taken. "You're surprisingly good at this, you know."

"At what?" Joe asked, though his half-smile suggested he knew exactly what she meant.

"At saying exactly what you're thinking instead of dancing around it," Riley explained. "I like it."

"I don't see the point in pretending I don't want you," Joe said simply. "Even when you're two thousand miles away."

Riley smiled, satisfied with his reaction. "So what now? We just stare at each other through our phones like idiots?"

Joe ran a hand through his hair, considering her for a moment. The usual rules didn't apply here. "Or," he said decisively, voice dropping slightly, "we could make this a little more interesting."

Riley's grin turned wicked. "I love interesting." She glanced around her bathroom and laughed softly. "But I should probably get somewhere more comfortable first."

"Good idea," Joe agreed, already settled on his couch.

The camera jostled as Riley moved through her apartment, giving Joe glimpses of colorful artwork, plants, and eclectic furniture. "Don't go anywhere," she instructed, her voice playful but with an undercurrent of desire.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Joe replied, watching as she finally settled on her bed, propping the phone against something to free her hands.

Riley settled on her bed, propping the phone against something to free her hands. She looked at him through the screen, a question in her eyes that was both hesitant and daring.

Joe felt the distance between them like a physical ache. "Take it off," he said, his voice low but certain.

The simple command hung between them. For a moment, Riley just looked at him, a slow smile spreading across her face—not teasing now, but pleased by his directness.

The leopard print bra fell away, revealing her completely to him for the first time since New Orleans. Joe's breath hitched, his eyes darkening as they moved over her.

"God, I hate how far away you are right now," he said, his voice rough with desire. "I wish I could touch you."

Riley smiled, a languid curve of her lips. "Tell me how," she whispered. "Tell me what you'd do if you were here."

Joe held her gaze, his voice dropping lower. "I'd start with my hands on your hips," he said, his tone changing to something more commanding yet intimate. "Then slowly up your sides, feeling every inch of you."

Riley's breathing quickened, her hands moving to trace the path he described.

"I'd take my time at your neck," Joe continued, watching as her fingers traveled up her own body. "Right at that spot behind your ear that made you gasp in New Orleans."

Riley's eyes fluttered as her fingers found the spot, a soft "Oh" escaping her lips.

"Then down to your collarbone," he guided, his own breathing growing heavier as he watched her follow his instructions. "Across your shoulders... then back down."

"Like this?" she asked, her fingertips tracing the path he described, her voice already breathier than before.

"Exactly like that," Joe confirmed, his jaw tightening as he watched. "Now lower... where I know you want to be touched."

Riley's hand slid down her stomach, hesitating just above the waistband of her underwear. The anticipation hung between them, electric and tangible even through screens.

"Don't stop," Joe said, his voice a mixture of command and plea. "I want to see you feel good."

Her hand slipped beneath the leopard print, her eyes fluttering closed briefly with a soft, shaky gasp. "Joe," she murmured, voice thick. "God, I wish you were here."

"I am," he insisted, his own control visibly slipping. "Right here with you. Keep going."

They moved together in perfect synchronicity, Joe's low voice guiding her with increasing urgency, Riley responding to every word as if his voice itself could touch her. Their connection transcended the physical distance, creating an intimacy neither had expected to feel through a screen.

"You're close," Joe observed, his voice strained but certain. "I can tell by your breathing."

"Yes," Riley managed, her movements growing more desperate. "Joe, I'm—"

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice authoritative despite his own building tension. "I want to see your eyes when you come."

Riley's gaze locked with his on the screen, vulnerability and desire mixing in her expression as she reached the edge. "Joe," she gasped, her body arching off the bed, his name falling from her lips in a broken cry.

Joe followed moments later, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep his eyes open, determined to maintain that connection as pleasure overtook him.

For several long moments afterward, they simply breathed together, the silence comfortable rather than awkward. Something vulnerable hung in the air between them—a level of intimacy neither had expected to feel through a screen.

For several long moments afterward, they simply breathed together, the silence comfortable rather than awkward. Something vulnerable hung in the air between them—a level of intimacy neither had expected to feel through a screen.

Joe let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh…” He cleared his throat, a rare hint of self-consciousness creeping in. “I should probably clean up. Can I call you back?”

“Don’t hang up,” Riley said immediately, her voice soft but insistent. “Take me with you.”

Joe hesitated, but the look in her eyes made the decision for him. He gave her a small, almost shy smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You want to watch me clean up?”

Riley rolled her eyes, but there was nothing teasing in her expression—just a quiet openness that made his chest tighten. “I just don’t want to lose you yet,” she admitted.

His face softened, and he picked up the phone, shifting from the couch and carrying it with him. “Okay,” he said simply.

The camera jostled as Joe carried her through his house—a glimpse of his space flashing past the screen. It was modern and understated, full of clean lines and muted colors. The kitchen was sleek and functional—stainless steel appliances, quartz countertops, and not a single item out of place. A set of pristine looking barstools sat at the island, and the only hint of personality was a Bengals helmet perched on a shelf, looking more like an art piece than a part of his life.

When he reached the bathroom, it was more of the same—gray tile floors, spotless glass shower, and everything organized neatly on the counter. A perfectly folded hand towel hung on the rack, and the mirror reflected the bright, clinical lighting overhead.

Riley couldn’t help but laugh softly as he set the phone on the counter. “Your place is… exactly what I pictured.”

Joe caught her eyes in the mirror, raising an eyebrow. “That a good thing?”

“It’s just… so modern,” she said, glancing around. “Like an upscale hotel suite. Kind of the opposite of my place.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “It works for me. Keeps me focused.”

Riley smiled, tilting her head as she watched him. “And yet, it still doesn’t quite feel like you.”

Joe glanced over at her through the mirror, his eyes narrowing just a bit in thought. “No?”

She shrugged, offering a small smile. “I guess I just thought it would be… warmer. You know, like you.”

Joe didn’t respond right away, just wiped himself down and considered her words. It wasn’t that she was wrong—the place didn’t feel like him. It felt like the kind of place he was supposed to have. Efficient. Neat. Nothing unnecessary.

He set the washcloth aside, his jaw working as he processed that thought. “I guess I’m used to keeping things practical,” he admitted.

Riley’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to, you know. Be practical all the time.”

Joe gave her a small, almost wry smile. “Kinda built my whole career on that.”

Her laughter was light, but understanding. “Yeah, well… sometimes practicality and happiness don’t exactly go hand in hand.”

He couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at his lips. “Maybe you’re right.”

Joe wiped the remaining moisture from his hands, and hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to say the next part out loud. “Sometimes I don’t know if I chose it or if it chose me,” he admitted quietly, almost like he wasn’t entirely sure himself.

Riley tilted her head, catching the hint of vulnerability in his voice. “The discipline, you mean?”

Joe nodded, looking down briefly before meeting her eyes again. “Everything in my life has been about control. Making the right choices. Staying disciplined. It’s how I got here.”

“And now?” Riley asked, voice softer.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Now I’m standing in my bathroom, talking to a woman I barely know, feeling more… seen than I have in years.”

The confession hung between them, raw and honest in a way that made Riley’s breath catch. She hadn’t expected this—not just the intimacy of their bodies, but this glimpse into the carefully guarded interior of Joe Burrow.

He picked up the phone, heading back to the living room, where the muted tones and minimalist décor stretched into the open-concept space. As he settled back on the couch, he gave her a quick once-over through the screen, clearly appreciating how she was still casually sprawled on her bed, unapologetically comfortable in her own skin.

“Alright,” he said, tone deliberately lighter, determined to shake off the weird vulnerability that had settled between them. “What’s tomorrow look like for Riley Carter?”

Riley shifted against her pillows, still completely nude and utterly comfortable with it. “Nothing as put-together as yours. Studio time at two. Probably sleep until ten, maybe do some yoga, and try to figure out this bridge that’s been giving me hell.”

She absently ran her thumb over his bracelet on her wrist. “Though honestly, I should probably start thinking about packing for Italy. The band and my girls always tease me for throwing everything together the night before.”

Joe watched her fiddle with the bracelet, and something settled in his chest at the sight of it still on her wrist. “You looking forward to it?”

Riley gave a small, almost wistful smile. “Yeah. It’s good to get away with my people. Just… be somewhere else for a while, you know?”

Joe caught the subtle shift in her tone—like maybe it wasn’t just about the trip, but he didn’t push. Instead, he just nodded. “Sounds like a good tradition.”

“What about you?” Riley asked, shifting to prop herself up a little more. “Any off-season traditions?”

Joe leaned back against the couch, his voice easy. "During the off-season? I usually head back to Athens to catch up with old friends. We'll plan beach trips or just spend days on the golf course. When I'm home, my dad and I try to catch Cavs games whenever we can."

Riley smiled, her eyes warming. "I can picture that so clearly. So what happens when you're out golfing with your friends? I bet you try to keep it casual at first, but the second someone makes a comment about your swing or how you sliced the ball..."

Joe huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, pretty much. They know how to get under my skin, and I can’t just let it go.”

“Of course not,” Riley teased. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t make it a competition.”

He gave her a look, his mouth curving up. “I’m not that bad.”

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

There was a comfortable pause before Riley spoke again. “So, what’s tomorrow look like for you?”

Joe shook his head, clearly amused. “Probably up around seven—hit the gym, maybe get in a run. Catch up on some film, and then grab dinner with a couple of the guys if they’re free.”

She made a face. “See, that actually sounds like a pretty solid off-season day. No 5 a.m. alarms.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I don’t go that hard in the off-season. Doesn’t mean I’m sleeping till noon, though.”

Riley scoffed. “Can’t relate. My body doesn’t even acknowledge mornings.”

Joe grinned, his expression softening. “I kind of figured that out already.”

Three days after the FaceTime call with Riley, Joe was sprawled on his friend Sam's couch, one leg propped on the coffee table as he nursed a beer and watched the Cavs game. Sam's apartment had become their default gathering spot on rare free evenings—convenient location, decent TV setup, and most importantly, a host who didn't care if they demolished his fridge contents.

Micah, Joe's friend since high school, was mid-debate with Sam about a questionable call when Joe's phone buzzed. He glanced down, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly when he saw Riley's name.

Riley: Just got out of the shower and thinking about our last FaceTime... wondering if you're busy right now? Might have something to show you that can't wait until Italy 😏

His thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating a response, but the sharp flicker of heat low in his stomach made the decision for him. He shifted against the couch, angling his phone away from prying eyes.

Joe: With friends watching the game

Riley: Even better. They can watch too. Kidding. Rain check?

"I hit you up last week to play a round and you said you were out of town. I thought you just got back from New York. Where did you go?" Micah asked, tossing a balled-up napkin at Joe's head.

Joe caught it reflexively. Didn't answer right away.

"New Orleans."

"Holy shit," Sam laughed. "I thought that was just a rumor. You actually went?"

Joe took a sip of his beer. Nodded once.

Micah watched him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"

"Mardi Gras."

"You went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras?" The disbelief in Sam's voice was palpable.

"Yup."

The silence that followed was pointed. Joe could feel both of them waiting for him to fill in the gaps.

"Alright, I'll bite," Sam said, muting the TV during a commercial. "Who is she?"

Joe shot him a look. "Who says there's a she?"

"Your face," Micah chimed in. "Every time your phone buzzes, you get this look. It's subtle, but it's there."

Joe's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He wasn't used to being read so easily, especially not by his friends. That was new.

"It's just someone I met recently," he finally said, keeping his tone neutral, matter-of-fact, though the tension in his shoulders told a different story.

"Riley Carter," he added after a beat, deciding to get it over with.

The reaction was immediate. Sam nearly choked on his beer, and Micah's eyes widened comically.

"The singer?" Sam managed after recovering. "The one with that song that was everywhere last summer?"

Joe nodded, suddenly finding the label on his beer bottle intensely interesting.

"Damn," Micah said, leaning back against the couch. "That's... unexpected."

"When I did Fallon last month," Joe explained before they could ask, his usual economy with words even more pronounced. "We were both on the show."

Micah studied him for a moment. "And you're what, texting? Dating? Just friends?"

Joe took another drink before answering. "We're figuring it out." The same words he'd said to Riley during that quiet moment in New Orleans.

"Is it serious?" Sam asked carefully, knowing Joe well enough to recognize when he was approaching a boundary.

Joe stared at the TV. Didn't answer right away. Three weeks ago, he would have dismissed it immediately. But now? After New Orleans? After late-night calls and FaceTime sessions that left him feeling more himself than he had in years?

"Could be," he admitted quietly, surprising himself with his own answer.

Sam and Micah exchanged a look—this one containing a mix of surprise and something like concern.

"Just be careful, man," Micah said eventually. "Someone like that... lives in a different world."

Joe's expression cooled. "You don't know her."

Micah held up his hands. "You're right, I don't. Just saying... rock stars and quarterbacks? Different playbooks."

Joe's phone buzzed again. He resisted the urge to check it immediately, which didn't go unnoticed by his friends.

"Go ahead," Sam said, gesturing to the phone. "We know you want to."

Joe picked up the phone, his face remaining neutral despite the photo that had just come through—Riley in bed, sheet barely covering what needed to be covered, hair wild around her face, looking at the camera with an expression that made his throat go dry.

His pulse jumped. The shift in his breathing was immediate, involuntary.

Riley: Preview of what you're missing. I'll leave you to your game now.

Joe dragged his thumb over the screen—not responding. Just looking.

He set his phone down. Exhaled through his nose. Willed his face to stay neutral.

"Dude," Micah observed, smirking.

Joe ignored him, reaching for his beer. "We watching this game or what?"

Sam, recognizing Joe's shift into privacy mode, unmuted the TV. "All I'm saying is, if you start showing up in TMZ photos, I'm going to need some warning."

Joe huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Not my style."

"Seems like it's hers though," Micah commented, eyes still on the game.

Joe didn't take the bait, his silence speaking volumes. The implication that Riley was somehow just another attention-seeking celebrity rubbed him the wrong way. The Riley he knew—the one who cooked with him in her kitchen, who showed him her neighborhood haunts, who talked music theory with the same intensity he discussed defensive schemes—was nothing like the image they had of her.

The Cavs pulled ahead in the fourth quarter, securing what had been an uncertain win. As the final buzzer sounded, Micah stretched, checking his watch.

"I should head out. Early client tomorrow," he said, standing.

Joe nodded, using it as his own excuse to leave. He'd enjoyed the game, but the undercurrent of curiosity from his friends was starting to grate on him. They meant well, but they didn't understand. How could they? He barely understood it himself.

Later, as he was leaving, Sam caught him at the door. "Hey, I know we gave you shit? It's cool you're getting back out there."

Joe paused, then nodded once. "Yeah. It is."

"And hey," Sam added, "if she makes you check your phone every five minutes and fly to New Orleans on a whim, she must be something special."

Joe didn't respond, but something in his expression made Sam smile.

The moment Joe shut his car door, he felt a weight lift. An urge he couldn't quite explain—wouldn't have acted on three weeks ago—pushed through his usual calculated restraint. He sat with his key in the ignition, not yet starting the car, and pulled out his phone.

It was only 10:17 PM. Not too late to call.

In the past, he'd have waited until he was home, analyzed whether calling was the right move, perhaps even slept on the decision. But the image of Riley waiting for his response, perhaps wondering if he'd been put off by her forwardness, created an unusual sense of urgency.

When she answered on the second ring, the low warmth of her voice felt like a physical relief.

"Well hello there, quarterback," Riley said, the smile evident in her tone. "Miss me already?"

"Yeah," Joe admitted, the honesty surprising even himself. "Wanted to hear your voice."

There was a brief pause, his directness clearly catching her off guard. "That's... unexpectedly sweet. Everything okay?"

"Fine," Joe said, finally starting the car. "Just thinking about you."

"Your friends give you a hard time about New Orleans?"

"Some. Nothing I can't handle."

"Let me guess," Riley said, her voice taking on a knowing quality. "They warned you that I'm trouble? Different world? Too much drama?"

Joe let out a short laugh. "Something like that."

"And what did you say?" There was a hint of genuine curiosity beneath her light tone.

"That they don't know you," Joe replied simply.

Another pause. "That's a good answer, Burrow."

"It's the truth."

The conversation shifted then, flowing naturally between them as he drove through Cincinnati's quiet streets. By the time Joe pulled into his driveway, they'd covered everything from her latest recording session to his training schedule for the week, neither noticing how much time had passed.

"I'm home," Joe said reluctantly. "Should probably head in."

"Before you go," Riley said, her voice dropping slightly, "did you like your preview earlier?"

Joe closed his eyes briefly, the image from her text flashing in his mind again. "You know I did."

"Good," she murmured. "Maybe next time we FaceTime, you'll get the full show."

"Is that a promise?" Joe asked, his voice lower now.

"That depends," Riley said, the smile back in her voice. "How badly do you want it?"

"Enough that I called you from a parking lot," Joe admitted, allowing a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

Riley's laugh was warm and genuine. "Goodnight, Joe."

"Goodnight, Riley."

As he ended the call and headed inside, Joe recognized with unusual clarity what was happening. For the first time in his life, his carefully structured world was shifting to make room for something—someone—who operated by completely different rules. And instead of fighting to maintain control, he found himself leaning into the change.

Different worlds, definitely. But as he walked toward his front door, Joe realized with absolute certainty—he'd rather have Riley bringing chaos to his ordered life than return to the perfect, predictable emptiness he'd inhabited before she arrived.

Over the next week, his routine stayed pretty much the same - workouts, meetings, sponsor obligations - but his world felt different. There was a new current running through it: Riley. Their daily texts and nightly calls had become the highlight of his day, the thing he found himself looking forward to most.

The night before her Italy trip, they talked longer than usual, neither willing to be the first to hang up.

"So I've gotta survive nine whole days without one of these calls?" Joe asked, stretching out on his couch.

"I'll still have my phone," Riley laughed. "Italy has cell service, you know. I'll be reachable."

"Good," Joe said. "Looking forward to hearing all about it."

"God, I can't wait to see Bob and Gina," Riley said, excitement clear in her voice. "Bob called yesterday to make sure I still like the same breakfast. They haven't changed my room in three years."

"Bob and Gina?" Joe asked. "The vineyard owners?"

"Yeah, Roberto and Gina Rossi, but everyone calls him Bob. They own this small vineyard in the middle of nowhere, not one of those commercial operations with tour buses. It's this hidden gem in the hills."

"How'd you end up staying at a vineyard?" Joe asked, genuinely curious. "I'd have guessed fancy hotels were more the rock star way."

Riley laughed. "We stumbled on their place completely by accident during a wine tasting tour a few years ago. We were already a bit tipsy from the previous vineyards when we found the Rossi estate."

"And they just let random Americans crash at their place?"

That's the thing about Bob and Gina - they don't believe in strangers, only friends they haven't met yet. Within twenty minutes of meeting us, Gina was feeding us these amazing little appetizers, and Bob was pulling out bottles he said he 'only shares with family.'" Riley's voice warmed with the memory. "Then this massive rainstorm hit, roads were flooded, and Gina refused to let us leave. Said it wasn't safe. What started as a simple dinner turned into an overnight stay."

"And now it's an annual thing?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, we've gone back every year since. They block off the same week for us. It's... it's special. One of those rare places where time seems to slow down."

Joe could hear the genuine affection in her voice. "What do you all do there for a whole week?"

Riley hesitated, just briefly enough that Joe almost missed it. "Oh, you know... Bob shows us around the vineyard, explains the wine-making process. We cook with Gina. There's a little village nearby we explore. Just... relaxing stuff."

Something about her answer felt slightly evasive, but Joe let it go. "Sounds nice. Different from your usual pace."

"That's exactly why we love it," Riley said. "No pressure, no schedules, no expectations. Just good food, good wine, good people. It's become this... I don't know, this tradition that grounds us somehow."

Joe nodded, though she couldn't see him. There was something in her tone when she said "tradition" that caught his attention - a softness, a significance he couldn't quite place. "You guys must have a lot of traditions by now, being together so long as a band."

"Some," Riley agreed. "The vineyard trip is probably our favorite though. It's... it's important to us."

The slight hesitation again. Joe found himself wondering what made this particular tradition so special, but didn't press. Everyone was entitled to their privacy, and they were still learning each other's boundaries.

"Take pictures," he said instead. "I want to see this magical vineyard."

"Only if you send daily workout selfies," Riley countered. "Gotta keep track of those gains."

Joe laughed, surprised by how easily she could make him do that now. "Deal."

They talked for another hour, neither wanting to end the call, conversation flowing easily between teasing banter and comfortable silences. Eventually, Joe glanced at the time and sighed.

“You know you’re never gonna get packed if you keep talking to me,” he pointed out, voice soft.

Riley huffed a quiet laugh. “Maybe I’m stalling. Can you blame me?”

He smiled at that, his chest warming. “Nah,” he said, his tone just as reluctant. “Can’t say I mind.”

She hesitated, and he could almost hear her shifting against the pillows. “I guess I should get moving, though,” she said, not sounding convinced.

“Yeah,” Joe agreed, but neither of them made a move to actually hang up.

When they finally did, much later than planned, Joe stayed there for a moment—phone still in his hand, staring at the dark screen. An uneasy feeling settled over him—something uncomfortably close to longing. Nine days suddenly felt like an eternity.

He’d gone months without talking to women he’d dated before without a second thought. Yet the idea of not hearing Riley’s voice for even a few days left him feeling oddly untethered.

It didn’t make sense—this quiet anxiety, this persistent preoccupation. The Joe Burrow everyone knew was independent, self-contained. He didn’t get attached this quickly. He didn’t rearrange his schedule for anyone. He certainly didn’t find himself checking his phone multiple times an hour, hoping for a text.

But that Joe Burrow hadn’t known Riley Carter.

Meanwhile, at her house in Los Angeles, Riley was surrounded by chaos - clothes thrown all over her bed, shoes scattered across the floor, and her suitcase basically empty. Classic Riley packing strategy.

Laura lounged on the window seat, scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up at the disaster zone with fond amusement.

"You know we're leaving tomorrow, right?" she said, not actually concerned.

Riley shrugged, tossing another shirt toward her suitcase without really looking. "I'll throw everything in before we go. It's not like we need anything special - it's just Bob and Gina's."

"True," Laura agreed. "Just wandering the vineyard and drinking wine all day."

"Exactly. Perfect vacation." Riley held up two sundresses. "Though I should probably bring something semi-decent for dinner."

"The blue one," Laura said automatically. "You always look good in that one."

Riley eyed the blue dress, not admitting that when she'd considered it earlier, she'd caught herself wondering what Joe might think of it – which was ridiculous, since he wouldn't even see it.

Laura's attention shifted from her phone, something mischievous in her expression. "So... did you tell Joe about your birthday happening while we're there?"

Riley busied herself with shoving clothes haphazardly into her suitcase. "Nope."

"Any reason?" Laura asked, genuinely curious rather than judgmental.

Riley paused, absently running her fingers over Joe's LSU bracelet on her wrist. "It just feels weird to bring it up now, you know? Like, 'Oh by the way, it's my birthday while I'm gone.' What's he supposed to do with that information?"

"Say happy birthday?" Laura suggested with a small laugh.

Riley shot her a look. "You know what I mean. It creates this weird expectation. Either he feels obligated to do something, or he doesn't do anything and then it seems like he doesn't care."

"Or maybe you're overthinking the whole thing," Laura pointed out gently.

They both knew she was thinking about Ethan and last year's birthday debacle - the extravagant surprise party he'd thrown, complete with press and expensive jewelry. Two weeks later, he was gone, making the whole thing feel like a performance rather than something genuine.

"Joe isn't Ethan," Laura said, reading her thoughts.

"I know that," Riley replied quickly. "It's not about Joe. It's just... simpler this way."

Laura nodded, understanding. "Well, it's your call. Not like we won't have plenty to celebrate anyway. Haley's already talking about doing karaoke at Bob and Gina's again."

Riley's eyes lit up. "God, after last year? Bob still sends me videos of Andy trying to hit those high notes in 'Bohemian Rhapsody.'"

"Pretty sure Gina threatened to hide the microphone if he tries that song again," Laura laughed. "Though she did say we're always welcome back."

Riley's phone buzzed on the nightstand. She tried to be subtle checking it, but Laura didn't miss how her expression instantly softened.

"That him again?" Laura asked, a smile playing at her lips.

Riley rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide her smile. "Maybe."

"You're so transparent," Laura teased, but her tone was warm rather than mocking. "It's actually kind of nice to see."

"Oh, shut up," Riley said without heat, tossing a balled-up t-shirt in Laura's direction.

As they continued the chaotic packing process - or rather, as Riley continued to avoid serious packing while Laura provided running commentary - Riley found herself thinking about what Joe's friend had apparently said. Different worlds. Maybe that was true. But the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if different worlds sometimes needed exactly what the other had to offer.

Twenty hours, one delayed connection at Fiumicino Airport, and a questionable car rental later, they were finally approaching their destination. The rental van lurched up the steep gravel driveway, Pete at the wheel, cursing in colorful Italian phrases he'd picked up during their previous visits.

"Every year," he muttered, wrestling with the gearshift. "Every damn year I forget how to drive this mountain."

In the back seat, Riley leaned her head against the window, watching as rows of grapevines gave way to olive trees, then finally the weathered stone villa at Roberto and Gina’s vineyard in Ripatransone. No matter how many times they returned, the view never failed to take her breath away—the hills rolling into the distance, cypress trees standing sentinel, the late afternoon sun painting everything in amber and gold.

“Home sweet Italian home,” Laura sighed, stretching as the van finally came to a stop. “I swear this place gets more gorgeous every time.”

The front door of the house swung open before they could even climb out of the van, and a woman in her late fifties with silver-streaked dark hair and the kind of deep tan that spoke of days spent in vineyards came rushing toward them, arms wide.

“My children! You’ve arrived!” Gina Rossi enveloped Riley in a crushing hug the moment her feet touched the gravel. “Too thin, all of you. Always too thin. But we fix that, yes?”

Riley laughed, returning the embrace with genuine affection. “We’ve missed you, Gina.”

“And we’ve missed our favorite Americans,” Gina’s husband, Roberto, appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “The kitchen has been too quiet without you.”

As the others filtered in, Riley stepped onto the familiar terrace and took a deep breath of the herb-scented air. This place had been their sanctuary for years—a break from tours, recording sessions, and the constant demands of their growing fame.

Gina wrapped an arm around Riley’s shoulders, guiding her inside. “Come, come. You look tired from the journey. Roberto has made bistecca, and I have that almond cake you love.”

Riley smiled, letting herself be led through the cool stone entryway. The vineyard house was a perfect blend of rustic charm and understated luxury—terracotta floors, exposed wooden beams, and windows that framed the landscape like living paintings.

“So,” Gina said once they reached the kitchen, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “Laura tells me there is a new man, yes? Someone important?”

Riley shot Laura a look, but her friend just shrugged innocently from the doorway.

“What? She asked how everyone was doing. I was just catching her up.”

Riley rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile on her lips. “He’s not—” She hesitated, correcting herself. “It’s new. Really new.”

Gina’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Ah, but he is special, yes? I can see it on your face.”

Riley felt her cheeks warm but didn’t deny it. “Maybe.”

“Good,” Gina said, giving her an approving pat on the cheek. “Love is good, even when it’s unexpected.”

Laura slipped into the kitchen, already rummaging through the cabinets. “You better brace yourself, Ri. Gina’s going to ask you every question under the sun.”

Riley shot her a dry look. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

Gina just smiled knowingly and handed Riley a glass of wine. “We will talk more later. For now, you drink. You’re on vacation.”

"It's... still new," Riley admitted, unable to keep the smile from her face.

"But not just anyone," Gina observed, studying Riley's expression with the shrewd perception of someone who had seen decades of love stories unfold under her roof. "This one matters."

It wasn't a question, but Riley nodded anyway. "Yeah. He does."

Gina smiled, patting Riley's cheek. "Good. The smile reaches your eyes this time. Not like with the other one."

The other one was how Gina always referred to Ethan, never by name, as if he didn't deserve the dignity of it after how things had ended.

"Tell me more," Gina insisted, pulling Riley to sit at the massive farmhouse table while she poured them each a glass of Roberto's wine. "Where did you meet? What does he do?"

Riley took a grateful sip of the rich red wine. "We met in New York. I was doing Fallon, and he was a guest too."

"Ah! Also famous?"

"Um, yeah. He's a football player. Quarterback."

Gina's brow furrowed. "American football? With the helmet and the tackling?"

"That's the one."

"Hmm." Gina looked thoughtful. "Strong, then. Good shoulders?"

Riley nearly choked on her wine. "Very good shoulders."

"Let me show you," Riley said, reaching for her phone. She scrolled through her photos, finding the ones she'd taken in New Orleans. "This is Joe."

Gina peered at the screen, examining the photo of Joe and Riley on her back porch swing, both smiling at the camera in the soft evening light.

"Handsome," Gina nodded, obviously impressed. She swiped to the next photo—Joe in the kitchen, focused intently on chopping some fruit, completely unaware of Riley capturing the moment. "Ah, he cooks too!"

"We made biscuits and gravy," Riley explained, smiling at the memory. "His first time."

Gina swiped again, to a photo of Joe in his parade disguise, beads around his neck, head thrown back in laughter at something out of frame. "I like his smile. Reaches his eyes."

"Yeah," Riley agreed softly. "It does."

"And a good heart?" Gina pressed, suddenly serious. "This is what matters most."

Riley thought about Joe—his quiet confidence, the way he'd shown her his city, how attentively he listened when she spoke, the respect he showed her friends. The way he'd looked at her house, seeing the real her in every detail.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think so."

"You think? Or you know?" Gina challenged.

"I know," Riley amended. "Different worlds, but... a good heart."

Gina nodded, satisfied. "Different worlds can work. Roberto was a wealthy landowner's son. I was just a girl from the village. Everyone said it would never last." She gestured around the kitchen they'd shared for thirty years. "But here we are."

As the others filtered in, the conversation shifted to dinner preparations and plans for the week ahead. But throughout the evening, as they gathered around the long table on the terrace, passing plates and trading stories, Riley found her thoughts drifting to Joe. She'd meant to text him when they landed, but between the rental car confusion, the spotty service on the mountain roads, and the chaos of arrival, she'd forgotten until now.

After dinner, Riley found Laura and Haley huddled with Gina near the garden, wine glasses in hand. As she approached, their conversation hushed suspiciously.

"What's going on?" Riley asked, narrowing her eyes at their too-innocent expressions.

"We were just discussing the birthday feast," Gina explained, patting the space beside her on the stone bench. "Roberto is already planning which vintage to open."

"And I was just telling Gina how you haven't told your football player about your birthday," Laura added, shooting Riley a pointed look.

Riley sighed, dropping onto the bench. "Seriously, Laura?"

"What?" Laura defended. "Gina asked about gift arrangements, and I mentioned there wouldn't be any from Joe since he doesn't know."

"Why you not tell him, cara?" Gina asked, genuine confusion on her face. "Birthdays are for celebrating with those who matter."

"It's complicated," Riley said, feeling three pairs of eyes studying her intently.

"She thinks it adds pressure," Haley explained to Gina. "Makes things too serious too fast."

Riley shot her a betrayed look. "Thanks for the translation, Haley."

"Am I wrong?" Haley challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Gina scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. "Pressure? Birthdays are not pressure. They are joy! Celebration! If this man cares for you, he would want to know."

"It's not about whether he'd want to know," Riley tried to explain. "It's about expectations. I don't want him to feel obligated to do something just because it's my birthday."

"Ah, this is about the other one," Gina said with sudden understanding. "The one who made the big show, then disappeared."

Riley winced. Gina had always been unnervingly perceptive.

"Ethan has nothing to do with this," she insisted, though the protest sounded weak even to her own ears.

"Mmhmm," Laura hummed skeptically. "Nothing at all to do with how he threw that massive surprise party last year with all those photographers as his grand 'let's get back together' gesture, then disappeared again two weeks later."

"That's not—" Riley started to protest, then stopped. Laura wasn't wrong. It had always been easier for Riley to express herself through music than to be vulnerable in relationships. "It's complicated."

"It always is with you," Laura said, but her tone was affectionate. "But you know what? This guy seems different. The way you talk about him, the way you look at those pictures when you think no one's watching."

Riley felt warmth creep into her cheeks. "It's too soon for birthdays," she insisted.

"If you say so," Laura said, clearly unconvinced. "But don't be surprised if he figures it out. Haley tagged you in that throwback post from last year."

Riley's eyes widened. "She did what?"

"Relax," Laura laughed. "He probably hasn't seen it. And even if he has, so what? It's your birthday. It's not like it's a state secret."

"It's not about secrecy," Riley muttered. "It's about... timing."

Laura patted her hand. "Whatever you say. But for what it's worth? I think you're overthinking this one."

As the others filtered back inside, Riley stayed on the terrace a moment longer, staring out at the darkened vineyard. Was she overthinking it? Maybe. But there was something comfortable about keeping this boundary, about having this week just for her friends, her chosen family. The way it had been for years.

Still, as she finally headed to her room, she couldn't help but wonder what Joe was doing right now, if he was thinking about her too.

She pulled out her phone, surprised to find several missed calls from her manager about a potential sync deal, but nothing from Joe.

She checked the time—mid-afternoon in Cincinnati. He'd be in the middle of his workout routine by now.

She tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. Probably in the gym, phone on do not disturb.

Riley 🎤: Hey, sorry I didn't text when we landed yesterday. Complete chaos at the airport, then wifi issues at the vineyard, and by the time we got settled it was so late for you. Hope your workout went well this morning! Villa pics coming soon 😘

She scrolled through the photos she'd already taken—the view from her window, the sunset over the vineyard, the massive spread of food Gina had prepared. She selected a few and attached them to a follow-up text.

Riley 🎤: See what I mean? Paradise. Three days here and I'm never going to want to leave.

She set her phone on the nightstand and stepped out onto the balcony, breathing in the fragrant night air. The hills stretched before her, dotted with the lights of distant farmhouses, the sky above impossibly vast and star-filled.

This was her favorite place in the world, this little corner of Tuscany that felt timeless and vibrant. Being here always filled her with a sense of perspective, of what really mattered.

Her phone remained silent as she got ready for bed, exhaustion from the long journey finally catching up to her. She checked it one last time before sliding under the cool sheets.

No response.

Odd. He was usually quick to reply, even on his busiest days.

Maybe he's out with friends, she thought. Or still in the gym. Or his phone died.

But as she drifted toward sleep, a niggling worry crept in. Had something changed? Was he having second thoughts? He'd seemed so solid, so certain in New Orleans and in all their conversations since.

Stop overthinking, she told herself firmly. It's been a few hours. Not everything means something.

Still, as sleep finally claimed her, her last conscious thought was of Joe, and the strange hollow feeling his silence had left.

Meanwhile, in Cincinnati, Joe was staring at Riley's texts, his body sprawled on the couch but his mind six thousand miles away. What the actual fuck? Her birthday? The whole trip to Italy wasn't just some annual tradition with friends—it was a birthday celebration. Her birthday celebration. And she hadn't told him.

The realization had hit him like a blindside tackle earlier that day, scrolling through Instagram and seeing the post from her friend Haley. Throwback to last year's birthday celebrations in Italy. Can't wait to celebrate 26 with you @riley_carter #birthdaygirl #italybound #bestfriendgoals. Riley, blowing out candles on a cake, the same vineyard in the background that she'd just sent him photos of.

March 20th. Her birthday was in five days. And she hadn't said a word about it.

The melody of "This Must Be The Place" floated through his head unbidden. That feeling he'd had in New Orleans, in her house—like he'd found something he didn't even know he was missing. Like he'd come home somehow.

Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there...

He couldn't stop thinking about that song since New Orleans, that feeling of belonging. And now this—finding out about her birthday through Instagram, like he was just some casual follower, not someone who'd spent three days in her bed, in her life.

He'd planned to ignore her messages until morning, give himself time to sort through the complicated mix of emotions. But seeing the photos of Italy—the same vineyard where she'd celebrated her last birthday—made it harder to maintain his resolve.

He typed out several responses, deleting each one before sending. Nothing captured the right tone. He didn't want to be petty, didn't want to make her feel bad. But he also couldn't pretend he hadn't discovered her secret, couldn't act like everything was normal when it felt like she'd deliberately kept him at a distance.

He set the phone down without responding. Tomorrow, he'd figure out what to do about the birthday. Tonight, he needed space to think.

Riley woke to sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains and the distant sounds of breakfast being prepared. She reached for her phone immediately, half-expecting to see a message from Joe.

Nothing.

She stared at the screen for a moment, a hollow feeling expanding inside her chest. It had been almost twelve hours since she’d texted him—Joe had never gone this long without responding before.

Fighting the urge to text again—she didn’t want to be that girl—Riley forced herself out of bed and into the shower. By the time she joined the others for breakfast on the terrace, she’d checked her phone three more times.

“She lives!” Andy teased as she slid into a seat at the table, which was already laden with fresh fruit, pastries, and carafes of strong coffee.

“Barely,” Riley admitted, pouring herself a much-needed cup. “Jet lag hit me hard.”

Laura glanced up from buttering a croissant and gave Riley a curious look. “Have you heard from him yet?”

Riley tried to play it cool, even though the question made her chest feel tight. “No,” she said lightly. “He’s probably busy. I've told you how his schedule is.”

Laura didn’t look convinced. “Busy or not, he’s never left you hanging this long before. You sure everything’s okay?”

Riley rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Seriously. It’s my birthday week, and I’m gonna get it together and be happy, so just brace yourselves for that, alright?”

Andy snorted from across the table, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Birthday diva incoming.”

Riley shot him a smirk. “Damn right. I’m gonna be annoyingly cheerful and loud, so get ready.”

Laura softened, giving her a look that said she wasn’t entirely buying the act, but she didn’t push. “Okay, birthday queen. Just know we’re here if you need to vent or whatever.”

Riley flashed her a quick grin and took a long sip of coffee, trying to convince herself as much as everyone else that she could shake it off.

Throughout the day, they wandered through the vineyard with Bob, listening as he explained the early spring growth of the vines with his usual passion and humor. Riley laughed at his stories and nodded along when he pointed out new buds and promising clusters, but her mind kept drifting. She found herself glancing at her phone more often than she wanted to admit, each time hoping to see Joe’s name lighting up the screen.

Nothing.

By the time they made it into the nearby medieval village for lunch, her chest felt tight and restless, like something important was slipping through her fingers. She tried to shake it off, joining in on Andy’s loud, animated retelling of their first chaotic visit to the vineyard, but her smile felt forced and thin. Each check of her phone only made that hollow feeling dig in deeper, rooting itself in her ribs.

By nightfall, after another incredible dinner that she barely tasted, she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

Back in her room, she stared at her phone for a long time, debating whether to call again or just let it go. But the uncertainty was gnawing at her, and she couldn’t take it anymore. She dialed his number, the familiar sound of ringing sending a wave of hope and anxiety crashing over her.

Voicemail.

She swallowed down the ache in her throat and forced herself to type out a message, trying to keep it light and casual even as her fingers shook.

Riley 🎤: Earth to Burrow. You alive over there?

She hit send and dropped her phone on the bed, staring out the window at the moonlit hills. The knot in her stomach tightened, and for once, Riley didn’t know if she was mad, worried, or just hurt.

Joe was sprawled out on his couch, controller in hand, mind barely on the game he was playing. The sound of gunfire and explosions filled the room, but he wasn’t really listening. His phone was sitting face-down on the coffee table, right where he’d left it hours ago, and he couldn’t stop glancing at it between missions.

He wasn’t ignoring her on purpose. Not really. He just needed a minute to get his head right. Figure out why he couldn’t shake this weird knot in his stomach since he found out about her birthday. It wasn’t about the damn birthday itself—it was the fact that she hadn’t told him. Like he wasn’t important enough to know.

That thought burned. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like he’d been shut out without even knowing it. Riley wasn’t the kind of person to play games. She’d always been upfront with him, never hiding her chaos or her flaws. So why hadn’t she said anything about it?

His phone buzzed, and his heart thudded a little harder than he’d like to admit. He reached for it, flipping it over with his thumb to see her name on the screen. His chest tightened.

Riley 🎤: Earth to Burrow. You alive over there?

He let out a slow breath, guilt twisting through him. He knew he was being an ass—shutting her out just because his pride was bruised. She didn’t deserve that.

He typed back, trying to sound normal.

Joe QB🏈: Yeah, sorry. Got caught up with some stuff today. How’s Italy?

It felt like a weak excuse, even to him. Distant. Detached. Nothing like how he actually felt—like he’d been stuck in his own head all day, trying to make sense of why it was bugging him so damn much.

Her reply came almost right away.

Riley 🎤: It’s incredible. Forgot how much I love it here. What kind of stuff kept you busy?

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of him wanted to just tell her the truth—that he hated finding out about her birthday from a random Instagram post. That it made him feel like an outsider in her life. But he couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t risk sounding like he was making a big deal out of nothing.

Joe QB🏈: Just meetings, workout, some film study. The usual.

He knew it sounded cold, even before he sent it. But he couldn’t figure out how to fix it. How to make it sound less like he was brushing her off and more like he just… didn’t know how to deal with it.

Her response came in a minute later.

Riley 🎤: Don’t work too hard. You’re supposed to be resting in the off-season.

He almost smiled. That sounded more like her. Always keeping him grounded without pushing too much.

Joe QB🏈: Trying. Getting late here. Talk tomorrow?

It wasn’t enough, and he knew it. But he couldn’t bring himself to say more. Not when he still didn’t know how to put it into words without sounding like an idiot. He set the phone back down and leaned his head against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he’d managed to screw this up without even trying.

Riley's phone rang, and her heart leapt into her throat when she saw Joe's name light up the screen. She answered immediately.

"Hey," Riley answered, her voice carefully casual but with an undercurrent of relief that made Joe's chest tighten.

"Hey," he replied, working to keep his own voice steady. "Sorry for the late call."

"No, it's fine," Riley said quickly. "I was just reading. Time difference and all."

A brief silence stretched between them, filled with all the things neither was saying. Joe could hear the soft sounds of night through her open window—crickets, a distant voice calling in Italian, wind rustling through trees.

"So," he began, his voice deliberately even. "I saw something interesting today."

"Oh?" Riley's tone was light, but there was a thread of tension in it.

"Yeah. On Instagram." Joe paused, then decided to just say it. "Haley posted about your birthday. Last year in Italy. Same place you are now."

The silence that followed was heavy, loaded. Joe could almost picture her expression—those amber eyes widening slightly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth the way it did when she was caught off guard.

"I... yeah." Riley's voice was quieter now. "My birthday's on the 20th."

"Five days from now," Joe confirmed. "Were you going to tell me?"

Riley exhaled, a soft sound that carried across the thousands of miles between them. "I don't know," she admitted. "Probably. Eventually."

"Why keep it a secret?" Joe asked, working to keep accusation from his tone.

Another pause. Joe could hear her shifting, as if sitting up in bed.

"It's not a secret exactly," Riley finally said. "It's just... complicated.

"How is a birthday complicated?"

"It's not the birthday itself," Riley explained. "It's... I don't know how to explain it without sounding crazy."

"Try me," Joe said, settling back against his headboard.

Riley sighed again. "Birthdays are loaded, you know? There are expectations. If I told you, then you'd feel obligated to do something or say something, and we're still so new, and I didn't want to..." She trailed off.

"Didn't want to what?" Joe pressed gently.

"Push things faster than they should go," she finished. "Or make you feel pressured. Or make it into something bigger than it is."

She hesitated, then added, "Last year with Ethan... we were in this weird on-again, off-again place, and he made this huge deal about my birthday. Surprise party, expensive jewelry, the works. It was like he was trying to prove something. Two weeks later, he was gone again."

"Ah," Joe said, understanding dawning. "So birthdays come with baggage."

"Yeah," Riley admitted quietly. "After that, I just... I don't know. Birthdays became this thing where people feel like they have to make grand gestures. And if they do, it doesn't necessarily mean anything real."

Joe was silent for a moment, processing her words. "Do you think that's what I'd do? Feel obligated?"

"I don't know," Riley admitted. "Maybe? Most people would."

"I'm not most people," Joe said quietly.

"I know that," Riley replied, her voice softening. "That's kind of the point. You're... important. More than I expected this soon. And that's scary."

The honesty in her admission caught Joe off guard. He hadn't expected her to be so direct about her feelings. It shifted something in him, eased the knot of hurt that had been sitting in his chest all day.

"So you weren't trying to keep me at a distance?" he asked.

"No. Well, maybe." Riley let out a frustrated sound. "I'm not explaining this well. It's more like... I'm protecting this thing between us. From becoming something that feels forced or expected. Does that make any sense?"

Joe thought about it. About how carefully he'd constructed his public persona, how deliberately he kept parts of himself private. About boundaries and walls and the way they sometimes protected the most valuable things.

"Yeah," he said finally. "It does."

The relief in Riley's voice was palpable. "It does?"

"I get having boundaries," Joe explained. "Keeping certain things separate. I just wish you'd told me why instead of me finding out through Instagram."

"I'm sorry," Riley said, sounding genuinely remorseful. "That must have felt shitty."

"It did," Joe agreed, but without heat. "Made me wonder if I was reading this whole thing wrong. If we weren't on the same page."

"We are," Riley assured him quickly. "At least, I think we are. This thing between us, it's... significant. For me, anyway."

"For me too," Joe admitted. The simple confession felt weightier than he'd expected, hanging in the air between them with a new kind of gravity.

"I should have just told you," Riley continued, her voice softer now. "But after Ethan... I got used to protecting myself. Keeping expectations low."

"You can talk to me about him, you know," Joe said carefully. "About what happened."

Riley was quiet for a moment. "Not much to tell. Three years of back and forth. Great when it was good, toxic when it wasn't. Classic musician relationship drama."

"Sounds exhausting," Joe observed.

"It was," Riley agreed. "That's why I'm trying to be more... I don't know, intentional? About not repeating patterns."

Another silence, but this one comfortable, expectant rather than tense.

"So now that I know," Joe said finally, "can I wish you happy birthday? Or is that still crossing a line?"

He could hear the smile in Riley's voice when she answered. "You can wish me happy birthday. Just don't make a big deal about it."

"Noted," Joe said, a smile forming on his own lips. "Happy almost birthday, Riley."

"Thank you," she murmured. Then, with a hint of teasing, "Are you still mad at me?"

Joe considered this. "I wasn't mad. Just... confused. Hurt, maybe."

"I really am sorry," Riley said again. "I overthink things sometimes."

"I noticed," Joe said dryly.

Riley laughed, the sound flowing through him like warm honey. "Shut up. You overthink things too."

"Maybe," Joe conceded. "But I'm working on it."

The conversation shifted then, becoming easier as they slipped back into their usual rhythm. Riley told him about the vineyard, about Roberto and Gina, about the medieval village they'd visited that day. Joe shared stories from his training session, from dinner with his parents the night before.

It was nearly an hour later when Riley's voice had grown soft with approaching sleep.

"I should let you go," Joe said reluctantly. "It's late there."

"Mmm," Riley agreed, stifling a yawn. "This bed is ridiculous. Like sleeping on a cloud."

"Wish I was there," Joe said, the words slipping out before he could consider them.

There was a pause, and when Riley spoke again, her voice was warm, intimate. "I wish you were too."

Joe's chest tightened with something that felt dangerously close to longing. "Next time," he said softly.

"Promise?" Riley asked, and beneath the playfulness, there was vulnerability.

"Promise," Joe replied without hesitation.

After they hung up, Joe sat for a long time in the quiet of his bedroom, staring at the dark screen of his phone. The hurt from earlier had dissolved, replaced by a clearer understanding. Riley's fear wasn't about keeping him at a distance—it was about protecting whatever was growing between them. From expectation, from obligation, from anything that might damage its natural evolution.

He could understand that. Respect it, even.

Still, as he finally settled down to sleep, a plan was already forming in his mind. Birthday or not, significance or not, some things deserved to be acknowledged. And he knew exactly how he wanted to do it.

In Italy, Riley curled onto her side, Joe's LSU bracelet still on her wrist as she drifted toward sleep. The weight that had been pressing on her chest all day had lifted, replaced by a warm contentment. He'd understood. More than that, he'd listened, really listened, to her fumbling explanation.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Riley fell asleep with a smile on her face, the distance between Italy and Cincinnati feeling somehow less vast than it had that morning.

Joe stared at his laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Google Maps had led him to a florist in Ripatransone, the nearest town to Roberto and Gina's vineyard based on Riley's descriptions. But the website was entirely in Italian, with no obvious way to place an international order.

"Dammit," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. It was 4:30 AM in Cincinnati—the middle of the night for him, but a reasonable morning hour in Italy. Riley's birthday was tomorrow, which left him little time to arrange something special.

He reached for his phone and called the only person he knew who might help.

"This better be good, Burrow," Mark's sleep-roughened voice answered after four rings.

"I need a favor," Joe said without preamble.

A rustling sound came through the line—Mark sitting up in bed, probably. "At four-thirty in the morning?"

"It's not a football thing," Joe admitted.

There was a pause. "Riley?" Mark guessed.

"Yeah." Joe exhaled. "Her birthday's tomorrow. She's in Italy at some vineyard. I need to get flowers delivered there, but the websites are all in Italian and—"

"Jesus, Joe," Mark interrupted, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're calling me before dawn to help you send a girl flowers? Isn't this what Sarah is for?"

"Sarah doesn't have your connections," Joe said bluntly. "And I need someone who can make this happen, not just try."

Mark chuckled. "Well, well. Look who's serious." There was another pause, then Mark's voice softened slightly. "Not just any girl, huh?"

"No," Joe said quietly. "Not just any girl."

"Alright," Mark relented. "Give me the details. I know a guy who handles VIP concierge services in Europe."

Meanwhile, at the vineyard, Riley woke to Laura bouncing onto her bed, already dressed in jeans and a light sweater.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" Laura announced, nudging Riley's shoulder. "Gina's making that almond french toast you love."

Riley groaned, burying her face in the pillow. "What time is it?"

"Nearly nine," Laura replied. "Practically lunchtime by normal standards."

Riley smiled despite herself, remembering their conversation last night. The tension that had been building since their stilted texts had melted away during their call. He'd understood—really understood—why she hadn't told him about her birthday.

"Actually," Riley said, sitting up and stretching, "Joe and I talked last night. After everyone went to bed."

Laura's eyebrows shot up with interest. "And? You seem less... I don't know, twitchy today."

"We sorted it out," Riley said, sliding out of bed. "He found out about my birthday through Haley's Instagram post."

"Told you he would," Laura said, not bothering to hide her smugness. "So how'd he take it?"

Riley paused, thinking about the unexpected depth of their conversation. "Better than I expected. He actually got why I hadn't told him."

"Hmm," Laura hummed, studying Riley's face. "Maybe he has more emotional depth than I gave him credit for."

Riley threw a pillow at her friend. "Come on, I need coffee before you start analyzing my love life with Haley and Gina."

Laura dodged the pillow with practiced ease, laughing as she stood up. "Fine, fine. But don't think this conversation is over. Gina's going to extract every detail over breakfast."

"Great," Riley said dryly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "At least there'll be food to distract me from the interrogation."

The kitchen was already bustling when they made their way downstairs. Morning sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a golden glow over the weathered wooden table where Bob was setting down a platter of fresh fruit. Gina stood at the stove, flipping what looked like her famous almond French toast, while Pete lounged at the counter nursing a cup of coffee.

"The birthday girl arrives!" Gina announced, abandoning her post to envelop Riley in a warm hug that smelled of cinnamon and butter. "Many happy returns, my dear one."

"Thanks, Gina," Riley said, feeling the familiar warm glow that always came with birthdays at the vineyard. Here, birthdays were simple, joyful celebrations—good food, good wine, good company. No pressure, no expectations.

"I made your favorite," Gina said, gesturing to the French toast. "And Bob picked fresh figs this morning."

Riley's stomach growled appreciatively as she accepted the steaming mug of coffee Pete handed her. "You guys spoil me."

"It's your birthday," Pete shrugged, his voice still rough with sleep. "Only happens once a year."

"Speaking of which," Haley said, emerging from the pantry with a jar of honey, "how did lover boy take the news?"

Riley shot Laura an accusatory glance, but her friend just shrugged innocently. "News travels fast around here."

"He took it just fine," Riley said, trying to sound casual as she doctored her coffee. "We talked it out. He understood."

"He understood?" Andy repeated skeptically, appearing in the doorway. His hair was still wet from the shower, sticking up at odd angles. "What guy 'understands' being kept in the dark about something like that?"

"A guy who listens," Riley said, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. "He got why I didn't tell him."

After a leisurely breakfast punctuated by laughter and stories—many at Riley's expense—they gathered in the sunlit kitchen where Gina was putting the finishing touches on a homemade birthday cake. The simple elegance of the tradition—good food, good company, no fuss about presents—was exactly why Riley loved celebrating here.

"Every year I try to outdo myself," Gina said, carefully placing fresh strawberries around the edge of the cream-frosted cake. "This year, I add the lemon zest to the cream. You tell me if it's better."

"It's perfect already," Riley said, leaning against the counter and stealing a stray strawberry.

Bob appeared from his study, carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. "From Gina and me," he said, presenting it to Riley with a warm smile. "Nothing fancy, but we thought of you when we saw it."

Riley unwrapped it carefully to reveal a handmade leather journal, its cover soft and worn like it had been waiting years just for her.

"For your songs," Gina explained. "You always say you lose your ideas on scraps of paper."

"I don't lose them," Riley protested with a laugh. "I just... temporarily misplace them."

As they were preparing to move to the terrace for cake, the sound of tires on gravel announced a visitor. Bob went to investigate, returning moments later with a delivery man bearing an enormous arrangement of sunflowers and wildflowers.

"For Signorina Carter," the man announced, presenting the bouquet with a flourish.

Riley's breath caught. The flowers were stunning—vibrant yellows and purples, arranged with sprigs of fragrant herbs and local blooms. Not roses or lilies or anything formally romantic, but wildflowers that seemed to capture the essence of the Tuscan countryside.

"Who are they from?" Haley asked, eyes wide.

Riley's hands trembled slightly as she reached for the small card nestled among the blooms.

Riley — Happy Birthday. Not making a big deal about it, just acknowledging it exists. The flowers reminded me of you — wild, colorful, impossible to ignore. Talk soon. — Joe

Something warm and unexpected bloomed in Riley's chest. He'd found the perfect middle ground—acknowledging her birthday without the grand gesture she'd feared, sending something meaningful without making it excessive.

"Those are from the football boy?" Gina asked, peering over Riley's shoulder at the card.

Riley nodded, not trusting her voice at that moment.

"He has good taste," Gina declared. "Elegant but not too formal. Shows he knows you."

"Well," Laura said simply, watching Riley's face carefully. "Looks like your worry was for nothing."

Riley pressed the card to her chest, unable to suppress her smile. "Yeah, I guess so."

As the others exclaimed over the flowers—Bob particularly impressed that Joe had managed to arrange a delivery to their remote location—Riley slipped away to call Joe. It was early in Cincinnati, but she couldn't wait. 

He answered on the third ring, his voice clear and energized. "Hey, birthday girl." 

"Joe," Riley said, words failing her for a moment. "They're beautiful."

"You like them?" The hint of uncertainty in his voice made her heart clench. 

"I love them," she said softly. "But how did you even arrange this? We're in the middle of nowhere, Italy." 

Joe's low chuckle warmed her from the inside out. "I know a guy who knows a guy."

"Of course you do." 

"Not too much?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. "I was trying to find the middle ground." 

"Perfect," Riley assured him. "Just right." 

There was a comfortable silence, filled with things unsaid but understood. 

"I wish you were here," Riley said softly, the words slipping out before she could consider them. 

"Yeah," Joe agreed, his voice rough with something like longing. "Me too." 

"So," Joe asked after a moment, "what's the birthday plan today?"

“Bob’s making his famous dinner tonight,” Riley said, leaning against the stone wall as she glanced back toward the kitchen, where Bob was already barking instructions at anyone who dared wander too close. “He spends all day in there, everything from scratch. By the time he’s done, we’re practically rolling out of our chairs.”

“Sounds like my kind of meal,” Joe said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh, it’s serious business,” Riley continued. “And after we’ve eaten enough to put us in a food coma, the real entertainment starts.”

“Which is?”

“Karaoke.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of last year, when Bob had dragged Andy onstage for an off-key rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” “These two mild-mannered vineyard owners turn into absolute karaoke monsters after a few glasses of their own wine. Bob will break out the grappa, and before you know it, Gina’s belting out power ballads like her life depends on it.”

Joe chuckled, and she could hear the genuine amusement in his voice. “Even you?”

“Especially me,” Riley admitted, feeling her face warm. “Something about being offstage, in a place where it doesn’t matter, makes it more fun. Besides, they’ll guilt-trip you into it if you try to refuse. It’s just easier to give in.”

“What’s your go-to song?”

“Depends how much wine I’ve had,” Riley said, grinning. “Early in the night, it’s usually something respectable. Like Janis Joplin or Fleetwood Mac. But by midnight… I’m making questionable decisions. Last year, I tried to do Whitney Houston, and it was… ambitious.”

Joe laughed, and it sent warmth flooding through her chest. “You got videos to back up this story?”

“Oh, plenty,” Riley shot back. “I’ll send you some evidence later. Fair warning—it could seriously damage my professional reputation.”

“Can’t wait,” Joe said, and there was that familiar, easy warmth in his tone again. “You better deliver.”

“Trust me, it’s unforgettable,” she teased. “Mostly because Bob’s grappa is like drinking paint thinner. By the time it’s my turn to sing, I’m half convinced I’m hitting every note.”

“Sounds like I’m missing out,” Joe said, his voice going softer.

“You are,” Riley admitted, the words slipping out before she could catch them. “Next time.”

“Next time,” Joe echoed, and she could hear the weight of it, like he was tucking the promise away somewhere safe.

Bob's special birthday dinner exceeded even Riley's high expectations. The long wooden table on the terrace overflowed with traditional Italian dishes—handmade pasta with wild boar ragu, platters of local cheeses and cured meats, roasted vegetables drizzled with the estate's own olive oil, and bread still warm from the oven. The wine flowed freely, each bottle accompanied by Bob's passionate explanation of its origin and character.

As they finished the final course, Gina emerged from the kitchen with a simple but elegant cake adorned with fresh berries and a single candle.

"Make a wish, cara," she instructed as she set it before Riley.

Riley closed her eyes briefly, the image of Joe appearing unbidden in her mind before she blew out the candle to cheers and applause.

Laura raised her glass. "To Riley—the only person I know who manages to be wildly successful while still being the same disaster we all love. Happy birthday!"

"To Riley!" echoed around the table.

After dessert and coffee, when everyone was pleasantly full and warm with wine, Bob disappeared into a back room and returned with a clear bottle of liquid and a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"It is time," he announced dramatically, "for the birthday grappa!"

"Oh no," Andy groaned, though his eyes were alight with anticipation. "Not the grappa."

"Always the grappa," Bob corrected, already pouring small glasses for everyone. "And then—karaoke!"

The karaoke setup was charmingly makeshift—an old television connected to a basic system with two microphones and speakers that had seen better days. But what it lacked in sophistication, it made up for in spirit.

Gina, predictably, went first, her accent thickening as she belted out a passionate rendition of a power ballad, arms spread wide as if performing at an arena instead of their dining room.

"The birthday girl must do a solo!" Bob insisted, already scrolling through the karaoke selections.

"No way," Riley protested, though without much conviction. "I'm not nearly drunk enough for a solo."

"That can be arranged," Bob winked, already refilling her glass.

Riley took the offered grappa, wincing slightly as she swallowed. "Fine, but I get to pick the song."

She scrolled through the surprisingly extensive catalog until she found exactly what she was looking for, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. The familiar synthetic pop intro filled the room, and her friends erupted in laughter and cheers.

"Of course!" Laura shouted, already clapping along. "Perfect choice!"

Riley grabbed the microphone, tossing her hair dramatically as she slipped into performance mode. Unlike her stage presence with the band, this was pure fun—exaggerated movements, playful expressions, and zero concern for technical perfection.

She pointed dramatically at her friends during the verses, using her phone as a prop, completely hamming it up. By the time she hit the chorus, she was dancing around the makeshift stage area, her earlier hesitation completely forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Everyone joined in for the chorus, shouting the iconic "Call me maybe" line while Riley conducted them with sweeping gestures. Bob was recording the whole thing on his phone, swaying enthusiastically while Gina clapped in perfect rhythm beside him.

"Bob's 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' last year nearly brought down the house," Laura called out, leaning toward Riley. "Literally - he knocked over that antique vase during the dramatic finale!"

"It was worth it!" Bob declared proudly, not missing a beat as he continued recording Riley's performance.

Andy jumped up to join Riley for the bridge, the two of them back-to-back in an improvised choreography that suggested they'd done this before. Haley and Laura provided enthusiastic backup vocals, complete with synchronized hand movements.

As Riley launched into the final chorus, she was laughing too hard to hit the notes properly, but it didn't matter. This wasn't about skill—it was about joy, about being surrounded by people who loved her exactly as she was, ridiculous dance moves and all.

When the song ended, she took an exaggerated bow to thunderous applause and whistles. Bob immediately wrapped her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet.

"Bravissima!" he declared. "Now this is how you celebrate a birthday!"

Riley collapsed onto the couch, breathless and laughing, accepting another glass of wine from Laura.

"I'm definitely sending that to Joe," Haley teased, waving her phone where she'd captured the entire performance.

"Don't you dare," Riley protested, making a half-hearted grab for the phone, but her smile gave her away. Maybe she wouldn't mind if Joe saw this side of her—carefree and ridiculous, surrounded by the people who knew her best.

As the night continued with more performances—Andy's surprisingly tender rendition of an old blues standard, Pete and Laura's dramatically choreographed duet—Riley found herself taking out her own phone. Before she could overthink it, she scrolled to a short clip of her performance that Laura had sent to their group chat and attached it to a message to Joe.

Riley: Birthday karaoke in full swing. Grappa is dangerous. Miss you.

She hit send before she could second-guess the last two words, then set her phone aside, rejoining the celebration. Tonight was about being present with the people here, but that didn't mean she couldn't share a small piece of it with the person who'd somehow worked his way into her thoughts even from thousands of miles away.

Back in Cincinnati, Joe was in the middle of a late-night film session when his phone lit up with Riley's message. The video of last season's playoff game against Buffalo paused on his laptop screen as he reached for his phone, a small smile forming when he saw her name.

He studied the short clip she'd sent—Riley performing with theatrical abandon, clearly enjoying herself in a way that was different from her professional performances. This was Riley unguarded, surrounded by people who knew her best, slightly drunk on what he assumed was the infamous grappa she'd mentioned. Considering it was probably 2 AM in Italy, the celebration was clearly in full swing.

But it was the last two words that caught him off guard: "Miss you."

Joe stared at those words longer than the video itself, something warm spreading through his chest. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating his response. The structured, careful part of him—the part that had gotten him this far in his career—wanted to keep things light. But another part, the one that had been growing steadily since meeting Riley, pushed for honesty.

Miss you too. More than makes sense.

He hit send before he could overthink it, then set the phone down, running a hand through his hair as he tried to refocus on the game film. But his thoughts kept drifting to Riley—to her laugh, to the vineyard she'd described, to the way she'd looked at him before leaving for the airport.

With a sigh, Joe closed his laptop. The Buffalo game could wait until morning. He glanced around his pristine living room, at the careful order he maintained in every aspect of his life. His home was his sanctuary, his private space—one he rarely invited others into. Even teammates seldom made it past the front door.

An idea took shape, one that surprised even him with its unexpectedness. What if, instead of Riley going back to LA after Italy, she came here? To Cincinnati. To his home.

The thought made him pause. Bringing someone into his space, into the carefully ordered world he'd created for himself—it wasn't something he did lightly. With previous relationships, he'd maintained separation, keeping his personal sanctuary untouched. But with Riley, the idea of her here, in his space, didn't trigger his usual resistance.

It felt right. Necessary, even.

Joe picked up his phone again, no message from Riley yet. She was probably still lost in the karaoke party with her friends and the vineyard owners. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he'd call her and ask her to come to Cincinnati. The idea transformed from impulsive thought to deliberate decision as he stood, something almost like anticipation building in his chest at the prospect of seeing her again—here, in the space that was most authentically his.

Afternoon sunlight flooded Riley's room at the vineyard, despite her best efforts to keep it at bay by drawing the heavy shutters. She groaned softly, the aftermath of Bob's notorious grappa making itself known with a dull throb behind her eyes. Memories of last night's karaoke session flooded back—Gina's dramatic power ballads, Andy's surprisingly decent Frank Sinatra impression, and her own enthusiastic performance that she'd impulsively shared with Joe.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Riley fumbled for it, squinting at the screen. Joe's name appeared, and she felt a flutter of something warm beneath her hangover. She cleared her throat before answering.

"Hey, quarterback," she managed, voice still rough despite the late hour.

"Did I wake you?" Joe asked, his voice clear and alert. Of course he'd already been up for hours.

"No," Riley lied, pushing herself up against the headboard. "Well, maybe. What time is it there?"

"Just after nine," Joe replied. "Afternoon for you, right?"

Riley glanced at the time. Almost 2 PM. "Yeah, but time works differently in Italy. Especially after grappa."

Joe's low chuckle came through the line. "Looked like you were having fun last night."

"I may have gotten a little carried away," Riley admitted, smiling at the memory. "Did I embarrass myself with that video?"

"Not at all," Joe assured her. "I liked seeing that side of you."

A comfortable silence settled between them before Joe spoke again, his tone shifting slightly.

"So, I've been thinking," he began, and something in his voice made Riley sit up straighter. "What if you didn't go back to LA after Italy?"

Riley's breath caught. "What do you mean?"

"Come to Cincinnati instead," Joe clarified. "Just for a few days. Before you have to be back in the studio."

The question hung between them, weighted with implication. This wasn't just a casual invitation—it was Joe opening his world to her, asking her to step into his carefully ordered life.

"I'd have to change my flight," Riley said, already mentally calculating what that would involve.

"I could take care of that," Joe offered, then paused. "If you wanted."

Riley stared out the window at the rolling hills of Le Marche, turning the idea over in her mind. Going to Cincinnati meant something more significant than their weekend in New Orleans. That had been neutral territory, a Mardi Gras bubble. This would be Joe's home turf, his real life.

"What would we do in Cincinnati?" she asked, stalling for time.

"I have some ideas," Joe said, a hint of something warmer in his voice. "Things you might like. Or we could just... be. No itinerary. No expectations."

No expectations. The words echoed in Riley's mind, reminding her of their conversation about her birthday. Joe had understood her hesitation then, had found the perfect middle ground. She trusted him to do the same now.

"Joe Burrow without an itinerary?" she teased, deflecting slightly. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I can be spontaneous," he protested mildly. "Sometimes."

Riley laughed, the sound carrying over the hillside. "Name one spontaneous thing you've done this year that wasn't related to me."

The silence on the other end was telling.

"That's what I thought," Riley said, smiling into the phone.

"So is that a yes?" Joe's voice was hopeful but not pushing.

Riley took a deep breath. The sensible answer was no. She had sessions scheduled, meetings with the label about release strategy, a half-dozen other commitments waiting in LA. But none of it felt as important as the possibility contained in Joe's invitation.

"Yes," she said finally. "I'd like that."

Even through the phone, she could feel his smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Riley confirmed, a flutter of something like excitement coursing through her. "But I'm warning you now, I'm terrible at packing. I'll probably show up with completely inappropriate clothing for whatever you have planned."

"Noted," Joe said, relief and pleasure evident in his voice. "I'll send the flight details tomorrow."

They talked a little longer, making loose plans. When they finally hung up, Riley sat for a moment longer, staring out at the vineyard. The decision felt momentous somehow, a deliberate step toward something rather than her usual pattern of letting things unfold around her.

Laura's voice interrupted her thoughts as she appeared in the doorway. "Well? What's got you smiling like that?"

"I'm going to Cincinnati instead of LA," Riley admitted, still processing it herself.

Laura's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? When did this happen?"

"Just now," Riley said, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "He called and asked, and it just... felt right."

Laura studied her friend's face, taking a thoughtful sip of her wine. "You two barely know each other, but I haven't seen you light up like this in a long time."

Riley looked out at the vineyard, then back to Laura with a half-shrug. "It's different with him. I can't explain it exactly. It's like..." she paused, searching for the words. "It's like we're from completely different worlds, but somehow it works."

"Must be," Laura agreed, her expression softening as she studied Riley's face. "It's nice, you know."

"What is?"

"Seeing you like this again. Open." Laura's eyes were knowing. "After Ethan, you've been so..."

"Closed off?" Riley supplied.

"I was going to say selective about who gets past the stage persona," Laura corrected gently. "That's not like you. You've always been the one who dives in headfirst."

Riley didn't have to ask what she meant. After Ethan, she'd built walls around certain parts of herself. She'd still been Riley—still impulsive, still adventurous in almost every aspect of her life—but when it came to letting someone in, really in, she'd kept the door firmly shut.

But Joe had somehow slipped through that defense without even trying. From that first conversation in New York, there had been something about him that made her want to let him see the real her, not just the version she showed the world.

Laura nudged her shoulder. "Pete's going to give you so much shit about this."

Riley groaned, already imagining the teasing she'd endure from her bandmates. "Worth it," she decided.

Laura nudged her shoulder. "Pete's going to give you so much shit about this."

Riley groaned, already imagining the teasing she'd endure from her bandmates. "Worth it," she decided.

Haley appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of wine. "Worth what? Did I miss something important?"

"Only Riley deciding to go to Cincinnati instead of LA," Laura said with exaggerated casualness.

Haley's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? Just like that?"

Riley pointed accusingly at Laura. "Don't make it sound so impulsive. It's just for a few days."

"Everything you do is impulsive," Haley countered, entering the room fully. She glanced at Riley's chaotic packing situation and winced. "So what are you planning to wear in Cincinnati?"

Riley looked down at her mess of clothes. "I mean, it's cold here too. I've got warm stuff."

"You have two sweaters, both of which you've worn repeatedly without washing," Haley pointed out. "And that leather jacket with the broken zipper."

"I'll make it work," Riley shrugged. "It's not like I'm going to Antarctica."

"No, just Cincinnati," Laura said. "Where it's probably exactly as cold as it is here, but you'll have even fewer clothing options because most of what you brought is dirty."

Riley tossed a bundled pair of socks at her. "I'll figure it out. Maybe do some emergency laundry before I leave."

"Or you could just buy something there," Haley suggested practically.

"Or steal his clothes," Laura added with a smirk.

"Shut up, both of you," Riley laughed, but there was no heat in it.

Haley sat on the edge of the bed. "Football boy must be pretty special if you're willing to show up with half a functional wardrobe."

Riley didn't deny it, which made both Laura and Haley exchange knowing looks.

"Hey," Laura said, noticing Riley's contemplative expression. "You good with this? Really?"

Riley thought about Joe—his quiet confidence, his thoughtfulness, the way he'd somehow understood exactly what she needed for her birthday.

"Yeah," she said softly, certainty settling over her like a blanket. "I'm good with this."

Haley raised her glass in a toast. "Then I'm happy for you. Even if your packing skills remain atrocious."

Back in Cincinnati, Joe set his phone down and leaned back against his kitchen counter, a slow smile spreading across his face. Riley was coming here. To his city. His home.

The realization sent an unexpected surge of anticipation through him. He glanced around his Indian Hill home—the tasteful modern furnishings, the organized spaces, the large windows overlooking the lake. The house was massive—far bigger than what he really needed. It had never struck him as incomplete before, mostly because he never gave it much thought. It was a place to sleep, eat, and decompress when he had the rare off day. Functional. Efficient. Nothing unnecessary.

But now, imagining Riley here, he saw it through new eyes.

Would she find it too impersonal? The contrast with her vibrant New Orleans home was stark. Her space had felt lived-in, full of stories and meaning in every corner. His was beautiful but… unfinished. As though he’d moved in but never fully unpacked the parts of himself that would transform it from a house into a home.

Joe pushed off from the counter, walking through the rooms with a more critical eye. He pulled up a saved tab on his phone—the high-end turntable he’d researched obsessively after returning from New Orleans but hadn’t pulled the trigger on buying. Now there was a reason to finally make the purchase.

He picked up his phone, texting his assistant, Sarah.

Joe: Need a few things ASAP - high-end turntable delivered by Wednesday.

He screenshot the Pro-Ject model he’d been eyeing and sent it.

Joe: This one. Also need speakers—something good, but not obnoxious-looking. And a console table for it—don’t care what it looks like, just make it go with the house.

He paused, then added:

Joe: Also need warm clothes (women’s S/M) for someone coming from Italy. Cincinnati weather appropriate. Details tomorrow.

The response came almost immediately.

Sarah: On it. Any specific brands/style preferences for the clothes?

Joe: I have no idea. She wears vintage stuff. Just get options.

Sarah: Got it. Budget?

Joe: Whatever it takes.

Joe suddenly realized something and quickly typed another message.

Joe: Also need records. For the turntable.

Sarah: What kind of records?

Joe stared at his phone. Shit.

Joe: Fuck, I don’t know, Sarah. What do cool people listen to on vinyl?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

Sarah: Turntable and vinyl? Whatever you’re doing, you’re really going for it, huh?

Joe: Yeah. Need help.

Sarah: This must be serious. I’m both concerned and entertained.

Joe: Not helpful, Sarah. You’re fired.

Sarah: You’re not firing me. You’d never put in the effort to train someone new, and you know it.

Joe: Fine. Not fired. But please help with the records.

Sarah: I know a guy at the record store. I’ll get you a “tastefully eclectic collection that doesn’t try too hard.” His words, not mine.

Joe: Perfect. Thanks.

Sarah: First turntables, now records. She must be something.

Joe: Don't worry about that.

Joe stared at the message for a long moment.

Joe: She is.

Strangely, the thought didn’t fill him with the usual anxiety that came with disruptions to his routine. Instead, it felt… energizing. Like Riley’s impending visit was bringing color to a part of his life that had been stuck in shades of gray for too long.

For the first time, his house didn’t quite feel like home—but maybe that was because home was becoming something different altogether. Something he was just beginning to understand.

[newkatzkafe2023]

💜:What If Pianosaurs was Y/N pet?

@lara-legomonkiekid

Pianosaurs🎵🎶🎶🎵 He plays just for us🎶🎵

(Lmk Wukong) WTF IS THAT THING?!?!? Wukong was completely freaking out and look white as a sheet. Pianosaurus stood over Wukong looking both curious and cautious of the demon monkey, like he's the one that's scared too. You came and calmed the two down then officially introduced one to the other, they were still pretty spooked by with you there it got better. It seems pianosaurs loves to take naps as much as Wukong does, so whenever it gets to quiet you would peak over to see them both sleeping away after a lullaby.

(NR Wukong)...............Holy crap for once he's absolutely speechless, especially with what he is seeing. Wukong came to visit you for your couples date night. However, as soon as he knocked on your door he heard creepy piano noises then the ground started to shake. The Next thing Wukong knew he was tackled on the ground by a giant dinosaur mascot and is that a piano!?!?!?! Wukong definitely thought he was tripping or drunk because he honestly didn't know what the hell he is looking at, but thankfully that's when you showed up. Wukong started shooting questions at you and for once in his life started to question his sanity, but then you tell him that pianosaurus and he's your best friend and pet. You tell him on how you took the poor gaint piano hybrid in and how he's had a tragic past so you took care of him yourself...............So he's basically a foster.........Wukong can live with that😯

(HIB Wukong) Oh.......lord?? He's pale in the face looking over at the creature behind you. That's right, you decided to tell him about pianosaurs. The creature was something he's clearly never seen before, and Wukong thought he was officially losing his mind but nope pianosaurs was very real. You had to sit him down and help him navigate his breathing before telling him pianosaurus's story and how you took care of him ever since. Wukong decided to trust you on this one but watched the dino piano like a hawk, on a brighter note Luier and Silly girl get along with pianosaurus and vice versa.

(MKR Wukong) Ok, the two did not have the best first meeting. It was rough and violent because when you were put under the 5 elements mountain, there was nobody to take care of pianosaurus therefore the poor instrumental Dino hybrid became quite feral. Thank god you were there and pianosaurs recognized your scent and voice before he can go attack the pilgrims. Wukong honestly hated him and his stalkerest and wild nature, and the tendency to take up all your time ment for him but he couldn't tell you to just get rid of him. He's was your first friend and pet and all pianosaurus had was you especially with his traumatic background, and the fact that pianosaurs had proven to be completely helpless without you to take care of him. All Wukong can do is tolerate him for your sake, he just wishes pianosaurus wouldn't stare at him in the middle of night.

(Netflix Wukong) When you introduced Pianosaurus to him Wukong was actually very curious about pianosaurs, and had a million and one questions about him. Wukong would act like a little kid who's asking someone to pet there dog, but due to that behavior pianosaurs learned that touch can be nice and gentle from both of you. You were happy pianosaurs was eventually and quickly trusted Wukong and that the two are friends now, not to mention he has someone to go on the wild side with.

(BMW Wukong) Pfffff i regret to inform you that Sun Wukong, the great sage equal to heaven find pianosaurus to be a huge nuisance🤣 Wukong finds him to be loud, obnoxious, clingy and overall creepy and that's coming from him. Not to mention he was big and clumsy and it annoyed Wukong something fierce, but you always make excuses for pianosaurus and told Wukong to give him a chance making the money king sigh. Pianosaurus tended to test his patients with his piano noises late at night and clumsy accidents around flower fruit mountain, but he was handy to have when he's dealing with intruders around your home. it's always great to see trash take itself out😈

(Destined one) D.O. tolerates pianosaurus in a since because he's your pet and best friend, but would sigh and groan a lot because of the oversized Dino things getting into trouble The Dino hybrid was rather clumsy and timid hiding behind you a lot of the time, and from what you told him about his origins, it's made since for him to be nervous around new faces. It interests you that pianosaurs became docile and comfortable around the Destined one going as far as to nap on his lap like a giant cat, but then again it's no surprise. You felt that the Destined one was welcoming and comfortable too.

(Lotmk Wukong) Believe it or not, Wukong and pianosaurus became rather fast friends. Sure, he was freaked out at first, but not even a half a month later, it turned into a became a boy and his dog situation. You see them hanging out together in your free time. Wukong made sure to help you take extra care of the dino piano because of his poor backstory and fight or flight responses. The two just got along so well playing games and Wukong listening to unknown sounds and songs on pianosaurusXs teeth keys it was usual but wholesome. It didn't take long for pianosaurus to accept Wukong's paw of friendship and got along incredibly well, and you're glad for that.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG🎹

[fridgemissionmaster]

Barbatos x Reader: March Prompt/Day 3 Petals

Prompt list/available prompt requests here, making a fic everyday of march

🎵

It was a rather breezy day in the Devildom, constant rustling of leaves or grass, movement from all directions something getting swayed. Shivering as you sat there, hugging yourself quickly rubbing your hands against your upper arms. Normally a breeze like this would be refreshing, but within the confines of the endless night of the land of demons, it was freezing, practically chilling one down to the bone.

A quiet, distinctive clink sound caught your attention, you already knew what it would be, but still it when you opened your eyes to take a peek that teacup on it’s matching saucer was no less of a pleasant surprise. This was a tea set you hadn’t seen before! “My apologies for the wait.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.” Your breath shuttered upon cupping your hands around the delicate thing, that heat immediately seeping through your palms so comfortably. The cup and saucer were entirely white aside from the thin gold rim and floral vine pattern near the edges, the handle of the cup molded into the shape of a flowering vine. “This is such a nice set.”

You didn’t even have to ask him this time to take the seat across from you. “Well some signs of spring have been showing so I thought this set the most appropriate for the day.”

Barbatos kept the view of you in the corner of the eye even as he poured himself a cup. He couldn’t help it even if he wanted to, you looked so… content and tired. Had those brothers been running you ragged again? Or was it simply the toll the shifting of seasons had on everyone, he knew it was certainly having it’s way with him, finding himself so enamored and distracted by you, so lost in thought he almost poured too much into his cup.

Thankfully you didn’t seem to notice his near blunder.

Merrily the pair of you chatted away under the gazebo. Despite the pair of you being around one another so often from RAD to those student council meetings to when Diavolo felt like messing with the brothers and dragging his butler into his shenanigans there was always more to talk about, so many little things, how Barbatos’ vegetable garden was doing, your memories of the human world, new recipes Barbatos wanted you to taste test to whatever thought drifted by. There was always something, even comfortable silence as you simply sipped away at your tea. Barbatos wouldn’t be surprised that if the day stood still the pair of you could keep on like this for a few hundred years or more. A person like you deserved all the happiness the world had to offer, even in it’s smallest moments.

“Truly, a lucky one indeed.”

You tried cutting off your boisterous laughter hearing Barbatos speak but it was so hard. Eventually you did, having to blink away the tears from your eyes to see whatever he had noticed.

He looked to a pair of petals that had fallen into your teacup. “Lucky?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” He smiled that knowing smile, of course you didn’t. “Here, it’s considered a sign of good luck if flower petals fall onto your drink.

“Huh, at least where I’m from I don’t think we have any luck superstitions like this one.” Barbatos swore he melted on the spot, you finishing your drink with such a bright cheery smile.

“Hmm, I wonder…”

“Hmm?”

“Perhaps your luck would be enough to see something.”

“Oh? Well, don’t keep me hanging, see what?”

“What indeed.” He stood, holding out a hand for you that you eagerly took. There was something just barely being contained, the smallest of crows feet forming in the corner of the eye and a twinkle there within. It was just to pull you up, but you didn’t let go, and who was he to deny a guest, so he let his grip get just a little tighter as he lead you through the gardens. Strolling along the path the wind picked up behind you as if encouraging you onward.

You were almost breathless. There was a part of the gardens in particular you didn’t get to visit often but was one of your favorites. A gorgeous sparkling lake filled with deadly fish who would attack if the surface of the water was disturbed even a little. On one side of it an incredibly dense forest so thick it would be impossible for one to breach it except for a single opening across the lake.

The lake was absolutely covered in flower petals.

“Ah! Barbayy…” The name died off on your tongue seeing the man step onto the lake.

“It seems your luck is enough.” Gently he tugged on your hand. “You’re safe, I promise.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him, but your mind screamed that if you dared try you’d fall right it, flower petals couldn’t keep you aloft! But he also didn’t need to promise anything, you always knew deep down that by his side, you’d always be alright.

He pulled you in as you hopped across as if there were a large stone in a river you could cross. Footing wasn’t completely steady, slightly giving in, a slight bounce with each step.

The man almost tripped over his own feet as you stole the lead, pulling him along, taking his other hand and spinning around, petals getting kicked up in your wake, a flurry beginning to soar into the sky above and away. Just as you got to the water’s edge he’d pull you away, or use the force to get you into a dip so he could more easily change the force his way. A light airy chuckle escaped him at these antics.

With one last hop he pulled you onto the edge of that clearing. “I suppose now we’ll simply have to hope your luck may get some more petals this way.”

“Uh oh…” A nervous laughter bubbled out of you seeing the lake had practically been cleared save for a few. “Well, I don’t think waiting for them will be the worst thing.”

“Certainly not.” And with that you entered the forest. It pitch black, you couldn’t see a thing. Holding one another tight the moment light entered your view you both ran for it.

The city was dazzling, so colorful and sparkling almost like a bokeh picture, those lights blurred dots and the buildings oh so clear and crisp. The Devildom was practically glowing. Never had you before gotten to see it like this before. It practically took your breath away.

You stood in a tiny clearing on what seemed to be the edge of a cliff or wall perhaps. It was a very small clearing just big enough for a few people, the fencing along it’s edge and a single bench.

“Let me get that for you.” The man seemed to freeze as you leaned in, maybe it was the shock he somehow missed something. Ever so gently you pulled the petal out of his hair, then holding it out for him to see before the wind took it away.

You stood so close.

“… perhaps I’m the lucky one.” It was meant to be a thought, a whisper to one’s self, yet there it was. Cupping his cheeks you pressed your lips to his own. It was natural for his arms to wrap around your waist and pull you closer.

This cemented it, at least for today, it was him.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

family day ask, if that's alright! could i request an interaction with rook and eric venue, vil's father? the way i think of it, this can go either really funnily or oddly. or both.

Consider this a prequel interaction to this one; I doubt that Mr. Venue can get past the Pomefiore gates on his own, so let's assume he meets a certain huntsman that helps him out 🎵

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

From his vantage spot amid the tree leaves, Rook could see all. He was like a hawk, able to glean the animals weaving through the foods, the rooftops, the students and their families coming to and fro. This view, he adored.

But equally as stunning as these sights were the pockets of darkness in them. They made his blood soar, singing, all the same. Carcesses returning life to the soil, damage from the natural elements, quarrels…

The sketchy man lurking at the shining gates to Pomefiore.

“Oh la la, what have we here?”

Curiosity piqued, Rook focused his gaze on the man. He was dressed in a full tracksuit, a mask concealing the shape of his mouth—though with a neat beard on his chin, judging by the slight protrustion—and a large pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. Given the lenses and the natural lighting, Rook would venture his iris color was a deep violet. A baseball cap hid most of his hair—though tufts of gold stuck out—and shadowed his face. It was an older man, Rook could tell, from the glimpses of skin he could catch, creasing and folding in a predictable manner.

The man glanced around, checking for onlookers (Rook chuckled to himself, knowing that he had no clue the huntsman was watching), then made his move. Reaching out with gloved hands, he tested the iron bars keeping him from entering the utopia of beauty protected by them. Of course, the gates held together, tight as coupled ravens.

Before the man could attempt to fiddle with the lock, he jolted at the sound of two approaching Pomefiore students. (Rook heard them clearly; they were talking about a recent Magic History exam and how their parents were currently speaking with Trein.) He hurriedly dove into a nearby hedge. The duo came up to the gate, which magically swung open for them.

“Excuse me, gentlemen!”

The mob students startled at the masked man popping out from a bush. “What the…?!”

“May I join you?” he asked (as if it was the most normal thing in the entire world for a masked man to appear from the greenery to solicit high school students). “My son is a student in your dorm, you see—but I haven’t been having any luck getting in. I’ve been trying for some time now, but the gates always shut again when I try to rush inside.”

“Erm… Are you acquainted with this scruffy guy?” one mob asked the other.

“Not at all, but anyone with sense would know that he’s entirely suspicious,” the other replied. “What say you and I cast him out?”

“Yes, let’s do that. We wouldn’t want riffraff tainting the Beautiful Queen’s domain!”

“Wh-What?!” The man automatically thrusted both arms up. “Hold on a second!!!”

Rook grinned like a cat that had gotten his fill of cream. Ohohoh, it looks as though the situation is quickly heating up. It’s about time for me to throw my hat into the fray.

He descended without a sound, the leaves barely shaking. Rook landed softly on his feet and crept toward the front gates, where ugly shouts rose.

“Bonjour!” he called, strutting up to his students. Feigning ignorance. “What seems to be the issue here?”

“Hunt-senpai!” A mob thrust an accusatory finger at the stranger. “This strange individual is trying to storm Pomefiore!”

“We were just about to apprehend him, Rook-sama.”

“Wait, I can explain!!” The man protested. His every word trembled, overflowing with sincerity. “My son…! My son is in there, and I need to see him!”

Ah, I see. This man’s secret identity is…

The huntsman’s eyes shone with clear understanding.

“My dear students, you needn’t worry—please, leave him to me,” Rook insisted, shooing them away with his hands.

“If Hunt-senpai says so…” The mob students exchanged a look before scurrying inside. The gates slammed shut after them.

“Oh no, not again!!” the man groaned. “My luck’s been rotten this whole day…”

Rook laughed, sweeping off his hat and dipping into a bow before the stranger. “As it so happens, monsieur, I am Pomefiore’s vice dorm leader. I would be more than happy to grant you an audience with our queen… Mr. Eric Venue, correct?”

The man stiffened for but a split second. He easily recovered, sprinkling controlled panic into his voice. “Eric Venue? The famous movie star? I’m flattered, but I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

“Am I? I would never mistake the desperate cries of a loving father. Those looks, that voice, a disguise for this busy occasion, a father’s passion… They tell a story all of their own.” There was a pause. “Ah, but I’m afraid you won’t get very far by making efforts to conceal yourself. I understand why—a celebrity cannot call too much attention to oneself—but it can be difficult to persuade, even with your charisma, when so much of the face is hidden. Humans have a natural instinct to distrust that which they cannot see.”

“That’s…”

Rook leaned in, his lips parting to form a whisper. “Ne vous inquiétez pas. I assure you, your secret is safe with me and that the journey will be quick and discreet. I know of a secret passageway to Vil’s chambers. About this time of day… yes, I believe he would be easy to reach.”

Eric’s brows shot up, genuine surprise registering on his face. “… Haha, you have an eye for detail, young man.”

“Fufufu, so I am told.” Rook extended a hand to him. “How about it? Will you accept my offer?”

“Well…” Eric lowered his sunglasses a smidge, flashing a glimpse of his deep-set amethyst eyes. “You’re an odd fellow, but I can tell you mean no harm and speak earnestly. And you’re my Vil’s vice dorm leader, his trusted confidant. I was worried that my presence might stir up a crowd, but I think it’s safe to put my faith in you.”

Rook dropped to a kneel, a loyal knight before a king. When he rose again, he lifted both arms and bent in deference.

“Suivez-moi.”

[a-titty-ninja]

(In case this is lost in queue , im sending this on June 10th)

Out of curiousity , how many episodes are there of the Ninja and Assassin show right now?

And like can you describe what each episode is? Based on gifs and other posts so far theres:

Turing Test passed

I AM TITTY NINJA

Gacha Gambling

Social Media is a curse that we should abandon

and lastly (which may very well be the same as previous)

🎵WHO YOU GONNA CALL?🎵

Also how do things like:

'Dark Skin Ninja wrecks shit'

'Apron cooking and observing from the couch'

'Cat Girl Ninja no :('

'Doc Oc attacks (and misses completely)'

'Spa Day' or

'Just a day at School , and girl doesnt know subtlety' fit in?

Lol Ep 10 will drop tomorrow.