#they’re all more on the level of the second one here

[juustokaku]

Confidentiality - Chapter 1. - yandere!ATEEZ OT8 x f!reader

Introduction: Joining a peer support group for mentally ill was a good idea for the last two times you were there. Then it's only natural for the third time to go well too, right?

Pairings: yandere!Hongjoong x reader, yandere!Seonghwa x reader, yandere!Yunho x reader, yandere!Yeosang x reader, yandere!San x reader, yandere!Mingi x reader, yandere!Wooyoung x reader, yandere!Jongho x reader

A/N: This is my first fan fiction I have posted in years! I'm sorry that the beginning might bore you but I'm trying to make the next chapters more interesting. This was more of an introduction than the real story. Also, please, forgive me for my English. It's not exactly immaculate since it isn't my first language. Thank you to everyone who might stumble across this and read!

Word count: 3 207

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The first time you had been shaking in your boots. The next time you had been shaking as much. And now, hopefully for the last time, you were still shaking. 

“What are you doing here? This is private property,” a relatively old lady opened the door you were standing behind and furrowed her thin brows. 

It was winter, and you were cold already, but the chill that ran down your spine at the woman’s words made you almost visibly shudder. Did she not remember you? 

Your hands inside your mittens squeezed into fists. Anxious tears welled up in your eyes. As usual, you couldn’t handle people being angry or even stern at you. 

You would have probably run away in a couple seconds, but the woman smiled at you suddenly and pushed the door wide open. 

“I’m just joking, dear. I remember you.” 

She was supposed to be a mental health professional but still she dared to joke like that while aware of your struggles. You felt a bit irritated but didn’t dare to show it to her. She didn’t mean to scare you. 

As you stepped inside the house your anxiety levels settled down for a moment. You felt a little more comfortable despite the fusty smell. The room was designed to look inviting and homey probably to make the patients relax. It was kind of like visiting a grandma which made you feel nostalgic. 

“I’m glad you decided to join again,” the woman smiled sincerely as you took off your boots and set them neatly on the shoe rack. 

You nodded, “I’m a bit anxious but eager to receive some help again.” 

It was the third time you had joined a peer support group for people who were suffering from mental health problems. The same woman who was in front of you had held it every time. You thought she was some kind of therapist but weren’t sure anymore. It was always hard for you to remember the introductions, because your mind was an anxious mess when meeting new people. 

She led you to the familiar room where all the previous support groups had been held too. 

 10 armchairs were placed in a wide circle. Their colors were restrained and mild so that people who had sensory issues wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. Well, they would probably feel uncomfortable here anyways due to other reasons, but it wouldn’t feel as insufferable as it could if the chairs were all bright, neon version colors of rainbow. 

The lighting was comforting and warm, a stark contrast to the cold lights of a hospital. 

As you were taking in the feelings of the room, the woman started speaking. 

“Uh, I have to tell you something,” she started, sounding apologetic, “All the other group members are new. None of them have been here before.” 

“Oh. Are any of them aggressive?” you asked nervously. 

The information that you hadn’t met any of the other patients stressed you out. What if one of them was aggressive and attacked you? 

“You worry too much, Y/N. They’re as stable and gentle as little lambs.” 

“If they were stable, they wouldn’t be in this group.” 

The woman chuckled a bit, her dimples showing as the corners of her lips rose in amusement. 

“Trust me. Everyone is kind and calm,” the woman assured you. 

Suddenly a man barged in and declared, “I have arrived! Get ready for trouble!”  

Your heart almost stopped and a fight-or-flight response was close to being activated. But after the initial scare he gave you settled down, you stared at the man with surprise and nervousness. 

Despite his attention-demanding entrance, his looks were a little less extra. He was really handsome though. He had black hair and casual clothes but your attention was caught by his mischievous dark brown eyes and a little mole under his eye. 

“What’s your name?” the man noticed your staring and rushed to you before you could run away. 

You barely remembered your name when the man was suddenly in front of you, a bit too close to your liking. Somehow you managed to mutter out your name to him. 

“Ah, Y/N. I’m Wooyoung,” the man introduced himself, “You have beautiful eyes.” 

If you didn’t forget how to speak when Wooyoung asked your name, you definitely did now. How were you supposed to answer when a stranger complimented your eyes out of the blue? 

Wooyoung continued inspecting your face and expressions intently. 

“Thank you... You have very... interesting eyes as well,” you smiled sheepishly. 

“That sounds almost like an insult,” Wooyoung pouted, “Aren’t my eyes beautiful too?” 

Oh no. Did Wooyoung think you didn’t think of his eyes as beautiful? 

“No, no! I mean yes, your eyes are beautiful. I just didn’t want to sound like a creep by complimenting you too much.” 

Wooyoung grinned at you, “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.” 

What was wrong with everyone, joking around like that? You had your first mini heart attack earlier when you thought the woman didn’t recognize you and now Wooyoung made you think you insulted him gravely. 

You took a seat on one of the armchairs. Wooyoung sat down next to you, staying quiet but glancing at you sometimes. Pretty often, to be honest. All of the time, actually. 

The woman started talking with him but you couldn’t focus on listening to their conversation at all. Just fiddling with your fingers nervously as you imagined how the other patients would be like. 

One by one, all of the patients arrived. Two of them were late which irritated you. You just wanted to get this session over with already. 

You didn’t dare to look at anyone but you had noticed to your horror that all of the other patients were men. Maybe they would gang up on you after this session and beat you up. That’s what men did, right? You had read a lot about those kind of things on the internet. 

“Alright kiddos,” the woman started, “My name is Charlotte Abbot, and I welcome you to this peer support group.” 

None of you were “kiddos” anymore but young adults. Charlotte probably just felt a lot older with all those wrinkles on her face. 

She went on and on about how the group works and the importance of confidentiality. A few members of the group didn’t focus at all and were looking around curiously to see who were the people that had joined the group. 

“Who wants to introduce themselves first?” Charlotte asked. 

Wooyoung raised his hand and started talking before Charlotte could give him a permission, “My name is Jung Wooyoung. My favorite color is black. My favorite fruit is strawberry. I like dancing. I like taking photographs. I like cooking. I like-”  

Charlotte interrupted him, “Thank you, Wooyoung. Let’s give everyone a chance to introduce themselves briefly before revealing more.” 

An extraordinarily stylish man raised his hand before he started speaking. 

“I’m Kim Hongjoong. I’m the CEO of my own fashion brand.” 

You almost gasped out loud. No wonder he was so stylish. He looked cool both in appearance and attitude. The look on his face was so focused that you bet he was a hardworking man. 

“My name is Choi San. I am a personal trainer. Nice to meet you all,” a man sitting one seat away from you introduced himself politely. 

You could definitely see that he was a personal trainer. His looks probably distracted all his customers from working out to look at him. 

“Jeong Yunho,” a tall man next to you smiled kindly, “I’m a police officer but I do a lot of volunteering at animal shelters as well.” 

You almost let your heart melt at Yunho’s words but you reminded yourself that he could be lying to make himself look more trustworthy. He could actually be a mastermind criminal who’d lure you into his trap with his promises of playful puppies and cute kittens. 

“Choi Jongho,” another man simply said. 

Everyone waited for him to continue but he stayed silent. 

“That’s it?” Wooyoung asked. 

“Shush, Wooyoung. If Jongho doesn’t want to say anything more yet, he doesn’t have to,” Charlotte reminded gently. 

“Song Mingi. But you can call me Mingi. Or Mingus Dingus,” another tall man chuckled. 

“Mingus... Dingus?” Wooyoung repeated, holding back his laughter. A couple other men in the room snorted too. 

Mingi looked a little offended and explained, “It’s my stage name. I’m a rapper.” 

You wondered what was behind Mingi’s sunglasses. Why did he wear them inside in the first place? Was he trying to hide something else than just his eyes? 

It was clear that none of them were here to hurt you. But all of these new people were making you nervous. No matter how disrespectful of you was it to suspect everyone, you couldn’t help yourself. 

“My name is Park Seonghwa. I like Legos and Star Wars,” a strikingly handsome man smiled sheepishly. 

His interests surprised you with their innocence. One would expect that an adult man with those godly looks would be partying and sleeping with models instead of nerding away with Legos and Star Wars. It was adorable though and made you feel ever so slightly more at ease with him. 

Silence filled the room as everyone was waiting for the next person to introduce themselves. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall could be heard. The silence felt uncomfortably long and you started wondering why no-one spoke. 

“Could any of you two introduce yourself?” Charlotte’s voice caught your attention. 

You almost wanted to cry out of embarrassment as you realized you were one of the two who were left, and you had been just sitting there like a fool. It shouldn’t be such a big deal but your ears flushed red nonetheless. 

There was a man who hadn’t introduced himself yet either. His gaze was turned to the floor. As if that wasn’t enough of a sign to tell he was uncomfortable, his body was tense and hands wrapped in front of his stomach as if to protect himself. 

“I’m Y/N. I like...” you paused. Someone could be here to gather information about you or use your information against you in the future. You couldn’t tell them anything too personal. 

“I like dogs,” you finally said. Damn it, that was too personal! Now that psycho police officer could lure you into a dog shelter and torture puppies in front of you just to make you suffer. 

Speak of the devil, Yunho smiled at you, “I like dogs too.” 

You fought the urge to scream and run away. His smile was charming but that was expected from a psychopath. Those kinds of people were good at manipulating. You had read a lot of books about it in order to protect yourself better. 

Nonetheless, you still smiled back nervously. 

“What’s your last name?” San asked. 

To be truthful or not to be: that is the question. You had purposefully left that part out of your introduction because you didn’t want to tell them your last name. What would anyone even do with that information? 

“Brokelsony,” you answered. 

Wooyoung snorted, “That’s not a real name, doofus. You just made that up, didn’t you?” 

You got caught. Your days were numbered now. How could you ever come back after everyone knew you lied to them?  

The way your eyes widened and you clutched the arms of the chair confirmed everyone that you lied. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Except you wanted your whole body to burn, not just your pants. 

“Come on, what’s your real last name?” Mingi insisted. 

Wooyoung joined in with a louder voice, “Yeah, we told our last names too!” 

“What are you so afraid of?” 

You were stressing out, gasping for air and digging for some explanation for your lie but you couldn’t think. All the noise and pressure made you dizzy. 

Suddenly Jongho chimed in, “You two chose to tell your full names out of your own will. It’s not an obligation to reveal your last name, so leave her be.” 

Everyone was shocked more or less. Jongho, who had been so quiet otherwise, had spoken up and defended you. 

He could have been embarrassed or regretful to have all the attention directed to him now but there were no emotions on his face. Only unwavering tranquility was like painted on his whole body. 

You couldn’t have been any more grateful to Jongho for the shift of attention and for being the voice of reason. The least you could do was to send him an appreciative smile so you did that. 

He did not respond to the smile. 

You really hated this day. Being embarrassed wasn’t an unknown experience to you but this felt just straight up humiliating. 

“Well, we have our one last patient. Would you introduce yourself?” Charlotte asked gently. 

It was definitely not a nice feeling for him to be the last one and have all the attention on him, you thought as you looked at the last man left. 

After a few moments he raised his gaze from the floor... only to look at his hands. At least you could see his beautiful face and birth mark a bit better now. 

“Yeosang,” the man spoke. 

Yeosang sounded almost apologetic like he was sorry that he was supposedly wasting everyone’s time by telling his name. You really felt for him. 

“Look what you did, Y/N. He learned not to tell his last name either because of you,” Wooyoung chuckled and received a scolding look from Charlotte in response. 

Charlotte looked around the room, probably taking in everyone’s names, and nodded. 

“You all have different issues like all people do. Even though some of you may have similar experiences or diagnoses, don’t forget that you have your own story to share, no matter how insignificant it may seem.” 

A few people nodded, acknowledging her words. You did too although you did not agree with her statement. 

Your story wasn’t meant to be shared. There wasn’t even anything to share. That’s what you wanted to believe at least. That you were completely healthy and normal, and that nothing bad had ever happened to you. 

“During next week we’ll start opening up more but today it’s time for something more exciting...” Charlotte smiled mysteriously, “Get into groups of three.” 

What was this? A pre-school? You did not want to talk to anyone. This was supposed to be a form of therapy not a blind date! 

You felt your palms sweat in nervousness. Who would you want to be in a group with? Or a better question, who would want to be in a group with you?  

The stress of realizing that probably no-one would agree to be with you made your chest tighten up. You cursed Charlotte in your mind for causing this. 

Every second felt excruciatingly slow but fast at the same time as you saw Hongjoong and Seonghwa already forming a group. You would be the last one left. No-one would let you into their group willingly. 

“Do you want to be in my group?” someone behind you asked like an angel who descended from Heaven to save you from the fate of being left out. 

Once you turned around, you froze. It was the Devil instead. 

Yunho stood there, towering over you, with that smile on his handsome face again. It was suspicious how kind he was.  

“Sure,” you nodded despite your head screaming at you not to. Carefully inspecting his expressions and movements, you decided he would be trustworthy enough now that there were other people in the room with you.  

“Awesome! Let’s go find another groupmate,” Yunho gestured you to follow him. 

So, you did follow him as he walked towards Yeosang who was standing by the wall, looking clueless and lost. 

You felt grateful that Yunho had chosen Yeosang out of everyone left because he seemed like the least aggressive person there. His arms were muscular but you wanted to believe he wouldn’t use them for anything else than carrying heavy grocery bags for old ladies. 

“Yeosang, do you want to join-” Yunho started but got interrupted by Jongho who had appeared behind you two. 

“Y/N. Join my group.” 

It was enough of a shock already to have Yunho ask you to be in his group, but now that Jongho wanted you in his group as well, you felt lost. 

You probably looked stupid as you were glancing between Yunho and Jongho, trying to figure out the situation, lips slightly apart. 

“No can do, dude. She’s mine... my groupmate, I mean,” Yunho crossed his arms. 

Even Yeosang raised his head to look at the scene with you as Yunho and Jongho started disputing. 

“Although you like dogs, you don’t have to treat her as one,” the shorter man sneered, “You’re not her owner, cop.” 

Yunho furrowed his brows. You thought of him as scary even when he smiled, but now that you saw him getting irritated, you felt horrified. What if he had a gun with him? He was a police officer after all. 

“I didn’t mean it that way. I just want you to find your own groupmates instead of stealing mine.” 

“Why are you so keen on keeping her?” Jongho raised a brow. 

“Why are you so keen on stealing her away from me?”  

Yunho’s question was just the right one to make Jongho silent. 

A slightly irritated expression crossed Jongho’s face but he just shrugged and said, “Don’t ask me.” 

“Who else should I ask then?” Yunho asked, confusion mixed with annoyance in his voice, but he received no response as Jongho just walked away. 

You watched Yunho’s expression from the side while he was still distracted by his own thoughts and emotions. 

His lips were pressed together tightly and ears bright red. It was clear he tried to control himself and his reactions, but you weren’t convinced by his act at all. 

You got to see him properly only when he swiftly turned around to face you. He did not touch you, thank God, but you were still terrified when you saw the look in his brown eyes. The same, usual smile was on his lips as he looked down at you but it was still vastly different. His eyes weren’t warm. His eyes were burning hot, full of fierce fire he had been hiding under the facade of a kind police officer who loved helping animals, and who knows what other lies he had come up with. 

His body towered over yours as he looked at with those eyes that made you want to curl up into a small ball and defend yourself like a hedgehog. 

But you weren’t a hedgehog and you couldn’t push out spikes to protect yourself as Yunho leaned closer. 

“I’m glad you didn’t run off with Jongho,” he chuckled. 

In the blink of an eye his expression was back to that weirdly cheerful one, as if you had imagined everything. 

Everyone was horrible. You were scared and worried. But you should have expected something like this already, you thought to yourself. 

After all it was just like you told Charlotte: if they were stable, they wouldn’t be in this group. 

[blueikeproductions]

So next month, EarthSpark is returning for its (most likely) final batch on Paramount+.

The plan so far is it premiers October 25th.

It’s labeled “S3”, but realistically it’s just the next round of the second season. What it involves is anyone’s guess, because the old planning document that was leaked that first revealed CyberWorld has only confused things.

The EarthSpark toys are on clearance and being phased out. Those unsold, dust collecting Cyber Combiners are going to Ollies before long, and the Chaos Terrans aren’t even on shelves here. The Legacy toys are mostly gone too, the TF section is nearly all TFONE and a modest Studio Series selection.

There’s no conceivable way a series that tanked on streaming is getting specials during the successor’s tenure. If that’s how it worked, Animated would’ve gotten a special that tied up loose ends when Prime was on.

The only thing we’re probably getting is Prowl, and maybe Mirage since he was plastered on the leaked document. Considering how poorly handled ES’s (and CV’s since they share staff) ideas were, I don’t have high hopes the Quintesson and Decepticon plot will be handled well to close out ES. Modern shows have a bad habit of butterfly chasing, one idea that has potential to be fleshed out is abandoned on a whim in favor of a spur of the moment idea that isn’t much better. Entertainment in general also tends to learn the wrong lessons, like the awkward lesson taken from Lightyear is the gay kiss was the problem, so let’s just not do gay stuff at all. The gay kiss didn’t help matters due to international cultures unfortunately and the loudest grifters MADE it the problem, when Lightyear and Strange World’s problems were weak story and weaker concepts. To Strange World’s credit, it’d be a perfect Kingdom Hearts level for Sora, Donald and Goofy to run around in and the world turtle’s virus can easily be made into Heartless. Whether they’ll include in Kingdom Hearts, I dunno.

Anyway my point is, after Aligned, Transformers cartoons have all suffered bad writing and characterization: Cyberverse (said by the creators to be made for and by the fans “inbetween” which translated into Twitter IDW canon), War For Cybertron (so bleak, so overacted, so poorly acted, a downgrade in animation as it’s the same studio that made Prime, written so suffocatingly serious, it’s the 13 year old edgelord’s wet dream we grew out of), Prime Wars (oh god that was so bad, they got Peter Cullen and Mark Hamill to save face, and they instead fell flat on their faces), BotBots (the very belated response to Teen Titans Go! and Shopkins) and EarthSpark (a well meaning show using Rescue Bots’ concepts as a spring board, but refused to let go of IDW’s bad ideas, and used “DEI” as a selling point in an era where its slowly dying out.).

The movies were trying to improve, as Bumblebee and RotB are looked in more fondly by TF fans, they got (what hard cores claim) was the appeal of TFs over the Bay trilogy. And now we’re at TFONE, the film that “finally” got it right, but no one went to see.

So where are we at.

With TFONE, most news outlets agree it’s a good movie, but with its abysmal box office performance starting out, it’s not looking like that’s gonna improve, with the newsies saying the Transformers are out of gas. Or is that Energon?

In a way they’re not wrong. It’s been reported Transformers is on a decline, and with the cartoons and toys not doing well either, we’re back to the end of G2, where things aren’t looking good. The difference is we don’t have the flash in a pan miracle that was Hasbro, Kenner and Mainframe making Beast Wars and later the same thing happening with the first Micheal Bay film.

We have been long overdue for a similar kick in the pants, and I think it’s clear Hasbro wanted TFONE to be that, but alas, it’s not despite the good will.

The only kick so far are the Skybound Energon Universe series. They’re doing, as of typing, phenomenally, with the Transformers book being a decent mix of 80’s G1 Movie, Prime, and Bayformers, written and drawn in a way only the people that created Walking Dead and Invincible can do.

The other good will was the Trigger animated 40th Anniversary short.

Skybound and Trigger are the only things people were on board with. Let that sink in.

Trigger also contributed a poster for the Japanese release of TFONE.

So maybe that’s a sign they’ll be allowed to do more official things going forward. Which I think is a good thing.

TFOne is a good movie, but due to Hasbro’s and Paramount’s own indecision on what to do with the movies, and their increasingly dubious canon, we’re stuck with what is officially declared its own thing separate from Bay, though it’s pretty apparent someone internal had to show Lorenzo how irreconcilable ONE was with ROTF & DOTM because The Fallen & Sentinel Prime can’t be villains of both died horribly back on Cybertron. However, the Bayformers series is still very popular among casual fans and audiences. Universal wouldn’t still have its own Bay themed Transformers attraction with the delightfully snarky Movie Megatron if it wasn’t.

So here lies the issues. The movies. Pretty much after TLK, they’ve done poorly in theaters despite their nostalgic popularity. Notably, RotB does really well on streaming, as it did well on P+ and Netflix (in other counties, it’s not on the American one yet). The Garfield Movie is currently #1 on Netflix after having a weak but successful box office. And with preorders now open for home video, ONE walks a slippery slope of everyone agreeing this is the good movie, but no one cares enough to pay money to see it in theaters. It will probably do gangbusters on streaming, going by trends, so that’s probably the best shot it has, as apparently good word of mouth isn’t enough.

It’s not helped there’s continued confusion among casuals if TFONE is a prequel to the Bay films, and it sounds like in very early development it was leaning that way, but the differing designs, and the trailers making the film look more kiddy than Bayhem, was among the turn offs. Like how does it make sense the Transformers started out as more cartoony G1 designs but overtime evolved into the shredded metal Bionicle style. No cartoon had convincingly explained a style shift that drastic.

It was said that if TFONE did well, Hasbro would use that as the basis of future material. Well with its lukewarm performance, there’s no financial incentive to do so, but the general positivity from people about Optimus and Megatron’s blue collar years and the greatly simplified Cog and Cogless system could work in its favor anyway.

There’s still, as of typing, plans to continue with a sequel to TFONE, and while it’s still unknown if Cyberworld will borrow the Worker-Bot backstory for its Optimus… and Galvatron(?), there’s a chance it might for some brand synergy.

We’re at a fork in the road now that One has underperformed and Skybound is the only thing keeping the interest going. CyberWorld has to do what Cyberverse and EarthSpark couldn’t do and attract fresh kids to get into Transformers. Fans think they’re the only ones that matter, but it’s clear with One just appealing to us doesn’t work we need new blood. Just maintaining isn’t enough anymore. Skybound found a way, now we just need to see if CyberWorld can do so too.

[beardedhandstoadshark]

[itsallyscorner]

At Fault | MV1

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: Max invites his ex to a gp and upsets you. Soft and stubborn Max, but he’s a cutie. A mix between angst and fluff, but mostly fluff towards the end. Lots of reader just ranting. Plus a little cameo from the Ferrari WAGs <3.

warnings: Does Kelly count as a warning? Kinda of toxic, I’m not really sure? But who actually likes seeing their boyfriend’s ex girlfriend??

author’s note: Italics are flashbacks! This turned out longer than expected, but I hope you guys like it! It’s also been a while since I’ve written fics, so it there are any errors pls ignore them😭

The tension in the car was thick. So thick, Max believed he could cut it with a knife.

Your arms were crossed as you stared out the window while Max glanced at you wearily every other second. Thankfully, there were only three of you in the car. You and Max in the backseat, and the driver in front being separated by a divider. Though, Max was sure the driver was able to hear the current disagreement between you and him.

Max fidgeted with the lanyard of his paddock pass and stared at the side of your face. He knew he had upset you and honestly you had every right to be. You were biting the inside of your cheek in frustration trying to keep your emotions at bay. As much as you wanted to argue with Max about how you disagreed with his actions, he was due to race in a couple of hours and you didn’t want to add any more stress on his shoulders.

But Max wanted to talk about this now while you were both alone.

“Schatje, are you really mad?” Max asked quietly, leaning closer to you and trying to get you to face him. He truly didn’t mean to dampen your mood before the race. Most importantly, he didn’t like that he was the reason for you being upset. Your brows furrowed ever so slightly and a faint pout was on your lips, both indications that you were in fact not happy with him.

“Yes, Max, I am mad.” You answered, your voice trembling a bit. You had finally turned away from the window and were looking at him. Max felt a pang of guilt in his heart once he saw the look in your eyes. They weren’t glaring at him with the heat of anger, but they were soft and glossy, you were hurt—he hurt you.

Max cautiously reached out for your hand and tangled your fingers together, though your hand felt limp, like you didn’t want to hold his hand at all.

“I told you the truth.” Max said, leaning his head down trying to catch your eyes again. You took in a deep breath before turning to fully face him.

“Yes Max, you did and I absolutely appreciate it. I really do.” You began, grasping his hand between yours. “But that doesn’t make up for that fact that you’ve had this planned out for nearly a month and only told me thirty minutes ago!” You argued.

Thirty minutes ago, before your ride to the paddock can pick you guys up, Max had revealed that his ex-girlfriend, Kelly, and her daughter would be at the garage to watch the race. When you asked how they got passes to the garage, he shared that he had flown them out and provided them with passes for the weekend.

“So she’s been here all weekend?” You questioned him, arms crossed and a brow raised at him. The Italian heat felt even ten times worse as you grew frustrated with your boyfriend.

“Yeah, but they were at the Paddock Club, they’re going to watch the race from the garage though.” Max shrugged, as if it were not a big deal. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and grasped your hand in his free one.

You couldn’t help the feeling of insecurity seeping into your bones. Kelly was rich and gorgeous, she was a model, and you weren’t. You had a normal job that offered you stability, paid you good money, and you knew how to clean up nice. However, you were no where near her level of anything or any of the other WAGs at that.

“You’ve known this whole time that she was here?” You asked quietly, your brows furrowed at him. You hated that you kept asking him questions, it was like you were interrogating him.

Max looked down at you, confusion etched on his face, “I did, schatje. I flew them out and got them some paddock passes.” You acted before you could speak, and shook your head at him, rolling your eyes in annoyance. Your boyfriend was one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met, however, many people took that as a sign to take advantage of him. While it took him longer to realize it, you noticed it instantly.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset though, I told you the truth, it’s not like I’m doing anything with her.” Max defended himself, his hands wildly moving around. “She reached out telling me that P missed me and wanted to come to a race, it’s not for her, it’s for Penelope.”

“I understand that Max and as harsh as this sounds, Penelope isn’t your responsibility. I get that you helped raise her, but you guys broke up, you don’t need to provide for her anymore.” You threw a hand in the air, emphasizing your point. “Kelly’s fully capable of flying herself out and buying tickets to a race weekend.”

“I was just being nice.” Max raised his voice, also growing frustrated with the situation.

“And she’s still using you!” You fumed, tears welled in the corner of your eyes. “How many times does she have to use you for you to realize it? You guys broke up and she still manages to get what she wants out of you! Do you know how embarrassing it is to walk in and see her there?” You tried to reason with him. While many of his fans didn’t approve of Kelly, you knew Twitter would have a field day clowning you when they find out Kelly was present in the garage. Social media was never always a nice place and you’ve learned to ignore it, but that didn’t mean it stopped the hate from happening.

Max ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“This is ridiculous.” He muttered under his breath, you scoffed and leaned back into your seat, staring at the window again.

“Do you not trust me?” Max asked forcibly, staring at the side of your head again. You let out a defeated sigh and turn your head to look at him, “I do trust you, Max.”

Max’s shoulders slouched as he leaned on the seat sideways, his body fully turned to you.

“Then why do you not trust me with this?” He pushed, nudging your knee with his, trying to get an answer out of you. He knew he was at fault and he just wanted to make it right.

“I don’t trust her.” You simply answered, feeling done with the conversation. The car turned, nearing the entrance of the paddock. You sniffled as you untucked your hair from behind your ears, removing your sunglasses from the top of your head.

“You don’t have to worry about her, schatje. I want you not her, there’s a reason why we broke up.” Max reassured, trying to ease the tension between the two of you.

The car came to a halt, a knock came from the driver, indicating that you guys arrived at the paddock. Before you could leave, you turned to Max and said, “Yet, she’s still here.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Entering the paddock was always a frenzy. The moment you stepped out the car, fans were quick to recognize you, knowing that one of their favorite drivers were right behind you. You slid your sunglasses on and smoothed out the white maxi dress you wore. Max followed in suit and flashed a smile at the fans.

Shouldering his bag, he held his hand out to you, “I know you’re upset, but can I please hold your hand?”

You nodded and entangled your fingers with his. The two of you began your walk into the paddock hand in hand, as fans screamed and waved at Max. He gave your hand a squeeze before guiding you guys to some of the barricades and signing a few things for the fans.

After you guys scanned your passes, Max led you guys to the Red Bull garage. However, you came to a halt. Max was quick to look back at you, “You okay?”

“Yeah—I’m gonna meet up with Alex and Rebecca, if that’s okay? We were planning on seeing each other before the race.” You tell him. A small pout formed on Max’s lips, “Oh, okay, I’ll drop you off.” He offered, still holding your hand.

You and the girls decided to meet up at the Paddock Club. In front of the entrance, Max stood in front of you.

“You’ll come to the garage to watch, right? I need you there.” He asked quietly, so that people passing by cannot hear your conversation.

You nodded, “Yeah, I’ll be there before you’re in the car.”

Max mirrored your actions, “Okay, I love you.” He pulled you in by the waist and pressed a kiss onto your forehead. You squeezed his waist in response, “I love you too.”

Max watched as you entered the building, huffing to himself, while he watched you walk further and further into the building.

Placing your sunglasses above your head, you scan the room until you see one of the girls, Alex was the first to spot you, standing in her spot and waving at you to come over.

“Coucou mon amour!” She greeted you, (Hello, my love!) immediately wrapping you in a hug. You squeal as she squeezed you, “Helloo!” You giggled. You go to greet Rebecca, who is immediately giving you a knowing look. Being the older one amongst the three of you, she was often looked up to as the older sister.

She wrapped an arm around you and smoothed your back, “What’s wrong?” She asked while you got situated in the chair beside her.

You shook your head, “It’s just Max.”

Rebecca grabbed the bottle of champagne on the table and poured some into a flute glass. She offered you the glass, “Thank you, I needed this.”

She smiled watching you take a long sip from the glass, “Oh honey, I know.”

Alex pouted and nudged your foot with hers, “What happened with Max?”

“He invited Kelly to watch the race at the garage today.” You bluntly shared, slumping yourself in your chair.

Rebecca’s eyes widened, “Shut up.”

You raised a brow at her, “Oh, I didn’t even get to the kicker yet.”

Alex’s brows raised, “Which is?”

“He flew her out—he fucking flew her out and gave her tickets for the entire weekend.” You revealed through gritted teeth, still being aware of your surroundings. Rebecca cursed under her breath as Alex took your glass and refilled it with champagne.

Grabbing the glass, you continued, “She’s literally been here all weekend and he only told me this morning. I just don’t get it, they broke up, I don’t know why he’s still so concerned about her.” You took another long sip of champagne,

“What was the reason why?” Rebecca asked you.

“Apparently Penelope missed him—which I can believe, but did he really have to do all the providing when she can financially support herself? I get that he was trying to be nice, but still.” You grunt, fiddling with your glass.

Alex comfortingly rubbed your arm, “No, I get it, if Charles did the same thing with his ex, I’d also be upset.”

“I literally told him that she’s using him once again.” You threw your hands up. “If he wants her to be there so much, he might as well just get back with her. Like—am I crazy for losing my mind at the fact they were in contact with each other, even if it wasn’t in a romantic sense?”

Rebecca shook her head, “No, your feelings are absolutely valid. You’re just concerned and it obviously caught you off guard. He shouldn’t have been texting his ex in the first place.”

You groaned and held your head in your hands, “I hate feeling like this, it makes me question if he actually wants to be with me or not.”

Rebecca held her finger up, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Placing her hand on your shoulder she says, “Max might be acting very stupid right now, but one thing I know for sure is that Max loves you and absolutely adores you. Without a doubt.”

Alex nodded, agreeing with Rebecca, “Like have you seen the way he looks at you? He literally worships the ground you walk on. I’m sure he’s beating himself up right now for doing what he did.”

“He loves you, (y/n), everyone who’s seen you guys together knows it. I don’t think he’d put himself in this kind of position on purpose, you’ve got that man wrapped around your finger, babe.” Rebecca reassured you, throwing her arm around your shoulder and pulling you into another hug.

“Come on cheer up, who cares if she’s in the garage today? You’re the one he’s gonna be going home with tonight.” You laughed shaking your head at her teasing.

“Hey! Tonight and every single night!” Alex pointed out raising her glass at you.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Two hours. It’s been two hours since Max has dropped you off at the Paddock Club and he still hasn’t heard back from you. He’s been distracted all day. During a meeting with Christian and some of the engineers, he couldn’t help but constantly check for a text from you, earning himself a scolding from the team principal. Checo and a couple of people from the team tried talking to him, but he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes wandered wondering when you would enter the garage.

He did in fact see Kelly and P—obviously he was expecting to see them since he invited them, but all he felt while talking to them was guilt. Guilty because he remembered the look of hurt and betrayal in your eyes and how he was the reason behind it. He hated it, he felt grimy, and dirty for going behind your back and texting Kelly. Not even ten minutes into catching up with the mother and daughter, Max realized that you were in fact correct. Kelly had used him again, instantly making advances on him despite knowing he was happily taken. But for the sake of P, Max made sure to be friendly though kept his distance to not feed into her mother’s schemes.

It was nearing lights out and you were still not in the garage. He had gone through his warm ups with Bradley, had his fireproofs and suit on, and even laced up his shoes. Still, no sight of you whatsoever in the garage. He was beginning to worry about you, sending you a couple of messages to your phone.

The car was due to be on the grid and there was about half an hour left till lights out. Max looked around the bustling garage, checking to see if you had snuck in without him seeing, though to no avail, you still weren’t there.

“Max…Max…Max?” GP tried to get Max’s attention. Snapping a finger in front of the driver’s face, Max’s eyes flickered over to his race engineer.

“What do you want now?” Max groaned, throwing his head back. To onlookers, it looked like a typical interaction between Max and GP. Though, GP felt like he was babysitting a child whose attention span couldn’t focus on one thing for more than a few seconds.

“Mate, I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes.” GP claimed. Choosing to ignore the information he had just “briefed” Max on, he decided to be a friend.

“Where’s your head at?” GP asked Max. The Dutch man sighed, leaning against one of the storage units in the garage.

“I messed up with (y/n). I did something and it was my fault, I know it was. But she’s not happy with me at the moment and I just want to make it right.” Max summarized, not sharing any more details to protect the privacy of your relationship.

GP motioned towards Kelly who was talking to one of the other influencers in the garage, “Does it have to deal with that?”

“Unfortunately.” Max mumbled, crossing his arms and choosing to stare at the floor.

GP took a minute to stare at his driver. Max was deflated, he wasn’t as hyped for the race or over explaining some random fact about god knows what. Instead, Max kept to himself, greeting people when he had to and communicating with his team prior to the race. Other than that, Max chose to stare at his phone and look longingly outside the garage.

“Listen, I don’t know what exactly went down. But I’ve seen you with (y/n) and she clearly makes you happy, we’ve all see how lively you are with her around. You’ve got a lot of groveling to do bud, but it’ll be worth it.” GP advised, clapping Max on the back to wake him up.

“She’ll always be worth it.” Max quietly said, taking another glimpse at his phone. Only to be met with his wallpaper of you and him, with no notifications.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Christian Horner stared at his monitor at the pit wall watching as drivers and their teams gathered on the grid. He saw Checo by his car, taking a few sips of water before the race. When the camera panned to Max’s Red Bull, the driver was no where to be seen. Sparing him a second of wondering where his driver was, the camera cut to the garage where Max stood, race suit at his waist, looking no where near ready to participate in the race.

“Why is Max not in the car?” He turned to GP, stress evident on his face. GP turned in his seat and looked back into the garage to see Max pacing. Cursing under his breath, he excused himself from Christian and rushed to Max.

“Max, the race is literally about to start!”

Max stops his pacing and places his hands at his hips, “I need my girlfriend.”

“What?” Bradley and GP both stuttered out. Max deadpanned at the two men in front of him.

“(Y/n), I need to see her before the race.” Max demanded. Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose, “Max, she’ll be here after the race, you’ll be fine.” He pushed the balaclava towards Max’s chest, who simply let the mask fall at his feet.

GP sighed at Max, before calling one of the Red Bull employees.

“Please send out a search for (y/n), Max is refusing to get in the car.” He whispered to the intern. The girl looked at him confusingly but nodded and set out the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You rushed as best as you could in kitten heels towards the Red Bull garage. You were supposed to be at the garage at least half an hour ago. You and the girls got caught up catching up with each other’s lives that none of you realized it was getting close to lights out. It truly was a funny sight, the three of you rushing out of the Paddock Club and running through the paddock like a bunch of maniacs.

“(Y/n)!” You heard someone yell. You stopped in your steps and looked around, only to see a girl dressed in Red Bull uniform. You recognized her, you believed her name was Nicole and was an intern for the team this season.

“Hey! Is Max on the grid already?” You approached her, a little sad that you missed seeing him before the race.

“No, he’s actually waiting for you. They’re sending out a search for you because he’s refusing to get in the car.” Nicole explained, placing a gentle hand on your back and guiding you through the crowd of fans and towards the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

GP released a sigh of relief once he saw you enter the garage. He shoved Max’s shoulder to avert his attention to you.

“What—oh,” Max began, only to stop himself and rush towards you. You met him half way, placing a hand on his elbow.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t meant to stay there for too long.” You quickly apologized. Max shook his head, “I don’t care, I’m just happy you’re here.”

Your brows furrowed at him, “Why are you here? Why aren’t you in the car yet?”

Max placed both his hands on your waist with a faint blush on his cheeks, “I need my goodluck kiss.”

You paused your actions, “You’re kidding me. Max, the race is about to start in five minutes!” You scolded your boyfriend.

“Please, schatje.” He pleaded, leaning closer towards you. Other team members and guests watched the both of you, the scene in front of them peaking their interests.

You gazed up at his stormy eyes, giving in because you knew he was stubborn and wouldn’t stop until he got his way. Plus, the team would hate you if you lowered their chances of scoring points this weekend.

“Just because I kiss you doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you anymore.” You clarified quietly. His forehead nodded against yours, “I know schatje. I promise to make it up to you, I really do.”

A small smile forms on your lips, “I know, Maxie.”

Max takes that as his sign to crash his lips onto yours. One of his hands support the back of your neck while the other rests on your lower back. You smile against his lips, pulling back and placing a peck right above the small mole on his upper lip.

“I love you.” You whispered to him.

“I love you too.” He whispered back. Before you can fully pull away from him he quickly adds, “I’m serious about my promise.”

“I know, baby.” You squeeze him comfortingly. “Now get out there and win the race. Stay safe.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead as both you and GP ushered him towards his gear that’s been waiting to be put on.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

A man of his word, Max won the race. With at least a five second gap between him and Lando, your boy was top step yet once again. As much as he won, the thrill of seeing him win and crossing the finish line never got old. You celebrated every win of his as if it were his first. You’d always be proud of him, whether he got pole or not.

Many of the engineers and members of the team began to rush towards the grid, eager to greet Max once he got out the car.

Looking around, you suddenly make eye contact with Kelly, who seemed to have been sizing you up. You weren’t really sure what look was on her face, but the hints of a snarl were on her lips. With her nose stuck up in the air, you watched as she carried her daughter and began to follow the rest of the team.

“Don’t mind her. You’re the one he wants to see when he gets out that car.” A voice said from beside you. You jumped, coming face to face with Christian. Your eyes widened at your boyfriend’s boss. Prior to the race, he was informed of the search party the entire team had for you to get Max in the car. While he was annoyed earlier, he thought it was rather cute that Max was so fond of you.

“You know, he’s never begged her for a good luck kiss.” Said Christian, a knowing look on his features. “You on the other hand—he can’t seem to function whenever you’re not around.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was gonna put that much of a fight earlier today.” You apologized, feeling a bit flustered. “He’s a bit stubborn sometimes.” You added, to which Christian chuckled at.

“Oh, I know. Max and I have worked together for years.” He stated. He glanced out the garage and motioned towards it, “C’mon now, I’m sure he’s already looking for you.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You make your way through the crowd of Red Bull members, many of them recognizing you and helping you squeeze through till you were at the very front of the barricade.

Max was already out, helmet in his hand, while his other embraced GP and a couple other engineers. You watched as he high-fived Penelope, barely sparing a glance at her mother. A little burst of pride went off in your stomach, you couldn’t help it.

His blue orbs scanned the crowd of red and blue, looking for you. You yell his name, his eyes immediately finding yours. A smile breaks out on his face as he rushed over to you, dropping his helmet in the process. Despite the barricade between you two, he wraps both his arms tightly around you, lifting you off the ground.

“Max!” You squealed, your arms wrapping around his neck. His large hand found your cheek, slightly pulling you away from his neck so he can connect his lips with yours. Naturally, your lips moulded perfectly against his moving in synch. The team erupted in cheers around you.

“I’m so proud of you!” You tell him once your lips separate.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” He grins, gently pinching your bottom lip between his pointer finger and thumb.

He couldn’t stay long, being told that he had to get to the podium for the trophy ceremony.

“I’ll see you after the podium, schatje!” He yelled with a wink over his shoulder, causing a blush to form on your cheeks.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

The ceremony and the media tent took a while, you finally got to see Max an hour later. You were sitting in his driver’s room, when he bursted through the door already looking for you.

You stood up, smiling at him, “Hey.”

He mirrors your smile. Placing the trophy on the couch he opens his arms for you. You walk into the comfort of his hold, burying your head into the crook of his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso.

Finally it was just the two of you.

“I’m sorry.” You said, though it came out muffled against his skin. Max’s hands stopped the circular motions they were rubbing on your back.

“For what?”

You pulled back looking at him, “I overreacted about the whole Kelly thing. I should’ve taken your word for it.”

Max immediately shook his head, disagreeing with you. “No, you were absolutely right about her. I should’ve listened to you from the beginning. The moment I said hi to them she was already trying to come onto me—I avoided her by the way, I just entertained P.”

“I’m also sorry for what I said about P. I was in the wrong for that comment.” You said, a small grimace on your face when you remembered the off hand comment you made about the poor child.

Max chuckled, “Schatje, seriously, it’s okay.”

His calloused hands were rough against the soft skin of your face. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and cradled your jaw in his hand.

“I may have a soft spot for P, but they’re in my past. You’re my future, (y/n). The future that I only want and see myself in.” Max admitted. Your eyes gleamed at him, “You’re the future I want too, Maxie.”

“Good because you’re not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me.” He joked, squeezing your cheeks.

“I love you. So much. I know it seemed like I didn’t trust you today, but I want you to know that I do. I fully trust you with my life and I mean it.” You said, your fingers playing with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.

Max nodded, “I believe you. I love you too.”

The two of you basked in the silence and comfort of being in each others arms. Max was the first one to break the silence, “You don’t have plans after this right?”

You hummed against his neck, “Besides celebrating your win, nothing. Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out on a date.” Max proudly announced, a goofy smile on his lips.

“Don’t you wanna celebrate with the team?” You asked him. Max shook his head, “Nope, the only person I want to celebrate with tonight is you.”

You giggled at Max’s antics, “Whatever you say, Champ.”

[criminalamnesia]

Hiii!! I hope you're doing well :))

I just loveee the traitor series. Do you plan on making a part 5 or more?

thank you! here’s part five :)

the other parts can be found in my COD masterlist, which is here

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

I’ll proofread later :))

you stormed out of the gym, eyesight blurry from hot tears. you weren’t crying because you were sad— no. you were furious. furious at how simon was so fucking stubborn. at how he thought he was in the right.

droplets of blood marked your footsteps as you made your way back to the infirmary. you weren’t particularly anxious to be yelled at by the doctor, but getting it over with as soon as possible was ideal.

“bonnie, y’alrigh’?”

soap. you hadn’t even seen him, so lost in your thoughts. you blinked away tears and ignored the scot, continuing to make your way down the hall in silence.

the sound of hurried footsteps was unmistakable behind you. soap wasn’t taking silence for an answer, apparently.

“bonnie, please—” he began, the drawl of his voice catapulting your mind to the past. to better days.

days when soap had patched you up after a fight, his fingers nimble as he stitched up a cut in your thigh.

“s’it hurt?” he spoke, voice gravelly because of his hushed tone.

you shook your head. your head was tilted back, eyes staring up at the ceiling but not truly seeing. you were worried sick— you and soap were the only ones who’d made it to the safe house so far. the others should’ve beaten you there, and now they were over an hour late.

“bonnie, ‘m sure they’re alrigh’,” he told you, poking the needle through skin. you barely felt it, too hyped up on fear and adrenaline.

“they should’ve beaten us here, y’know that—” you began, but he tutted, quickly cutting you off.

“cannae think like tha’, bonnie. they’ll be here any second, aye?”

he stops his stitching, his face tilting up and away from your leg. you faintly register the feeling of his eyes on you.

you felt lost— floating in sea of numbness. your mind is mulling over the millions of possibilities— possibilities in which they never return.

you’d never felt this way before, and the five of you had endured far worse.

the only thing that was different this time was the fact that you and simon were together. you’d never explicitly told the rest of the task force, but they knew.

johnny knew why you were so worked up. he understood.

he reaches a hand up, his dirtied fingers lightly tilting your chin down so you’re face to face.

“y’there?” he asks, his hand dropping from your chin. he moves to squeeze one of your hands, pulling you back down to the ground.

you give a small nod, fingers moving to intertwine with his. he smiles— not his usual playful expression, but a true, grateful, relieved smile.

“im here,” you tell him. he releases your hand, pulling away from your skin, giving your hand a light pat before fully retreating.

“‘m almost finished, yeah? then I’ll go lookin’—”

“no need.”

it’s kyle, breathing heavily as he shuffles into the room. price and ghost are right on his heels, the three men making the room feel much smaller than it did a moment ago.

“you two good?” kyle asks, a small frown on his lips as he takes note of your bloodied leg.

you nod, your eyes flitting from gaz, to price, to simon— who is now moving towards you. he crouches down so he’s eye level with you. you meet his gaze, and although he doesn’t say it, you know what he’s thinking.

he’s relieved, and it’s a deeper relief than usual. it’s heavier, more profound, because he’s started to let you in. you’re more than teammates now, and it doesn’t truly hit ghost until this moment.

“im good,” you tell him quietly. he nods, glances down at where johnny is tying off your stitches.

johnny must notice ghost’s stare, because he breaks his focus and looks up at his lieutenant with a cheeky smirk.

“no worries, LT. made sure to do ma best work,” he grins and shoots the other man a wink, to which ghost grunts, unamused.

the heavy weight of a palm on your shoulder breaks you from the memory. you move without thinking, bloodied fist swinging as you whirl around to attack whoever laid a hand on you.

then you remember— soap.

johnny narrowly dodges your assault, his eyes widened as your fist barely clips him.

“steamin’ jesus!” he speaks, throwing his hands up in surrender and taking a step back from you.

“i was jus’ tryin’ to make sure ya were alrigh’! yer bleedin’, bonnie.”

you blink as you slowly escape your stupor. you’d completely lost yourself in the memory, and you didn’t know why.

probably because your brain was trying to comfort itself the only way it knew how— by seeking comfort from the people closest to you.

old habits, right?

old fucking habits.

“don’t touch me,” you seethe, eyes narrowing as you glare at the scot. he frowns, bites his lip, but doesn’t say anything.

like a kicked puppy. you can’t help but feel sympathetic before you wrestle that feeling back down. he wasn’t sympathetic for you— why should you be for him?

you look at him for a moment longer, taking in his appearance. he looks fine, and that angers you just the slightest bit more.

“look, i— i ken we really messed up, and sorry cannae fix tha’, but please, bonnie. a’least let us try—”

“I don’t owe you anything, mactavish.” you told him, gaze cold as you met his eyes. “and you’re right, sorry can’t fix it. nothing can fix it; so, stop trying.” you step forward, raising a hand as you point a finger into his chest.

“the four of you need to leave me the fuck alone. frankly, I couldn’t care less about how the four of you feel. about how he feels. you did what you did, believed what you believed, and now you have to live with that.”

johnny’s frown deepens as his eyes glance down at the finger you’ve got digging into his sternum.

“you deserve to feel like shit,” you tell him. “and anything you feel— how sorry you are— just know that I suffered a hundred times more in that chair, locked up in that room. so the next time you wanna watch me from outside the infirmary, or you wanna put your fucking hands on me,” your jaw is clenched, fire licking at your veins as you speak to him.

“remember what you did. remember that nothing can fix it. remember that you’re dead to me— all of you are— and that I never would’ve let that happen to any of you.”

“and I hope it hurts like hell, mactavish. I hope it eats you alive, and that you never find peace because you don’t deserve it.”

you drop your hand, your eyes still on his.

“and I hope you tell the rest of them I said that. especially him.”

you turn then, take a steadying breath, and keep walking.

soap watches you go without another word.

“that was stupid,” the doctor chastises you, her lips pressed into a thin line as she examines your knuckles.

“you blatantly went against my one rule for you. I shouldn’t have even let you out of bed, but you’re too damn stubborn! so I thought I’d give you some grace, but there you go— leaving my iv pole in the hall. bloodying your knuckles. I should let one of the newbies patch you up,” she grumbles, her gloved hands cool against your skin.

over the time you’d spent in the infirmary, you and the doctor had formed an odd bond. it was almost as if you were friends, but she always kept things strictly professional.

but you’d catch her giving you sad glances sometimes. you knew she was upset for you, angry for you, but she would never speak on it. that was okay with you.

it was enough to know that someone was on your side.

“sorry, doc. it’s not like it was planned,” you tell her, and her eyes flick up to meet yours. the look on your face told her everything she needed to know.

she didn’t push the topic. instead, she finished patching you up in silence. wrapping your knuckles in bandages, she gave them one last once-over before sending you on your way.

“kicking me out?” you asked her, raising your eyebrows.

she nodded, her eyes scanning the chart in her hands.

“if you’re okay enough to throw a punch, i think you’re okay enough to return to your quarters. unless you want to stay,” she says, and its unspoken, but you know what she’s implying.

unless you want to stay behind that door, guarded from the 141. unless you don’t want to go back to your quarters and see it as you’d left it before they’d tied you up.

unless it would be too painful to leave.

you shook your head. “im good. thank you, doc. really.”

the doctor gave a small smile and nodded. “of course. you’re due back in a week for a check up, alright? I need to check on those bruises and mending bones.”

you nod and give her a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “wouldn’t miss it.”

she bids you goodbye before turning and disappearing behind a white curtain. you inhale deeply before heading for the door.

when you step into the hallway, it’s quiet. you pass through base with relative ease, quickly slipping past anyone you come across in the halls.

you don’t see any of the 141, and you’re grateful. you couldn’t handle another interaction with them today— and you didn’t know how much longer you could remain civil.

once you reached your door, you pushed into the dusty darkness of the room. it’d been a while since you’d been in here, and although you were glad to finally be free of the smell and sounds of the infirmary, you weren’t particularly happy to be back in this room.

this room, which was down the hall from the rest of the 141.

this room, which held memorabilia of your time with your team.

this room, which you swore still smelled like simon.

you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stop thinking about him. he was fucking everywhere, and you were starting to believe you’d never be free of him and the 141.

your memories. your pain. your scars. no matter how much you healed and moved on from what happened, it would always be there in the back of your mind. it would sneak up on you when you least expected it; it would haunt your dreams at night.

it would leave you waking up screaming for mercy.

it would keep you untrusting for the years to come.

you flicked on the light and scanned the room. it had been upended, clothes strewn across the floor and picture frames shattered.

in the midst of it all, a vase of long dead flowers sits atop your desk.

there’s a little note hanging off the vase. against your better judgement, you reach for it. the paper feels scratchy against your fingers, and the scribbled pencil inside seems the tiniest bit faded.

your eyes scan the note.

‘You were right.

Hope you can understand.’

— sr

you pick up the vase and throw it against the wall. glass shatters. dead flowers fall to the floor.

your knees give out and you crumple to the floor, sitting amidst reminders of once was.

you let yourself cry for the first time in a while.

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

TW: yandere awakening

part two

gn reader

Thinking of having a nullifying cursed technique without knowing it…

Curses, attacks, and techniques have no effect on you—once cursed energy comes into contact within your range, it ceases to exist. You're a human erasure for all things paranormal.

And it’s beyond strange for a certain six-eyed limitless sorcerer...

Gojo sees on a molecular level—it's like converging x-ray and thermal and night-vision into one lens that's both microscopic and telescopic at the same time—he sees energy and atoms—he sees everything, he sees through everything. Nothing escapes. The tiniest shift in someone’s expression indicates exactly what they’re thinking, and he can tell—as if he can read minds even though he can’t. Everything is just so obvious. Everything. Even though he is blindfolded, he can see. All things energy, light, heat, movement, what someone had for lunch, the tiniest vibration in the ground and buildings around him, the slight shift in the wind when a butterfly flaps its wings a mile away. It’s all there for him, laid bare before his many eyes. Everything, and then he bumps straight into you.

It's by no means any powerful encounter—his body is much taller and bigger. It’s rather you who’s dealt an impact, bouncing off and staggering back until falling hard on your ass.

But he’s no less shocked because of it. Something just passed through both limitless and six eyes. An attack from a curse? A technique from a sorcerer? Here? Now? On the open street on his way to buy mochi? No… what’s going on? What on earth was that?

“Ouch—what the? Watch where you’re going! And what’s up with the blindfold, you lunatic!?”

Watch where you’re going, huh… He’s never heard that before. Even stranger, who is speaking? He peels his blindfold up and… wow.

He can see you. No, not like he can see the others around you—passing bodies full of flesh and blood and bones and food. You’re none of that, you’re just a face and body. You have a rumpled expression—sour. He can tell you’re upset, but it’s harder than it’s supposed to be. He has to think about it all on his own. Yes, you’re mad. At him? Yes. You’re mad at him.

You’re mad at him, and yet he doesn’t care. There are more important matters. Like, who the hell or what the hell are you?

“Well?” you state snappily, and yes, it was you who had spoken earlier. “Are you gonna help me up or what?”

He doesn’t know if he should. You’d only touched him indirectly before, through two layers of both of your clothing. What if your skin burns his? What if everything ceases to exist?

He does it anyway.

Reaching down his hand, he holds his breath and recites seconds within his head as if he’s counting down towards the end of the world—one, two, three, and…

It burns. But not in a bad way. But it burns—everywhere all at once—igniting him like a matchstick ripped across the red. It burns, but it feels good. And he realizes he’s felt cold his entire life.

“Uhm, you can let go now,” you drag him out of his discoveries.

He looks away from his grip on your hand and at you, now standing, and wow, really wow… It’s like he’s seeing for the first time. There’s so much he's blind to, and yet, nothing's ever been clearer—the smoothness of skin, the soft differences in its pigment, the vividness of eyes—your eyes. He knows they aren’t, but they’re the biggest he’s ever seen.

“Hey, buddy, are you alright?” you ask now, leaning towards him—a hand on his shoulder, its burning warmth seeping in through his jacket, as the other remains in his. “Is there someone I should call?”

Oh right. He must be acting like an asylum escapee.

“I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. I’m great. I’m Gojo. Satoru Gojo,” one after the other, words leave him as if he’s forgotten how to act normal.

“Okay then—that’s good, uhm, Mr. Gojo.” 

How strange. He can’t tell what you’re thinking at all—in fact, he hasn’t the slightest clue—it’s all a guessing game. It’s as if before, all he needed to do was look at a book to know what was written within, but with you, he actually needs to read. And he's never learned how to.

“Uhm, alright, so I’ll be on my way then—”

“No!” his grip tightens, and you gasp with a jolt, looking at him even wider than before. Shit. “I mean… I’m sorry. I should… I should apologize for walking straight into you. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No, I’m good. It’s really alright. No need to worry. I should really go, though—”

You look positively freaked-out now—if he were to make a purely uneducated guess. You tried pulling your hand to yourself again, and it became more clear—he was making you uncomfortable. But still, he didn’t want to let go. Even with limitless off, nothing had ever felt as good as the contact he was feeling right now. He doesn’t think he can let go. But shit—people are beginning to stare…

“Okay, I’m sorry—” he lets go, and you instantly hurry along with quick steps, shuffling through the crowded street as if you’d just encountered a madman.

Maybe he is. He sure follows after you like one.

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny Pt.9

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.10]

"Fan-sea meeting you here. You must be Phantom!"

Danny slowly turned around, grin blinding. "I shore am. Who's asking?"

Danny knew exactly who was asking. Bludhaven's vigilante, Nightwing. If the giant dark blue bird emblazoned on the front of his suit didn't give it away, the friendly demeanor and the puns would have. Plus, now that Danny's figured out who Tim was, the rest were pretty simple dots to be connected.

"Hi. I'm Nightwing. Thanks for saving Batman."

"I am Phantom. You are welcome. Please lecture him on the necessity of keeping the waters clean."

"Uh, I think he knows," Nightwing grinned. “So, why are you cleaning Gotham’s bay? I heard the Atlantic is nice this time of year.”

“Exactly. This?” Danny flapped a gloved hand around them, specifically at the moldy docks and the paint scraped board. “This is not nice. If it were nice, I wouldn’t need to be cleaning it. Look at that paint! It’s flaking off into the water! Does Gotham not have proper boat maintainance? That’s dangerous for the waters and seafarers!”

“Woah, you know a lot about boats,” Nightwing commented, crossing his arms and leaning back. What the hero didn’t know was that he knew more about boats than Danny did, as Danny’s hyper fixation was more focused on space ships and Dick had education à la maison de Bruce Wayne which usually meant an absurd amount of information for someone who doesn’t actually use boats as a regular mode of transportation.

“Rust! Rust is very much a thing!” Danny ranted, using his ice to scoop up water and using it like a makeshift filter. “It weakens bonds! It’s a tetanus hazard! And oh, don’t even get me started on how you people mutated the ocean life!”

“Mutated ocean life? I’m pretty sure we hadn’t. It’s just a little weird, right?”

Without another word, Danny dove into the weird ecosystem that was the Gotham bay. He came back holding a wriggling green thing the size of a worm.

“Do you know what this is?” Danny demanded. The thing flopped around on his gloved hands.

“A sea monkey?”

“They’re brine shrimp. Brine. Shrimp. Do you know what regular brine shrimp look like???” Danny shoved the thing at Nightwing, who took a step back.

“Not like that?” He replied, a quizzical look on his face.

“No, not like that! What in the ancients is this?!” Danny waved the weird sea brine that had started glowing faintly, like Danny’s natural ectoplasm glow. “Far be it from me of all people to judge evolution but this was all man made!” Danny gently tossed the brine shrimp back into the bay. “Brine shrimp is staple food for the ocean! You’ve got weird brine shrimp? You’ve got weird fish! Why is it impossible for this place to, for even one day, refrain from dumping hazardous chemicals or dead bodies in the water?”

“Ooookay, how about we take a breather?” Nightwing quickly glanced around, trying to find something to change the subject, feeling oddly guilty at the earnest expression on the kid’s face. “Uh, I was actually wondering if you’d swing by the waters near Blüd?”

Danny crossed his arms. “I clean the waters as a past time because you humans don’t know how to keep it clean. I am not a personal, on call, seakeeper.”

“Batman will pay you for your time,” Dick offered. Danny straightened. Amity didn’t actually cost that much to live well, but Gotham was a whole other ball park. The rent might be dirt cheap for a city, but the special pricey little add ons such as gas masks and space level insulation on top of the sky high insurance policies were draining what’s left of his half dead soul. As they say, Danny was a city dweller first and Phantom second.

“How much, when, and I won’t fish up the bodies unless he pays me extra.”

“Four thousand base pay, extra one hundred per identity, fifty for bodies with no shades, and on the weekends.”

Danny straightened as his mother’s steel spine, Jazz’s whip sharp wit, and his own craftiness made their appearance as he bargained. “Five thousand. Rate agreed, but I can only do every other weekends and I’ll have to call out some days.”

“Okay.” Nightwing rocked back on his heels with an affable smile. It’s Bruce’s money and it’s going towards his probable future baby brother, after all, even if said baby brother is a dead immortal Atlantis founder. Or something.

Danny groaned. “You are supposed to bargain back. But I’ll take it.”

“Great! Who do we got tonight?” Nightwing looked down at the plastic/burlap wrapped person Danny dragged onto the shores a bit ago.

“The lake kept the body cold, so it should be preserved adequately if you want to examine him,” Danny tilted his head to the side, the flames of his hair tilting with him. “He said his name is Gorganzo Bean.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s a nickname he got for eating a whole can of beans straight.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Any more details?”

“Sure.”

When Danny reached to take the money from Nightwing, he found that the hero had tightened his grip on it.

Danny pointedly dropped his gaze from Nightwing’s face to the money.

“Wait. I- I heard from a source that you could possibly smell souls.”

Danny yanked the cash out of Nightwing’s hand and shoved it into his shoulder. If that didn’t confirm Nightwing’s identity, he doesn’t know what would other than the guy telling Danny who he was. “You’ve been speaking with Danny. Yes, I can.”

“Can you tell what’s wrong with my brother?” Nightwing blurted out.

Danny stared at him, his legs flickering in and out to his tail form. “…Other than dressing in probably leather or Kevlar and going out to beat criminals with his bare hands?”

Nightwing opened and closed his mouth. He coughed awkwardly. “Other than that. Why is he- um, stinky? Soul-wise,” Nightwing added, clearly humoring the tinny little voice at the base of his temples that was an annoyed Red Hood saying that he showered. “He showers often. And is definitely not stinky body odor wise.”

“I am not a doctor. Well, not now anyways,” Danny said, thinking about his future PhD. “But he’s got a… soul infection. His natural immunity- all souls have a natural immunity against regular outside influences- is working hard to repel the equivalence of chronic bronchitis.”

“There’s… no way to help him?”

“I never said that,” Danny tilted his head. “Bring your brother to meet Danny. He could probably handle it.”

“The civilian?”

“His parents hunted my kind, once. He helped protect me and my people. If anyone knows how to cure it, it would be him.”

Phantom could not afford to deal with this right now, because Danny had a presentation tomorrow that he needed to finish.

“Oh. Thank you, Phantom.” Nightwing said, looking relieved and pensive. Danny decided right then and there that was Future Danny’s problem.

Danny nodded distractedly, blinking out.

He blinked back in. Nightwing jerked back. “Do you happen to have any examples of corrupt politicians in Gotham?”

Nightwing blinked before laughing. “It’d probably be easier to name the ones that aren’t.”

“Good to know. Thank you!”

——

A couple of days later, Tim and two older guys ambushed him in the quad.

“Hi! I’m Dick! This is my brother Jason! We’re Tim’s older brothers!”

Danny looked down at his hand- trapped in an overexcited handshake- and back up at Dick.

Whatever expression he was making, it must have been ha-fucking-larious because Tim and Jason burst out into laughter. Danny cursed his past self.

“Yeah?” Danny blinked. Wait. His smile grew and he made a face like he just realized something. “Oh. So you’re Nightwing?”

The laughter cut off.

“Haha, what?”

“Phantom told me you’d be coming but I, uh, thought you’d be in gear. Not… straight up telling me who you are?”

“You’re in regular contact with Phantom?” Tim demanded.

“Yeah, dude. After you- wait, you’re Red Robin!” Danny whispered.

“Oh shit, B’s gonna be pissed,” Jason drawled, looking mildly amused and hiding an extremely cautious, possibly lethal (if it weren’t for the fact that Danny’s pretty much impossible to kill with regular weapons) reaction.

“You’re one to talk. I’d smell your soul no matter what your disguise was.”

“…About that.”

——

You might be wondering: wouldn’t Dick know not to show up in civvies?

Yes. Except for the fact that Tim stalked Danny for weeks after he met Phantom and Danny hadn’t hung out with (himself) at all. They think Danny doesn’t know Phantom well enough to even talk to him much, despite being from the same town because: they’re all big city kids and have never experienced small town solidarity and, more importantly, gossip grapevines + they have no idea these two are the same people.

A deleted scene:

“When did you have time to talk to Phantom?” Tim demanded. Jason nudged Tim. That had hinted too much at what Tim was doing on his off hours and stalking was usually frowned upon.

“When I wasn’t talking to you, duh.”

[afterglowsainz]

yes, and? | max verstappen

summary: max’s impossible crush finally notice him, but he’s stuck in a pr relationship

fc: simone ashley

a/n: so i try something a bit different with this one and made it on the longer side (if you’ve listened to ariana’s song you know this is gonna be messy for sure) (also, simone ashley??? or the prettiest woman ever??? i’m obsessed with her)

—

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris and others

maxverstappen1 life off track

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username i screamed cried and fainted

username second pic should be illegal

megan.galanis 🥰

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username number 1 stan of max’s thighs

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username PLS because how can you not ??

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ynusername bridgerton press tour at it’s finest 💍

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username MOTHER

username you’re the prettiest woman alive😩

username yn just one chance please !

bffusername slayyyy

yourusername 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽

jbayleaf viscountess activities😎

yourusername 🐝🐝🐝

username im in love with a woman i’ve never met

tiktok comments

username never took max for a bridgerton guy???

username not complaining tho

username max in his regency romance era🤭

username now i get why he’s always in y/n’s likes like damn i too would be obsessed after watching her on that show

ynusername thank you! <3

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ynusername it’s the monaco grand prix! i never miss the grand prix🏁

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username yn and f1 my two passions❤️

username the way yn always serves cunt MUST be studied

bffusername is it? who’s playing?

username ohhh the reference i love them!

username gorgeous! 😍

username i’m in awe

maxverstappen1 🤣

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maxverstappen1 P1 in Monaco🏆🇲🇨

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username the icon, the legend, the moment

username max verstappen, the only man ever🫶🏽

charles_leclerc nice one mate, congrats! 👊🏽

username no megan appearance, no like, no comment… are we out of the woods?

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username no but seriously, did her contract ended or something?

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f1gossippofficial max verstappen has been seen lately on multiple dates with actress y/n y/l/n around monaco

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username he’s been seen on WHAT

username with WHOM

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username what about her?

username never thought of y/n as a homewrecker

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username im not mad about this pairing tbh🤔

username megan liking this post and unliking it???

username and y/n’s best friend liking it also

username she’s so unserious

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ynusername moments📷

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username bestie who took the pics?👀

username don’t be shy you can tell us🤭

username THE PEOPLE’S PRINCESS

bffusername the most beautiful and pretty and talented and funny and smart and

ynusername i’ll marry you rn😩

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username haters gonna hate fr y/n i love you if you see this! 💕

maxverstappen1 🥰 (liked by ynusername)

username oh that’s not…

username this is so wrong in so many levels😭

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maxverstappen1 another successful weekend for the team, hopefully many more to come! 🇨🇦

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username “hopefully many more to come” as if we don’t know he’s gonna win all the races already

username being a red bull fan is sooo easy and fun i love it here

username i miss seeing megan in the paddock :(

username jesus christ who understands you, when she was there you hated on her and when she isn’t you miss her

username also, she just missed two races, like😭

username let’s goooo super max

redbullracing many more to come👊🏽

ynusername 🏎🏎 (liked by maxverstappen1)

username she really has no shame huh?

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ynusername yes, and?

tagged maxverstappen1

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username this was the last thing i expected when i open instagram

username pls the caption😭

username she’s NOT a serious person and i love her for it

username welcome back ariana grande😍

landonorris and my credits for the last picture?

ynusername props to you🙄

username hottest couple imo

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username yesss y/n and max bringing back messy celebrity couples we love to see it!

maxverstappen1 my one and only girlfriend you’re everything❤️

ynusername you’re too much love!💘

username not the “one and only girlfriend” !!

[museanddream]

One Night - part 1 || Ona Batlle x Lucy Bronze x Reader

Summary: When you complete a dream transfer to Barcelona, there’s only one problem - you have to learn to coexist with your ex-hookup and her new girlfriend.

Warnings: 🔞 | no actual smut in this chapter but contains references to sex and this is just setup for several parts of pure filth

Word count: 5.4k

It takes you all of about ten seconds on your first day at Barcelona to realise that Ona Batlle and Lucy Bronze are dating.

Strangely, it’s not Lucy who gives it away, but instead the young Spaniard.

You don’t actually know Ona beyond the distant professionalism of two people who have played against each other a handful of times over the years. Lucy, however, is somebody you’re more than acquainted with. Intimately so.

You started sleeping with Lucy a few years ago, during her first spell at City. Lucy was charming, hot and available and you were … well, you were young and horny. It was a mutually convenient agreement until she moved to France and you to Germany, when it became obvious within just a few months that a casual situationship was much harder to nurture when you lived in different countries. That’s when it fell apart, heated words fired from both sides then radio silence as if you’d never even known each other.

You knew you’d have to face up to your past when you signed for Barcelona. Lucy’s been here for a year already, but you don’t say no to a club like Barça, not even when you’ve got history with one of their star defenders.

All you can do when you show up for your first day is hope that you’ve both matured enough to be professional about it.

“I’d heard a rumour you might be coming here.”

Of course you find yourself alone with her in the dressing room pretty much straight away, fresh out of your signing photoshoot. The soft fabric of the blaugrana Barcelona kit feels good against your skin, but you feel anything but comfortable alone with Lucy.

“Back on the same team, huh?” you reply stiffly. “Who’d have thought it?”

“The best team,” Lucy brags.

You’re saved from having to make any more awkward smalltalk with Lucy as the door to the dressing room clatters open.

“Lucy, you left your trainers in the-”

The newcomer, Ona Batlle, stops mid sentence when she notices you, forgetting whatever she was saying so that she can instead greet you with a dazzling smile that knocks the air out of your lungs.

She’s pretty. You’re sure that you must have already known this, you just haven’t had time to properly appreciate it, not when you were playing against her and focused on other things.

“Hi. I’m Ona,” she greets you, letting you introduce yourself in return before she turns her attention back to Lucy. “You left these in the gym. If I’d known I’d be tidying up after you, I’d have stayed in Manchester.”

And that’s when you realise that there’s more to the relationship between Ona and Lucy than just being new teammates. It’s a mixture of things that gives it away, the affectionate tone of Ona’s voice, the familiarity with which she teases Lucy, but mostly the look of absolute adoration in Ona’s eyes as Lucy takes the shoes off her. It’s a look that you recognise, because there was once a time when you probably looked at Lucy with that same expression.

If there was any doubt in your mind, what Ona says next is the final nail in the coffin.

“We should stop for groceries on the way home by the way,” Ona says to Lucy. “We don’t have anything for dinner.”

Home. So it’s serious enough that they’re living together, she’s not just another one of Lucy’s flings.

You were never that serious with Lucy. Aside from occasionally carpooling to training the next day if one of you accidentally fell asleep at the other’s post-hookup, you never reached this level of domesticity.

Lucy mumbles something in agreement, tucking her trainers into the cubby behind her, and soon enough Ona is gone as quickly as she arrived.

Left alone with Lucy again, the atmosphere somehow even more tense than before, the first thing that spills from your lips before you have time to think twice is a joke.

“Bit young for you, isn’t she Luce?”

“I don’t know what you…” Lucy trails off and sighs, probably realising that there’s no point trying to deny anything when you’re going to be sharing a dressing room with her and her new beau and will inevitably learn the truth anyway. “Look, I really like her, okay? It’s real.”

You ignore the heavy implications of Lucy’s words, that what she shared with you all those years ago wasn’t real, for the sake of the harmony of the team you’ve just joined.

“I’m happy for you,” you tell Lucy, not entirely untruthful. You never thought that Lucy would be partnered up when you joined Barcelona, but you definitely didn’t expect any of your old history to be reignited either. It’s been long enough that Lucy is just another teammate, someone you can learn to get along with.

…

You do get along with Lucy, in a kind of amicable yet emotionless way that almost feels like you’ve never played on the same team before, let alone slept together on and off for over a year in your early twenties. It’s purely professional, cordial without getting too close to friendly.

You’re relieved, of course. The last time you encountered Lucy was an international match a couple of years ago, an evening which started with heavy tackles and the two of you earning a yellow card apiece on the pitch and ended with Lucy on her knees between your legs in an empty medical room after the game. It was the last time you saw Lucy, the last time you slept with her, the last time you even spoke to her until you moved to Barcelona.

So you’re glad that you can get along with her, even if you’re still trying to wrap your head around how normal it is to be teammates again after everything.

But somebody you really start to get along with is Ona.

It turns out you have more in common with Ona than just being new signings and finding Lucy Bronze attractive. You bond quickly at training and soon you’re hanging out outside of the training ground, grabbing coffee a couple of times a week and letting Ona show you around the city that has become your new home. Lucy gets invited along once or twice but always manages to find an excuse not to join you - whether Ona knows about your history with Lucy isn’t clear to you and you decide it’s not your place to be the one to tell her.

And that’s how you become good friends with your ex-hookup’s new girlfriend.

You quickly realise exactly what Lucy sees in Ona.

She’s got a personality that matches the Barcelona sunshine, a smile that would charm anybody, and eyes that are so big and perfect you’re not entirely convinced that she wasn’t hand-drawn by a cartoonist.

It’s not a crush, you tell yourself. That would be inappropriate in all sorts of ways. It’s just an appreciation.

One that only grows as the season progresses.

Ona does your hair before a game, putting it into a braid that matches her own, and it quickly becomes a pre-match tradition. You sit on the floor between Ona’s legs while her deft fingers work your scalp and pull strands of hair this way and that and can you really be blamed for the direction your traitorous thoughts threaten to move, especially not when Ona was standing beside you in nothing but a tiny pair of shorts and a sports bra mere moments ago? Now you’re thinking about her abs and her fingers.

She taps your shoulder when she’s done, letting you know that you can stand up, and you make eye contact with Lucy across the dressing room as you get to your feet. Her gaze is intense, not jealous or angry that you’ve become so close to her girlfriend, but there’s something in those familiar eyes that you just can’t place.

Focused on the match ahead, you store that information in the back of your mind for later, but end up forgetting about it altogether.

…

There’s some kind of mix-up in communication that means that Lucy has joined you for one of your usual outings for coffee with Ona. You try to excuse your way out of it, claiming that you don’t want to third-wheel their date, but Ona is too nice and jokes that it’s actually Lucy who is the third wheel, before saying that you can’t back out now.

So that’s how you end up sitting at a table on a terrace outside a quaint little cafe with Lucy. Ona goes inside, having insisted that she’ll buy the coffees, despite your protests that she paid last time and it’s your turn.

“You’ve got a good one there, Luce.”

Lucy grins across at you.

“I know. Always had good taste in women, me.”

It’s … flirty? At least it feels borderline flirtatious, considering your past with Lucy. Then again, Lucy’s always been a little flirty, she just didn’t have a girlfriend the last time she turned her charm on with you all those years ago.

“I just mean, don’t fuck it up with her, that’s all,” you tell Lucy, rolling your eyes.

“You mean like I did with you?”

It’s the first time in the three months since you joined Barcelona that either of you have openly acknowledged what you used to have and you don’t really know how to react. Your policy since joining Barcelona has been to pretend that you and Lucy were never a thing. That’s a lot harder to do when Lucy is reminding you that you were.

“It wasn’t just you who fucked it up,” you reply, avoiding eye contact with Lucy out of fear that looking at her might bring up old attraction. “Anyway, that was different, it wasn’t like what you have with Ona.”

Lucy hums, then says, “Maybe it could’ve been the same. If we hadn’t been so dumb and immature.”

There’s much less room to misinterpret Lucy’s words this time. Here is Lucy, pretty much admitting that she wishes things had gotten more serious with you when she had the chance, while her actual girlfriend, the same person who has been nothing but welcoming and an all round great friend to you since you joined Barcelona, is at the counter inside the coffee shop.

“We were around the same age as Ona when it started,” you point out, hoping that the mention of her girlfriend will snap Lucy back into a reality where she doesn’t feel the need to reminisce over your past.

“Ona…” Lucy glances at Ona through the coffee shop window and her expression softens. “Ona’s got a wise head on her. Plus she’s a hopeless romantic. She’s been all-in since the start. Probably knocked a bit of sense into me too, along the way.”

They’re disgustingly in love with each other and it’s enough to squash any butterflies in your own stomach.

“Like I said, I’m glad you’ve found each other.”

The conversation finishes there as Ona returns with the coffees, setting the tray on the table carefully and passing the drinks around.

“Thanks, Ona. You know, I might steal you away from Lucy if you keep fuelling my caffeine addiction like this.”

You say it as if having a little flirt with Ona somehow makes up for whatever traitorous thoughts you were having about Lucy before Ona returned to the table, but at least the smile that spreads across Ona’s face at your words is enough to smother some of your guilt.

“It’s good to keep Lucy on her toes,” Ona says, raising her eyebrows at you like she’s letting you in on an inside joke. “And she’s always saying how much she likes a competition.”

Lucy stirs her own coffee, then sets her spoon down as she leans back casually in her chair as if completely unbothered by the thought of having to fight you for Ona’s attention.

“Yeah,” she says with a shrug. “And I always win.”

…

You’ve always liked away games. Especially now, in a new league. New teams to play against, new cities to visit. And you quickly get used to the expectations that Barça has for its players on away trips.

The main one is the rooming rules. Couples don’t share, you learn that quickly, and also notice that everybody seems to accept that rule. You’ve been on teams before where that’s been an official rule, but teammates have made arrangements between themselves to trade with each other to share with their partner instead. That’s not the case at Barcelona.

The other thing is that while there are some players who mostly seem to always share with each other, there seems to be a deliberate effort to rotate room pairings for the newer signings as they integrate with their new teammates. You’re with Esmee for the first trip, which is a relief to you both as neither of you speaks a word of Spanish yet, then with Ingrid who is just as friendly, having been a new signing herself only a couple of years ago.

You never share with Lucy. Part of you wonders if she’s put in a deliberate request to whoever organises the hotels that sharing with you is just as off-limits to her as sharing with Ona would be, but you’re grateful for it. Though it’s no longer as weird between you, sharing a room with her seems like a step too far right now.

It takes four months at Barça before you room with Ona for the first time, for two nights on a Champions League away fixture in Sweden. The first night is quiet and focused, you talk through some of the tactics from the earlier training session together before getting an early night.

But the second night, after winning the game, there’s a knock on the door when you’re getting ready for bed.

You probably shouldn’t be surprised when you open the door and find Lucy standing outside, given that she’s your roommate’s girlfriend, but you forget that for a moment until Lucy speaks.

“Hey. Is Ona here? Just wanted to say goodnight.”

You blink yourself out of your surprise, then gesture at the closed door to the en-suite bathroom.

“She’s just in there.”

“Can I wait?” Lucy asks.

You hesitate for just a moment, then step aside to let her in.

“Sure.”

Lucy enters the room and you close the door behind her. When you turn around, she’s taken a seat on the end of your bed.

“Uh, that‘s Ona’s bed,” you tell her, pointing at the other bed.

“Oh. Shit, sorry.”

Lucy moves to the other bed, but still sits on it just as awkwardly as she sat on yours. Though it’s mostly normal between you and Lucy these days, when it’s just the two of you, you sometimes remember the way things used to be.

And then you remember that it’s not like that anymore.

“Remember when we used to sneak into each other’s rooms at City?” Lucy asks, with a low chuckle. Apparently she’s reminiscing over the past too.

You glance towards the bathroom, wondering if Lucy is really trying to remind you of the late night trysts you used to have at away games while her actual girlfriend is on the other side of the door.

“Is that your way of hinting at me to piss off and leave you alone with your girlfriend?” you ask her drily, arching an eyebrow as you plug your phone in to charge on the nightstand.

“Nah, it’s against the rules, innit.”

“It was against the rules at City too,” you remind her.

“Yeah, but that’s what made it exciting.” Lucy’s green eyes are alight with mischief, and your stomach does a little flip as you remember the thrill of trying to hook up with Lucy at any available moment without getting caught by teammates or coaches.

And then you feel guilty. Because this is another conversation with Lucy that borders on flirtatious, another split second where you forget she’s in a relationship and are transported right back to when she used to want you.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the bathroom lock clicks and the door swings open. Something shifts in the air between you and Lucy as Ona steps out, hair falling in pretty waves over her shoulders. Her brown eyes light up with pure joy and adoration when she spots Lucy sitting on her bed.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Ona teases Lucy.

“I’m not staying,” replies Lucy. “Just wanted to drop by and say goodnight.”

An uneasy feeling settles in your stomach and you’re not sure if it’s because they’re so horribly in love with each other that it’s making you nauseous, or if it’s a lingering guilt that Ona has no idea you and Lucy were just talking about your heated past. Either way, you feel like you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be here for, making a mumbled excuse about giving them a moment and take yourself into the bathroom.

It’s only when the door is locked behind you that you realise you’re now trapped in the bathroom, while they’re saying goodnight to each other in god knows what sort of way.

You press your ear to the door, then jerk away as if the wood is scalding hot when you realise what you’re doing. If they’re talking, it’s not your place to eavesdrop. And if they’re doing anything else…

Your cheeks burn hot at the idea. Surely they wouldn’t? Not while you’re in the bathroom. But they had been so enamoured by each other that you’re not even sure if they noticed you slip away.

You think back to your situationship with Lucy all those years ago. She always had an incredible knack for getting you naked in record time and somehow, you really doubt that she’s lost any of that charm since then.

What if they get carried away with their goodnight wishes and you’re stuck in here all night?

You don’t know how long you’re left wallowing in your own anguish in the bathroom, it could be anywhere from three minutes to three days, but eventually there’s a knock on the door, which is followed by Ona calling your name. You flick the lock then open the door, relieved to find Ona still fully dressed in her pyjamas and now alone in the room again.

“You okay?” she asks. “You were quiet in there. Not that I was listening! Just that you were in there a while and … and I didn’t hear the toilet flush or anything.”

Ona is exceptionally cute when she’s flustered.

“I just didn’t want to get in you and Lucy’s way.”

For just a second, Ona looks like she wants to say something, but she holds it back and the moment passes. Soon you’re each lying in your own bed, the lights off as you settle down for the night.

Sleep feels a whole universe away. Maybe you’re imagining it, but you think you can still smell Lucy‘s perfume lingering in the room. The air somehow feels even thicker than it did when Lucy was here. You can hear every movement from the other side of the room, every shift of the bedsheets, every breath that Ona takes, like it’s being amplified through a speaker.

“I know about you and Lucy.” Ona’s low voice eventually penetrates the darkness. “What you used to have. Lucy told me a while ago.”

That’s - well, it’s not what you’re expecting her to suddenly admit. You’re grateful that the lights are off, saving you from having to twist your expression into something neutral.

“It didn’t mean anything. It was just a bit of fun. It was never anything serious.”

You hear Ona’s chuckle rise up from the other bed.

“I know. She told me everything. I’m not jealous. That was way before I knew either of you. Anyway, it makes sense.”

“It does?” you ask.

“Yeah. I like you both. Makes sense you’d like each other too.” There’s a pause, then she adds, “Also you’re both hot.”

Not for the first time, you wonder if everything that’s happened since you joined Barcelona has been some kind of bizarre dream, because there’s no version of normal that includes your ex-hookup’s new girlfriend implying she thinks you’re attractive in the middle of the night on an away trip.

You don’t really know how you’re supposed to reply.

“Uh, thanks.”

Ona continues, “I’m telling you I know just because I’ve noticed you’re a bit weird around Lucy sometimes, so I just want you to know it’s fine with me if you two want to hang out.”

You wonder if Ona would still be fine with it if she knew that you and Lucy have almost flirted with each other twice now. Your cheeks heat up at the thought and you’re glad for the darkness that hides your flush from Ona.

“Maybe we could all hang out together sometime?” Ona suggests, oblivious to your turmoil.

“Oh, I don’t know if…”

“We could have a movie night,” Ona suggests, ignoring your attempts at declining the offer. “At our place. It’d be fun!”

It’s such a typically Ona suggestion. Because Ona is sweet and kind and of course she wants to do everything she can to make sure that her friend gets along with her girlfriend without any awkwardness. There’s not a bone in Ona’s body that would even consider the possibility of being jealous of the fact that you and Lucy used to sleep with each other.

And so in that moment, staring up at the ceiling in a hotel room in Sweden, you vow to never let yourself have a private conversation with Lucy again that’s about anything other than football, to never let Lucy flirt with you or the idea of flirting with Lucy back cross your mind, and to definitely never reminisce about Lucy when your hand is between your legs.

…

You don’t manage to talk your way out of going to Ona’s planned movie night, though if you’re completely honest, you don’t try too hard.

When you arrive at their apartment, it’s Lucy who opens the door and you have a brief moment of panic that she doesn’t actually want you here. But you’re quickly reassured by the way she steps aside to let you in and greets you with a mumbled “Alright?”

“Nice place you’ve got here,” you comment to fill the silence, as Lucy leads you through the apartment to the living room.

“Thanks.”

You sit down in the single armchair, leaving the couch for Lucy and Ona to share. There’s no sign of Ona yet and Lucy doesn’t sit down, instead hovering awkwardly by the door, glancing over her shoulder every two seconds as if looking to see if Ona is joining you.

“I know this was Ona’s idea but if it’s weird I can just go,” you pipe up, wondering if it’s really that awful for Lucy to be alone with you that she needs her girlfriend as a buffer.

“No,” Lucy says decisively. “It was both our ideas. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you too.”

Finally, to the relief of both of you, you hear bare feet pattering down the hallway from one of the other rooms and Ona appears in the doorway. She smiles warmly at Lucy, brushing her fingers against Lucy’s hand as she passes in a gesture that feels far too intimate for you to witness, then grins at you.

“Hi! You came!”

Ona sounds genuinely surprised, like she half-expected you to not turn up, and maybe you haven’t been as good as you thought you were at pretending your relationship with Lucy is one between two normal teammates if Ona was worried that you might bail on a movie night just because Lucy would be there too.

“Of course,” you say, as you try to relax back in your armchair as Lucy and Ona sit down at opposite ends of the sofa. “So, have you already picked out a movie?”

“A movie?” Lucy asks. Confusion briefly flashes across her face, but then it settles into realisation as she turns to Ona and repeats, “A movie.”

A tiny smirk graces Ona’s lips as she shrugs and says, “What? You told me to get her here. You didn’t say how.”

Lucy seems equal parts annoyed and amused - about what you’re not exactly sure - as she says, “I thought you’d do some of the explaining instead of leaving it all to me.”

It’s your turn to be confused.

“So we’re not watching a movie then?” you ask slowly, your eyes flitting between the two of them as you wait for an answer.

Silence hangs between the three of you, Lucy and Ona apparently both waiting for the other to say something, before Lucy rolls her eyes and takes control.

“Listen, here’s the deal,” she starts to explain, leaning forwards slightly in her seat. “I told Ona about our past as soon as you signed for Barça and she found it pretty amusing. Soon she was asking more questions about … well, about you and us, I’m sure you get the picture.”

Still trying to figure out what this has got to do with a movie night, you say, “I don’t think I do.”

Lucy lets out a groan.

“Jesus, am I gonna have to spell it out? She wanted to know what it was like to ‘be with you’ -” Lucy throws up some exaggerated air quotes with her hands, rolling her eyes again along with her words. “So I told her. Well, actually I told her that if she wanted to know what it was like then she should just sleep with you herself. Was joking, of course, but it turns out Ona’s really into that idea, actually.”

Your eyes flicker across to Ona, whose cheeks are tinged a pretty shade of pink and eyes are wide with a mixture of worry and expectation as she waits for your response.

Turning back to Lucy, you ask, “So you’ve invited me over to fuck your girlfriend?”

Lucy nods.

“Well, both of us, if you’re up for it. We figured you and me already had that chemistry and I know you fancy Ona, judging by how often I see you checking her out in the dressing room.”

Your mouth falls open, embarrassed that your staring has been noticed, ready to protest, but they’re both looking at you with more amusement than annoyance.

“Anyway, that’s us,” Lucy finishes. “Ball’s in your court.”

Two pairs of eyes watch you, waiting for your reaction. Lucy almost seems indifferent, settling back in her seat casually as if trying to play it cool, which almost has you wondering if you’ve imagined her just propositioning you for a threesome, if not for the way that one of her fingers taps nervously against her thigh. Ona, on the other hand, looks at you with eyes that are wide and vulnerable, as if the prospect of you turning them down might shatter her heart.

The pieces start to fit together - the tour of cute Barcelona coffee shops from Ona, the occasional flirtatious comments from Lucy. To know that they both want you is flattering. To know that they’ve been talking about this, planning how to get you into their home and their bed, is something that your mind struggles to comprehend.

“It doesn’t have to be tonight,” Ona eventually says. “If you need time to think about it?”

“No, let’s do it.”

Your words are decisive. If you give yourself too long to think about it, you’ll talk yourself out of it and you can’t deny that this is something you want. Maybe you hadn’t imagined that it would end up happening like this, with both of them, but you’ve definitely thought about them. Lucy, and the things she used to do to you, the spark you used to have that still makes the occasional appearance when you least expect it. Ona, and the way her hands feel in your hair when she braids it before a game, the way your stomach churns with butterflies whenever she smiles at you and those perfect eyes look into yours.

To have both of them at the same time is beyond your wildest fantasies.

“Go on,” Lucy says to Ona. “I know you’ve been dying to kiss her for months.”

Your heart rate picks up.

“Yeah?”

Ona counters this by shaking her head.

“Not months. Lucy’s exaggerating.”

“I’m not. She talks about you all the time. About what it’d be like to kiss you, to have you in our bed. And I told her if she was that desperate, she should just go for it. I know you like the direct approach, it worked for me all them years ago. But no. No, Ona wanted to seduce you. Why do you think she’s been taking you on all those coffee dates? She’s been trying to woo you.”

Your ego swells with the knowledge that Ona, beautiful and kind and funny as she is, who has already pretty much hit the relationship jackpot by bagging herself Lucy, has apparently spent months plotting her pursuit of you.

Not that you had any idea. Ona has always strayed onto the affectionate side of friendship whenever you’ve hung out with her. Maybe if she’d been single, you might have picked up on some clues, but you’ve known about her relationship with Lucy since you joined the team and never had any reason to think that Ona’s familiarity with you was down to anything else but the fact that she’s simply Spanish.

You explain this to them.

“I thought she was just being nice.”

Lucy chuckles to herself at this, then says, “Course you did. Sweet little Ona, welcoming you to Barça. Just wait until you find out Little Miss Perfect isn’t so innocent after all.”

If you weren’t already interested, Lucy’s words fill you with intrigue.

“Come here,” you instruct Ona.

Ona glances at Lucy, as if asking for her permission, and Lucy responds by rolling her eyes and clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“Don’t get shy on us now as if this wasn’t your idea in the first place.”

Ona’s cheeks are pink but she pushes up to her feet and crosses over to you. She stops awkwardly in front of you, scratching at a hangnail on her thumb until you reach for her hand and pull her closer, leaving her very little choice but to clamber into your lap.

“You’ve been planning this, huh?” you murmur to her, as if you’re the only two in the room. Your hands find her hips as she settles with a leg on either side of your thighs. “What, Lucy wasn’t enough for you?”

“She is,” Ona says. “But…”

Ona trails off, teeth chewing into her lower lip.

“But what?” You prompt her.

There’s a brief moment where time seems to stand still, except for the visible rise and fall of Ona’s chest as she breathes, then she answers, “But I wanted you too.”

Hearing Ona vocalise her desire for you gives you a rush that comes second only to scoring a goal in a cup final.

It makes you giddy. And you really don’t want to fuck it up, which is why you take a few deep breaths in time with the strokes of your hands up and down Ona’s thighs as you compose yourself before you speak again.

“All those times you took me out for coffee, all the times you translated for me in training or did my hair before a game, you were thinking about this, weren’t you? About having my hands on your body.” You lean closer until your foreheads rest against each other, hot breath mingling in the almost nonexistent gap between your mouths, then whisper, “My lips against your skin.”

Ona tilts her chin up slightly, trying to tempt you into finally closing the gap. When you don’t, she resorts to begging.

“Please.”

“What do you want?” You want to coax it out of her, committing every part of this moment to memory. “Tell me.”

“Kiss me.”

[stevebabey]

part one here. ze part two to touch-starved stevie that absolutely no one requested hehe <3 but i gots to let my boys have a wee kiss :")

So, hugs with Eddie become… well, a thing.

Not a thing. They’re not a thing, Steve and Eddie. It’s totally the same as when he gets hugs from Robin. Eddie’s doing him a favour as a friend. It’s got the 100% platonic energy of getting a hug from a friend — a hug that usually melts into some form of a cuddle, limbs all tangled together until they can’t tell whose are whose.

Except, Steve doesn’t really do that second part with Robin. Like he hasn’t done it ever with Robin.

So, it’s an Eddie thing.

But they’re not a thing. Not matter how much Steve would actually very much like for that happen. Okay, maybe Steve’s overthinking the whole thing a bit, but he just can’t tell.

Where’s the line? It’s infuriating not being able to discern between platonic and more, just because Steve wasn’t held enough as a fucking baby. Out of all the things he resents his parents for, Steve’s surprised that this is so near the top.

Because, sure, Steve’s had more than his fair share of hookups. He knows that sort of touch. He knows the shape of lust; the scrapes of fingernails down backs, the tight grips over skin, the push and pull of the heat of the moment.

And this thing with Eddie… is not that.

So, really, Steve knows that it’s all friendly. Eddie is just being nice. He’s being a decent dude and helping his friend out — by catapulting himself into Steve’s arms at every opportune moment.

(Steve’s only dropped 3 mugs of coffee because of this so far. It’s only because Eddie says good catch, big boy with a devilish grin every time that Steve manages to catch Eddie that Steve hasn’t completely told him to knock it off. Just yet, at least.)

And he’s different in other areas. He’ll always seem to choose the seat next to Steve on movie-nights now, content to snuggle right up to him. They get thigh to thigh, arm to arm — and Eddie only needs to get about 20 minutes in for him to do a big sigh, like an old dog, and slump over, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve notices though. He always notices.

It’s impossible not to— the skin, even if there’s 3 layers between them, burns blazing warm. Eddie’s hair drapes over his arm, a curl inevitably tickling along Steve’s collar. He can feel the rise and fall of Eddie’s breathing, the little shake of when he laughs.

It drives Steve a little insane— insane in the way that makes him think about burying his fingers in those curls again, about pressing his lips against Eddie’s pretty mouth just to feel the smile against his skin, about digging into his chest so he can climb into his chest and live there.

Yeah, it’s— well, it’s safe to say that the effect of Eddie’s touchiness has sent what was once a fleeting thought of a crush into mind-melting levels of affection.

But he can’t fucking tell.

-

To Steve’s credit, neither can Eddie.

Which is not surprisingly considering sometimes he catches himself wondering how the hell he ended up here; in a close-knit friendship with band-geek Robin Buckley, princess Nancy Wheeler, and King Steve Harrington.

Okay, the Robin one sort of makes sense. He thinks that if no matter when their paths crossed, he and Robin would’ve always even some sort of strange friends - her snark complimenting his bitchiness. Also, the whole super queer thing helps too. Even the friendship with Nancy works, in its own weird way.

Steve though? He’s the fucking curve ball.

It works though, the two of them. Surprisingly well, actually — the two of them get on like a house on fire, bitchy quips back and forth. Even better, is the quiet that they can share. Steve loves to come around and do… nothing. Do nothing with Eddie, though.

So, even though Eddie had noticed the tension in Steve with touch, little moments where he turned rigid when Eddie’s usual wandering hands got too comfortable — Eddie chalked it up to the usual. Guys bring too uncomfortable with him, too weird about another guy being touchy. It didn’t matter than Eddie wasn’t even out to Steve yet, he was still might be that type of guy.

Well, Eddie had certainly thought so. Sure, Steve might not be one of those jocks who smacked around boys who looked too long in the locker room, but if he knew a smidge of the truth, who really knows. It would explain the tenseness at least.

But then— ‘Can I… have a hug?’ There had been a dozen things Eddie was thinking that Steve could’ve asked for but that? Wasn’t even in the ballpark. It was so left-field it left Eddie speechless for a whole moment. And Steve had been staring at the ceiling, his hands curled up tight again like- like he thought Eddie might say no.

A ridiculous thought, honestly. Anyone who knew Eddie well enough knew he was touchy; loved giving it, loved getting it. Like an overly affectionate cat, Wayne had once called him, just 11 years old, because Eddie’s need for affection seem to never be sated.

After that night, Steve’s lack of touch became far more obvious. It’s always hair ruffles or high-fives, yet never hugs. Normally, Eddie would keep to that boundary; some people are less touchy other than others, he knows that.

But… “Sometimes I realise it’s been awhile, since I’ve had some touch.” That’s what Steve had said, his words. Eddie doesn’t even think he meant to say something so heartbreaking. In fact, the guy seemed embarrassed.

It had thrown Eddie for a loop— because Steve gets around. He’s nearly notorious for one-night stands and failed flings, as Robin loves to drone on about considering she’s subjected to all the flirting. What had originally been a point of envy for Eddie, just saturates the bleakness of Steve’s words. Sex but without a moment of intimacy.

So, while Eddie is miles away from being the person who gets into Steve’s pants — not for lack of want, mind you — he does try hike up the touchiness. Little things. Lingering when he taps him on the arm, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder to peer over it, leaning up against him when they’re side by side watching a film.

It’s good. It helps Eddie release the pressure of his stupid monumental god-awful crush he has. Yeah, yeah, it’s laughable, even to Eddie. It’s like Gay 101; don’t get crush on straight dudes, especially the ones you’re friends with. And yet…

Steve lets him. He lets Eddie give him touch, more than he lets anyone else. He still tenses; there’s still always a moment before he can remember to relax, like he’s trying to shake off bad thoughts but then he melts. He always melts into Eddie’s touch eventually — in a way Eddie knows Steve actually loves it, drinks it up as much as he can.

And maybe, Eddie is the biggest fool to grace the Earth to let that fact give him some hope. Sue his gooey heart, he’s a romantic. It’s a quiet hope but, it’s there.

Tonight, it seems relaxing for Steve is been harder than usual— several times has Eddie traced a quite long along Steve’s arms, a subtle point that they were far too tense for someone who was wrapped up in cuddles on the couch. ‘Cos that’s 100% what they are now. Eddie will still call them hugs, but usually, when it’s just the two of them, it becomes this.

Steve, tucked up into the corner of the couch, one leg flush along the back of the couch and one hanging off the edge. It’s the prime position for Eddie to crawl up, wind his arms around Steve’s middle and give him a good squeeze and then settle there. Head on Steve’s chest, lying in the cradle of his hips. Safe. Warm.

It makes him warm, oh very warm to know that he gets this. That Steve doesn’t give this amount of trust to many, if any, other people but Eddie — he trusts Eddie.

“Y’know,” Eddie says, cheeks smushed against the plain of Steve’s pec. It feels deliciously warm and Eddie’s fairly sure he can feel how toned it is just through his cheek. Hot bastard. “I’m actually real glad you asked for that hug all those weeks ago.”

He leaves it there ‘cos he knows Steve will ask. Eddie’s eyes stay on the buzzing tv-screen even as Steve’s head shifts, turning to peer down at the boy slumped on his chest. Eddie’s pretty sure he can see Steve’s mouth twitch up into a smile.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie affirms, giving a nod and his eyes flick up to meet Steve’s for just a moment. “Think I’ve had some of the best hugs in the world.”

Okay, that was maybe more honest and sappy than Eddie was going for. He is just letting Steve know he isn’t just doing it for Steve — that he enjoys these moments just as much. He lays it on thick, tries for a smarmy angle.

“Swept up in these pillowy arms?” He croons, giving Steve’s bicep a quick squeeze, making the other chuckle softly. “Who wouldn’t think so? I’m a lucky guy.”

Despite the joking tone, there’s no quick comeback from Steve. That’s alright. Eddie’s quite happy if this is one of the times Steve just takes the compliment; let’s the word sink in and hopefully, believes them, even if it’s just a little bit. He watches the film and doesn’t read into the silence.

Not even when Steve says, “Eddie?” all soft. Nearly shy sounding. It doesn’t quite register to Eddie’s ears.

“Mm?”

“Eddie.” Steve says again, a little firmer and that catches Eddie’s attention. He turns his head and rests his chin on Steve’s chest, his brows drawn together in silent question.

But the moment he makes eye contact, Steve’s doing that scrunched up face again. Is studying the ceiling instead of facing Eddie. And just like all those weeks ago, his hands clench up tight. Twists up the fabric of Eddie’s sweater in between his fingers and uses it to ground himself.

Last time, he asked for a hug. Considering he’s currently just about squishing Steve beneath his body weight, Eddie can’t fathom what he might be worked up to ask for. Unless he was going to ask for something more than a hug— which, well, just wasn’t going to happen, even if Eddie really wanted it to.

“Can I-” Steve starts. He sucks in a breath, almost like he’s gathering courage. But he’s not, because he’s not about to ask for what Eddie hopes for, he’s not, he’s—

Unless…?

“Can I… have a kiss?” Steve asks, barely audible. The sentence is murmured, soft words that hit Eddie like a gentle kiss in itself — imprinting right onto his heart. Steve Harrington wants a kiss — from him!

“Oh.” Eddie says, in a breathy delightful way. He’s fairly certain the little monkey in his brain is clapping its cymbals at double-speed as the words process; or maybe it’s his heart, which feels like it’s leapt up his throat.

“Oh?” Steve echoes, a smile already playing at the edges of his mouth, because he can see Eddie’s want. Because he knows him.

“Yes.” Eddie says suddenly, with a frantic nod, pushing up closer so their faces are aligned. “Yes, absolutely, you can.” He affirms.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh at the eagerness and then his arm that had been slung around Eddie shifts. It moves up til his hand caresses along the line of Eddie’s jaw, tilting him just how he likes.

Eddie holds his breath. Counts the freckles he can see this close. Tries to feel Steve’s heartbeat through where they’re pressed so closely together; can Steve feel his? Thundering and hurried, beating so hard Eddie thinks he might bruise the inside of his ribs.

Then Steve kisses him. And shit, Steve’s lip are better by ten-fold than every daydream Eddie’s ever had about them. They’re warm and so soft — plush and pressing against his own and Eddie is freezing. Fuck, wait, how does this go again? Right, Eddie’s never… well, kissed anybody before.

Steve pulls back and Eddie screws his eyes up — not ready in the slightest for the disappointment of his own shoddy kissing skills. Fuck, did he really just freeze? Steve — Steve Harrington — asks for a kiss and Eddie decides to stab himself in the back by not figuring out how to fuck to kiss back.

“You call that a kiss?” Steve teases and Eddie’s well aware of the parallel — of the irony of Steve repeating his own words back at him. But he can’t make himself laugh even though it’s funny. Instead, a little groan wiggles out his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, earnest. He forces his eyes opens — he needs to see what’s Steve’s thinking. Where he’s expecting disappointment or perhaps regret, is only patience. Maybe a touch of concern. Eddie continues, despite the humiliation that makes his throat sticky.

“I haven’t- I don’t do this often.” He coughs awkwardly clearing his throat and hoping it hides the next word. “Ever.”

There’s a jump in Steve’s eyebrows, a moment of surprise in his eyes that lets him know he did, indeed, hear that final word. It makes Eddie feel… well, it’s nice that Steve had expected him to have been kissed by now. Even if he hasn’t. He tries to take it as a compliment.

“That’s okay,” Steve assures. Absentmindedly, his thumb rubs soothing along Eddie’s jaw. It makes Eddie shiver, some outrageous amount of joy clawing into every nerve. Steve likes Eddie. He wants to kiss Eddie.

“Do you want to try again?”

Eddie nods before the questions even out of his mouth. Steve smiles, all sunshine. This time when he draws Eddie in, he notices the way Eddie holds his breath — the rigidness in his body.

Steve kisses him again, another short and soft one and then whispers against his lips, “Relax.”

‘Cos isn’t tonight just full of the parallels, Eddie thinks. He listens, tries to focus on how sweet Steve’s kiss is than his panicky heart, forcing out a breath between the kisses. His hands along Steve’s sides find a grip, grounding and good, and by the fourth kiss, he begins to feel a bit melty.

It’s good. It’s really good. Kissing Steve is top 5– nay, the top moment of his life so far. Somehow, it’s made all that much better knowing the build-up behind it. Knowing that Steve knows he isn’t just kissing him for a heat of the moment — that Eddie wants kisses here, kisses before bed, in the morning, on dates. Eddie wants Steve.

And with the way he kisses, Eddie’s pretty sure Steve wants him just as bad.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to reach what Eddie decides is an ultra pretty fuckin’ state; lips swollen from kisses, cheeks flushed, hair a little mussed up. He bets he looks no better. The thought makes him grin, enough they have to break the kiss ‘cos Eddie can’t stop his stupid happy grin ‘cos shit— he actually gets to have this Steve.

“What?” Steve asks, somehow half heart-eyed and half suspicious at the mischief in Eddie’s eyes.

“Can I... have a hickie?”

now with a part three !

[ameliathornromance]

“What happened to you?!”

Your Orc Boyfriend sat by the tribe healer. Gashes that started at his forehead and go across his face. Blood dripped down and onto his chest, which was bruised and transitioning into a purple hue in certain areas.

You went to rush over, to cup his face, examine him from head to toe, but the healer held a hand out to you. “I know it looks serious,” he said, “but they’re surface level.”

As you opened your mouth to protest, your Orc Boyfriend grunted, “I’ll be fine, love.” He gave you a pained smile. Even as his face oozed with blood, he still tried to reassure you. “I’ll come see you in a minute.”

He loved this about you. Everything was so different now that you were around. Before you and your Orc got together, when Orcs returned injured, they were told to endure it from their others. No sympathy given. Healers would provide Orcs with a pack of ice in a leather sack and send them on their way.

It started when one day, your Orc came back to camp with a bloody nose. You had instantly run over, "Oh my God, are you okay?!" Everyone had stared, startled by your reaction. But when you started tending to your partner's wounds, the camp seemed to follow your lead.

Orcs were now afforded more luxuries than before, being fed soup if they were immobilised temporarily or being washed by someone they were close to when they couldn't reach certain areas.

But your Orc Boyfriend, always did his best to come back intact. Despite the sweetness of your concern, he couldn't bear witnessing your distress over his injuries. 

This time, he was too careless. 

At that sight of your reluctant scowl, your Orc Boyfriend’s heart ached. He wished he had been more careful.

But you turned away and went back to your shared tent. 

He came in later, his face lined with stitches and his chest wrapped up with cloth. Your Orc groaned as he laid in bed beside you, scrunching his face up in pain. 

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you looked him over. “What happened?” Your voice was muted, small.

“Highway men.” He said.

They had jumped him while he was trying to find his hunting party. Your Orc had got separated when he’d tried to go after a stag. He emerged out onto a popular path taken by humans, looking around for his prey.

But a second was all it took for the humans to attack him.

The men were more vicious that most humans he’d fought, with weapons imbued with some kind of magical properties. One human delivered such a powerful blow to his chest that he thought his ribs had broken.

Your Orc got out by the skin of his tusks, and that was only thanks to another Orc finding him and helping him beat the snot out of the Highwaymen. 

You bit your lip at that and cast a look down at his chest. It had turned black now.

“It’ll heal.” He assured you. “It’ll take more than a few humans to kill me. Don’t worry.” Your Orc shifted and pulled something out from his belt pocket. “Here, for you.”

You gasped. Clutched between your Orc’s meaty green fingers was a small, golden band. A red ruby sat on top of the gold, catching in the dim candlelight. “We took their plunders, this was among it… And I thought of you.”

At your hesitation, your Orc offered it, “I promise I’ll be more careful when I go out in the next few weeks. See this as a pledge of that.” 

Biting your lip, you sighed. Your eyes traced the stitches on his face. You wanted to run your fingers across them, hoping that your touch could heal them. 

Taking the ring, you kissed the ruby. “You promise?” holding the ring to his lips.

Your Orc smiled and kissed it. “I swear on my life.”

[stllmnstr]

champagne problems: part two

pairing: jake sim x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, rich kids au, fake dating au, college au, angst, fluff

part two word count: 33.2k

part two warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, jealousy, a kiss or two, my incessant need to make sunghoon a figure skater in everything I write, family drama, use of the american (usa) university system

soundtrack: boom - dpr live / bad idea! - girl in red / blood on the floor - kuiper / calico - dpr ian / comme de garçons (like the boys) - rina sawayama / lust - chase atlantic

part one can be found on my masterlist!

note: reuploaded from my old blog with the same name! welcome back if you've been here before, and enjoy the conclusion to part one if you're new. happy reading ♡

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The second son of a wealthy family, Jake Sim has gotten used to always standing in the shadow of his older brother. From grades to girls to talks of becoming future CEO of the Sim Corporation, he’s no stranger to coming in second place. So when an opportunity arises for Jake to finally have the one thing his brother can’t and best him once and for all, he knows he’d be a fool not to take it.

There are only two problems. The first is that the thing his brother wants so badly isn’t a thing at all. It’s you, semi-estranged daughter of the Sims’ closest and most long-standing business partner.

The second is that Jake Sim can’t fucking stand you.

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PART TWO

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Jake Sim has been staring at his philosophy homework for the last twenty minutes when a stack of pastel pink papers slides across the table towards him. 

“What is this?” Much like most interactions he’s had with you, your sudden presence at Jake's favorite coffee shop is entirely unexplained. Hell, he’s not even sure how you found him here. He’d ask, if he thought you’d give him a straightforward answer. 

But Jake knows better at this point. So with a grumble, he takes out his headphones instead and prepares for a conversion that will probably put him in a worse mood than he started it in. 

Sliding down into the seat across from him without an invitation or the courtesy of an explanation, the only thing you say is, “You know, I really am starting to get a bit worried about your future success.” Nodding at the stack of papers you’ve just put on the table in front of him, you add, “How are you a third-year business major that still can’t recognize a contract?”

“I know what a contract is.” Jake defends, eyeing the papers warily, reaching out to pick them up. “But usually they’re not printed out on pink paper.” Really, who do you think you are? Elle Woods? And where did you even get this stuff? Jake doubts that this shade of pink cardstock came from the shelves of your local office supply store. Bringing the paper up closer to his nose, he levels you with a disbelieving look. “Hold on, is this paper scented?”

“Don’t put your gross nose on it! That paper is custom ordered.”

Of course it is. “Why the fuck did you print out a contract on custom ordered lavender-scented paper?”

You have the audacity to look affronted. “You should be thanking me.” With half a mind to snatch it out of his hands, you instead tell him with a glare, “Lavender is a very calming scent and probably the only thing stopping me from strangling you right now, y’know, since this entire thing is your fault.” 

Setting the papers back on the table with a little more force than necessary, Jake isn’t in the mood to play your favorite game of beating around the bush.“What entire thing? What kind of contract is this?” 

“I’m so glad you asked.” Your tone says otherwise. “Since someone’s loser brother couldn’t keep his mouth shut, just like I predicted, and someone’s mother found out about someone’s unfortunate use of the B word–”

“Hold on,” Jake’s brow creases in confusion. “I never called anyone a bitch–”

“Boyfriend,” you clarify, cutting him off. “I figured we better lay out some ground rules. You know, if we’re really gonna go for this.”

“Go for what?” Jake is still lost. “It’s just a family dinner–”

Shaking your head, you paint a perfect picture of disappointment when you tell him, “Your lack of foresight is astounding. Truly. Forget econ, I’m surprised you managed to pass classes that involve basic logic or any kind of critical thinking skills.”

Across from you, Jake does his best to close his laptop screen inconspicuously, keeping his untouched philosophy homework hidden from view. 

Then he returns, “And you don’t think you’re overreacting? Like, at all? What do we need a contract for?” Not that the lavender-scented abomination looks particularly legally binding to begin with. “Like I said, it’s just dinner–”

“For now,” you interrupt. “It’s just dinner for now. But two days ago, it was just a fundraiser, and to the best of our families’ knowledge, you were just my plus-one.” Giving him your best fake smile, you add, “And like the person at this table who has an IQ higher than a goldfish predicted, things are already getting messy. This,” you nod to the contract, “will help us clean them up before James or my mother realize that everything about you and me is nothing but one big lie.”

Jake sighs. Tries to defend himself even though he knows it’s futile. “Look, how was I supposed to know that my brother would open his big mouth to my mom?” And it really is just terrible luck all around – that James couldn’t keep a secret, that he chose to divulge it to the one person that actually cares about Jake’s love life and not just its potential effects on the family business. 

In fact, in Jake's opinion, his mother cares a little too much. The messages that started Sunday morning haven’t stopped since then. It’s a big part of the reason why his phone is currently face-down on the table that separates the two of you. Jake is not about to let you see anything that could potentially inflate your ego any more. 

His mother, however, seems to have other ideas. Right now, his message thread with her looks more like a one-sided fan club.

Mom: I can’t wait to meet her! I remember her as a little kid. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.

Mom: Does she have any dietary restrictions or allergies? I’m starting to put together the menu for this weekend.

Mom: Does she prefer white or red wine? 

Mom: Never mind the last message. I’ll just pull out some of both. 

Mom: I just stumbled across a recent picture of her. Wow, she’s even more beautiful than I remember! I hope you’re treating her well. 

Mom: Can you send me your apartment address again? I want to mail you something.

Mom: Oh, and what’s ___’s favorite kind of cookie?

Mom: Forget it. I’ll just give them to you this weekend to take with you. 

Suppressing a wince, Jake decides to put his mother’s incessant prying to the side for the time being. Right now, he needs to build the most bulletproof defense of his intelligence and common sense as possible before you keep shooting holes in it. But contrary to his beliefs, you’re not here to argue with him about where the blame for your unfortunate situation lies, at least not for the most part. 

You tell him as much. “I’m not here to yell at you about how this is all your fault.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, lips flat. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Don’t worry,” you assure him. “I got my anger out already. Your picture’s right in the middle of my dartboard.” Across the table from him, you smile sweetly, imitate throwing a dart directly at the center of his forehead. 

Jake can’t tell if you’re kidding or not, and somehow that’s more unnerving. 

“So what, you don’t need to hear me say that everything’s my fault? You’d rather get it in writing instead?” Jake glances at the forgotten contract. Suddenly, a wave of panic crests in his mind. “If you’re trying to sue me–”

You roll your eyes before he can finish the empty threat. “Again, that’s not what this is for.” Looking at the papers, you tilt your head, considering. “Although it’s not too late for an amendment…”

Jake cuts that train of thought off as quickly as he can. “Okay, what exactly is it for then?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Like I said, just like someone with more than two functioning brain cells predicted, your little slip of the tongue made things messy. So if I’m gonna save your ass and pretend to be your girlfriend in front of your family this weekend, we’re gonna need some kind of written agreement about how this is going to play out. Think of it as an agreement, something to outline the…” you pause, weighing your words, “expectations on both of our ends.”

A contract. A fake dating contract. It’s all Jake can do not to burst out laughing. He’s trying to egg you on a little, piss you off and push your buttons like you’re so good at doing to him when he tells you, “Y’know, it’s kind of funny how seriously you’re taking this.”

You don’t understand how he can be so blase about it all. Sure, maybe the contract was a little overkill, but the two of you are about to start pretending to be dating, to be a couple, in front of your families. It’s not something that you’re willing to walk into blindly. 

“Really? I think it’s kind of funny the whole reason I’m in this mess is because of you.” Suddenly, there’s a reignited fire in your eyes. Jake almost regrets his taunting. “In fact, I think it’s absolutely hilarious–”

“Okay, okay,” He can sense a losing battle when he sees it. Not wanting to rehash your argument from earlier or put himself at the center of any more dartboard target practices, Jake surrenders. And then he frowns. Reaching for the stack of papers again, he scans the first page. Trying to make sense of all the legal jargon and stylized formatting, he’s hesitant when he glances at you and slow to admit, “To be completely honest with you, I’m actually not that good with contracts–”

“Oh my god.”

“So, do you think you could go over the highlights for me?”

“You are absolutely insufferable.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake intones flatly. “Are you talking to me or the mirror you spend five hours a day looking into?”

You kind of have to hand it to him. Ever since your run in with his brother, his insults have been landing a lot better. That one was actually pretty good. Not that you’d ever admit it. 

“Anyway,” you glare instead. “The highlights.” Nodding to the contract you spent most of last night writing up, you explain, “The first page is just basic contract language. The actual content of our proposed agreement starts on the second page.”

Following your explanation, Jake sets the first page aside, makes quick work of skimming the second. Or at least he tries to. It proves a difficult task, however, when he gets a little caught up on the very first line. 

“Really?” You’re not quite sure what kind of expression is on his face when he looks up at you. It’s an odd mix of shock, disbelief, and perhaps, if the sudden flush on his cheekbones is anything to go by, embarrassment. “Rule number one is no kissing?”

Across from him, you just rest your chin in your palm. “I know I’m crushing your dreams and all, but don’t be so surprised.”

Jake’s glare is easier to read this time. “That is not what I meant. It’s just… I don’t know.” It seems so obvious. He didn’t think you’d feel the need to actually write it out like he’s about to start trying to plant ones on you every hour of the day. “It’s not what I was expecting.”

“I mean, I don’t know how family dinners work at your house, but mine usually don’t involve makeout sessions between courses.”

“Exactly,” Jake returns. “It hardly seems like something we need in writing when it’s more than easy to avoid.”

Still, you don’t back down. “Don’t blame me for erring on the side of caution. We’re pretending to be a couple in front of your brother. And we both know that you don’t exactly make the most rational decisions when he starts  pushing your buttons, boyfriend.”

The use of the pet name is intentional. It’s a reminder that Jake can’t be trusted where his older brother is concerned. Not when in the heat of the moment, he would say or do just about anything to get under James’ skin in the same way James has been getting under his for the last twenty-one odd years.  

“Point taken.” Jake can’t exactly argue that one. 

And in all honesty, Jake kinda feels like he’s getting off easy, at least with you. Not that he would ever tell you that. 

He’s feeling apprehensive about this dinner, yes, and now about being legally bound to you, but he supposes things could be a lot worse. For starters, you’d been much easier to convince than he initially thought. He wasn’t sure what kind of bribes would work on you, how he was going to get you to keep up the facade he started for one more dinner. 

Maybe, he thought,  he would be able to leverage your phone number against you in a new way. He could promise not to pass it along to James, but only as long as you did him the solid of playing the part of his girlfriend, this time at a dinner with his family. 

But that felt a little too much like blackmail, even for him. So instead, he had told you the truth. 

Listening to the phone ring after clicking on your number, it was all Jake could do not to throw his phone across the room in anticipation of your rage. But then you answered, and it all came spilling out. 

He told you that James could not be trusted with secrets but could absolutely be trusted to do everything in his power to ruin Jake’s life, even if unintentionally. He explained how his mother was now unfortunately involved, that your initial plan to just mention each other occasionally and claim that things fizzled by the time the clock struck midnight on New Year’s was no longer viable. 

You had remained completely silent for a long pause. Too long. Jake was suddenly very grateful that he took the precaution of having this conversation over the phone. Mostly because he was pretty sure if he tried to tell you face-to-face, you would cause him actual bodily harm. But instead of threats or curses or even sarcasm, Jake had listened as a long sigh came through the other line and then–

“Yeah, my mom has been asking me about you too.” Much to his shock, you were resigned to the fact, not angry at the news. And you had told him, “I’ll come to your family dinner. Just let me… Let me think about the best way to go about this.”

Less than twenty-four hours have passed since that phone conversation, and Jake shouldn’t be as surprised as he is that your idea of the best way to go about this is printed out for him on custom pink lavender-scented paper.  

Deciding to leave the kissing debacle alone for the moment, he reads through the rest of your so-called rules. With more of an idea as to what to expect, nothing shocks him quite as much as the initial line. 

He reads the second section wordlessly: Both parties will do everything in their power, to a reasonable extent, to maintain the image of a false relationship in the presence of family members and those with immediate connections to them (including, but not limited to employees, business partners, etc).

The third section covers another base: Friends and other acquaintances of both parties are not to be informed of the arrangement. Neither party is under obligation to maintain the lie of relationship with friends or acquaintances unless deemed necessary to maintain secrecy of the relationship. 

Jake glances up with a furrow in his brow. You clarify before he has the chance to ask, “Basically it’s saying that you don’t have to lie to your friends and tell them that we’re dating, unless they get suspicious or start asking. Just don’t tell them we aren’t. And absolutely do not tell them about the contract.”  

Jake nods, moves to the next line. 

Neither party may involve themself in a romantic relationship of any nature with another individual for the duration of this contract. Both parties are to avoid to the best of their ability any situation in which it could be interpreted that they are in a romantic relationship of any nature with another individual for the duration of this contract. 

“So essentially just no dating other people?” Jake asks. 

“Right.” You nod. “And try to avoid getting into situations that make it look like you might be dating someone else. I’m not gonna make you agree to stop hooking up with people or anything.” You look mildly ill at the mere proximity of Jake and the term ‘hooking up.’ “Just, y’know, be discreet about it.”

Jake looks up at you. “I’m not hooking up with other people.”

You cringe. “Thanks, but I really don’t need the gory details of your sex life. Do you understand the rule or not?”

Jake nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Great,” you move the contract aside, setting a new stack of papers down on the table. Also printed on pink paper, this pile is considerably thicker. “That’s about it for the contract, then. This,” you gesture to the new set of papers, “is for you to memorize.”

Jake would be a little less wary if it didn't look as dense as an encyclopedia. “What is it?”

“A list of everything a real boyfriend should know about me.” Jake waits for you to finish the joke, to land a punchline, but you’re entirely serious when you add, “Think of it as your ___ cheat sheet. I’ll need one for you too, of course. Preferably in the next couple of days so that I can get it down before dinner this weekend.” 

Hesitantly, Jake picks up the first page. Scanning over yet another meticulously formatted document printed on – he sniffs again – yep, lavender-scented paper, Jake privately thinks that this may actually come in handy. If nothing else, he’s sure he could reference it for some of his mom’s questions instead of needing to guess at your responses. 

It’ll help with the basics, at least. Jake is pretty sure you wouldn’t have bothered to include things like your favorite kind of cookie in there. 

But then he glances again at the stack of papers, and more specifically, how how thick it is. He looks a little closer at the page in his hand. Single spaced. He flips it over. Double sided. 

Looking over the back of the page in his hand, he forces himself to actually read some of what you’ve written. He doesn’t get far before he’s leveling you with a disbelieving look.

“Is this a prank?”

You have the gall to look confused. “Not even a little bit.”

Jake wants to tear his hair out. Because what the actual fuck? “I really don’t think anyone is going to ask me about your third favorite shade of Dior lip oil–”

“They might. And think of how suspicious it would be if you got me one as a Christmas gift or something and the color washed me out.”

Across from you, Jake’s eyes just widen. And then he’s weighing your words. 

Despite the ridiculousness, your argument does raise a point. Albeit not the one you intended. 

“Christmas gift,” Jake repeats slowly. As of now, you’re already over halfway through fall semester, which means the holidays will be approaching in just a couple of short months. Suddenly, they seem a lifetime away. “Does this contract of yours have an end date?”

“Oh, right.” Reaching for the contract again, you turn to the final page, lay it on the table in front of Jake. “Feel free to propose something else,” you offer, “but I put the termination date as January first of next year. I figured that we could use this arrangement to get us through all of the inevitable holiday parties. My family always hosts a giant one on New Year’s Eve, so I thought we could go to that together and then call it off the next day. What do you think?” You turn to him. “Too long?”

Jake discards your insane list of personal preferences for the time being and picks up the last page of the contract. At the bottom, he locates the verbiage in the final section, just above the two blank signature lines neither of you have filled yet. 

This contract will be terminated as of January 1 of the coming year. 

Jakes stares at the date for a moment. It feels odd to see an expiration date on your relationship, regardless of the fact that it’s all a facade. Seems strange to be starting something with the sole intention of ending it. But he can hardly voice those feelings, so instead he taunts, “You wanna be stuck with me that long, huh? Just can’t get enough?”

Your lips flatten as you reach for your phone. “I will literally text your brother right now.”

“Nice try,” Jake calls your bluff. “You just told me that you didn’t want your mom knowing that you lied about dating me either.”

“No,” you correct, dangling your phone between your fingers. “What I said was that I want her off my back when it comes to my dating life and who I spend my time with. It wouldn’t matter even a little bit to her whether that’s you or James. In fact, she would probably actually like him bet–”

“Whatever.” If Jake is suddenly sulking, he figures that no one needs to be aware of it. “I know you like me more than him.”

“Incorrect. I hate him more than I hate you.”

Jake stares at you blankly. “Is there a difference?”

“Obviously,” you scoff. 

“Whatever. You’re still willing to tolerate me until New Year’s.”

“Is that actually high praise to you? Do we need to start working on your self-confidence too?”

Insult aside, Jake supposes that your deadline does make sense. Although family obligations are intermittent in nature, it would be nice to have a go-to plan for every event and dinner and interaction with his older brother that he’s forced into between now and the New Year. 

Honestly, the thought of having you at his upcoming family dinner has made Jake’s steps the last two days feel a little lighter. If anything, he thinks that you’ll be a great distraction for his father. Something to talk about besides the gory details of Jake’s many failures. 

It’s a chance to be impressive in the eyes of his family, even if only in some small capacity, even if only until New Year’s. 

A moment later, Jake warily eyes the pen you hand him. “Let me guess, pink ink?”

“Obviously not.” You roll your eyes. “How would that show up on pink paper?”

So Jake’s signature is written on the first dotted line of the contract with the matte black ink of your shockingly normal ballpoint pen. Moments later, your name joins on the second line, right next to his. 

And it’s as if something shifts in the air, as if something suddenly feels a little heavier, slightly more weighted. The following silence that passes between the two of you feels like a finale of sorts. The end of something and the beginning of another. 

Looking at the boy across from you, it feels strange to say that for all intents and purposes, even if they’re fabricated, you’ll be dating him until the New Year. Showing up on his arm and laughing at his jokes and filling in the quiet moments with little displays of affection, practiced bouts of intimacy. 

It’s weird. It’s daunting. It’s not something you have any clue how to navigate, even if the contract gives you a false sense of security, of control. 

You break the moment by glancing at the clock that hangs above the front door of the coffee shop. Suddenly, your mind is elsewhere. On the other part of your original agreement. “Your first tutoring session is tonight, right?” Jungwon mentioned it to you in passing. 

“Yeah,” Jake nods. If his voice has an odd sudden hoarseness to it, you’ll both ignore it for now. “Why?”

“What time are you supposed to meet him?”

“Six-thirty.”

A second glance at the clock confirms, “It’s six thirty-five.”

“Shit!” Jake is suddenly frantic, panicked as he rushes to repack his bag and salvage what’s left of a good first impression on his tutor. 

It hardly registers when you remind him, “Don’t forget to make me a cheat sheet of things I should know about you!” Already halfway out the door, the only acknowledgement you get is a half hearted nod. 

Frowning at the mess of papers in front of you, scattered from Jake’s hasty exit, you make quick work of rearranging your newly minted contract in the correct order. 

“Men,” you whisper, to no one in particular. Even though it doesn’t land on the ears you want it to. Even though Jake is too far gone to hear it. 

…

Instead, what Jake hears a handful of minutes later, is a less than friendly reminder from the librarian at the front desk that the university library is a quiet area and that running is strictly prohibited. Still out of breath from the way he just bolted across the entire campus, all Jake can offer her is an apologetic nod. 

He pulls out his phone to double-check the brief message thread between him and Jungwon, to confirm the exact location of their first tutoring session. 

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [3:02 pm]: Study room 103 on the first floor

After that, there are only two other messages – one being Jake’s hasty, misspelled apology for being nearly fifteen minutes late, to which he received:

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [6:41 pm]: No problem! I’m here

After navigating his way to the reservable first floor study rooms, Jake finds himself in front of Room 103. Suddenly, a wave of self-consciousness sweeps away any adrenaline fueled by his lateness. Any lingering annoyance brought on by a conversation with you. 

Should he knock? Is there a certain etiquette to this? How embarrassed should he be that the person waiting for him with both better punctuality and significantly better grades is two years his junior, according to the sparse information you gave him?

In the end, Jake decides it would be weird to knock and chokes down all his other uncertainty. Opening the door slowly, he nods at the boy already inside. 

“Hi, Jungwon?”

If his tutor is at all put off by Jake’s lateness, he does a great job of hiding it. Jungwon is all smiles when he says, “That’s me. You must be Jake.” Jake is still stuck halfway in the door like he wants to hold onto the opportunity to bolt, just in case he needs it. Jungwon picks up on some of his hesitation. “Come on in.”

Jake does so quietly, setting his stuff down as he slides into the seat across from Jungwon. As he pulls out his laptop, Jake glances at his tutor. All smiles and friendliness, the oversized hoodie he wears looks comfortable enough to fall asleep in. Altogether, he kind of reminds him of an overeager puppy. Or at least he would, if his features weren’t so distinctly feline. 

“Sorry again for being late,” Jake mumbles, opening a Word document. “I completely lost track of time.” More like his time was completely overtaken by someone that does a great job of consuming all his senses and sends his mind spinning sideways, but Jake can hardly say that. 

Just like he did over text, Jungwon doesn’t appear bothered in the slightest by his tardiness. “It really is no problem. I’m glad you found the room alright. It’s kind of like a maze back here.”

He’s being nice again. It’s a single hallway with a handful of clearly labeled doors. But Jake isn’t one to look kindness in the mouth, especially when he’s still sitting on a pile of discomfort. Instead, he figures it’s as good a time as any to express his gratitude. 

“Thanks again for doing this, and for keeping it on the down low. ___ mentioned that you’re great at econ.”

Across from him, Jungwon shrugs. “I’m good with numbers and data and stuff like that. And I had to get good at studying pretty quick, since I’ve been on academic scholarships since middle school.”

That tidbit swirls in the air for a moment, falls through the room like a bad premonition before settling uncomfortably in Jake’s gut. It makes him wonder, makes him question a lot of things. 

What would he be like, Jake wonders, if his family name wasn’t a safety net, a security blanket in its own right? If he had to fight to earn things like the university admission letter he took for granted?  Resented, even, since it was yet another choice made for him by his father. 

Would he be like Jungwon, tutoring older students for extra cash? Forgiving people when they’re late and convincing himself that years of staring at math problems until his eyes felt like sandpaper is the same as being ‘good with numbers and stuff like that’? 

And Jake is assuming, of course. Maybe Jungwon is just good with numbers, has a natural inclination for economics. 

But the only thing Jake has ever had a natural inclination for is doing what he’s told and then blaming the world around him when he hates himself a little for it. 

All at once, he feels like an observer in his own life. An external force that does nothing but shake the snowglobe and wait to see where the dust settles, where everything lands. 

But his self-prescribed identity crisis is not Jungwon’s problem, and Jake is at least self-aware enough to know that any hardships in his life likely pale in comparison to Jungwon’s. It’s not like measuring misery has ever done Jake any good, and it feels unfair for him to be jumping to conclusions and stacking their lives against each other when all Jungwon is doing is trying to make conversation. 

So Jake decides to save the psychoanalysis for a sleepless night and is nothing but neutral when he chooses to reply to the first part of Jungwon’s comment, “Well, I’m grateful that you’re willing to help me. I’m kind of a disaster when it comes to econ.”

“So I hear,” Jungwon smiles, and Jake thinks that maybe him and Jungwon will get along just fine, whether they have the common ground of economics or not.  “Don’t let ___ tease you too hard about it, though. I used to help her, too. Back in high school.”

And if Jake was trying to stop himself from feeling sorry for Jungwon, he doesn’t have to try for very long. He suddenly thinks friendship will be a very hard thing to form. Mostly because he has the distinct sense Jungwon is reflecting on your high school days together rather fondly. Maybe a little too fondly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “I’m a freshman, so I’m a couple years younger than you guys,” he sighs like it’s a terrible thing to be and Jake has never been more appreciative of his own birth date, “but she’s been friends with my older sister for years now. ___ was always pretty good at most subjects, but physics gave her a run for her money, so I helped her a bit when I could.”

It makes sense, he supposes. Jungwon was your physics tutor, so you knew you could recommend him with confidence. With all your first hand experience. 

“You two are close, then?” Jake hates the way he sounds almost defensive. Hates the way he doesn’t recognize the odd feeling that’s beginning to swirl in his gut unpleasantly.

“We’ve definitely gotten closer,” Jungwon nods. Jake doesn’t think he’s imagining the sudden flush on the younger boy’s cheeks. “Especially since I started university here. My sister decided to get her degree abroad, but ___ and I have still stayed in touch even without her around as the middleman, y’know?”

“Right,” Jake agrees. To what, he’s not sure. He has no idea if you have the same feelings towards your relationship with Jungwon, if you’d corroborate the fact that the two of you are getting closer, if your cheeks would get a little color in them while you talked about it. 

It strikes Jake then that he really doesn't know anything about you. At least not anything substantial. And while the dictionary of personal details you’ve compiled is still sitting in his bag, he doubts it will divulge things related to relationships. Things he’s suddenly curious about. 

He can at least feel confident in the fact that you’re not currently dating anyone. He wouldn’t have just signed a contract if you were. But that still leaves a lot of gray area, a lot of questions. 

Are there any recent exes he should know about? Messy situationships that would be glad to land a few punches on him if word of your supposed relationship were to accidentally get out? 

Jake has no idea, and even less of a clue as to how to find out. But he doesn’t like the way those uncertainties settle in his gut. And he doesn’t like the way Jungwon says your name. 

Jungwon must mistake Jake’s sudden silence as passion for fixing his grades, because the next thing he says is, “Sorry, I kind of went on a tangent there.” His apologetic smile does nothing to quell the riot in Jake’s mind. “Anyway,” he opens his laptop. “Economics. I figured we could start by looking at the upcoming assignment to see which parts are trickiest for you and go from there.” Glancing at the older boy, he asks, “Or did you have a different idea?”

“No,” Jake shakes his head. “That sounds good to me.” And he shouldn't say it, but, “I’ve got plans this weekend, so I’m hoping to get as much of this done as I can before then.”

“Oh,” Jungwon asks. It’s more of an effort to be polite than genuine curiosity. “Anything fun?”

Jake shouldn’t. Not considering the conversation you just had. Not considering the contract he just signed. 

“I don’t know. I can’t decide if I’m more nervous or excited.”

He really, really, shouldn’t. But–

“I’m taking ___ to officially meet my parents.” 

The way Jungwon falters is barely perceptible. Jake only notices because he’s watching for it. 

Jungwon’s brow creases for a moment, putting the pieces together until he realizes that they definitely only fit one way. “You two are dating?”

Jake tries not to be offended at the shock in his voice. “Is it that surprising?”

“I mean, kind of.” Jungwon is still reeling a bit. “When she mentioned that you were looking for a tutor, she said you were just a friend.”

And now Jake has to think of how to play his cards here. He needs to tread carefully, choose his words wisely. There are too many ways he could back himself into a corner, accidentally tell a lie he can’t talk his way out of. That’s probably, definitely, why you made the point of saying the two of you should leave your friends out of the arrangement entirely. Should only divulge the details if they start poking around first. Which Jungwon was definitely not doing. 

Ultimately, Jake decides to leave his explanation as vague as possible, hoping that the less he reveals, the less Jungwon will be able to poke at it until his lie crumbles and leaves nothing but the truth in its wake. 

Shrugging, he says, “We’ve been keeping it pretty quiet. You know how rumors can be.” They can catch fire at the first sign of wind. Can spread before there’s any chance of controlling them. Kind of like the one he’s single handedly spreading right now.

“Oh,” is all Jungwon says. And despite himself, Jake does feel kind of bad for the kid. He feels even worse when Jungwon finds his smile again a moment later and adds, “Well, I hope it all goes good for you. ___’s a great girl.”

But all that guilt is pushed to the side when that odd, unpleasant feeling at the bottom of Jake’s gut releases a little bit of tension, heaves a giant sigh of relief. 

“Yeah,” Jake nods without thinking. In his mind, he sees a gold dress, a black marker, his name in your handwriting. There’s a sliver of truth there, albeit a small one, when he agrees, “She is.”

…

Saturday night puts you back in the passenger seat of Jake’s car, a sense of deja vu overcoming you as he navigates out of your apartment building’s parking lot and onto the highway. Although this time, he did manage to avoid an argument with your doorman. Mostly because Jake Sim is now a name on your list of approved visitors. 

And there are more differences to be found. Tonight, you’ve traded your evening gown for a pair of dark wash jeans and a sweater that Jake insists his mother will love. The aged bottle of red wine you brought as a gift for his parents has a bow wrapped around its neck where it sits on the back seat of Jake’s car. 

If nothing else, Jake has to applaud your insistence that you not show up as an empty-handed guest. Your commitment to the facade is truly admirable, even if it is motivated by the contract you keep safe and sound in the top drawer of your desk. 

And finally, as opposed to the drive to your family’s fundraiser, this commute is far from silent. 

“Good,” you nod, praising Jake’s most recent answer. Despite his initial protests, he did his studying. And if his string of correct responses is anything to go by, you seem to be a subject he has an easier time grasping than economics. Or perhaps one he simply has more vested interest in. “And my top three favorite colors are?”

“One,” Jake answers seamlessly. “Gold, but only if it’s 24 karat. Two, the exact red of the Hermès Satin Lipstick in shade Rouge H. Three is pink. But not hot pink. You like softer shades, like baby pink.” Like that damn contract. 

“Nicely done. My major is?”

“Pre-law,” Jake fills in. “But you’re still undecided on if you’ll attend law school after graduation.”

It’s a tidbit that he finds mildly interesting. He’s not surprised that like him, like James, you’re following in your parents’ footsteps. As the daughter of ridiculously successful lawyers, it’s a career path that makes perfect sense for you. 

And the compassion also has him thankful for the partnership between your families, which has undoubtedly done you both some favors. First, Jake suspects that a few under-the-table deals have likely funded more than one of his childhood family vacations. And second, it adds credibility, at least from an outsider’s perspective, to the relationship the two of you are faking. 

He does wonder why you’re undecided on law school, though. If law is your field of choice, it seems like a natural progression. Not to mention that as third-year university students, the two of you are running out of time for indecision. Jake is well-acquainted with this particular reality, but it strikes him as out of character that you are as well.  

From the outside, at least, you’ve always been an image of perfection to him. Someone who has it all together, who has a ten-year plan and the actual conviction to see it through to the end. Unlike him, who’s still grasping at straws where all matters of his future are concerned. 

A fact that he’s reminded of when you say, “You know, I didn’t exactly have high hopes, considering your academic track record, but that was perfect.” You shift in your seat, preparing for a challenge. “Okay, your turn. Quiz me.” 

Your work has been undeniably easier. As opposed to the multi-page, double sided, single spaced abomination you handed him a few days ago, the Jake Sim cheat sheet still sitting on your night stand was nothing but a small assortment of facts that fit on a single sheet of paper. 

But now, the subject of your major takes Jake from thinking about your future to thinking about the classes you’re currently taking. Which makes him think of something he hasn’t been able to let go of since his first tutoring session a few nights ago. Instead of cooperating, he hands the reins to what’s been weighing on his mind. “Are you taking any physics classes?”

“Ugh,” you groan. “You were doing so well. And you literally just answered that one. I’m a pre-law major, remember?”

But Jake needs to know. Doesn’t quite have the room to think about anything else right now. “Just answer the question.”

The glance you give him is scathing, but you can sense that he’s not going to let it go until he gets his answer. “No, I’m not taking physics.” Jake hates the way that odd feeling in his gut makes a sudden reappearance, hates the way it unclenches at your response. “I haven’t since high school. I hate that stupid subject.”

Still, he can’t stop himself from offering, “Well, if you ever do–”

“Did you listen to anything I just said?”

“I was pretty good at it in high school.” He’s only kind of lying. He was pretty decent at it, at least the times he bothered to finish his homework. 

“... Okay?” You still don’t see a point to this sudden detour in the conversation. 

“So I could, uh, I could help you out. If you ever have to take it for some reason, I could help with your homework and stuff.”

“Right, because the first person I would go to for homework help is definitely Mr. I Failed Economics Twice.” Jake can hear the sarcasm. He thinks to himself, a little miserably, that if you were actually picking someone to go to, it would probably be the same person tutoring Jake now. Your old physics tutor from high school. 

Jake will pretend that the way that makes his blood pressure rise is only because he’s worried Jungwon won’t have as much time for their sessions if he picks you back up as a client. 

“Don’t hold econ against me. They’re entirely different subjects–”

“Whatever.” You cut him off. “Who gives a shit about physics? Just quiz me.”

Jake wants to press it. He really does. Wants to ask his real questions, which have a lot less to do with physics and a lot more to do with a certain econ tutor, but it’s not like you’d entertain his curiosity there either. So he relents. “Fine.” Trying to remember what he even wrote on the sheet he gave you, he starts with, “My major is?”

“Business.” Slightly quieter, you mumble, “A questionable choice, if you ask me.”

“Hey!” Jake protests. “I didn’t add any commentary to your ridiculous answers.” And some of them had been ridiculous, indeed. “I mean, seriously. You made me memorize your five favorite necklines.”

“Clearly not, since you put sweetheart and off-the-shoulder in the wrong order.”

Jake just blinks. How are you a real person? “You are actually the most annoying person I have ever met.”

The dig rolls right off your shoulders as you return one of your own. “That’s hardly even an insult, considering the size of your social circle. It’s not my fault you don’t get out much.”

“It’s like you want me to kick you out on the side of the highway–”

“And show up to your family dinner without me? Yeah, sure.”

“Besides, you know that means you’re admitting to being more annoying than Heeseung–”

“On second thought, the side of the highway sounds nice. Feel free to drop me at the next mile marker.”

“Yeah?” Jake taunts, glancing down at your choice in footwear. Another pair of heels so tall he’s impressed you can walk at all. “You think those shoes would be comfortable to walk home in?” Taking one hand off the wheel, he leans over menacingly. “In fact, why don’t I break them in for you now–”

“Okay,” you push back at him in a way that’s probably unwise, considering the fact that he’s driving. “Okay. No extra comments from me.” You mime zipping your lips with your finger. “You’re a business major. End of answer.”

Jake doesn’t believe you for a second. But after pausing to send you a withering glare for good measure, he continues anyway. “Sport I played growing up?”

Much to his surprise, your answer is genuine, concise. “Soccer.” And correct. 

“Pets?”

“Just a dog. Layla.”

As the road stretches on in front of you, back and forth quizzing takes you all the way to his parents’ house. As he pulls into the long driveway, Jake spares a glance in your direction. You wear an expression he hasn’t seen on you before. 

It confuses him a little, worries him even, until he realizes–

“Hold on. Are you… nervous?”

“What about it?” Even visibly tense, your gut reaction is to deny, to make excuses. Finally, you admit, “It’s been a while since I’ve met anyone’s mom.”

Jake almost considers telling you that he’s pretty sure she’d redecorate one of the guest bedrooms and put your name on the door if she thought you’d like that, but decides against it. 

“Hey,” he reaches for your hand instead, interlaces your fingers. “My mom will love you.” In fact, she probably already does. “It will be just fine.”

Jake supposes that divulging just one of her many messages from this week couldn’t hurt. Besides, he’s half afraid you’ll actually run back down the street the two of you just drove up if he doesn’t give you some sort of confidence boost. “She’s really excited to meet you. That cheat sheet of yours actually came in handy, because she asked me what your favorite kind of cookie is. She’s sending us back with a box of homemade snickerdoodles tonight.” What Jake doesn’t mention is the fact that he’s never been big on cinnamon. 

“Really?”

“Mhm. So there’s no need to wor–”

“What about your dad?”

“My dad is…” Jake trails off, searching for the right words. “He’s a businessman. In a lot of ways, he’s difficult. And very set in his ways, which makes him particular. But on the outside, he’s easy to get along with. He wants to make a good impression on people. And even if he didn’t, you really don’t have anything to worry about there either. His biggest concern is always how things will reflect on the company, and you’re pretty much as perfect as it gets in that regard.” Pausing for a moment, he adds, “And we both know my brother’s kind of obsessed with you.”

And he really did set himself up for it, he realizes, the second you turn to him with a wink and say, “Must run in the family.” Jake won’t even argue with you on that one for now. His mission was to get you out of your head and back to your usual self. The version of you that he knows and occasionally tolerates. The version of you that could probably win an Oscar for playing the role of is fake girlfriend, if you really put your mind to it. 

So before you can start to linger on your worries again, Jake steps out of the car. Makes quick work of walking around the front to open the passenger side door for you. 

When he offers you, and outstretched hand, you take it. This time, it’s you that initiates the interlacing of your fingers. Glancing at the expanse of the home in front of you – although mansion may be a better word for it – you take a deep breath. 

“Ready?” Jake echoes your words from your family’s fundraiser just a week ago. 

You’re a little less confident this go around. “As I’ll ever be.”

Jake, too caught up in his attempts to soothe your frayed nerves, forgets to warn you that Layla can be a bit of a jumper, especially with new people. Sure enough, the first person to greet the two of you as spoon as he turns the doorknob is his favorite family pet. Honestly, Jake is a little more concerned about the bottle of wine in your hands than anything. 

Especially when, just as he remembered a little too late, Layla makes quick work of giving you an overexcited greeting. 

When he does finally manage to get her mostly off of you, he’s relieved to note that the alcohol is unharmed. With a bit more trepidation, he lets his eyes wander up to your face. It’s a safe bet, he thinks, that someone with five favorite necklines isn’t a fan of obnoxious furry greetings.

To his surprise, however, the only expression he reads is pleasant surprise. 

“This is Layla?” You ask. Jake nods, still a bit strained from the way he’s preventing Layla from trying to lick at your face and leave paw prints on your jeans. 

But that’s not what you’re thinking about. No, you’ve suddenly been transported to an unfortunate forty-five minutes wasted in a restaurant all on your own. The catalyst of all of this. 

Because Layla is the same dog you saw while doom scrolling James’ social media profile. You thought she was cute, back then, sandwiched between gym selfies and other photos more telling of James’ awful personality. 

But now, looking at the way she almost seems to smile while Jake scratches her behind the ears, wraps her up in a big, warm hug, you think you just might like her even more. 

You’ve never seen your fake boyfriend look at anything with so much… fondness. It’s palpable, all of his pent up love, as he lets some of it loose to shower Layla with it. Everything about him is a little easier, a little more relaxed. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the absence of tension in his jaw. 

Most of all, you see it in his smile. Bright, warm, genuine. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him wear that expression before. It suits him, you think, as you reach down to give her a greeting of your own. 

“Hi, Layla,” you smile, reaching down to pat her on the head. 

And if that makes Jake turn to look at you with a little too much fondness, you’ll assume it’s just lingering remnants of his reunion with his favorite girl. Layla, that is. 

You’re pretty sure the two of them could spend hours just catching up, especially when Layla turns onto her back in a silent demand for tummy rubs, but a voice from a nearby room cuts it short. 

“Jake?” A distinctly feminine voice calls. “Is that you?”

“Well,” Jake gives Layla one final pat for good measure, turns his eyes to you as he stands. “Shall we?”

You don’t mean to be, but you’re nervous again. This is his family, his space, his mother. Not only are you a stranger here, but one that’s been invited under false pretenses. There are too many things to fuck up, too many ways you could send this evening spinning sideways by accident. 

Here in the entryway, with just you, Jake, and Layla, things feel peaceful, simple. You know that just a few steps in the direction of his mother’s voice will turn that calm in your chest upside the head. You’re not ready for it. You’re not. 

You don’t respond to Jake’s invitation, but he reads your hesitation all the same. 

“Hey,” he whispers, all the hard edges gone from his voice as he steps a little closer. “She’s gonna love you.” Again, his hand finds yours, slides his fingers through your own and finds little resistance on your end. 

She. You don’t know how he knows, when you haven’t told him, but it’s true. You don’t care all that much about pleasing his father and even less so about making a good impression on his brother, but his mom… 

You care. You don’t know why, but you care. 

And you don’t know how, but Jake knows. 

You hope his words aren’t empty reassurances as you let him tug at your hand, pull you a little further into his home, wrap you a little more inextricably into the threads of his life. 

His mother waits for you in the living room. A head or two shorter than her youngest son, she has nothing but a smile for him as she pulls him into a hug, reaching up to wrap her hand around the back of his shoulders. 

Your hand is still linked with his. The angle makes it somewhat awkward, but neither of you is quite ready to let go. 

Looking over his shoulder, her eyes settle on you. Breath suddenly stuttering in your chest, your knees feel a little wobbly underneath you. 

Jake won’t let you fall. As soon as his mother releases her embrace, he’s tugging you closer. He undoes the bind of your hands only to wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side. 

“Mom,” he introduces, smiling. “This is ___,” eyes locking with yours, he adds , “my girlfriend.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was proud of the fact.

And then his mother is looking at you. Really looking at you. It’s hard not to wither under her stare, hard not to brace for the results of her inevitable appraisal. But where you expect to see scrutiny, judgment, disdain, you only see a smile. A warm one. A real one. 

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, and you almost have the feeling that she means it. 

Remembering yourself, your role for the evening, you give her a smile of your own. “It’s lovely to meet you too.” You hope your voice is more steady than it feels. “You have a beautiful home. Thank you for inviting me to it.” Remembering the bottle of wine still encased in your hold, you hold it out towards her. “And this is for you.”

“Oh,” she beams, accepting the gift. Reading the label, she admonishes lightly, “You shouldn’t have. How did you know this is my absolute favorite?”

Glancing at her son, you admit, “I may have had some help.”

“Well at least one of us got some guidance.” She leans towards you, pulling your arm into her own and leaving Jake behind the two of you. “Tell me, what do you prefer? White or red?”

“Usually white.” 

Jake rolls his eyes at your answer, or rather, the brevity of it. According to the stack of papers you made him memorize, your real answer is…

Chardonnay with poultry, sauvignon blanc with seafood, pinot grigio with dessert, pinot noir with red meat (unless it’s ribeye, then cabernet sauvignon)...

But it does make him smile, the way you fall into step at his mother’s side so naturally. The way she makes you flush when she gives you yet another compliment on your hair or your outfit or your beauty. 

Even the protest dies on his lips when he hears her whisper a little too loudly, “And how do you put up with him when he’s in one of his moods? You know, the one where he gets all cranky and can’t be reasoned with at all.”

At her side, you just giggle. Jake would be lying if he said he didn’t think it was kind of adorable. 

He likes it, watching you and his mom together. Watching her light up at the chance to finally have a pretty girl to fawn over. His mother loves her sons – Jake has never doubted this for a moment – but there’s a certain kind of connection that only comes with a daughter. 

It’s a shame, he thinks, that your own mother is in the habit of squandering it with criticism and shame and admonishment. 

Watching the two of you now, Jake isn’t sure if he’s ever seen his mom enjoy herself more. When the three of you reach the dining room, she insists that you take the seat directly across from her. Even in her excitement, she won’t let anyone fill the seat next to you except for your boyfriend. 

It’s sweet, the way she dotes on you. And Jake is content to just watch, for the time being, hoping you and her both enjoy it as long as you can. 

Until New Year’s, that voice in his head reminds him. And suddenly, even with the back half of a semester in front of him, the holidays don’t seem so far away. 

The conversation only dies down slightly when his father and brother enter the room. Even in the comfort of his own home, his father strikes an imposing presence. He’s not cold when he introduces himself to you, reaching out an arm for a firm handshake, but there is no extra warmth embedded in the action either. After sending his youngest son a nod, he takes his seat at the head of the table. 

James doesn’t bother with formalities. Sliding down next to his mother, he’s already a little smug when he says, “Hi Jake.” Pausing, he glances towards you. “___.”

“James,” you return, smile significantly faker than it was moments ago. 

Jake is debating how worth it it would be if he kicked his older brother under the table when the first course is brought out, interrupting that train of thought. 

After passing the first set of dishes around and filling your plates, his mother is the first to pose a question. To test your thorough preparation for the evening. 

“So,” she asks, taking a sip of wine. “How did you two meet?”

And it’s such an obvious question. Such a painfully straightforward inquiry and yet somehow, too wrapped up in getting a contract signed and memorizing each other’s fun facts, it’s something the two of you completely neglected to cover.  

You both freeze, absence of a mutually agreed-upon backstory making you look like twin deer in headlights where you sit next to each other. 

A beat passes. Two. 

You say, “a mutual friend” at the same exact moment he says, “a class.”

Passing each other panicked looks, you smooth things over with a shaky, “A mutual friend in our class.” After a steadying breath, you add, “We have a mutual friend in our class, and he introduced us.”

“Oh, how nice.” Jake’s mom smiles. Turning to her youngest son, she asks, “Which friend was it? Someone I know?”

“Heeseung,” Jake nods, just as you say, “Sunghoon.”

This time, Jake is the one to cover your tracks. 

“My friend Heeseung and her friend Sunghoon know each other,” he explains. “I guess it’s technically two mutual friends, since we met through them.”

“And all four of you are in the same class together,” Jake’s mom is still beaming. “That’s awfully lucky. What a coincidence.” 

“You could say that again,” James mumbles under his breath across the table, decidedly less enchanted by the false tale of your first meeting. And considerably more suspicious. His eyebrow is arched when he asks, “What class did you say it was, again?”

Your brain scrambles only for a second. “Econ,” you answer quickly. Jake’s struggles aside, you figure that it's your best bet, considering that at least two of the four people you’ve listed are actually in that class. 

The glare that strikes the side of your face from Jake’s seat is frigid enough to kill a houseplant. 

“Econ,” James echoes flatly. And then something a little sinister enters his eyes. His spine straightens, poised for offense, when he directs to you, “I hope Dr. Kang isn’t as much of a hardass as he was when I was in school.”

You open your mouth to reply, probably to bite back with something along the lines of the class actually being rather easy, or you having a stellar rapport with Dr. Kang.

But Jake spots the trap before you can fall into it and cuts you off just as quickly. “It’s Dr. Jeong, actually.” He’s not glaring at his brother, but there’s no extra kindness in his stare. “I’m sure you remember, since you always say that he was your favorite professor.”

“Oh.” James’ eyes slide to his little brother. “That’s right. My mistake.” But his words make you think the switch in names was intentional bait, not a lapse in memory. Bait you almost fell for. 

Before you can let the implications of that sink in, Jake’s father directs his attention towards you, speaking for the first time. “You’re a business major, too, then.” It’s not exactly a question, even though he doesn’t know for certain. Even though he’s wrong. But men like Jake’s father don’t get to where they are by asking questions. They get there by making assumptions and talking over everyone else in the room until wills bend to their whim and reality is what they’ve made it. 

Still, Jake’s voice is steady when he corrects, “No she’s a pre-law major.”

Something flashes in his father’s eyes, but he says nothing. 

His mother, on the other hand, passes her youngest son a look. “I think ___ can speak for herself.”

It’s under his breath, but just a little too audible for comfort when Jake argues, “Not after I just had to memorize–”

“The entire case with me!” The sudden volume of your outburst rings awkwardly in the air. Adjusting your voice, you add to your explanation, “We got a crazy complicated case assigned in criminal law a couple weeks ago.” If the elbow nudge you give Jake is a little too hard, no one bats an eye at the way he winces slightly. “I’ve been talking about it so much I’m sure Jake has practically memorized it.”

Jake’s father hears what he wants to. Picks through the pieces of what you say and paints his own picture. “It’s nice to see a young person so dedicated to their studies.” No one at the table misses the way his eyes slide over to his second son. “And the family business by extension. I’ve always liked your parents,” he nods to you. “And they’ve been excellent partners. You’re going to law school, then, I assume? After you graduate.”

Jake can practically see the answer you typed out for him, words stamped in his brain from the amount of times he forced himself to look over them. My major is pre-law, you’d written in a font that’s almost as high maintenance as you. I’m considering attending law school after finishing undergrad, but I’m still undecided. 

But then he hears you say, “That’s the plan.” 

Jake can’t quite help the way he glances over at you, a question on his face, written all over his features. The two responses can’t hold true at the same time. 

One of your answers, either the one you typed for him or the one you’ve just given his father, is a lie. If the way your shoulders round slightly is any indication, he thinks the packet you gave him must be the real one. 

But as his father nods at you approvingly across the table, you just smile at Jake. Then you shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly. He reads it as you intend it – a silent signal to move on and act as if nothing’s amiss. A nonverbal request to just let it go. 

Across the table from the two of you, his mother is the one to speak next, to divert the conversation from one area of dangerous territory to another. “James tells me that you two were together at your family’s fundraiser event.” Like Jake considered earlier, it’s all you can do not to kick him under the table at the reminder. That gossipping little shit. “You’ll have to pass on my apology to your mother that we couldn’t make it. But I have to say, I’m surprised the two of you decided to announce your relationship by attending together.” She frowns, but there’s a lightness in her tone that tells you she’s not mad, not really. “And I still can’t believe you made me hear it from your brother!”

Jake, thankfully, handles that one with ease. “We’ve been keeping things pretty close to the chest these last few weeks.” He glances at you fondly, and you have to applaud him. From the outside, you think it must look quite genuine. “We just liked each other.” Under the table, he takes your hand back in his. You assume that he’s just caught in the moment, forgets the fact that there’s no way for his family to see the display of affection. “We wanted to see where things would go.” Turning back to his mother, he adds, somewhat apologetically, “It was never meant to be some big announcement. Of course, I would have told you, Mom, when we did actually announce our relationship.” Jake lets his eyes fall on his older brother. “If someone hadn’t beat me to it.”

You can see the way James’ hackles rise, and so can she. 

Sensing the potential for another argument to brew, his mother cuts in again, smoothing over the tension. “Well, what’s done is done.” Turning to you, she smiles. “And we’re very happy to have you here, ___. I hope my son is treating you well.”

Jake isn’t sure how you manage to do it without grimacing, without turning up your nose at the lie, but you assure his mother, “He is.” And your smile looks almost genuine. “The very best,” 

Jake isn’t the only one that seems to think that you mean it. Across the table, his mother swoons while James crumples a little. His father just looks mildly disinterested, if anything. 

And those expressions remain steady for the rest of the evening, more or less, as you and Jake take turns spinning tales of the early days of your romance. He divulges the details of the outfit you were wearing on your so-called first date (a top with a sweetheart neckline, not off-the-shoulder), and you supplement with a tall tale of the time Jake saved you from getting soaked to the bone when he showed up outside of your lecture hall with an umbrella after a torrential downpour began out of nowhere. 

After a while, even his beaming mother can only handle so much sappiness, and she begins the end of the evening by excusing herself, referencing an early morning tomorrow as her reason for leaving. After giving you both one final hug, she bids you both goodnight. His father follows soon after, sans hug, leaving the table to take an urgent business call. 

In an effort to escape James and his wandering eye, Jake is quick to excuse the two of you moments later, whispering some half hearted excuse about giving you a tour of the house. To his credit, he does actually lead you around a handful of rooms on the first floor, but the tour is cut short by the time the two of you go up the stairs and step out onto the outdoor balcony on the second floor. 

The cool autumn air is refreshing, washes away lingering anxieties from a few close calls, a handful of narrow escapes from certain fiascos. From keeping up your hastily constructed lies for an entire evening.

For long minutes, the two of you are content to say nothing at all. And Jake isn’t uncomfortable in the silence, but after a while, he still searches for something to fill it. Something to get a conversation going. Something to see where your head's at. He finally settles on, “I can’t believe we forgot to come up with a story of how we met.”

He half expects you to say something scathing. To use your wit to insult or blame him for the lack of foresight, but you don’t. Instead, you exhale. And then you agree, somewhat amused, “Me neither.”

“I think we did alright, though,” Jake reasons. He hates to admit it, but, “That cheat sheet idea of yours came in handy, after all.”

Again, he doesn’t get the sarcasm he expects. “No kidding.” And then you’re the one looking for ways to keep the interaction flowing. Something to fill the silence. “Your mom seems nice.”

“She is,” Jake nods. And he knew she would like you just as much. “She’s the person I’m closest to in my family.”

“Mm,” you hum. You can see why. She’s warm in a way that your own has never been. But it’s not like Jake exactly got dealt an easy hand when it comes to family members. You mean it when you tell him, “Your brother still sucks.”

Jake just laughs. “And I wouldn’t hold my breath for that to change anytime soon.”

A half smile pulls at your lips. It’s replaced by a small frown when you suppose it’s time to comment on the last guest of the evening. “You were right, in the car. Your dad is… intense.” It’s not like you exactly hit the jackpot of parental relationships, but you can’t imagine it’s easy for Jake to have a father like that, to have grown up with those expectations, those scrutinizing eyes, weighing on his shoulders. 

Instead of responding, Jake just looks at you for a moment. His eyes trace your profile, committing details to memory, as you look out at the night in front of you. And then he says, “Can I ask you something?”

You sigh. You’re still not looking at him, but you can sense the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Aren’t you going to anyway?”

Jake shakes his head even though you can’t see it. “I wouldn’t have asked for permission if I was going to anyway.”

A moment of silence rings in the air. And then, “Okay.”

Jake isn’t sure what you’re referring to. “Okay, you agree or okay, I can ask?”

At that, you turn to look at him. “Both, I guess.”

Jake meets your eye, considers the best way to ask what’s been weighing on his mind for the better part of the evening. “When my dad asked you about law school,” he starts, “why did you tell him that you’re planning to go? You wrote that you still aren’t sure on the paper you gave me.”

You only pause for a moment. “It’s what he wanted to hear.”

“What?” There’s no evasiveness in your words, but Jake is still looking for clarity.

Sighing, you elaborate, “Your dad didn’t want to hear about my indecisiveness when it comes to the future. He wanted to hear about the plan I have. One that would make sense to him. So I told him what he wanted to hear.” Breaking eye contact, you look back out at the stars. “Sometimes, it’s just easier that way.”

But Jake still has one other question. He might be pressing his luck, but he asks anyway, “Why haven’t you decided? About law school, I mean?”

Your gaze lands somewhere in the distance, somewhere it might take light years to reach. “What do you want to hear?”

For the second time, Jake asks,“What?”

It’s ironic, almost, how easily you’re able to rifle through his insecurities, his inner thoughts. “What do you want to hear? Something that will make you feel better about having questions about your future? Something that will make you believe you’ll have everything figured out soon?” The stars blink above you, and you ask him again, “What answer do you want to hear from me?”

Jake realizes it then, under the glow of fading moonlight, why you’ve always been an image of perfection to him. It’s not accidental, but it’s also not entirely honest. Perfection, he realizes, is your identity of choice – it’s what you think other people want from you. So you construct it, you practice it, you create it. And then you give it. You let people do what they want with it. 

But Jake isn’t asking about your future career plans because he’s trying to feel better about himself. He’s not trying to stack up your lives next to each other and see how his compares. He’s not trying to put cracks in the exterior you’ve worked so hard to maintain.

But he does want a glimpse of what’s underneath.  

So when he answers, he opts for a third option. “The truth.” Above you, the moon glows. “I want to hear the truth.”

If it catches you off guard, you recover quickly. You’re not sure what it is about this moment that has you wanting to spill your guts, but you can’t remember the last time someone asked. The last time someone cared.

So you tell him, with all your honesty, “I don’t want to go to law school. I never have. My mother has made it clear that that’s the expectation, though. So I can’t decide how willing I am to estrange myself completely. To potentially lose what’s left of our relationship.”

Jake listens. He hears you. He gets it. “What would you do?”

It’s another answer that comes easy, even though the question hasn’t been asked by anyone in a long, long time. “Architecture.” Your smile is small, but it’s real. “I had a great aunt who was an architect. And she always used to tell me, when I was kid, that the secret is to put a little love into everything you build. It doesn’t have to be actual buildings, of course. That was just her thing, y’know? The thing she could always put a little love into, even on the hard days.” You sigh. “Truth be told, I don’t hate law. It’s interesting, and I’m good at it. But it’s not something I’ve ever been able to put a little love into.”

You turn to him, words still ringing in the air. You ask, “What about you? Was business always your calling?”

If you can give him the truth, Jake supposes he ought to return the favor. “To be honest, I have no idea. It was never a question. It was always a given that I would study business and take on some kind of role in the company.” He turns over your great aunt’s words in his mind. “But I don’t think it’s something I have any love for. Not even a little.”

“So what would you do?” You echo his question back to him. “If you could do anything?”

Jake’s answer comes less easily. “I don’t know.” You raise an eyebrow. “I really don’t. To be honest, I don’t even think I could tell you most of the other majors that are offered at our university. It’s always been business. It’s what my whole family does. Even Jay, my closest friend, is a business major too.” Jake realizes how odd that must sound, but it’s true. “It’s all I really know.”

“Hm,” you muse. He can see the wheels spinning in your brain, the beginning of an idea. “Maybe it’s time for you to find your thing, then. Somewhere to put your love.”

“Yeah, right,” Jake scoffs. He doesn’t think that’s possible, and especially not at this point. “I may not ever be the CEO, but I still don’t want my dad to disown me. And besides, we’re in our third year. Not exactly the best time to change my major.”

“Yeah,” you agree, but Jake can tell you still haven’t quite let it go. “I suppose you’re right.”

This time, when the silence between you returns, you let it linger. With nothing but the pale glow of the night sky and quiet whispers of the wind, long moments bleed into each other. You take it all in, let it all wash over you – the stillness, the chill of an autumn breeze, the presence of the boy at your side.  

And it’s a long time before either of you moves again. 

…

At this point, Jake really should be used to ominous, slightly threatening messages from you. Still, he can’t help but stutter a bit when he checks his phone after another tutoring session with Jungwon the following week. 

Without any family events looming on the horizon, you and Jake have had a few days to yourselves without any fake dating facade to follow. Aside from the white lies Jake slips Jungwon every now and then, he hasn’t seen or mentioned you since e dropped you back off at your apartment after dinner at his parents’ house last weekend. 

His thoughts, however, are an entirely different matter. No matter where he is, what he’s doing, they have the very annoying habit of always straying back to the same scene. A moonlit balcony. A cool autumn breeze. The most scraps of truth he’s ever been given from you at once. A thousand misconceptions shattered and reconstructed all in a single moment. 

Still, Jake’ not quite sure how to interpret the message that greets him, other than as a very direct threat. 

You [7:48 pm]: Meet me at the far end of the quad next to the library tomorrow at 2:45 or I’m telling your brother we broke up and I have uncontrollable romantic feelings for him

Jake [8:02 pm]: Should I be scared?

He’s not reassured by your reply.

You [8:04 pm]: :)

So Jake is standing on the far end of the quad, beside the library, the next afternoon at 2:42 when he sees you approaching. 

The first thing you do when you finally reach him is swat at the baseball cap he’s wearing, knocking it askew. “What are you, a frat boy?”

“It’s sunny,” Jake defends, fixing his hat. Something you’re well aware of, if the obnoxiously large sunglasses balanced on the bridge of your nose are anything to go by.

“You know,” you tilt your head, giving it a second thought. “The hat might be kind of perfect, actually.” Deciding to divulge the reason for your message, you tell him, “I need you to come somewhere with me.”

“What?” Jake balks, suddenly thrown by the lack of details. He needs a little more warning than this, if he’s expected to play the role of your boyfriend convincingly. “Is this,” he leans in close, waits for a group of students to pass by before he whispers apprehensively, “a contract thing?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I mean, don’t like, start hitting on other girls in front of witnesses or anything, but we don’t have to act like a couple.”

Now, Jake is even more confused. “Then where are we going?”

Never one to give in easily, all you say is, “You’ll see.”

Jake crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you give me more information.”

“I literally have James’ phone number in my favorites.”

He holds his ground. “And I have the right to know where you’re taking me!”

“Ugh,” you roll your eyes. “Fine. We’re going to the Student Union Building.” A multipurpose building in the center of campus, it’s a typical place for events that are too large to be hosted anywhere else. Which really doesn’t give Jake much to work with.

“Why?” His question is slow, suspicious. 

“My god.” You throw your hands in annoyance. “I’m going to have to start paying Jungwon double if this is how annoying you are when you have a question about something. Just come with me,” you reiterate. “You’ll see what we’re doing soon enough.”

“But–”

It doesn’t matter, you’re already grabbing his hand in yours, more or less dragging him through the quad towards the Student Union Building before he can get his protest out. Jake’s eyebrows are still creased in confusion when you pull him through the front doors and he sees the unusually large crowd of people inside. 

Then, he sees the banner hanging from the ceiling. His lips flatten into a thin line. 

“Absolutely not.” But you’re already behind him, blocking his exit and pushing him towards the makeshift check-in counter. 

“Hi!” The student employee greets, far too cheerfully in Jake’s opinion. If she notices the way your knuckles are white around his arm, holding him in place, she doesn’t comment on it. Jake pulls his hat down further over his eyes. “Are you two here for the Explore Our Majors event?”

“Yep,” you beam. And Jake is actually going to kill you. “I’m in my third year here, but my friend Ja–”

“Jacob,” Jake intercedes. 

“Right.” You spare a glance at him. “My friend Jacob.” You’re still way too excited when you lie, “He’ll be a freshman soon, and he’s hoping to look around and see all the different programs that are offered here. Do we need to go in a certain order or anything? Or is there somewhere we need to sign in?” 

There better not be. Like hell is he putting the name Jake Sim on a sign-in sheet for a major exploration event for freshmen. It’s not like his father has time to poke around at things like this, but his claws and connections run deep where this school is concerned. And Jake imagines he would be less than pleased to find out his son is wasting his time doing something so frivolous. Or something that could signal any kind of disinterest in the future that’s been laid out for him, his eventual place at his father’s company.

“Nope,” she smiles. “Each major has its own table, and majors are grouped by college. So all the STEM tables are over there, for example,” she points over to where a group of high school seniors are flipping through pamphlets. “You can just wander around as you like and chat with the people at the tables. There’s a mix of students and faculty. Oh, and each major should have a pamphlet you can pick up too, if you’d like.”

“Great,” you grin back. “Thank you.”

Again, if she sees the way you practically have to yank Jake by the arm to get him to move, she doesn’t comment on it. But once you’re out of earshot, he does lean down to hiss in your ear, “Why the fuck are we at the Explore Our Majors event for incoming freshmen?”

“Why do you think?” Your voice is entirely too loud. He has half a mind to slap his palm over your mouth to prevent you from spilling his secrets here in the middle of the Student Union Building’s largest event hall. “We’re finding you somewhere to put your love.” The large group of girls that walks by do a double take and then proceed to take turns shooting him death glares. 

Jake panics. “Would you stop saying it like that?”

You roll your eyes, paying the group of girls and his worries no mind. “Don’t knock my great aunt. Anyway, where do you want to start? Should we go over to the STEM tables?” Pausing to consider, you ask, “Or is your performance in econ more indicative of your math and science skills in general? We could look for liberal ar–”

“I just told you this weekend that I was good at physics.” It may have been a white lie, but who’s keeping track? 

“Oh, right.” You nod, eyes already searching for the table in question. “Should we go there, then?”

“No,” Jake shakes his head immediately. “I was good at it.” Questionable. “But I didn’t really like it.” A lot more true. 

“Alright,” you agree. Spinning to look in the other direction, you take him with you “Humanities it is. Or we could always go the fine arts route.” You turn to look at him for a moment, assessing. “You know, I feel like you would actually be a great dancer. You have the face for it.”

“Has that ever made sense to anyone you’ve said it to?”

“Wouldn’t know.” You shrug. “You’re the first.” Trying not to read too much into that, Jake lets you pull him along until you’re standing in front of a table with a rather gaudy ‘Journalism’ banner hanging on the front. 

“Hi,” you smile at the students standing behind it. Jake pulls his hat down a little further. You don’t know a whole lot about journalism other than the basics, but you’re pretty sure they’re also in charge of student media on campus. “You guys run the student newspaper, right?” 

Picking up a pamphlet, you nod as the boy behind the table answers brightly, “Yeah, we do.” He’s proud when he adds, “Our last issue was one of our most read yet. We ran a really great article on the front page about the importance of understanding how economic trends affect our daily lives–”

Delicately setting the pamphlet back down on the table, you glance at Jake before apologizing to the overeager boy, “I’m sorry, but I think Jacob and I are gonna head to the next table.” 

ANd then you’re dragging him along again.

“Okay,” you turn to Jake once you’re out of earshot, “So that’s a veto for journalism. What about other kinds of writing? You point to a table a few rows away. There’s the creative writing table.”

Jake shakes his head. “Even discussion board posts are like pulling teeth.”

“Noted.” Your jaw sets with a little too much determination for his liking. “Minimal writing it is, then.” 

The two of you pass several more tables in the same fashion, Jake shutting each one down before you have a chance to so much as grab a pamphlet. 

There’s history, but who cares about dead people? English, but he’s seen the career outlook and he’d rather not study unemployment, thank you very much. Sociology, but he already lives in society. Why would he waste his time studying it?

Finally, you point out a major that he doesn't have anything scathing to say about within the first five seconds. “Graphic design,” you nod towards the table a few spots away. “That could be interesting.”

Jake hates to admit it, but he kind of thinks so too. He does think visual design is pretty interesting, and marketing and advertising have always been some of his favorite aspects of business. He’s about to say fuck it and fully embrace Jacob the incoming freshman when he notices one glaring problem. The graphic design table is set up right next to the business table. 

A nonissue, really, except for the fact that students are helping to run this event. And as you drag him closer, Jake realizes with mounting dread that he recognizes one of the faces spending an afternoon trying to convince high schoolers that choosing a business major will change their lives for the better. 

He turns to make a break for it before you can reinforce your grip on his arm and physically drag him with you, but it’s too late. 

“Jake?” he hears a horribly familiar voice call. “Is that you?” Turning around slowly, he knows he’ been caught. Jake kind of wishes the ground would open up and swallow him. The only thing he wants to do is melt into the floor. 

“It is you,” Jay says upon closer inspection. And because you seem so hellbent on making his life even more painful, you pull him with you until the two of you are right in front of his best friend. “What the hell are you doing here?” Jay asks him. “You said you had a date.”

Butting in on the conversation, your smile is entirely too smug when you turn to Jake. “You said what now?”

Glancing at you, Jay’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to connect the dots. “You were telling the truth? Dude, that’s even worse.” Jay looks at you almost like he’s trying to apologize on behalf of his friend. “You’re not exactly wine-ing and dining her, here.”

“Hi,” you introduce, extending a hand. Jay shakes it warily. “I’m ___. Jake’s…” you search for a good term to use, and finally, with a private smile, settle on, “plus-one.”

“To an Explore Our Majors event?” That clears up none of Jay’s confusion. He turns back to Jake. “What the hell? Are you going on dates with incoming freshmen–”

“This is my third year,” you interrupt again. “We’re just looking around.”

“Hold on,” Jay pauses, a flash of recognition crossing his features as he studies you for a moment. “You’re the ___ that Jake was trying to get a phone number from for his brother, right? Is that what’s going on? Are you making him do a bunch of stupid shit like this to get it?”

You shrug, glancing at Jake. “You could say that.”

Jake has to give it to you. You’re a lot better at beating around the bush, at avoiding giving straight answers about the nature of your relationship, than he is. Jay looks more confused than anything at your evasiveness. If James were to somehow hunt him down and inquire about the validity of your relationship, Jake is positive that his friend would have absolutely no idea how to answer. 

A reassuring idea, other than the fact that Jake is also sure Jay will be hunting him down after this to get the real story, since he couldn’t get it from you. Targeting the weaker prey, a classic strategy. 

“Anyway,” you build yourself an out. “We’re gonna go check out the graphic design table.”

You tug at Jake’s wrist, but he stands his ground this time. Thoroughly embarrassed and done letting you pull him around, he tries to back you into a corner with one of your tricks from the fundraiser. “We should get going, actually,” he argues pointedly. “Look at the time. We don’t want to be late for…” Unfortunately, he’s still no better at coming up with excuses, “that thing.”

You roll your eyes at the obvious trick. “Don’t worry.” Your smile is sugary, but your eyes flash with warning. “I canceled it. Let’s go.”

This time when you redouble your efforts to drag him to the graphic design table, he has no choice but to follow, a little miserably. Behind the business table, Jay has zero idea what to make of what he just witnessed.

As the students at the graphic design table start their spiel, Jake is glad at least one of you is paying attention. You nod along enthusiastically while the student representative talks your ear off about the pros and cons of various online photo editing programs, asking well-timed follow-up questions as you expertly skim the pamphlet you’re handed simultaneously. 

Jake, on the other hand, still coming down from the mortification of being caught, is suddenly a little caught up in the way your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. A light pressure he could easily work his way out of. But despite himself, he’s having a hard time coming up with any motivation to do so. 

Distantly, he concentrates on the sensation. Your skin is soft, warm. The gentle pressure of your fingers is a tether to you. And in this moment, it’s a reminder that out of everyone in his life, you’re the first to be so obnoxiously concerned with what his interests are, where his passions lie. 

Despite his rightful protests against attending this event, he can read your intentions behind bringing him here. And it would be a lie if he said he didn’t appreciate them, just a little. 

At this point in his life and academic career, he feels a little bit like a toddler you’ve thrown in a pool to try and teach to swim. It’s hard for him to tread water, to keep his head above the waves, when the solid ground he’s used to is suddenly replaced by new matter entirely. 

But if Jake is sure of one thing, it’s that he won’t drown. How could he, with the lifeline of your arm still reaching out towards him? With the steadiness of your fingers still wrapped around him? He thinks you just might save him too, if you saw him drowning. Would pull him in and teach him to float on his back. To work with the water instead of against it. 

To swim, even when the water gets rough. 

At your side, terms like visual communications and web design and typography all blur together. And Jake’s focus is still narrowed in on the pulse point on his wrist, the way his heartbeat is entrusted in your unwavering grip.

…

Jake has a well-practiced routine for checking his econ grade whenever results of a new assignment or exam are posted. 

First, he makes sure that anything fragile or breakable is out of his reach. Then, he lights a scented candle. Setting the new one he just bought a few days ago on his desk, he checks the label again. Lavender Dreams. It’s all he can do not to laugh, a little miserably. Well, he supposes, thinking back to your words a couple of weeks ago, time to find out if lavender is actually calming. 

Third, he makes sure he has no other important plans for the day. Nowhere else to be, nothing to do that he can’t show up for in a ruined mood. Because that is usually what happens during this little ritual of his.

Finally, his last step is to look up at the ceiling of his bedroom, imagine the sky above it, and whisper one, desperate, “Please.”

Then he sits at his desk and opens his laptop to greet his fate with a grimace and a racing heart. Today, Jake follows all the same steps until he’s navigating to his university’s learning management platform. He clicks on the Econ tab, slowly releases a breath he wasn’t meaning to hold. 

His shoulders tense at the notification of a newly inputted grade that pops up, the icon begging for his attention. He inhales deeply, letting the smell of lavender enter his nose and hopefully work some magic in his nervous system. 

Maybe he should adjust his ritual, he thinks, mouse hovering over the new grade notification. Maybe he should start burning incense or something, cleansing the air of any bad energy before he looks. In his indecision, his finger slips, presses, clicks. 

And Jake doesn’t quite have time to screw his eyes shut before the number flashes on his screen. 

Oh, he is so fucked.

So, so, so, terribly, absolutely, completely fucked. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise at this point, that the score of his latest homework problem set is a–

Wait. 

Jake opens his eyes, just barely, peeking at the screen again. 

82.

Jake pauses for a moment. His eyes open completely. His brow pulls down in confusion. 

82. He double checks to make sure he’s seeing the grade correctly, that the numbers haven’t somehow been reversed. 

They haven’t. 82. It’s his real, true, honest to god score. It’s a B. A low B, but that’s still the highest econ grade Jake has seen since his third round of the syllabus quiz.

Oh my god. Oh my god. 

Jake kind of doesn’t know what to do with his body, with all of the extra energy he suddenly has. In that moment, he thinks he could do anything. If Jungwon were here, Jake thinks he might actually kiss him on the mouth. 

82. It’s not enough to save his grade, not yet. But if it’s a trend that continues, Jake Sim just might finally pass econ. 

He goes to text his tutor the good news, to confirm their next session, but finds that Jungwon has beat him to it. Fingers still slightly shaky from the excess of nerves, he reads the new messages. 

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:03 pm]: Hey, I saw that the latest homework grades were released. Lmk how you did!

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:04 pm]: Also, sorry to do this kind of last minute, but I’m not gonna be able to meet you at our regular time tomorrow. We could reschedule if there’s another time that works for you? Or we could just wait and meet again next week. 

Frowning, Jake reads the message again. He’s still riding the high of a B- and is reluctant to do anything that might prevent it in the future, including missing a tutoring session. 

Jake [7:10 pm]: Is there any way we could still meet tomorrow? Maybe before our usual time. 

Jake [7:10 pm]: And I got an 82! You’re actually a lifesaver

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: That’s great! 

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: I’m sorry, but I don’t think tomorrow afternoon will work either. I’m going to the university skating competition to support a friend

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: You probably know him actually. Him and ___ are good friends too lol. It’s Park Sunghoon

Jake rereads the message, sighs. He supposes it makes sense. He can’t really fault his godsend of a tutor for wanting to support a long-time friend at one of the most important competitions of his season. Still, Jake’s a little slammed this week, and the thought of missing a tutoring session is enough to sober him from the thrill of his latest assignment grade. 

Park Sunghoon. Jake has only met him once – in search of you, or rather, your phone number – and he doubts Sunghoon remembers much of that interaction. Jake doesn’t really know anything about him, other than the fact that he’s rumored to be one of the best skaters to come through this school and that he’s apparently good friends with both you and Jungwon–

Wait. 

Oh no. Oh no. 

Jungwon can’t go to Sunghoon’s skating competition tomorrow. Because Jake is almost positive you’ll be there too, is pretty sure you and Jungwon are probably going together. If there’s a flare of jealousy in his gut, he’ll ignore it for now. He has bigger problems.

Namely, the fact that Jungwon is under the impression that you and Jake are dating. Officially dating, since he knows that Jake took you to meet his family this last weekend. Quite seriously dating, if the lovesick expression on Jake’s face every time he talks about you in front of Jungwon is anything to go by. 

And the sole reason Jungwon is under that impression is because Jake couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Because he essentially told him, flat out, that the two of you are very much enjoying the honeymoon phase of your relationship. 

Still working in a cloud of panic, Jake leaves Jungwon on read for the time being and sends a message to you instead. 

Jake [7:17 pm]: What time is Sunghoon’s thing tomorrow? I’ll pick you up

You [7:18 pm]: ??? 

You [7:18 pm]: What the fuck?

Before he can think of a reply to type, Jake’s phone screen is overtaken by an incoming call notification. One that he knows better than to ignore, even as something in his shrivels a little. 

“Hello?” He answers, wheels in his brain spinning as he tries to come up with some sort of explanation on the spot. 

You don’t waste any time. “How do you even know about Sunghoon’s competition? And what do you mean you’ll pick me up?” On the bright side, you don’t sound angry, at least. Just very confused. 

“Jungwon mentioned it to me.” Jake decides he can at least be honest about that. “He had to cancel our tutoring session tomorrow.”

“So what?” Even through the phone, Jake can sense your exasperation. “You thought you could squeeze in some econ notes at the athletics center? My god, you are so persistent about the worst things. Leave poor Jungwon alone.”

Poor Jungwon. Poor Jungwon. 

Jake’s tone is a little less even when he clarifies, “No, it has nothing to do with econ. I just want to come with you. To, uh… to support Sunghoon.” It’s a weak explanation, even to his own ears. 

“You don’t know him.” Your voice is flat.

“We’ve talked,” Jake argues.

“You’ve had one conversation. He thought your name was Jacob.”

“Which turned out to be a very useful alias for me.” At the event for incoming freshmen you dragged him to unwillingly. “I owe him one.”

There’s an extended silence on your end. 

Jake begs a little more. “I let you drag me to that stupid event last week. You know, I had to run, actually, full on run, away from Jay the other day so he couldn’t ask me about it. Just let me come with you tomorrow.” 

You hesitate. “I might, if you tell me why you want to go so badl–”

“Fine,” Jake sighs. “You caught me. My secret passion in life is actually figure skating. I didn’t start training young enough, so now I have to live vicariously through–”

“You are so fucking annoying” But it works. “Fine.”

“Fine, as in, I can come?” Jake knows better than to sound too hopeful. 

You refuse to answer him directly. “Be at my apartment by four-thirty tomorrow. If you’re even a second late, I’m leaving without you.”

On the other line, Jake lets his fist fly into the air in silent celebration. Into the receiver of his phone, he says calmly, “Great. I’ll pick you up, then.”

You hang up without bothering to respond, and Jake returns Jungwon’s message. 

Jake [7:26 pm]: Let’s just plan to meet next week for tutoring. And thanks for the reminder. You kind of saved me again, actually. I’ll see you tomorrow at the competition

Sighing, Jake sets his phone down. 

For the moment, the crisis is averted, at least partially. But Jake knows he’ll have his real work cut out for him tomorrow. As he turns it around in his brain, the celebratory feeling in his chest slowly begins to morph into dread. 

How on earth is he going to sit through an entire evening with you and Jungwon without the illusion shattering one way or another? It feels like an impossible task. 

But then he takes a long inhale of lavender-scented air, looks back at the proud B- still displayed on his laptop screen. If he can pull that off, he thinks he just might be able to do anything. 

…

It’s a confidence that Jake is finding hard to rediscover the following afternoon. Just after three, every ounce of self-assuredness Jake has ever had is slowly draining from his body as the clock ticks closer and closer to four-thiry with every passing second. 

Standing in front of his mirror, Jake can’t decide how he feels about the black button-down he’s wearing. Is it too much? Not enough? 

He knows he’s probably overthinking it, but he’s about to spend an entire evening sitting with you and Jungwon, watching Sunghoon. If you don’t think he looks at least a little good in comparison, something in his pride is going to be very, very wounded. 

On the other side of his bedroom door, Jake can hear Jay poking around in his kitchen. After a few days of successfully dodging him, his best friend finally snuck his way into his apartment under the guise of delivering a package. Still a little terrified to face him and the questions he’ll inevitably ask, Jake has been hiding in his room since his arrival. 

He curses the situation now. If nothing else, Jay could at least provide a set of fashion-forward eyes to help him choose his outfit of the evening. But that would also involve explaining where he’s going, which would only send Jay’s suspicions about you and Jake skyrocketing. 

Unlike you, Jake is not particularly well-versed in avoiding leading questions. In fact, he regularly does the opposite, if his interactions with Jungwon are anything to go by. 

Somewhat regrettably, he decides he’ll have to use his own intuition for this one. 

That turns out to mean that Jake spends the next forty minutes trying on half of his closet, pulling out shirts that he hasn’t seen since middle school and watching the pile of rejected options pile up on his chair as uncertainties pile up in his gut. 

Finally, he lands on the black button-up he was wearing originally and decides to make the disaster of his room a problem for later. Glancing at the clock, he realizes with a bit of dread that he needs to head out soon if he doesn’t want to miss your threat of a deadline. But then his eyes land on the small handful of ornate bottles on top of his dresser, and he suddenly has a new problem. 

Running low on both steam and time, Jake decides that facing whatever Jay has in store for him is better than trying to make this last decision on his own. So he scans that array of bottles, picks his two favorite scents, and opens the door to his bedroom slowly, doing his best to delay the inevitable inquisition. 

Stepping out warily, he sees that Jay has moved from the kitchen to the living room and is currently snacking on a sandwich he made with whatever ingredients he found in Jake’s fridge as he watches something on the TV. 

“Hey, Jay?” Jake calls out, a little hesitantly. 

“What?” Jay doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Oh, you decided you’re talking to me again?”

“I’m sorry,” Jake searches for a feasible explanation for his avoidance. Finding nothing solid, he settles with the classically vague, “I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what? Training for a marathon? I can’t believe you actually ran from me–”

“I realized I forgot my computer at the library,” Jake lies. “I wanted to go back and grab it before it got stolen.”

“Whatever.” Jay doesn't buy it for a second. But he is eating Jake’s food, so he figures he owes him a little. “What do you want?” 

Jake moves to stand next to his couch, careful not to block Jay’s view of the TV and annoy him further. Tentatively, Jake holds out the two bottles of cologne. “Which one of these smells better?”

Jay sends Jake a look of disbelief, sets his sandwich down on the coffee table. “Do I look like a fucking Macy’s employee to you?”

“Just help me out,” Jake pleads. “Please,” he adds for good measure.

Jay stares at him blankly for a moment longer. “Well, it depends,” He finally concedes. “The Yves Saint Laurent has more of a causal vibe, and the Giorgio Armani feels like you’re trying a little harder, like you want to be impressive and you don’t care if people know that.” 

And then he takes a closer look at Jake. At the way his hair has been perfectly styled to look just the right amount of intentionally messy, at the outfit he’s wearing. 

“Hold on, what are you so worked up about?” Jay’s eyes narrow in on his shirt. “And is that Prada? It’s four in the afternoon on a Thursday. Where the hell are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Jake replies too quickly, already beginning to retreat to the safety of his bedroom before he can be questioned further. 

Jay turns in his seat, eyes following Jake accusingly the whole time. “You’re meeting ___, aren’t you? What’s going on between the two of you anyway? Why are you being so weird?”

Jake pretends not to hear his friend, closing the door behind him and he looks for his coat in the mess of his room. Finding it, he pulls his arms through the sleeves. Stopping at the mirror, he gives himself one final once-over before turning to leave again. Right before he does, he pauses, weighs his options as he weighs Jay’s advice. And then he reaches for the bottle of Giorgio Armani, sprays it twice for good measure. Before he can psych himself out again, he heads for the front door. 

He almost makes it, too, but before he can slip out, Jay asks him one last question. “Just answer this,” he bargains from his seat on the couch. “Are you meeting ___?”

“None of your business” is the only answer he gets as Jake leaves his apartment, quickly closing the door behind him to cut off any other opportunities for Jay to catch him in a white lie. 

And when Jake arrives at your apartment, he has seven minutes to spare. Sending you a message of his arrival, he makes his way to the lobby to greet you. 

“Mr. Sim,” your doorman nods coolly. 

“Elton,” Jake returns, equally as frigid as he reads the middle-aged man’s name tag. 

Thankfully, you don’t keep him waiting long. You make your way down to the lobby before Jake and your doorman have the chance to exchange a few more choice words.

Despite the initial turmoil and the current state of his bedroom, Jake is more than pleased with the clothing choices he landed on for the evening when he sees you. 

It would be hard to claim that the two of you are matching, exactly, considering how simple both of your outfits are. But as he watches you approach him in a black sweater and light jeans, Jake likes the way it almost looks as if the two of you did it by accident. Synced up so well that even your closets align without you meaning to. 

And he likes the way it looks like the two of you go together, two pieces of a matching set.

Giving your doorman one last parting wave, the walk to Jake’s car is short. He doesn’t offer to pull the car around this time, mostly because the white sneakers on your feet are a lot more conducive to walking that your heels for the fundraiser a couple of weeks ago.  

“I assume we’re heading to the Ice Sports Center,” Jake says, putting the car in reverse as he backs out of his parking spot. 

“Yeah,” you nod. Much to his relief, you’re not projecting any annoyance. At least not yet. “But we’re picking up Jungwon first.” 

“What?” Jake balks, suddenly reminded of the awful tightrope he’s about to be walking all evening. The way he’s somehow supposed to keep Jungwon thinking that the two of you are enamored with one another without you finding out that he divulged the nature of your fake relationship to your friend. 

Mistaking his apprehension for annoyance, you shake your head. “You’re so mean,” you accuse. “First you invade our evening and then you complain about picking him up? The poor guy already has to put up with you all night. The least you could do is spare him an Uber ride.”

Jake suddenly has another bone to pick. “First of all, why do the the two of you even need an evening–”

“Because I never get to see him!” A bit dejectedly, you add, “Between classes and tutoring and his internship, he never has any free time.”

Jake wonders, somewhat vindictively, if he could start requesting additional tutoring sessions. Burn up whatever remnants of time the kid has to dedicate to you. 

Instead, he relents. He’s not going to win any favor from you by doing anything to Jungwon. Not that he needs your favor, of course. Not that he even wants it. 

So Jake just asks you to give him Jungwon’s address and plots it into his phone’s GPS without another complaint. But as the estimated arrival time begins to dwindle, so does Jake’s confidence that he can pull this evening off. 

With just a few minutes to go, he decides that honestly might be his only way out of this mess. 

Turning to you slowly, he says, “So, I kind of have to tell you something.”

You groan. “I hate the way you just said that. Please tell me I’m not also going to hate whatever it is you’re about to tell me.”

Jake hesitates, “I mean, I can’t predict the future–”

You read his guilt like an open book. Flatly, you ask, “What did you do?”

Jake is quick to go on the defensive. “Why are you assuming it’s my fault–”

You’re not in the mood for his evasiveness. “What did you do?”

It comes out all in a rush, sounds like one long word as Jake lets the truth spill out. “I might have accidentally told Jungwon that you and I are dating.”

Somehow, you understand just as well as you would have if he enunciated clearly. Your voice is dangerously low. “How, pray tell, did you accidentally tell your econ tutor that you and I are dating?”

“It just came out, I swear!” Jake tries to dig himself out. “You came up somehow, and I mentioned the dinner at my parents house. One thing led to another, and now he thinks that we’re dating.”

You’re still livid, not accepting his threadbare explanation. “I could sue you, you know. You signed a legal document agreeing to not tell our friends and acquaintances anything about our agreement.”

Jake calls your bluff. “That thing is not legally binding, and you know it. Besides, the wording on that part is so vague, I’m sure there are a million loopholes. No judge would uphold that in court.”

“Oh, so now you’re a contract expert–”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Jake interrupts, deciding that neither defense or offense are likely to get him much of anywhere. Maybe an apology will do him one better. “I know we agreed to not get our friends involved, but it really wasn’t on purpose.” It kind of very much was, but he figures you don’t need to know that. “I just… Can we pretend, just for tonight?” It sounds reasonable enough to him. After all, “It’s no different than what we’ve done so far–”

“Yes it is,” you argue. Your fury has evaporated slightly, now just simmering in his passenger seat. But Jake still doesn't get it.  “Jungwon is my friend. He knows me, the real me. I’m not trying to keep up appearances around him. I don’t want to lie to him, and especially not about something like my relationships. Especially because he’s going to think that I’m the one that’s been lying to him about it.” The more you say, the worse Jake starts to feel. “I told him you were my friend.”

It wasn’t about you being embarrassed of Jake or not wanting Jungwon to think that you would ever consider dating him. It was because Jungwon is one of the few people that gets you, that really gets you. It’s because he’s one of your few real friends, someone you don’t have to lie to. Someone who accepts your truths as they come. 

“I know.” For the first time, Jake’s short-sighted solution to his jealousy doesn’t feel so satisfying. He hadn’t considered this, the potential fallout on your end. How you would feel about lying like this to someone that you’re genuinely close to. All he can say is, “I’m sorry. I know I fucked up.”

You just give him a long look, silence building between the two of you as you weigh a million responses on your tongue and let all of them die, one by one, before breathing life into any of them. 

“I…” you finally say. “It’s whatever.” It’s not. Jake can hear it in your tone of voice, can read it in the way your lips twist. “Let’s just do it,” you agree to his original request. Jake isn’t sure why he can’t find it in himself to feel good about it. “Let’s just pretend for tonight.” 

Jake doesn’t know what to say, can’t find the words to remedy the situation. Still, your name is a quiet whisper on his breath. He feels like he’s begging, pleading. For what, he’s not entirely sure. 

You just shake your head, looking out of the windshield. “We’re here.”

And you are. Jungwon, completely oblivious to your conversation, is all smiles where he waits outside his apartment building, sending you and Jake both a friendly wave before jogging over to the car and sliding into the back seat. 

“Hey Jake, ___,” he greets, unaware of the stifling tension he’s just walked into. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way. You have a really nice car.”

And Jungwon is so nice, Jake thinks. So nice and considerate and genuinely pleasant to be around. Things that he controls, things that Jungwon wakes up every day and decides to be. Things that make you like him, want to be his friend.

Things that Jake, as he glances to where you’re still nursing your wounds in his passenger seat, understands with a sickening realization that he has not been. At least not to you. 

And Jake could pin the blame on a million different excuses. His father or the tight constraints of his life or the way he feels like nothing has ever really belonged to him. But when he looks at you, at your hurt, he knows that his lack of consideration for your feelings is all of his own doing. 

Jakes turns back to Jungwon for a moment, tells him, “No problem. I’m glad we could all go together.” And then he puts his eyes back on the road ahead of him and makes the decision to take a little more ownership of the things he can control. To do his very best to be a little better. To try, really try, to put a little love into the things he builds.

So Jake doesn’t protest, when you arrive at the ice rink and slide down into the middle seat, next to both him and Jungwon. Doesn't let the unpleasant feeling that rises in his gut when you give Sunghoon a massive bouquet of flowers and a warm hug after his program do anything but simmer. Doesn’t make his feelings your problem, a fire for you to put out. 

When he excuses himself to the bathroom, he tries not to let the imagined possibilities of what you and Jungwon might be talking about in his absence make him do something stupid. 

Besides, everything he’s thinking of is far off the mark anyway. 

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Jungwon turns to you and smiles. “You and Jake, huh?” He nudges you with his elbow. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Actually,” he amends, “I can believe that. What I can believe is that you lied.” The accusation is light, teasing. It still hits you like a sucker punch. “You said you two were just friends.”

But your hurt feelings won’t help you here, and you have tracks to cover. Jake didn’t tell you what he told Jungwon, not exactly, so you’ll have to do your best not to unravel any of the lies he’s already spun. 

“It’s new,” you try to explain, thinking of something that would make sense, that would wound Jungwon the least. “I haven’t really told anyone.” You mean it when you say, “But I am sorry for lying.” You wish you weren’t doing it still. You wish you could tell him the truth.

“Fine.” It’s an apology Jungwon accepts easily, even if he pretends to hold onto it a little longer. “You’re forgiven. But only because his car is really nice.” And then, “He’s good to you?”

“Yeah,” you echo the same words you told his mother a handful of evenings ago. “The best.”

“Good.” Jungwon nods. If there’s wistfulness there, it’s overtaken by his genuine desire to see you happy. “You deserve that.”

You’re not sure why you feel like crying, why everything about this conversation, this situation, suddenly feels so wrong.

“Thanks, Wonie.” You melt a little at his earnestness, the childhood nickname slipping out with your fondness. This is what you were afraid of, what you wanted to avoid. It’s not fair for him, not okay with you that Jungwon is wasting his sincerity on a lie, a false relationship. It’s hollow when you say, “That means a lot.”

Whatever reply Jungwon has dies on his lips as Jake finds the two of you again, slides back into his seat. As the rest of the evening passes, your lingering hurt starts to make room for something else. You’re not sure what to make of how undeniably easy it all is. How natural it feels to be sat in between your childhood friend and your fake boyfriend, trading jokes and smiles and stories that take no effort and make the time fly by. 

When Jake finally drops you back off at your apartment a few hours later, your anger is mostly gone. And unlike him, you were never particularly good at physics, but you do remember the conservation of mass – how things can change and transform but are never truly destroyed. In the absence of anger, you’re not entirely sure what emotions are beginning to overflow in their stead. 

But when Jake whispers, “Goodnight” from the driver’s seat of his car, it’s a sentiment that’s easy to return. 

…

As the month just before the holidays tends to do, the rest of the semester passes in a blur of late night study sessions, half-finished assignments, and a concerning amount of caffeine. Both of you slammed with responsibilities of your own, Jake hardly even sees you in those last few weeks. Instead, the promise of the holidays and your family’s upcoming New Year’s Eve party are threats that loom on the rapidly approaching horizon. 

This, then, is a small time apart from each other before your fake-dating responsibilities kick into full gear. Before they eventually as soon as the clock strikes midnight on the last day of December and your contract dissolves just as the year does. 

And at this point, that’s a concern for the future. Right now, Jake is too busy trying to pass his classes to have any brainwidth left to worry about other things. Namely, his econ term paper. The hours that he spends alone with his laptop, forgetting to do much of anything else, veer towards a number that is more than a little concerning.

But thanks to his sessions with Jungwon, a report card without any Fs is looking like an actual possibility for him this semester. So Jake doubles down and presses onwards, goes hours and sometimes even days hardly talking to anyone, just to make sure that every last detail, every last word, is as impeccable as possible. 

And a few weeks later, just as the first half of December draws to a close, Jake finds himself back at his desk, lavender candle lit, pleading with invisible deities as he opens his laptop to check his final econ grade. 

He lets one breath pass. Another. 

Slowly, he opens one eye. 

And there it is, on the screen in front of him. His final econ grade. 

73. A solid C. A fucking C. 

He did it. He actually did it. On his third go around, Jake Sim passed econ. And that alone calls for celebration. 

It’s nearly the first time he’s seen you since Sunghoon’s competition when you and Jungwon show up at his apartment by surprise with a custom ordered cake the next day. 

Predict THIS trend, Wall Street, the royal blue icing reads. Jake Sim passed econ!!!!!!

And then it really is the end of the semester, and the three of you are parting ways for winter break. With nearly a month of rest from studies and schoolwork, you and Jake finalize the details of your last two public appearances as a couple. 

The first is set to be at Jake’s parents’ house. It’s not so much an event as it is the two of you exchanging gifts, making sure that there are witnesses around to corroborate your affection. And the second, of course, will be the New Year’s Eve party at your family's home. 

The timeline gives you about a week to finalize your gift to him, something that has proven to be much more difficult than you were hoping. Despite your suggestion that the two of you just pick out your own gifts in advance and say that they’re from each other, Jake has insisted on going the traditional route. On surprising you. 

So when you show up at his family's home a few days before Christmas, a small red gift bag in hand, it’s with a bit of trepidation that the present inside will fall flat of whatever expectations your fake boyfriend may have. 

Moments later, with the glow of the fireplace casting a cozy glow on his living room, Jake holds a self-warming coffee mug in his hands. 

You feel a bit foolish as you reach for your rehearsed explanation, cite the one time he’d complained about his coffee going cold before he had the chance to drink it. But Jake insists that he loves it, assures you that he’ll put it to good use. 

And when your turn comes to open his gift, you do your best to ignore the slight shake in your fingers as you untie the bow on the small jewelry box he hands you. 

Sliding the lid off, it’s all you can do for a moment to stare. 

“Oh.” The golden chain of the necklace is delicate, fragile. But it’s the charm at the center that has you suddenly breathless. It’s a tiny, intricate outline of a house, the same shimmery gold as the chain. The color he memorized as your favorite. And in the center of the miniature home is an impossibly smaller outline of a heart. “Oh.”

Your soft words ring in the air for a moment as your fingers hover over the gift, unmoving.

Mistaking your lack of feedback for distaste, Jake is quick to explain, somewhat sheepishly. “It’s, uh,” he scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s supposed to be like what your great aunt said. Y’know, ‘put a little love into everything you build.’ If you don’t like it, I can–”

You shake your head. “I love it.” It makes your gift to him pale in comparison. The truth rattles in your brain a little too harshly. You got him a coffee mug, and he got you this. Something so obviously wrapped up in thoughtfulness and care and affection. But comparison is the last thing on his mind. 

“I… You do?” His uncertainty is still written all over his face. “You don’t have to just say that. Really, it won’t offend me if–”

“Jake,” you look up at him, put your hand on his chest. Physical touch is the only way you can think to stop his rambling. “It’s perfect. I love it. I really, really do.” Glancing back down at his gift, you smile. His eyes are suddenly wide, from your sincerity or your touch, you’re not sure. “Help me put it on?

Jake nods, swallows audibly. You retract your hand from his chest, let it fall back to your side as you hand him the jewelry box. Carefully, delicately, intentionally,  he takes the necklace out, lets it dangle between long fingers. 

And then he’s moving to stand behind you. The sudden heat of his body is a lure for your senses, a focal point you can’t pull your thoughts away from. 

“I…” He breathes, words suddenly a little strained. You feel the warmth of his words along the length of your spine, deep in your bones. Settling somewhere in the pit of your stomach. “Could you move your hair?”

It makes you feel vulnerable, when you acquiesce to his request, exposing the bare skin of your neck as you pull your hair to the side. “Is that better?” It’s barely a whisper. He hears it regardless. 

“Yeah,” Jake returns, just as airy, just as flighty. “That’s perfect.” 

And then his fingertips are ghosting the edges of your collarbone, skimming the sensitive skin of your throat as he places his gift around your neck. You don’t think you imagine the tremble in his fingers while he fights with the clasp for a moment, drawing in a shaky breath as he finally snaps the mechanism into place. 

“There.” He exhales and it travels over your exposed nape. 

Letting your hair fall back into place, you take a steadying breath before turning to face him again. 

You mean it when you say, “Thank you.” 

Jake takes it in, all of it. The moment. The proximity. You. Warning bells are sounding in his mind as his gaze travels from your eyes to the bridge of your nose to the slight part between your lips. 

He wants it, he realizes. In this moment, there is no doubt in his mind. There’s nothing, in fact, but his desires, his wants. And what he wants is to feel your exhale against his own. To lean down and close the distance and let his fingers trace the skin of your throat again, for real this time. Without the excuse of a necklace. 

He could, he thinks. It’s a rule you both signed your agreement on, but what are rules, he reasons, if not things to be broken? And he thinks that if he kissed you, you might just let him. It’s a theory that he’s desperate to test, almost as desperate as he is to learn the exact taste of your mouth when it’s not trading insults with him. And he was never one to let hypotheses remain in limbo for long. 

There’s heat in his gaze and desire in his bones when he leans down, just a fraction of an inch. 

Your eyes widen. Your breath stutters. Under your skin, your heartbeat races. 

You say nothing. 

And then he’s inching closer. Slowly, steadily, until he’s right there, so much closer than he’s ever been. Invading your senses and mingling your exhales and clouding anything coherent left in your brain. 

His exhale ghosts across your lips. Your eyes flutter shut, and you’re nothing but a slave to sensation. 

It won’t be him that breaks the spell. Resolve slipping with every passing heartbeat, it won’t be you, either. 

In the end, it’s neither of those things. Instead, it’s the shrill ping of an incoming notification that has the two of you springing apart, cheeks flaming, heat of the moment settling in your chest like a shock from a live wire with nowhere to put all of its excess energy. 

“I…” Jake can barely breathe, much less form words. He still wears his desire in his eyes, his want across his lips. It’s a miracle he even manages to say, “I better check that.”

“Right,” you nod, as if he’s asking for permission, as if it’s in any way under your control. But you’re scrambling to fill the burning silence, to redirect whatever is still simmering in the air. “Yeah.”

Jake nearly stumbles over his own feet as he takes a step away from you, pulling his phone off the coffee table. You avert your eyes as he skims over the notification, hoping the heat in your cheeks will fade from sheer will alone. 

Glancing back at him, you notice the way he’s still reading the notification. Notice the way his brow is furrowed, 

Without really even meaning to, you ask, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jake nods, but he still looks unsure. His eyes are still on his phone screen. “I think so.”

You raise an eyebrow at the vague qualifier, and he sighs before he continues, “Apparently someone submitted an anonymous plagiarism claim on my econ term paper. It went to the dean, and they’re running an investigation to make sure it’s my original work. That was just the department head letting me know that they’re proceeding with the investigation and will reach out again if any additional action is needed on my part.”

“What?” You balk, earlier tension replaced with one of an entirely different sort. You’re still stuck on his first sentence. “Plagiarism? How is that possible? You spent literal days working on that stupid paper. Even Jungwon said he couldn’t believe how much effort you put into it.”

“Yeah.” Jake shrugs. “I know. That’s why I’m not really that nervous.” His expression begs to differ. “I mean, I know that I didn’t plagiarize my paper, so I’m sure the investigation won’t be able to find anything.”

Still, it can’t feel good. Not when it took him so long, so much concentrated effort to finally pass. Not when the relief of it all is now stained with the accusation that looms over his head, no matter how much it lacks in credibility. 

“Is there anything I can do?” You offer.

“No.” Jake shakes his head, won’t make you bear the weight or the worry of his burdens. “I’m sure they’re just going to run some more in-depth comparisons to past papers. I really don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

“Okay,” you concede, a little hesitantly. But it’s a worry that lingers, even as the afternoon ticks by. Even when Jake’s mother arrives home and wraps you up in a big hug. Even when she slips you another box of homemade snickerdoodles, this time wrapped up with a bow. 

It’s a worry that lingers when you say your parting words, wishing the two of them a Merry Christmas and telling your fake boyfriend that you’ll look forward to seeing him on New Year’s Eve. 

It’s a worry that you have no distraction from until you’re on your way out, and your least favorite Sim sibling catches you at the door. 

“Merry Christmas, ___,” James smiles, all pretenses and no sincerity. Despite his words, it’s like he’s begging for a fight when he asks, “Are you enjoying the holidays?” 

If his mother weren’t in the next room over, you might just take it upon yourself to wipe the smug grin off his face. Preferably with an uppercut. 

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, forcing a cordiality you don’t feel. “It’s the same as every year. Good but busy.” It’s more than a little vindictive when you add, “Your brother did get me the most thoughtful gift, though.”

“Did he?” James muses. He doesn’t rise to the bait as much as you’d hoped. “Looks like little Jake is all grown up. Seems like it’s a good Christmas for him too. Miracles all around. He has a girlfriend to spend it with.” Pausing a moment, he tacks on, “And I heard he even passed econ, too. It was about time.”

“Well we can’t all be stuck in our ways forever.” You smile. It’s a polite, family friendly way of letting him know you still think he’s a raging asshole. 

But if James is miffed, he doesn’t show it. You don’t like the way his satisfied grin doesn’t falter either, not even once. “No,” he agrees as you turn your back to him, leaving him behind as you walk out the front door. “I suppose we can’t.”

…

Christmas morning is an uneventful affair at your house. There are gifts, of course, ones that your mother watches you open expectantly. 

The jewelry box that sits in your hands is reminiscent of just a few days prior. A fleeting touch that leaves your collarbone scalding. A similar gift that you wear around your neck now. 

But lifting the lid on the present from your mother, the differences are stark. 

A pair of silver hoop earrings, beautiful in their own regard and undoubtedly expensive, but silver has never been your color. It’s something you wish she’d remember, something you thought she might know, after twenty-one long years. 

You thank her, words echoing hollowly in the vast expanse of your living room. 

On the table next to you, your phone lights up with a notification. 

Jake [9:23 am]: Merry Christmas, ___

You think it might be your favorite gift yet.

…

It’s three days after Christmas when you wake up to a series of texts from Jungwon.

Wonie [8:12 am]: Hey ___ did Jake ever work on his econ term paper with you? Like at your place or anything?

Wonie [8:12 am]: He asked me not to get you involved, but I’m getting really worried. This plagiarism claim isn’t going away, and he needs as much evidence as he can get that it was all his work

Despite the way your sleepiness usually lingers in the morning, your friend’s messages have you immediately feeling alert.  

Scanning the texts again, the whole thing really is such an awful twist of luck. Jake finally, finally passed econ and after turning down his brother’s proposal from months ago, he did it as a result of his own efforts. Jake might not have ever worked on his paper in your presence, but you know he didn’t plagiarize it. You can pay testament to the way he was practically a recluse the entire last three weeks of the semester, only ever taking breaks from that damn assignment to occasionally eat, sleep, or bathe. 

And it’s so bizarre, you think. Jake mentioned to you that everything blew up because of an anonymous accusation. It’s not like his paper was caught by some online plagiarism checker. No, someone intentionally went to his professor and claimed that the work was stolen. Someone who wanted to start this fire and watch Jake struggle with the flames. 

It makes no sense, none at all. Who on earth would–

Your train of thought cuts off abruptly. Alone in your childhood bedroom, you know exactly who would do that. 

And, one Google search later, you know exactly where to find him. 

…

You’re not exactly surprised that the Sim Corporation building is up and operational during the holidays. If anything, the employees’ end-of-the-year burnout works to your advantage as you sneak right by the secretary at the front desk, bypassing the appointment system that must surely be in place for the CEO-to-be. 

The elevator ride is slow. Agonizingly slow. And you should be using this time to think, just like you should have been doing on the drive here. You should be figuring out which cards you can play and how exactly you’re going to make Jake’s weasel of a brother admit to what he’s done and retract his idiotic, completely fake accusation against his younger sibling. 

But the only thing your brain has room for right now is rage. And as the elevator ascends, all your anger can do is heat further and further, releasing steam until it’s boiling over, clouding your judgment and making you see red. 

When the elevator finally lets you off on the thirty-sixth floor, your strides eat up the ground until you're standing in front of the door you’ve been looking for. 

You don't bother to knock. 

Unsurprisingly, James Sim’s office is as completely devoid of life and personality as its owner. Covered floor to ceiling with the stark furniture that wouldn’t look out of place in an upscale Ikea ad, there are little to no personal touches, no hints of anything that might make you think James has any kind of redeeming qualities. 

And the only acknowledgement your least favorite Sim brother gives you behind his desk are two slightly raised eyebrows. 

“___.” He jots something down on a notepad in front of him. Probably writing a reminder to fire the secretary that let you up without notifying him. “To what do I owe the pleasure”

You’re in no mood for games. “Cut the bullshit.”

James’ pen pauses. He glances up at you.“I’m afraid I don’t–”

You won’t hear it. “I said, cut the fucking bullshit, James. You and I both know exactly why I’m here.” Your chest is already heaving as you list your demands. “Back the fuck off from Jake, retract your stupid plagiarism claim, and let him enjoy the holidays in peace.”

James doesn’t give you the courtesy of acknowledging anything you just said. Instead, he demands firmly, “Break up with him.”

“What the fuck?” You’re not sure how it’s possible, but your annoyance multiplies tenfold. How dare he assume he has any say in your relationship, anything at all related to you or his brother. “Why would I listen to anything you tell me to do?”

“You want me to retract the claim,’ James echoes evenly, enunciating so slowly it’s patronizing. “Okay, fine.” He lays his hands out in front of him as if he’s offering some generous, benevolent deal. “Then end the relationship.”

You wonder how much damage it would do if you throw the chair sitting next to you at his head. “Are you actually threatening me right now?”

“Not a threat.” He shrugs, all too nonchalantly. “Just a deal.”

Your strides eat up the ground between the door of his office and his desk. Laying a palm down on the surface in front of you, you point an accusatory finger in his face. “Listen here, you little shit. You and I both know damn well he wrote every word of that term paper on his own, so I suggest you listen to me and back the fuck off while I’m still asking nicely, or–”

“Or what? Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but between my brother and I, there’s only one person Dr. Jeong is likely to believe.”

“What are you, a cartoon villain?” Even this angry, his stupidity is astounding. “You still need evidence. Which you don’t have. Because he didn’t plagiarize shit, and especially not from you.”

James doesn’t falter. “Interesting that you mention that, actually. You know, I asked Dr. Jeong about you as well, and he said you’re not a student in his class.” Despite yourself, your features slacken slightly. “I thought that was odd, considering that’s how the two of you said you met. There are a lot of things that don’t add up about the two of you, actually.”

There’s a threat there, when he meets your eye and says, “So it kind of seems like you know already, that evidence isn’t just found. It’s made. And Jake’s term paper is different from the one I submitted, yes, but I also have a copy of what he submitted on my personal computer. It’d be pretty easy to ask my secretary to adjust a few timestamps here and there. To make it look like it was written years ago. Stolen by the younger brother that’s always been horribly jealous of me.”

“What the fuck is it to you if he passes econ?” You still don’t understand why he’s doing this. “You graduated university three years ago. Your life is here now, in this office. You’re in the process of becoming CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. Seriously, don’t you have better things to waste your time on? I mean, this is what most people call ‘peaking in college’ and usually try to avoid–”

James reveals his motivation with two small words. “Why him?”

But you still don’t get it. “What?”

“Why him?” he repeats, and it sounds so, horribly, terribly jealous. “Like you said, I’m older, smarter, more successful. So why him?”

“Are you joking?” It’s all you can do to not drop your jaw. All of this because you never let him take you on a date? When it’s his fault he missed the first one? The sheer audacity of it all is astounding. “First of all,” you refute. “I did not say any of that. And second, if that’s actually all you have to say about yourself, then put that shit in your Tinder bio and see where it gets you. I have no interest in hearing it.”

James won’t let it go. “That’s not an answer.”

“Why do you even care–”

“Why him?” He won’t stop, not until he gets his answer. 

“Because I like him.” It’s spilling out before you can stop it, before you can give it permission. “Because he’s kind and funny and he listens to me and cares about what I have to say. Because I’m more than just a sum of my parts to him, and the last thing he cares about is my social status and how it stacks up against his. I’m not some tool to impress his parents or a topic of conversation to brag about with boys at Sunday morning golf.” All of the things you’re sure would be a part of any kind of relationship with James.  Because no matter what role he’s given in his father’s company or what grade he passed econ with, Jake is capable of something James never has been. “Because he treats me like a person.”

Across from you, James simmers with barely controlled rage. With the truth at his feet, he has nothing left to do but be angry with it. Destroy what he can in the wake of his fury, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Break up with him.”

“Wh–”

“Break up with him, or I swear to god I will submit plagiarism claims to every professor he’s had in the last three years.”

It’s a threat you know he’ll make good on. It’s a battle you’re afraid he’ll win, no matter how fake all of his so-called evidence is. And it will all be your fault. You will be the reason that Jake has to take econ again, and that’s only if he isn’t expelled on plagiarism claims. You will be the reason his father hands him another round of disappointment. You’ll be the reason Jake ends his day with a little more shame to tuck away and revisit on a sleepless night. 

And you were always on a timeline, anyway. This relationship was one that always came with an expiration date, even before it began. 

It should be easy to concede, given the stakes, given the alternative. You’ve known since the beginning that the rapidly approaching New Year would be the end of it all, that you and Jake would become entirely separate entities again in just a handful of days. Still, you have to force the words out through gritted teeth, “Give me until New Year’s.”

James scoffs. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands–”

“I’ll do it.” You double down, agreeing to take Jake’s fate into your own hands. “I’ll end things. Just… just give me until New Year’s.” You can do it, you think. It was inevitable anyway. “And retract the claim now,” you stipulate. “If I go back on my word, you can resubmit with all your evidence once next semester starts.”

Across from you, behind his desk, James weighs your offer. He must sense the finality in your tone, the determination in your gaze. “Fine,” he finally says. “You have yourself a deal.”

You don’t take his outstretched hand, don’t seal your agreement with a handshake. He’ll have to trust your word.

It makes no difference to him. His smile is smug when you turn to leave. You hope his satisfaction burns on the way down. 

Your drive home is slightly blurry. Partially because of the rain that has begun to fall. Mostly because of the tears that gather at the corners of your eyes and threaten to fall. You won’t let them, but they cloud your vision anyway, demand your attention. 

That night, a message from Jake lights up your phone just as you’re sitting down for dinner. 

Jake [6:57 pm]: Good news! The whole plagiarism thing turned out to be nothing. Just got an email from the dean that they’re dropping the investigation. I’m officially freeeeee from econ (again)

If nothing else, you have to give James credit for efficiency. And it should feel like a war won, a job well done. But staring at the message on your phone, the only thing you can think of is how soon New Years is. How little time you have before you’ll have to say goodbye. 

…

There’s never much to do, in that liminal space between Christmas and New Year’s. Minutes and hours and days blur together as the end of the year passes by, preparing to give way to a new one. 

Jake, giddy with the recent resolution of his econ grade and desperate to get away from the stifling atmosphere of his family home, tries to fill some of that time by spending it with someone he’s starting to realize he cares a lot about. Contract or not. 

First, he sends you a message asking if you’ve been ice skating this winter yet. He does his best to only be a little hurt when your rejection comes quickly, claiming in your response to have another obligation that day. Second, he invites you to drive around and look at holiday lights with him. When you tell him you already have other plans, he passes another lazy afternoon alone instead. Again, it’s a little hard not to dwell. A little hard not to let it sting. And by your third rejection – this time to take Layla on a walk with him – his hurt starts to give way to suspicion. 

But it’s not like you can avoid him forever, not with your family’s annual New Year’s Eve party quickly approaching. The last big event before the termination of your contract, you’ve been counting on him to spare you from your mother’s scathing comments and attendees’ hushed wonderings about when you’ll find yourself a boyfriend. 

And then it will be a new year, a new semester, a fresh start. As the clock strikes midnight, the end of your contract. 

Privately, Jake is a little relieved that it will be over so soon. That he won’t have to keep up pretenses any longer. That he won’t have to stick to your rules. 

He’s not sure when it happened, not exactly. Somewhere between all the bickering and arguing and fighting, but he’s come to enjoy the way you swept into his life like a hurricane and set up a home for yourself right where his heart is. 

He hopes you’ll stick around long after the ink on your contract has dried. He hopes that the two of you will get a chance to figure out what exactly those feelings between you are without worrying about how they look from the outside. How they’re perceived by James or your mother or his father. 

So Jake will be patient if he needs to be. He’ll accept your excuses, real or not, and look forward to seeing you on New Year’s Eve, relishing the fact that it’s the last time his presence at your side will be based on a lie. 

And when New Year’s Eve finally comes, he adjusts the tightness of his tie, looking at himself in the mirror. 

Midnight, he thinks. It will be here soon, quicker than he knows. And all the emotions that he’s been tucking away, all those little moments between the two of you that have fizzled and sparked and ultimately ended in nothing, will fade away with it. 

In their place, he thinks the two of you just might manage to find something solid, something real. 

…

Halfway across the city, in your childhood bedroom, you turn to Sunghoon. “What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nods appreciatively from his seat on your bed. “Your fake boyfriend is gonna pee his pants.”

“Gross.” Your nose scrunches. “Why would you say it like that? And stop calling him my fake boyfriend.”

“Why?” Sunghoon ignores your first question. “That’s what he is, isn’t he?”

And that, you think, is another reason why you didn’t want your friends getting involved in this little scheme between you and Jake. But Sunghoon’s flight home was canceled due to inclement weather, and you weren’t about to make him spend New Year’s Eve alone. The only problem with him spending it at your family’s party is that he needs to be well-versed in the lies you and Jake have been spinning for the last couple of months to keep the last few hours of your fake relationship believable. So, a mimosa and an explanation of a contract later, Sunghoon is privy to all the gory details. But the last thing you need is reminders of that. 

Reminders of him. Reminders of what you’ll have to do in a few short hours. So you redirect the conversation. 

“Really?” You look at yourself in the mirror again. “Do you like this one better? Or should I wear the red dress?”

“No, definitely that one.” Sunghoon shakes his head. “It looks really good. And everyone knows that black is better for New Year’s anyway.”

As you give yourself another once over, Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “Why are you so nervous, anyway? Trying to impress your faux beau?”

“Stop pretending to know French,” you threaten. “or you can actually be homeless for New Year’s for all I care.”

“C’mon,” Sunghoon sighs, ignoring the bluff. “You look great. I think so. You mom will think so. Jake’s definitely gonna think–”

“How many times do I h–”

“So stop worrying so much, and let’s head downstairs.” Sunghoon stands from your bed, nodding towards the door. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon, anyway. Do you really want to leave him to the mercy of your mother?”

Point taken. You absolutely do not. With one final swipe of lip gloss, you’re pulling on your heels. It’s just in time too. Barely is the second one strapped on before the message from Jake pings through. He’s here. 

“Is that him?” Sunghoon holds his arm out for you, jerks his chin towards your phone. “Shall we go save your man from the she-devil?”

You don’t even bother to correct him, to reiterate that Jake is most definitely not ‘your man,’ as you hook your hand around his elbow, letting him pull you out of your room and towards the stairs. 

At this point, Jake is not unused to the extravagance of your family’s events. But as he enters your childhood home, he can’t help but be a little floored. It’s a house that would be impressive in its own right. Spacious and luxurious down to every last detail, the place practically screams wealth. But tonight, it really outdoes itself. 

The black and gold decorations shimmer just the right amount – enough to catch the ambient light beautifully without being garish. Every available surface is impeccable, covered with drinks and food and decor so lavish it would be almost laughable if it weren’t so impeccably done. 

Jake strains his neck over the crowd of equally done-up party guests, tries to peer around all the gowns and evening wear until he finds the figure he has memorized. He thinks he might see your mom, over chatting with a group of attendees, but no matter where he looks,  he can’t seem to locate you. 

Not until he glances at the spiral staircase on the outskirts of the room, does a double take at where you make your way down the ornate steps in an evening gown. It’s the same inky, midnight black as his suit, hugging and flowing and cascading in all the right places. Letting his gaze linger, he would have a hard time keeping his jaw closed if it weren’t clenching so tightly. 

He doesn’t mean to let it happen, the flare of jealousy that starts deep in his gut and spreads the length of his spine like a disease. But he can’t help it. Not when you look like that, not when you’re making an entrance and you’re not alone. No, you’re walking down the stairs accompanied by, on the arm of, Park Sunghoon.

Jake decides then and there that he hates figure skating. The glass of champagne in his hand suddenly feels awfully breakable. 

But then you spot him too, and some of the tension simmers, brightens, turns to something else entirely. When your gaze lands on his, your wide, genuine smile is almost enough to set him at ease. Almost. 

Cutting through the crowd, you and your unwanted chaperone make your way over to Jake. 

“Hi,” you breathe. Your hand is still on Sunghoon’s arm. 

“Hi,” Jake returns. He can’t take his eyes off it. 

Gaze darting between the two of you, Sunghoon is the one to gently but firmly remove your grip from his elbow. If it’s any consolation, you hardly seem to notice. 

Still, Jake’s shoulders are unnaturally tense, something Sunghoon takes note of. He just rolls his eyes. It’s not like either of you are looking at him to see it, anyway. 

Finally, after the silence lingers a little too long, he says to Jake, “Yeah, you don’t have to do that around me.”

“Do what?” Jake spares him only a momentary glance before letting his gaze rest on you again. 

“The whole overprotective, jealous boyfriend thing.” Sunghoon calls his game in two seconds flat. “You’re pretty good at it, though. I’ll give you props for that.”

That grabs Jake’s full attention. “What are you–”

“I know about you and ___’s contract. Don’t worry,” he mimics pulling his lips shut like a zipper. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Jake looks to you again. “You told him?” He can’t decide if it makes him feel better or significantly worse. 

You shrug. “I wasn’t sure how else to make sure he didn’t blow our cover tonight.” Besides, you add silently, how much damage could it do? After all, it’s our last night. 

Sunghoon glances between the two of you again, decides he does not want to be a part of this particular interaction any longer. “I’ll see you two later. I’m gonna go check out the hors d'oeuvres.” Turning to leave, he claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Your girl could probably use a glass of champagne.”

Sunghoon makes a beeline for the kebabs, and then it’s just the two of you. And Jake might be hesitant to follow advice from your friend, but he grabs a glass from the next waiter that passes anyway, hands it to you seamlessly as you offer him a quiet, “Thanks.”

It’s easy, just like always, to fall into your routine. His hand finds the small of your back, and you lean into his embrace just the right amount. You can tell it’s working, that the guests you mingle with are charmed by how smitten the two of you seem, that everything you do makes them reminisce on their own long passed days of young love. 

Even the brief conversation with your mother is painless as she offers a stilted compliment for your dress and wishes you both a happy semester ahead. 

But you can’t quite get your smile to reach your eyes, can’t quell the anxiety swelling in your stomach as the night marches on and the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight. 

Jake can sense your unease, your trepidation, but he has no idea what’s causing it, can only guess at what has your eyes darting around the room like a mouse watching for a cat. 

Incorrectly, he wonders if it’s the crowd that’s getting to you, the chaos of so many bodies all in one space. Trying to offer a reprieve, he asks if there’s anywhere quieter the two of you could go. 

It’s not exactly what you’re looking for, not the solution you need, but you still lead him to the second floor, out onto the balcony that overlooks your backyard gardens. It’s similar to the place you and Jake ended your night at his family dinner a handful of weeks ago. 

Even away from the crowd, the lines in your bare shoulders are tense, fraught with unvoiced worries. The inevitability of the end. 

The music is fainter out here, but the rhythm is still easy to track. Jake thinks you just need a distraction. So he holds out a hand in invitation. “Dance with me?” He asks. 

You shouldn’t, not when it will only make all of this worse. Not when there are no eyes out here, no one to convince you that you’re still just pretending. 

But resistance has always been futile. And you can’t find it in you to say no. 

Under the glow of this year’s last bit of moonlight, you intertwine your fingers with his, let him draw you close as he wraps your hands around the nape of his neck, links his own across the small of your back. 

It’s not dancing, not really. Not as the two of you draw nearer under the pretense of staying warm. Not as your bodies barely move through space, just swaying slightly, in time with the harmonies that spin and twist and crescendo and fall below you. 

Jake knows better than to press his luck. But the day is dying, and so is your contract. What are a few minutes anyway, in the grand scheme of things? 

Leaning closer, he lets his forehead rest against your own, noses millimeters apart. “It’s almost midnight,” he whispers. The end of it all. The start, he hopes, of something entirely new. Something that belongs only to the two of you. In just a few moments, he’ll get to let his desires lead his actions, not the agreement he signed his name to.

“Mm,” you hum in agreement. He feels where it vibrates in his chest. 

“Ten,” he hears the crowd inside chant in unison. The countdown has begun. The New Year is nearly here. 

“Nine.” He pulls you a little closer, hands pressed a little tighter to the small of your back.

“Eight. Seven. Six.” You sigh, and it’s lost somewhere against the skin of his throat. 

“Five. Four.” One of his hands begins to move, traces the length of your spine, finds a new home against the curve of your jaw. 

“Three.” Using the gentle guidance of his thumb, he angles your face, just slightly.

“Two.” Around you, the world holds its breath. The two of you do the same. 

“One.” And then he’s closing the distance, lips against yours as exclaims of “Happy New Years” are lost somewhere in the wind. 

He may have brought you here, but you’re just as greedy, hands around his neck pulling him down further until the angle has you reeling. His mouth parts against yours, and you’re not quite sure if your eyes are open or closed. You’re seeing stars either way. 

Jake pulls you closer, and it’s not enough. He’s desperate for it, for something, for closer, for more. It’s everything that he imagined. Countless times in the darkness behind closed eyelids in the privacy of his own thoughts. It’s a million times better. 

He can’t focus on anything, can’t do anything but feel, give way to the shape of sensation. He wants to let his senses drown, wants to die and be reincarnated back into this moment just for the chance to live it again. Wants to wash away anything that isn’t tethered to sensation, to the urgency in his gut, to you. 

The first in a series of fireworks lights up the sky behind you. The booming echo has you jumping in your own skin, giggling against his lips at the irrational fear. Jake thinks this must be heaven. He must have died doing something wonderful, and this must be his eternal reward. 

Your amusement lasts moments longer before he’s doubling down, pulling you in again until you’re both well and truly breathless. Lip gloss a mess on both of your mouths, chests heaving as you finally break for air. The space between your bodies is miniscule, meaningless. In this moment, you’re a single entity with nothing but the desire for more. 

Fireworks continue to burst behind you as the sun sets on the contract that bound you together. His hands are still pressed against the small of your back, and you think the fabric of your dress must be nothing but a figment of your imagination. The only real thing is the heat of his skin on yours. 

The sound of your name whispered against your skin is something you’re afraid you’ll remember for a long, long time. He sounds desperate, where he repeats it. Pleading. Longing. 

But the fireworks are a symbol of a new year. An expiration date on an agreement. A deadline on a deal. 

Jake whispers your name once more, and you savor it for just a moment longer. Then, you carefully disentangle yourself from his grip. Most of it, at least. The hands against your back allow you space, but don’t stray from your spine. 

Still encircled in the arms of feelings that were never given the chance to take flight, you try to turn blows into kisses by whispering them softly, “I think we should end this.”

It’s presumptuous, on your part, to think that there is anything to end. You feel a little ridiculous saying it when you both signed your agreement long months ago. But your head is still spinning and your heart is still hurting. This is what it feels like, you realize. To mourn for the future. To grieve all of the what ifs and maybes and almosts. 

Across from you, Jake stokes your fears. “What? End what?”

“This.” You sigh. You can’t look him in the eye. “All of it. It’s officially the New Year now. We can stop going to things as each other’s plus-ones. The fake dating. Everything.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t help it. You’re afraid that if you stop to think, you’ll propose something else entirely. Something you know you can’t have. Something that will only ruin everything Jake has worked so hard for. “We can tell our families it was mutual – fizzled, like you said.”

Jake releases his grip on you, severs that last bit of connection. It takes every ounce of your willpower to bite back your tears. 

“Woah, slow down.” His brow creases in confusion. His words are still gentle; he still handles you with care. “Where is this coming from?”

“I just…” You trail off, doing your best to find steadiness in your voice. “This was our agreement. And it’s served its purpose. Besides, it’s a new year, you know? No point in starting it off with lies.” No matter how much he searches for it, you’re still avoiding his gaze.

Jake’s cheeks are flushed – a combination of things. The taste of champagne that’s fading on his tongue, replaced by something sweeter. The gentle midnight breeze. The aftermath of a kiss that he still wears on his lips. “I…” Suddenly, he finds it very difficult to breathe. “That’s all this is to you? A lie?”

And you wish he would just let this be a clean break, would stop pressing, stop making you say things you don’t mean. But you need him to believe it. That this is well and truly done. “I mean, we got what we wanted, didn’t we? You passed econ, and I got my mother off my back for a bit. This was the date we agreed to end things on. It doesn’t make sense to keep dragging things out.”

Jake is suddenly unsure of many things, and most immediately, himself. He’s not sure how to explain it to you, here on the balcony, with the bitter taste of something that stings all too much like rejection sitting heavy in his throat. That he’s pictured it a million times. You and him, together because it lets you both breathe a little easier, because it feels a little bit like coming home. Not because of a contract or your family or his brother. 

He doesn’t know how to tell you that every time he goes to a cafe, he marks a mental note to ask you what your favorite kind of coffee is. Doesn’t know how to tell you that every time he passes the corner table on the third floor of the library or the Student Union Building, the only thing he sees is your face. 

Doesn’t know how to thank you for helping him pass econ, for being the boost of confidence he needed to finally stand up to his brother for once, for making him think that he might not be as much of a failure as everyone else seems to think he is. For believing in him.

He doesn’t know how to thank you for being in his life, for making it a little better. For putting a little love in the parts of him that he thought would always be consumed by anger and bitterness and resentment. 

Doesn’t know how to tell you that it’s not just a contract to him. Not just a lie. That it hasn’t been for a long, long time. 

Instead, he listens, motionless while you whisper, “Thank you for tonight.”

He knows your voice is wavering. He knows your resolve is crumbling. But he doesn’t know why. 

So he watches, still unmoving, as you turn to walk away from him. Left alone on the balcony with no company but the stars, Jake Sim has nothing but a million regrets and the horrible, irrevocable feeling that he’s done something terribly wrong. 

…

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Sungoon.” Your voice is flat, no energy for any real malice. Sarcasm, though, you can muster. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”

“I’m just saying.” He’s still looking at you like you’re a particularly unsightly piece of roadkill he narrowly avoided colliding with. “Would it kill you to do something about those dark circles? I don’t know, maybe, like – and I’m just throwing out ideas here – sleep?”

You’ve tried. You have. But no matter what you do, rest can’t seem to find you easily these days. And aside from that, it’s the moments just before sleep that you’ve started to fear the most. In the dark, with your eyes closed, the only thing you see is the confusion, the unmistakable hurt on Jake’s face as you walk away from him for the last time.

“Look,” Sunghoon sighs, suddenly serious. “It’s just… I’m a little worried about you, to be honest. Did something happen on New Year’s? With you and–”

“I’m fine.” You cut him off. The last thing you want to hear is the sound of his name, the reminder of what you’ve done for the sake of preserving his future. “I’m just tired, really.” You try to smile, and it’s far from convincing. “It’s been a long few days.”

Sunghoon wears his doubts as plain as day, but he won’t press the issue for now. “If you say so.” He does need you to take care of yourself, though, at least a little. “At least come eat something.” Suddenly grinning, he whispers, “I snuck in some instant ramen behind your mom’s back. C’mon, we can go make some. We can even get fancy with it, if you want. I’ll fry you an egg and everything.” He’s pulling out all the stops, a testament to how terrible you really do look. 

But it works. Or it’s enough to get you out of your room, at least. Stomach grumbling, you’re about to tell Sunghoon to make it two fried eggs when the two of you are intercepted by your mother on the way to the kitchen. 

“Oh,” she intones, taking in your appearance. Her eyes travel from your sweatpants to your t-shirt to your lack of makeup, disapproval apparent in every glance. “You look…”

“Save it,” you grumble, not in the mood to be ridiculed. 

Pushing past her, she stops you again. “Hold on a minute. I have a question for you.”

You take a deep breath before you turn back to face her. Might as well get it over with. “Yes?”

Smoothing her hair, she tells you, “Your father and I are hosting a banquet to celebrate the firm’s most recent acquisitions. It’ll be the last weekend in January. We’d love it if you could come.” 

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, not seeing where the question was anywhere in there. To you, it sounds more like a demand. 

Sensing your reluctance, she adds, “You’d be welcome to bring Jake, of course–”

“We broke up,” you inform flatly. At your side, Sunghoon stiffens. 

“Oh,” your mother says again, not missing a beat. There’s very little sympathy when she adds, “Well, I suppose that’s probably for the best. Don’t you think so? I mean, you’ll be so busy with law school applications soon, it’s probably better to not have a boy around to distract you.”

You don’t bother to dignify that with a reply. Instead, you turn your back to her, fully this time. Altering your course, you set your footsteps on a path towards the garage instead of the kitchen. “I’m going for a drive,” is the explanation you throw over your shoulder. 

When Sunghoon tries to follow, you just shake your head. “I want to be alone.”

“But–”

“Please.” 

There must be something desperate in your features, because Sunghoon only nods, doesn’t argue further as he watches you climb in the driver’s seat of your car. He’s still standing there, concern apparent on his features as you open the garage door behind you and reverse your car out of it. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, driven without a destination in mind. Your playlist blares through the stereo, loud enough to drown out any thoughts that threaten to cross your mind, to consume you, to send you spiraling. 

It’s not until long minutes later, when the first drop of rain hits your windshield, that you even notice the way storm clouds gather menacingly above you in the sky. 

Whatever, you think, turning on your wipers and increasing the volume another notch. You’ve navigated worse. If anything, it’s a perfect match for your temper, for the way emotions swell and churn in your stomach. 

Mindlessly, you let nothing but intuition guide your way, turning down streets you’ve never seen on nothing but a whim and the desire to escape, even if just for a little bit. The rain continues to pour, and the storm clouds darken in time with your mood. 

By the time you do start to recognize some of the scenery around you, it’s already too late. And you’re not sure where to place your blame. Fate, your subconscious, the way you can’t seem to let him go? No matter where fault lies, you’re suddenly perfectly aware of your location. 

Mostly because you’ve been here twice in the span of a month. Because you’re only a handful of blocks, at most, from Jake’s family’s home. 

The realization makes you quick to pull over. The best course of action, you decide, is to plot your course home in your phone’s GPS, since clearly you can’t be trusted to wander. It’s in the middle of searching for a better signal that you see it. A flash of movement outside your window.

It’s hard to be sure, through the thick sheets of rain that fall from the sky. But then you see it again, see her again, and you would know that dog anywhere. 

“Shit.” Turning to scan the backseat of your car, you find neither a jacket nor an umbrella. Nothing to shield you from the wrath of nature outside. But it’s not like you can leave Layla alone in a storm. Gritting your teeth, you set your resolve. And then you open the car door, stepping outside into the rain. 

It’s the kind of downpour that’s unforgiving, that soaks you to the bone as soon as you’re in it. Hair sticking to your face and already so cold you think you might start shaking, you start Layla’s name, hoping it carries over the wind. 

“Layla!” It’s all you can do to hope she hears you over the storm. You lose her for a minute. Bringing up your hand as a makeshift visor, you force your eyes to focus. When you finally see a flash of tan again, you know it’s her. The relief is short lived. Frustrated, you watch her turn to run in the opposite direction. 

“Layla!” you call again, this time louder, so much so you’re sure your voice will be hoarse tomorrow. From the way rain soaks your clothes, you’ll no doubt be nursing a nasty cold along with it.Thankfully, though, your beckoning does the trick this time. At the sound of your voice, Layla spins around, makes a beeline straight towards your familiar figure.

“Layla,” you chide once she’s at your feet, still grinning at you like the two of you aren’t absolutely soaked through and freezing. “C’mon,” you open the back door of your car to let her inside. “Hop in.”

She does so without an argument, and you slide back into the driver’s seat just as soon as you shut the door behind her. Putting your car back into drive, you set your wipers to full speed and drive straight until you see the turn a few roads down, the one that you know leads straight to his house. 

Still, you pull over again a few houses away, hesitating. 

“Sorry, Layla,” you turn to the dog in question. She just tilts her head at you quizzically. “I’ll get you home. I just…”

Don’t want to see him. Don’t want to look at him and face his anger, his resentment, his bitterness. Surely those are the only emotions he has left for you. Besides, it would be nothing but disastrous if his older brother were home. James would assume that your presence in his home means you’ve neglected to uphold your end of the deal and as such, has no reason to honor his. 

There’s a lot of damage to be done here, if you don’t go about it wisely. 

Turning back to the dog in your backseat, you point at her house in front of you. “You can make it home from here, right?” Again, Layla offers nothing but the slight perking of her ears. “Your house is right there,” you point again. “Just go up to the front porch and whine or scratch at the door and they’ll let you in, alright?” You give her a scratch behind the ears for good measure. 

You know Layla likes it, know that it’s her favorite place to be scratched. You know it because you watched him do it a few short weeks ago. Suddenly, you wonder if he’s noticed that she’s missing. If he’s frantic, going crazy trying to find her. 

A new sense of urgency motivating your actions, you turn back to Layla one last time. “Alright, girl. I’ll watch from here. I’m gonna open the door, and I want you to go straight home, okay?” 

She wags her tail at you, and that will have to be confirmation enough. 

Opening your door, you slide out of the car first. You hold your arm above your head as a makeshift shield from the rain, but it’s of little use. Reaching for the handle of your car’s back door, you’re about to send Layla home on a wing and a prayer when a voice behind you calls out your name. 

At least you think that’s what you hear. You can’t quite tell, over the sound of pouring rain, the whistling of the wind. Still, you turn with trepidation in your gut. Rightfully so, when you peer into the car that’s just pulled over next to you and lock eyes with no one other than Jake’s mother. 

She repeats your name, this time a little more frantic. “Oh my god,” She exlaims, taking in your appearance. “You’re soaking wet. Quick, follow me home and we’ll get you warm and dry.”

“That’s okay,” you try to explain over the story, “I have Layla, actually. I saw her wandering a few blocks over, and I–”

“Layla? Oh my goodness.” Concern and gratitude color every word. “Thank you, ___. I’m sure Jake is going crazy. C’mon,” she reiterates. “Follow me, and let’s get you both inside.”

Not bothering to wait for a response, she rolls her window back up, driving away with the clear expectation that you follow. And it’s not like you have any other choice, not really. You can hardly drive away with her dog. And it’s not like you can let Layla out now, not when she’s seen you.  

So, hoping against all odds neither Sim brother is home, you climb back into your car and follow her command. 

“Oh my god,” she repeats when you pull into the driveway behind her, letting yourself and Layla out of your car. “You two are absolutely soaked. C’mon, quickly,” she ushers you towards the front door. 

Opening it, she steps inside first. 

And of course luck is not on your side. You hear him before you see him. “Mom,” he sounds panicked, horribly on edge. “Have you seen Layla? She’s been missing for almost an hour and I can’t find her anywhere. I called James, but he left on a business trip this morning.” He doesn’t leave room to breathe. “I’m worried she might have gotten outside–” 

Your rescue doesn’t remain a mystery for long. Layla bounds through the front door, jumping on her favorite sibling, wet paw prints staining his jeans as her sudden movement forces the door open wider. Reveals you. 

Relief washes over Jake’s features as he greets his dog just as affectionately, and then he glances upwards. He takes one look at you, soaked to the bone and shaking from the cold. Any other words he had die on his lips. 

“___ found her, actually,” his mom explains, reching behind you to usher you in fully and shut the door behind you. “A few blocks over, you said?” She clarifies, turning to you. 

Eyes not leaving Jake’s, you just nod. 

His mother glances between the two of you, your frozen, shocked stares. The tension is palpable, and she senses it as well. 

“I’m going to go get Layla dried off,” she offers. “Jake, why don’t you help ___ find a dry set of clothes.” Shuffling past the two of you, she brings Layla along with her. 

And then it’s just you and him. 

Both of you stand there a moment longer, neither of you saying anything.

When you do break the silence, it’s at the same time. “Are you okay?” Jake tries, just as you say, “I’m sorry.”

Another beat of silence passes between you. 

Jake nods towards you. “You go first.”

“I’m sorry,” you try to explain, words feeling jumbled as you give them life. “I was driving and I saw Layla all alone, and I didn’t know…” That you’d be here. That I would run into your mom. That it would hurt so much to see you again. You don’t know what exactly you’re apologizing for, but your presence feels like an intrusion. 

Jake begs to differ. “Don’t apologize.” He shakes his head. “I should be thanking you. I was worried out of my mind thinking I might never see her again.” He’s talking about Layla. You know he’s talking about Layla. But his eyes don’t leave you once. 

It feels like a moment that could stretch into forever, you and him. Masking your hurt, hiding wounded prides. Standing inches apart and the distance has never felt greater. 

The spell is only broken when you sneeze, an immediate reminder of the circumstances that brought you here. Of the fact that you’re trembling like a leaf in his entry way, soaked to the bone. 

It's enough to spur him to action. “Come on.” He jerks his head towards the staircase behind him, voice and features still carefully guarded. “ I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

You could argue, but you don’t see a point. Not now. Silently, you follow him, all the way up the stairs and down the hallway to the last door on the left. When he opens it, there is no doubt in your mind as to what this room is. 

It’s his. It has to be. You know it, from all the little pieces of himself he has on display. Pictures of him in his youth with friends that smile just as big and brightly as he does. Soccer trophies, a drawing of Layla done before he had well-developed fine-motor skills, a picture of him and his mother at the beach. 

All at once, you wonder what it would have been like to discover him naturally. How long it would have taken you to uncover all these little parts of him, one by one, if any part of your relationship had been given the chance to be real. 

And then you notice the mug sitting on his nightstand. The self-heating one you gave him for Christmas. There’s nothing special about it, and it’s not particularly attractive, design-wise. It’s practical. Almost impersonal. He has no reason to keep it displayed like this. Part of you wants to swell with unshed tears. The other wants to run and hide and face your shame alone. 

But Jake is already rummaging through a drawer, and a moment later, he turns to face you with a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes preemptively, and you hate the uncertainty that lingers between you. The awkwardness. All the stilted pauses and unsure silences that were never there before. You hate that it’s your fault, that you have no clue how to fix it. “I’m not sure how they’ll fit.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head, ignoring the way your heart stutters suddenly at the thought of wearing his clothes. “They’ll be dry. I appreciate it.”

“The bathroom is through there.” He nods towards the adjoining room. “There are clean towels under the sink, too, if you want to dry your hair or anything.” Pausing, he adds, “Take as long as you need.”

Nodding, you walk into his bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You know he meant it, when he told you to take your time, but part of you is hesitant to linger. Somehow, this space feels even more private, even more intimate than his bedroom. Again, you feel like an intruder. An unwanted presence in a place that’s entirely his. A place you lost the right to be when you struck a deal behind his back and took his future into your own hands.  

Sighs mingling with regrets you can’t voice, you trade your rain-soaked clothes for his dry ones. You look at yourself in the mirror, and then you tuck the necklace he gave you out of sight, underneath the collar of his gray hoodie. 

A minute later, you emerge from his bathroom slightly self-conscious and significantly drier. Across the room, Jake looks up at you. You watch as he swallows audibly, eyes tracing the planes of your body swallowed by his borrowed clothes. His throat bobs before he tears his eyes away. 

“I should…” Again, you hate this tension between you, this uncertainty. “I should go. Thank you for the clothes. I’ll wash them and give them back once the semester starts–”

“What happened?” Jake couldn’t care less about your upcoming laundry plans. You can keep his sweatshirt and sweatpants and whatever else you want from him forever, as far as he’s concerned. Instead he’s still stuck on–

“New Year’s Eve. I thought…” He shakes his head. “I thought things were… good between us.”

And you could continue to be evasive. For his sake, you probably should. 

You could continue to make his decisions for him and decide to preserve his econ grade instead of whatever unnamed feelings might still linger between the two of you. But, the quieter parts of you whisper, that would make you no different from anyone else in his life, from the people you’ve encouraged him to break free from. The people that have molded his decisions and guided his path with a heavy hand all in the name of doing what’s best for him. All because they think they know him better than he knows himself. 

You don’t want to do that. What you want, here in the privacy of his bedroom, in the comfort of his borrowed clothes and the legacy of his youth, is to tell him the truth. You want to let him do with it as he sees fit. Taking a deep breath, you make your decision. 

And then you brace yourself for his anger, the outrage he’ll surely have at your explanation. “Your brother–”

“My brother?” Jake’s face falls, misreading things entirely as he jumps to premature conclusions. But it’s not like he’s grasping at straws. Jake isn’t blind to the way James has been gloating more than usual as of late. To the way his mood started improving right around New Year’s Eve. And he assumes the worst. “Oh. Okay.” Jake is trying to smile, but his features are completely wilted when he says, “I guess he got that second chance after all, huh?” 

“What?” Your lips twist in disgust as the implication sinks in. “No.”

“No?” Now, Jake just looks confused. 

“No,” you reiterate. “Look,” you sigh, “I figured out that those plagiarism claims about your econ paper came from him.”

Across from you, Jake’s jaw drops as it sinks in. “James was the one who…”

You nod, lips tight. You still can’t believe it either. “I went to his office to confront him about it, and he told me he’d retract the accusation, but only if..”

Jake’s eyes are imploring. You have the feeling he already knows the answer. “Only if what?”

“Only if I promised to end things between us.” And there it is. The truth. Cold, hard, ugly, and Jake’s to interpret as he will. You brace for impact. 

Jake is silent for a moment, shocked into stillness. And then, “He what?”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “I can see why you have such a hard time getting along with him. He’s kind of the worst.”

“Wait,” the wheels in Jake’s mind start to spin. “Did you tell him, then? About our contract and everything?”

“No,” you shake your head. “He never realized our relationship wasn't real. I just asked him to give me until New Year’s. I told him I would break up with you then, as long as he retracted the accusation.”

Jake takes a step closer to you. “And he agreed?”

You nod. 

Jake pauses.Takes another step. “Why did you ask him to wait until then?”

There are a million things you could say, a million ways you could answer.

Because I couldn’t stand the thought of another New Year’s alone. Because the thought of being at a party hosted by my mother without you at my side made me want to crawl out of my own skin. Because I’m selfish. Because those butterflies in my stomach have a habit of making me do stupid things. Because everything I told your brother in his office that day was true.  

You can’t give him all of it, but you can at least offer scraps of your honesty. “Because I wanted to spend my New Year’s with you.”

Jake says nothing, but his feet are moving. Each step brings him closer and closer to you. It feels a bit like it’s playing out in slow motion, delaying the inevitable. You move backwards until you run out of places to go, until he’s crowding you against the door of his bathroom, invading your space and demanding all of your attention, your focus, you. 

There’s no hesitation this time around, not when he leans down, cupping your chin in one hand to adjust the angle to his liking.

“Wait,” you breathe, lips a hair's breadth from his own. “What about your brother–”

“Fuck my brother.”

And then his lips are on yours. In the sanctity of his bedroom, in the aftermath of revelations. It’s the second time in the span of a week, and it already feels familiar. A little bit like coming home. 

His palm finds a place to land against the sliver of skin exposed just about the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants. A shiver traces the length of your spine, this time not from the cold but from the unbearable, unmistakable heat that threatens to boil over with every touch of a fingertip, every ghost of a caress. 

When you pull back for air this time, you don’t use the moment to shatter what’s just beginning to build between you. For real this time. Instead you say, “You’re really good at that, you know.”

“Thanks,” Jake grins, still a little breathless. “I could use some more practice, though.”

And who are you to deny him an opportunity for improvement?

…

epilogue – one year later. 

“This looks pretty cute on you, you know.”

“Do not touch it,” you hiss, swatting Jake’s hand away from your graduation cap. “Do you know how long it took me to bobby pin it into place? You’ll rip out half my hair if you try to move it around.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Jake raises his hands in mock surrender, puts them as far as he can from your immaculately done headwear. 

Unlike you, he’s dressed in jeans and a button-down. But it makes sense. After all, the only person celebrating a milestone today is you. Jake doesn’t find that he minds so much. He just submitted his final project for Advanced Typography a few days ago, and he received stellar marks on it. The best in his section, actually. Not to mention that the class has been one of his absolute favorites so far. 

Besides, his time will come soon enough. In another year or two, it’ll be his turn to have a graduation cap bobby pinned to his hair. And he thinks a Graphic Design diploma will lead him to much happier places than a Business one ever would have. Even if it does come a year or two behind the schedule he once cared a lot more about. 

For starters, it won’t let him or you fall into any more ridiculous traps set by his brother ever again. Turns out, things like photoshop and other image-altering softwares leave traces. Ones that Jake is now excellent at detecting and could use to easily work his way out of false plagiarism accusations the future may throw his way. 

Straightening your graduation gown, your eyes land on something behind Jake’s shoulder. There’s a crowd today, as to be expected at a graduation ceremony, but you’ve always been good at finding what you’re looking for. And even better at finding what you’re avoiding. 

“I think I see your family,” you nudge Jake. Even his father is here. Mostly, you suspect, because you never bothered to correct his assumption that you’re heading to law school after this. Next to him stands James, lips twisted in permanent disdain, no doubt dragged here against his will. 

Still, you propose, “Should we go say hi?” The only reason you suggest it is because you also see your second favorite Sim (and first favorite on the days that Jake is particularly annoying). Hand blocking the sun and eyes wandering, you can tell that his mother is looking for the two of you. 

Jake keeps his back to them, steps in front of you to block you both from their sight. “No,” he denies flatly. “My brother is still weirdly obsessed with you.”

You wink, nudge him as you tease, “Must run in the family.” It’s an echo of a past conversion and rings even more true this time around. 

“C’mon,” you grab his hand, tugging him along. “I promised your mom a picture. I’ll ignore him. Trust me, I’m good at it.” Glancing down at your feet, you reconsider. “Actually, I’ll step on his foot. These heels weren’t just made to look good, you know. They’re actually a pretty decent weapon if yielded properly.” 

So Jake relents, lets you pull him along. Towards an interaction he doesn't really want to have but knows he will come out of just fine. Towards a future that’s full of uncertainties and doubts, but is his alone to forge. 

He doesn’t know what life will look like in ten years or five years or even just one, but he knows that he likes the way it feels when he does his best to put a little love into everything he builds. To let it swell and overflow until it touches the world around him and smoothes over lingering remnants of the bitterness and resentment and anger that never did anything but make him miserable. 

And Jake likes the way it feels when you smile at him. He likes the way it feels when your hand is wrapped up in his own. 

And for now, he thinks that might just be all he needs. 

outtake – sixteen years ago. 

At the age of six, there is a lot you don’t know about the world around you yet. 

For starters, you don’t understand why it’s only grown-ups that get to drive. It seems awfully unfair that you’re always relegated to your car seat in the back when the front seems much more exciting, especially considering the way your mom is always yelling at the other cars. 

You’re also not sure why she always makes you wear itchy dresses whenever you go to places with a lot of other people. After all, your princess nightgown is way more comfortable, and you like the way it feels against your skin. But no matter how many times you begged, your mom still put you in one of those awful, scratchy dresses tonight. And by the time she finally finishes her first round of mingling at your family firm’s annual charity fundraiser and lets you sit down in the seat next to her for a brief break, you’ve already been poked and prodded by people you don’t know more times than you can count. 

Which is saying a lot, since you just learned your numbers up to one hundred last week.

And you’re really not sure what your mom means when she leans over to your father and whispers, “I think this could be the start of something extremely profitable. A contract with the Sims, exclusive rights to represent them legally, I mean, that’s huge.” 

You scratch at your shoulder. That’s the itchiest part of your dress. Your mom leans a little closer to your father. “I know you don’t like to, but suck up to him a little tonight, if you have to. And if he invites you to golf, you must say yes. We absolutely cannot blow this opportunity.”

At six, your interest is still a flighty thing, and grown-up conversations you can’t understand are usually quick to lose it. It’s not long before your eyes are wandering for something to entertain them, something to hold your focus. 

Finally, it settles on a boy halfway across the room from you. He’s small, just like you. You wonder if he’s six, too. If he can also count to one hundred now. 

Head tilting, you watch as he reaches for one of the delicately balanced centerpiece bouquets sitting on a table in the middle of the room.

“Jake,” you hear someone call, that edge of worry only mothers can manage clouding her voice. “Don’t touch that, sweetheart. It’s fragile.”

“Fragile?” The boy repeats.

“It could break easily,” she explains patiently, pulling his hand into hers as she guides him away from the fragile centerpiece. If he is six, you’re definitely smarter than him. After all, you already knew what fragile means. 

But watching his retreating back, you wonder some more. Wonder if he was made to wear an itchy outfit tonight too, wonder if he’s ever gotten to drive a car or if all mothers are thieves of fun, just like yours. Wonder if he also hates coming to these things, if people pinch and prod at him too. 

“Jake.” You try out his name, just to see how it feels in your mouth. 

Momentarily distracted by the reminder from your mother to keep your voice at a whisper level, you lose him in the crowd.

Jake, you think to yourself. Most of all, you wonder if he would be your friend. 

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

note: thank you for reading!! I know that this one is quite the commitment with the word count, so I really do appreciate it. as always, I love to hear thoughts, comments, screaming, etc. in the comments, reblogs, or my inbox! also, like part one, this is the latest version I had saved in my docs, and I didn't reread before posting. if there's anything glaringly off, please let me know. other than that, please excuse any minor grammatical stuff.

[hannie-dul-set]

WHAT’S WRONG WITH CEO PARK?

p — PARK SUNGHOON x gn! reader. g — ceo! sunghoon and secretary! reader, humor, romance. w — swearing, sunghoon being a weirdo, a misplaced marriage proposal. 1.3k words.

requested by — anon: menace to everyone but you x the opposite of that.

note — i hate the cold angsty male ceo trope. so instead i turned ceo hoon into a weirdo that's a little bit too in love and doesn’t understand the concept of workplace boundaries which stresses you the fuck out!!

when you got promoted from being assistant secretary thanks to your ceo’s former secretary resigning, your co-workers did not throw you a celebration.

“you called for me, mr. park?”

instead, they threw you an advanced farewell party. it was nice working with you, said the cake dusted with stray confetti on the day of your promotion. they’re celebrating your inevitable resignation. they’re sure you’re going to follow suit after you predecessor within three months max because according to them—

“yes.”

your boss, park sunghoon, is the nastiest fucker in the planet.

“take a seat.”

you gulp, making cautious steps into your ceo’s office. he’s signing a stack of documents while you take your sweet time delaying having to sit in front of his paper-stacked desk, setting them aside the moment you sit down, sharp eyes immediately zeroing into your soul, and you start sweating.

there’s a bet on the line on when you’d eventually quit. today marks your fourth month here, and you’re pretty sure heeseung is going to win because you are in fact this close to sliding your pre-written resignation letter over his desk, adding onto his pile.

not because he’s terrible, like they all say. not because he’s temperamental.

“sunoo told me you were sick,” sunghoon starts. “why did you come to work today?”

but because you fear your boss might be a little bit in love with you.

“is...is that the only reason you asked for me?” you hesitantly say, picking on your cuticles and trying to avoid eye contact because the concern drowning your boss’s expression is just enough to drown you as well.

“you don’t look well,” he avoids your question. of course you don’t look well. you’re very, very uncomfortable right now and the main cause of that discomfort is him. “you should go home. i’ll tell jay to drive you.”

you’re pretty sure jay isn’t going to be happy with that. 

“mr. park—”

“i thought i asked you to call me sunghoon.”

your mouth is left hanging open. you’re flabbergasted. you take a second to recollect your thoughts. “...mr. park. sir,” you emphasize. you should at least be the one reminding him of your hierarchical roles at the moment. sunghoon looks upset that you’re not abiding by his request, but says nothing in protest so you continue. “i ran out of sick leaves. and there’s still so much work to do, i can’t just go home.”

“you ran out? well i’ll just give you more.” sir, that’s not how it works. “and jungwon can take care of your work. you should go home and rest.”

jungwon wouldn’t be too happy with that either. you feel your stress levels rising, headache incoming, because he’s just not listening to you. this crazy bastard, you think to yourself.

but maybe you were thinking a little too loudly.

“can you say that again?”

you slap a hand over your mouth with a gasp.

“say it again.”

you’re fucked. you just called your boss a bastard right to his face. “i’m—i’m so sorry, mr. park, i didn’t mean to—” but maybe that’s a good thing because that means you wouldn’t need to debate about resigning if he’s gonna fire you. “i apologize. i’ll accept any punishment you’ll give me.”

“no, say it again,” he hums, sounding a little too happy after being called crazy and a bastard, and you get a bad feeling. a really bad feeling. “i felt like we just got closer because of that. swear at me again.”

there’s a smile playing on your boss’s face. 

“i— i don’t think that’s appropriate, sir.”

jesus christ, he’s a bit more in love with you than you thought.

“why not?” when sunghoon gets up from behind his seat, circling out from behind his desk to lean back against it right in front of you instead, you start fearing for your life. he looks at you, arms crossed in disappointment, and he looks a little too good with rolled up sleeves and slim-fit slacks. 

crap, were you just checking out your boss?

his crazy is rubbing off on you.

“you have no trouble with swearing at and laughing around with the others,” he says. “why can’t you do the same with me?”

he is not normal, you think. thankfully not out loud this time. “sir, you’re my boss. i’m just your secretary. there’s a big gap there. i can’t just treat you the same way as i do with my co-workers.”

your boss takes in your words. he remains quiet with a stoic face for a few moments, and with each passing second of silence, you feel half a year of your life being shaved off. “ah,” he finally makes a sound after a good minute and a half. “should i give you a promotion, then?”

oh my fucking god, he’s nuts.

“boss, there’s an urgent thing you need to—”

“did i permit you to enter my office?”

your eyes widen, slapped in the face by a whiplash when your fellow secretary jake suddenly pops into the office, only to be cut off by the sharp glare and icy tone of your boss. jake’s hand doesn’t leave the doorknob when he nearly stumbles in shock with a stack of papers pressed to his chest. you see the look on his face. it’s the face of someone who’s about to get royally fucked over.

“n—no, sir. but these documents are—”

“then why are you in my office?” holy shit. so this is what they meant when they said ceo park is a bitchy demon from hell. jake looks like he’s about to piss himself. you’ve never been on the brunt of his temper— likely because he’s biased and has feelings for you, which has always felt burdensome. but now you’re a little thankful because you’d probably cry if he snapped at you like that.

“i’m sorry, i’ll leave now. i apologize.”

with that, jake makes his hasty retreat, and you’re once more left alone with your crazy boss. 

“where were we?” he says. “oh, right. your promotion.”

you’re starting to feel dizzy. 

“i’ve never liked how seojoo handled things. you can take his spot as the sales department head.” you have to stop him. you have to stop him before he actually fires a competent employee and gives you their spot as a courtship gift. “wait. i think you’d prefer working in HR actually. it’s a shame ms. kim is going to lose her position, but i can just—”

“mr. park—”

“sunghoon,” he cuts you off. “call me sunghoon.”

you look at him, exasperated. “sir,” you say. “i don’t think this is right.”

sunghoon raises a brow. “you don’t like HR? which department would you prefer then?”

you can’t. you can’t do this anymore. you make the mistake of letting your eyes wander out of stress, because they inadvertently land on the shiny gold glint of his nameplate, which is a terribly bad move following after his question because sunghoon notices, and sunghoon gets the very, very wrong idea.

oh, no. oh, no no no no no—

“i see.”

he doesn’t! he doesn’t see! you aren’t coveting his seat! you just want to go back to work and stop dealing with your insane and far too in love with you boss!

“i’m afraid i can’t give away my position as ceo,” he tells you. you swallow, shutting your eyes because you don’t want to acknowledge the mess you’ve just accidentally made, but your lack of vision definitely doesn’t interfere with your sense of hearing.

what you hear next sounds clearer than you’d like it to be.

“how about the position of being the ceo’s fiancé instead?”

that’s it.

“i will be getting back to work now, mr. park.”

there is something very wrong with your boss. it’s not in your job description to fix him.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH CEO PARK? © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[pupkashi]

in which gojo realizes you truly see him

a/n: just a little thought i have i want to comfort him and hug him always <3 thank u to the amazing wonderful lovely @vagabond-umlaut for helping me w this fic <33 would’ve been hot garbage without u i love u xoxo <3

wordcount: 720

masterlist

Gojo Satoru had only known life through his many titles.

Gojo Satoru, head of the Gojo clan.

Gojo Satoru, holder of the Six Eyes and Limitless.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer.

satoru hated titles. he hated being known and labeled for the things that didn’t even make up who he was. no one after suguru came close to trying to get to know him.

his fellow sorcerers always too busy or intimidated, viewing him as a spectacle.

there was a sense of longing in his heart to find someone who really wanted to know him. someone to ask him all his favorites, someone to ask him what he wanted to be as a child, what his fears were, if he had a middle name, what animal he’s always wanted as a pet.

but there was never anyone who got past the surface level questions.

until he met you.

you who upon meeting him gave him a kind smile, not a clue of who he was, telling him he could sit with you in the booth of the much too crowded coffee shop.

“they really should get more chairs around here” he mumbles, looking up at you with a small grin when you laugh in agreement, glancing up from your laptop.

“seriously! half the time it’s a gamble if I’ll be able to get some work done or if I’ll have to drive back home” you chuckle, gojo smiling at your words.

you both spent some more time talking, sipping on your respective drinks and getting to know each other.

satoru found out you had no clue about Jujutsu, given by the way you’d never heard of jujutu tech or of him. he couldn’t stop himself from giving you a charming smile, scribbling his number on a napkin before saying goodbye, a smile on his face as he walked out of the coffee shop.

you who on the second date asked him what animal he thinks he could fight and win, asking him his favorite songs and if he’d ever been to a concert before.

you who on the fourth date had him giggling, confessing how much he liked you and telling you all about his life because he wants this to work out so bad and it can’t start off as a lie.

you who a week later calls him, asking him to answer truthfully when you ask him what animal he could really take in a fight, laughing when he answers with ‘at least a cow’ his lips curling upwards at the sound.

he’s laying on the couch with you, your hands lost in his hair as the movie plays in the background softly, your voice is quiet as you speak up.

“do you have a middle name?” the question is simple, some might think it silly. but to satoru it’s like his whole world is flipped upside down.

because here he is, in your warm and homey apartment that’s nothing like his cold larger one, with you, who brings him all the love and joy he could’ve ever imagined. he’s looking at you with glimmering eyes, heart stuttering at the sight of you in his shirt that you’d stolen with a smile.

it’s with that question that he’s realizing he’s finally found someone who really wants to know him. who doesn’t care for his power or status, but cares for his terrible jokes and interests.

“toru?” you asked, pulling him out of his daze and back to reality.

“sorry” he smiles sheepishly before shaking his head ‘no,’ a look in his eyes you can’t quite place.

satoru finally finds himself with titles that mean something to him. titles that he cherishes and holds close to his heart.

Gojo Satoru, who eats anything and everything that was sweet, claiming they’re no match for the sweet taste of your lips.

Gojo Satoru, who had an insane secret obsession with romcoms. an obsession you were sure was just to get you to cuddle him until you found him up at 3 am watching a terrible hallmark movie all on his own.

Gojo Satoru, who couldn’t stand when you were mad at him, going to drastic measures for you to forgive him.

Gojo Satoru, who considered himself lucky enough to hold the title of your boyfriend, your confidant and your favorite sorcerer.

[yakdee]

Payu’s racing suit: A masterclass in foreplay and kink exploration

One helluva title, huh? Well listen, I’ve been cursed with a great attention to detail (the notes app is sick of me atp) and an even greater desire to share so here we are. Wanna come along for the ride?

It's race day and this is the first time we get to see Payu in his gear, hence this very important full-body shot for which audience is quite grateful (I took the liberty of speaking for all of us, but if you disagree, remember that denial is a river in Egypt 😌). Though we will come to see later on, that no one is as grateful as Rain.

One thing about Rain, he's going to brat. And as amused as Payu is, he's going to nip it right in the bud (hair tousle, my beloved 😭). That aside, we know that Payu is almost always in tune with Rain, and he can clearly see that baby boy is more than loving how he looks in his racing gear. And Rain saying that his suit is cool a second time gives Payu the confirmation he needs, and an opening for foreplay and the exploration of Rain's budding cosplay kink.

Now despite rendering Rain parched and speechless at that thought of him stripping out of his gear, leave it to Payu to take it to the next level.

Rain is visibly excited. And although he has not verbally responded, his body language is speaking volumes, even if at this point he doesn't fully get what Payu is implying.

Payu has essentially given Rain the permission to dress him within the boundaries of cosplay, and confirms this by asking Rain to help with putting on his gloves.

Now I'd like to think the purpose of Payu's request two-fold: (1) to show (just the audience atp because Rain doesn't understand what's happening yet) that he’s noticed the beginnings of Rain's kink and (2) to engage another one of Rain's senses as he continues their foreplay. So far there's been sight, sound, smell, and now Payu has added touch.

We all know that Payu probably entertained the idea of having Rain go full-contact right in the middle of the garage, but he still has a race to win so the gloves will have to do for now.

The race is over and Payu has fulfilled his promise to Rain: he has claimed victory unscathed. And now Payu is looking forward to his reward: reaping the benefits all of that glorious foreplay.

By the time they get home, Rain is damn near feral. He’s so turned on that even Payu is pleasantly surprised. And honestly can we blame Rain? We’ve established that Payu looks hot in his racing gear, but he looks even hotter winning in his racing gear. The latter is not lost on Rain and it’s showing in the way he’s kissing and touching Payu.

Ah yes, the touching … let's focus on that.

As they’re kissing, Rain’s hand glides along Payu’s side, pulling him close, and lingering for a bit to feel the fit and structure of the suit against Payu's body — the smooth feel of the elbow pad and the grain of the leather on Payu’s ass.

Side note: I find it fascinating that Payu starts mirroring Rain’s movements for a bit. I don’t know whether they’re just really locked in and hot for each other or it’s meant to be a form of subconscious reassurance for Rain (both. both is good.), but whatever it is seems to be working because Rain’s energy is at 1000%.

Baby boy is so lost in the sauce that even palms and strokes Payu through the suit (he really said "all hands on di—" I'm sorry lol), later pulling him close to feel the full weight of all of that leather on his body.

Now, we could say that this is just the way people touch each other while in the midst of a pre-sex make out session, but that is not the case here. Payu can feel the difference and remarks on it, continuing their earlier conversation at the garage.

Another side note: Imagine being so in tune and obsessed with your partner that you're able to continue conversations hours later as if the passage of time doesn’t exist. Absolute insanity.

Anyway~ naked and deep in throes of passion, it's at this point they switch gears for a bit (pun intended) with it being Rain's turn to do the talking.

From the garage up until now, Payu has a created a safe space for Rain to release his inhibitions (s/o to my girl Natasha Bedingfield 🎶) and explore this new side of himself. And while that's true, the rules established in their D/s relationship are still in place. One of them is no swearing. But Rain is feeling carefree and especially bratty, so he levels up the dirty talk, adding some profanity to spice things up.

They both know that a punishment is inevitable, but there's some nuance involved. Rain is the midst of self-discovery, so Payu opts for a less severe punishment for the swearing. He bites Rain's lips, but he does it with degree of playfulness that encourages Rain to continue. Without the swearing, of course.

Taking the hint and most importantly, staying on theme (i.e. riding Payu like a finely-tuned motorcycle … again, I'm sorry lol), Rain takes over both verbally and physically, and it is absolutely doing it for Payu.

In fact, Payu is so pleased that he offers Rain a lifetime subscription of free riding lessons. All jokes aside, the way that Payu responds (in that he mirrors Rain's word choice) shows that he is enjoying this cosplay scene just as much as Rain.

Thoroughly spent and content after crossing yet another finish line for the day, Payu reassures and encourages Rain once more. And in turn, Rain checks in with Payu confirming that everything was enjoyable for the both of them.

Communication? We love to see it.

Even while basking in the afterglow of their bisexually-lit post-coital bliss, that race suit is still on Rain's mind. Again, can we really blame him? He realizes that the cosplay aspect of it is something that he likes. And although things seemed to come naturally to him, this is still very much uncharted territory for Rain. Payu acknowledges this and provides aftercare in the form of teasing encouragement, promising to purchase a few costumes for later cosplay sessions.

Rain may not be ready to fully accept his newfound kink, but knows that he can explore it further with Payu whenever he's ready. And the open and consistent communication they've had during this time will help them build a solid foundation to do that.

If you made to this point, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed and I'll catch you in the next one :)

Bonus: An update from the special episode

A few months have passed and as you can see our lovely couple has indeed gone on to further explore their cosplay kink.

AND they even added a few others to the mix. Good for them and may the kinks be ever in their favor.

[ghostandsoap]

Call Signs

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem! “Gecko” Reader (Ft. John “Soap” MacTavish)

Tags: Angst. Gunshot wound. Blood loss. Shock. Hypothermia. Major injury. Mentions of death. 

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: So I’m not totally sure how accurate some of this is. Also, I’m not sure if parts of this are canon? Read with caution LOL. 

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

⋆˙⟡ ♡⋆˙⟡

⋆˙⟡ ♡⋆˙⟡

Military call signs. Clever, crafty, and specific to the person they’re associated with. 

There was one main, golden rule when it came to call signs: don’t complain about your own call sign, or else they’ll give you something worse.

Yours wasn’t exactly one that you were thrilled with in the beginning. It wasn’t as badass as you would’ve liked. If you had been given the opportunity to choose, you would’ve chosen something a little more…tough. But once the name stuck, you were stuck with it. You didn’t dare let even a single word of distaste fall from your mouth. If anybody caught wind of you complaining about it, they’d give you something to really complain about.

Over the years, you had heard some good ones — some more creative than others. Depending on the person, sometimes it was easy to tell the reason behind their given name — other times, not so much. You had some friends that you still didn’t know the reason why they were given their call sign.

For example, Soap was just Soap.  

In the time that you had known him, you had begged Soap to tell you where his call sign came from. You had even rattled and poked at Captain Price a bit to get him to give it up. But both of them always gave you the same answer.  

It’s classified. 

With that answer, you refused to tell anyone the reason behind your own call sign. If they weren’t going to tell you about theirs, then you weren’t telling them about yours. It was only fair, you weren’t telling anybody. Nobody knew. 

Well…nobody except–

“Gecko. This is Ghost. How copy?” The syrupy-thick voice seeped through your ear that was still ringing from gunfire. 

You were cold – miserably cold. You were chilled all the way to the bone to the point where your skin was numb to the touch. The sound of rain registered with you. The sky was pouring buckets, which explained why you were so freezing. There was no telling how long you had been passed out and exposed to the elements. Not a single part of you was dry, despite all your layers underneath and over. 

There was pain somewhere. Your groggy state made it difficult to figure out exactly where you were hurt. To be honest, it hurt just about everywhere. A searing sensation settled in your side, but it was migrating all over. Based on the large red spot leaking through that area, you had a really good idea then of what it was.

“Gecko, do you copy?” Another voice spoke that you knew to belong to Soap.

His voice sounded a million miles away, even though it was literally right in your ear. When your eyes opened, you were eye-level with the ground. You were met with a harsh pavement underneath you, muscles trembling with exhaustion and low temperatures. It took a few seconds for your vision to clear, and it took even more effort for you to raise yourself up even to make it onto your elbows. 

When you were able to take a glance around, it wasn’t any less unsettling. The slick streets of Las Almas weren’t very pleasant in the dead of night. Even worse, you didn’t know where Soap and Ghost were. 

It all came flooding back to you. Graves turned on the team. He tried to kill all of you. You, Ghost, and Soap managed to split up and narrowly escape. It was chaos, the kind that shaved about 15 years off of your life.

“C’mon. Where are you, Gecko?” Ghost asked in an aggravated, yet worried way. 

His question was more out loud and to himself more than anything, but it occurred to you that it probably would be nice for him to hear you.

“I’m here,” You groaned, throat dry and scratchy. “Just barely.”

“Oh shit. You’re alive!” Soap replied, and you swear you could feel Ghost relax from wherever he was. 

“What’s your status?” Ghost demanded.

You were not telling Ghost that you were hurt if you could help it. It was certainly against protocol, but you didn’t need Ghost getting all worked up when the three of you needed to find one another and get the hell out of there. You knew how he could get whenever you were hurt.

“Where are you both?” You rolled onto your knees, ungracefully managing to get on your feet.

You felt any and all blood rush from your face, an overwhelming feeling of nausea taking over your stomach. The bleeding in your side was definitely a problem. You stripped your outer jacket off, wrapping it around your waist and tying it as tight as you could possibly stand it. It wasn’t like the jacket was useful any other way, considering it was soaked.

“No fuckin’ idea. I’m in and out of these shops,” Soap grumbled. “I’m soakin’ wet.”

“Me too,” You managed to laugh, but it came out as more of a struggled exhale. “Ghost, what’s your location?” 

“The church. Soap’s finding his way here,” Ghost said. “What’s your status, Gecko?”

You knew he’d ask again. He always knew when you had dodged a question.

“Just a little rattled,” You lied. “Where’s the church?”

“It’s in the square. Navigate through the shops, they’ll lead you there,” Soap said. “Stay sharp. Shadows are everywhere.”

Survival mode has kicked in for you. You had one objective.

Find Ghost. Don’t get killed. 

“Will do. Ghost, I’m coming to you.” You announced, beginning to take the first few steps to get yourself moving. 

There was a brief moment of silence before he answered – and he gave an answer that you knew had Soap raising a brow.

“Please be safe.” 

A shudder vibrated down your back, and it wasn’t from the bitter cold rain. 

Being involved with Ghost was…complicated. It was a forbidden love in a lot of ways. There was a certain disapproval when it came to 2 members dating within the force. It caused drama sometimes, tension other times. Not to mention, it would be painfully awkward for everybody else if the two of you were to break up. 

But the connection was undeniable. It astounded you just how in touch you felt with him. He did everything he could to protect you, to make you feel safe in an otherwise dangerous world. He spent every spare moment with you. He spilled all of his most pressing thoughts to you, knowing his words of vulnerability were safe with you. Talking to him was easy, spending time with him was easier.

Loving him was easiest of all.

Despite your likeness toward each other, it was a mutual understanding that no one was to know. Ghost didn’t fancy all the teasing, and you wanted at least one part of your life to be private. In front of others, you were Gecko and Ghost. When alone, you were Simon and [Y/N]. 

In a lot of ways, the secretive aspect of it was fun. You liked sneaking around with Ghost in the late hours of the night, tip-toeing around sleeping comrades in an attempt at a moment to yourselves. The nonchalant glances…the discreet, yet lingering touches…the whispers of words of affection. It was all something you couldn’t help but get a kick out of. Anybody in their right mind would find it even a little bit entertaining.

But in all honesty, suspicions from the rest were becoming more and more. 

Price had known immediately. Not even three days after you and Simon decided to give it a try, he could sense that something was different. He couldn’t really explain it. He could just see it in Ghost’s behavior that he was preoccupied with something…someone else. Something that had been sprouting for a long time was now beginning to blossom in front of the captain’s very eyes. Price was a respectful man. He wasn’t one to get in the way of something that wasn’t his business. He kept an eye on the situation here and there, more for a status update than anything. 

It took Gaz about four months. He suspected nothing in the beginning. He managed to miss all the signs at first. Who could blame him? He didn’t know he was supposed to even be looking for them. He didn’t catch any real changes in behavior or attitude. In all honesty, if he hadn’t witnessed it with his very eyes – he might’ve never known. It had been a quick gesture. So quick that Gaz might’ve been able to convince himself that he was mistaken if it hadn’t been so blatantly clear.

Gaz had passed by a bit quicker than he normally would, catching a quick glimpse inside the room he hadn’t planned on entering. What he saw was a kiss being planted on the cheek of Ghost’s mask, and a light laugh from the man as you did so. Gaz had stopped dead in his tracks, stunned at what he had seen. He was tempted to turn around and question you, but he knew better. Gaz figured if he hadn’t been told outright, then it probably wasn’t for him to know. He kept it in the back of his mind, however, and after that, he began noticing everything.

And as for Soap, the poor lad had yet to connect the dots. He had heard some chatter here and there about Gecko and Ghost “getting it on.” Soap didn’t believe it. He hadn’t seen it or heard it for himself, so in his mind, the rumors were null. That didn’t mean that Soap didn’t like the idea of his lieutenant and one of his closest friends seeing each other. He entertained the thought here and there. He supposed that Gecko and Ghost had a nice ring to it, and it was something that he liked to snicker about. Overall, Soap didn’t think about it too much. There was no way that “LT” and the infamous Gecko were together. Almost a year into it, and John MacTavish was oblivious.

It hadn’t taken you long to develop feelings for Ghost. Suddenly, you were worried about where he was and him getting hurt more often than not. This was one hell of a career to be in when you were an anxious worrier. This job had changed for you. Before, there was no fear of living or dying. It was just you. It was all you. But when there was someone else in the cards?

That changed things. That really changed things.

That seemed to be the only fight that you and Ghost ever had. It was always the same one. One of you fell ill or became injured, it was due to defying an order, the other was scared to death that something worse could’ve happened, and most of all – you both wished that the other would be more careful. 

“Careful” was a funny word in this business. No matter how careful you were, that didn’t automatically make you safe. 

Roaming the streets of Las Almas while lethargic, unarmed, and bleeding was a definite reminder of that. You followed Soap’s advice, weaving in and out of the stores and getting whatever supplies you could get your hands on. A homemade weapon was better than no weapon, in your mind. Avoiding any and all Shadows was your main goal. There was no chance of you getting out of that alive, if this bullet lodged in your side didn’t kill you first. You hoped that Soap had made it to the church by now. It made you feel better to know that they were together.

The rain showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. You figured it was fine. It wasn’t like you could get any more wet than you already were. It at least made enough noise to conceal your footsteps, which you didn’t have much control over due to the splitting pain in your core. 

You just had to get to the church. Get to the church, get out of here, and get patched up. You’d be fine. You’d survived worse. You weren’t going to-

There was a flash of white over your vision. While brief, it was enough to startle you to a complete halt. You staggered out of the coffee shop, leaning against the back door for support. This was bad. This was really bad. 

“Ghost…” You squeaked.

Breathing suddenly became overly difficult. Every gulp of air was a struggle to get the next one. There was a significant wobble in your knees as you stumbled into the nearest alley for cover, knowing your legs were close to giving out. It was notably colder in the space between the two buildings, but the feeling of your soul being slowly sucked back into the universe made that seem minor. 

“Talk to me. Where are you?” Ghost asked.

That was when you collapsed, landing on the wet ground with a thud. A whimper escaped from your throat at the impact. Clutching your wounded side was all you knew to do. Your jacket used as a makeshift way of putting pressure on it was proving ineffective. 

“The alleyway,” You strained.  “Left of the coffee shop.”

Ghost and Soap both heard the trouble in your voice. Ghost had only heard that tone once before — and it was when something was really, really wrong. 

“What’s your status now?” Soap questioned.

Lying was no good to you now. They were going to know one way or the other.

“I’m down,” You swallowed. “Must’ve been hit at some point when we got away.” 

There was no way you were making it to the church. You were as good as gone as long as there was still a bullet in your torso. Bleeding out in the streets of a run-down town in Mexico wasn’t how you had envisioned going out. That was a conversation you had held with Soap more than once. Everybody had their preferred way of dying. You had always hoped that you’d meet your demise in a more memorable way. Maybe in a missile explosion or getting ejected from a helicopter in a hot pursuit.

Dying alone was the part and the possibility that always scared you the most.

This wasn’t what you had in mind. Bleeding to death by yourself in an alleyway in the middle of a run-down town in Mexico wasn’t what you had wished for. You knew the day would come…and the day had finally come.

But not if Ghost could help it.

“I’m coming to get you, Gecko. Don’t move,” Ghost remarked sternly, and you could hear that he was on the move. “Soap, we’ll meet you at the church.”

“Copy.” Soap confirmed.

“N-no,” You coughed. “Ghost, don’t leave your location if you’re secure.” 

“None of us are secure. I’m not leaving you,” Ghost said sternly. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.” 

Arguing with Ghost was usually a lost cause. When Ghost was set on something, he was surely going to stick with it. It was a waiting game now, and it was one of the most helpless feelings to know that you were relying on somebody else to save your ass. You knew that Ghost would be there in half the time that it probably should’ve taken him, but when you’re dying, the minutes feel like eternity. 

This wasn’t the first time that you had been in situations like this. Everybody had their fair shares of “I almost died” stories. But this was different for you. This was the closest you had ever been to not living to tell this story. 

Panicking was most definitely not the way to handle this situation. Very rarely was panicking ever helpful in a dire, critical scenario like this. It was the most eerie feeling – literally feeling yourself dying. The blood loss was becoming less, but only because you were running out of blood to lose. Your heart was beating slower and slower by the second. Breathing was now a voluntary action. As the adrenaline wore off and the reality of the situation set in, your anxiety crept over you and infiltrated any room for collectedness that you had left. 

“G-Ghost.” You sighed, a layer of tears pricking at the base of your lashes.

Ghost heard the near sob in your words, putting an even faster pep in his step. 

“Almost there, Gecko. What’s wrong?” 

“I’m…I’m scared.” You admitted, hot tears mixing with the fresh rain water on your cheeks.

Ghost’s heart shattered into a million pieces, catapulting into every vessel near it like the strongest of shrapnel. He couldn’t stand the thought of you alone and scared. 

“I know. Just keep talking to me and Soap,” He breathed, trying to stay calm for you. “I’m coming, G.”

‘G’ was a nickname inside of a nickname. Ghost only used it sparingly, and it was usually when he was trying to be supportive or sympathetic without giving your secret romantic endeavor away.  

It felt silly to say. Generally speaking, you didn’t really have the right to be afraid. It was the pure passion for your job and your own willingness that put you in dangerous situations. It was your own free will, your own decision that you made the same choice on every single time. It was one thing to be scared when you ended up here accidentally. It was another when it was a consequence of your choices and actions. Courage and strength were supposed to be your strong suits. They were the characteristics that you were supposed to fall back on every time.

Yet here you were. Scared to death of dying – something that you had thought about and been preparing for since you started this gig.

“Simon, I-I…I don’t want to d-”

“It’s ‘cause I clean house quickly.” Soap’s voice echoed in one ear and out the other, suddenly and abruptly.

What? 

Even in a near unconscious-like state, you were still well aware of how that needed some clarification.

“S-say again?” You stuttered, the corners of your vision beginning to go foggy. 

“Soap. ‘Cause I clean house and buildings with speed ‘n accuracy,” Soap repeated. “That’s why they call me Soap.”

Soap!

It made so much sense. You were almost embarrassed that you didn’t think of that yourself. You knew it was Soap’s way of distracting you – keeping your mind off of dying. 

“That’s a good one,” You nearly wheezed. “Thought it was because you were a bath man.” 

“Thanks for that image. Won’t be able to unsee that one,” Ghost piped up. “Almost there, Gecko. Hang on for me, yeah?” 

Ghost’s voice was strained as if he were running. Using every ounce of speed and stamina that he had to get you as fast as possible. He couldn’t lose you like this.

He refused to lose you like this. 

“It’s because I’m quick on my feet, and because I can scale a building faster than anybody.” You croaked.

“Ah. That’s why they call you Gecko?” Soap chuckled, and you could hear the amusement in his words.

“Came up with that one myself.” Ghost smirked.

“Some people might even say geckos are kind of cute.” You joked, but didn’t quite have the energy to laugh.

“I’d agree with that,” Ghost countered, and you could sense Soap’s internal confusion from forever away. “I have a visual on Gecko. Almost at the church, Soap?” 

“Affirmative, Lt. Meet you there.” 

Sure enough, Ghost appeared from seemingly nowhere, like a sent guardian angel. Your vision had tunneled, so you couldn’t see much out of your peripherals. He had never seen you so weak and close to going out on him. His eyes behind the mask were wide and dark, focused on getting you out alive.

“Nice to see you, Lieutenant.” You shivered.

“Glad you’re not a goner,” He returned, removing the glove from his right hand and pressing his fingers against your cheek. “Shit. You’re freezing.”

“How bad do I look?” You slurred, and you fought to keep your eyeballs from rolling back into your head. 

“Probably not as bad as you feel. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Ghost said, working quickly to get himself arranged to carry you.

“Did you see any Shadows on the way?” You gulped, eyelids beginning to flutter. 

“They’re everywhere. We need to get going,” Ghost scooped you up effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing and weren’t dripping wet through multiple layers. “C’mon, love. Let’s get you out of here.”

The journey from the ground to up into Ghost’s arms felt like an airplane takeoff. You were close to slipping out of consciousness.

“We’ll get to Soap and get a vehicle out of here,” Ghost explained, readjusting his arm underneath your knees. “You’re going to be fine, Gecko.”

“G-Guess I wasn’t quick enough this time, huh?” You gave the faintest grin, and Ghost couldn’t help but laugh at your stupid joke.

“Shut up.” 

There was relief in knowing that you were with Ghost. Your chances of dying hadn’t changed, but if you were going to die, this was a better way of going out. 

The fog in your vision became thicker and thicker until you couldn’t see or hear a thing. The darkness surrounded you, sucking you deeper and deeper into nothingness.

⋆˙⟡ ♡⋆˙⟡                                     

The next time your eyes opened, you weren’t met with the dim streets of Las Almas. There was no smell of rain or taste of blood and sweat. The smell this time was sterile air and cheap (but clean) bedsheets. You couldn’t taste anything due to the worst case of cottonmouth that you had ever experienced. The beeping music of an EKG reader and distant chatter was the real giveaway. 

The muscles in your legs were stiff, mainly because you hadn’t moved them in so long. A grunt was all you could manage as you shifted, a new type of discomfort erupting where you had been shot. It was all wrapped up now (professionally and medically wrapped), clean and taken care of. There was an IV in each arm, one administering fluids and the other what you could only imagine to be some kind of pain medication. The white walls and tan floors were weirdly comforting…a sign to let you know that you were safe for now. 

The best sights of all were the ones seated to the left of your bed.

Ghost’s arms were crossed, ankles crossed over each other, and his head lowered and his breathing steady. His outer skull mask was nowhere to be seen, but his balaclava was clinging to his face as always. 

Soap was also snoozing, but less peacefully and quietly. His head was tilted back as far as it possibly could go, his arms draped at his sides, legs stretched all the way out, and snoring so loud that you were surprised you hadn’t already heard it.

You were gentle as you called to Ghost, considering he didn’t always react calmly when being woken up.

“Hey…” You rasped with a dry throat. “Ghost.”

His eyes snapped open, flickering up to you instantly. A monumental wave of relief visibly crashed over him, filling his veins and relaxing his heart.

“You’re awake,” He leaned closer, taking your hand into his. “You’re okay.”

“What…how long has it been?” You asked, bits of your memory coming back to you.

“A few days…four I think, ” He answered with a nod. “How do you feel?”

Honestly, you weren’t sure. Physically you felt terrible, but better than when you were dying of shock, cold, and blood loss. Mentally you felt fuzzy and groggy from being out so long. Emotionally…well, only time would tell.

“Like shit.” You admitted.

“Not surprised.” He grinned under his face covering. 

There were a few beats of silence. You took a few glances around, getting familiar with your new setting. Ghost, though, never took his eyes off of you. They were a light shade of red, and even his balaclava couldn’t hide the dark circles under them.

“Have you slept at all?” You asked, knowing good and well he hadn’t left your side.

“A little bit here and there,” He said, motioning his free hand towards Soap. “This is the most sleep Soap’s gotten this whole time. He’s been out for about 30 minutes.”

Soap was indeed out like a light. You couldn’t imagine how tired the two of them were. There was another stretch of silence. This one lasted longer and was much more tense. This wasn’t an easy encounter. How were you supposed to act when you had barely scraped by with your life?

“Simon?” 

“Yeah, love?”

“How close was it?”

Simon stared for a moment. No formation of an answer to your question occurred for a second or two. He didn’t like that question. He had avoided thinking about it until now. Ghost knew that he’d have to do his own mentality check in with himself in a few days. He had almost lost the most important person in his life…he’d need to deal with that. 

“Too close.” 

Another silence. Another silent thank you that you were here to see another day.

“You were…hypothermic, in shock. You lost a lot of blood before and during surgery,” He said. “Doc said if it had been any later getting you help-”

“Hey,” A groggy voice piped in, unaware that he was interrupting. “Gecko’s up.”

Soap’s eyes were just as bloodshot as Ghost’s, but Soap’s personality was wide awake.

“Happy to see you again, Sergeant. My apologies for being absent from our reunion at the church.” You grinned.

“Yeah, yeah. Left us to do double the work,” Soap chuckled. “Feels weird callin’ you Gecko now that I know where it comes from.”

“Soap doesn’t have the same ring to it, I have to say.” You fired back. 

“Agh, I’m crushed. Right in my pride!” He shrieked. 

The three of you shared a soft laugh. Nothing like Soap’s comedic relief to break the tension. You felt okay. This was just one of those things. One of the things that you signed up for with this job. It didn’t make it any less unnerving, but now you felt like you could really move on from this. 

And you were thankful that you had lived to tell the story. 

There was a sudden itch in your throat. An annoying tickle that reminded you that you hadn’t had a physical sip of water in four days. 

“Do you think that I could get some water?” You wondered aloud, nearly choking on your own words from the parched feeling.

Ghost hadn’t left your side when you were knocked out, and he surely wasn’t leaving now that you were awake.

“Johnny, could you-”

“Yep! On it.” He scurried out and down the hall without another word. 

That left you and Ghost. The man that saved your life by risking his own to come back for you. You didn’t even want to think about what you would’ve done if Ghost had gotten killed at your expense. At least you would’ve died together, but that hardly sounded right or fair. Ghost deserved so much more. 

“You scared me.” Ghost confessed, not even hiding the worry in his voice. 

“I know…I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, doll. Just…” He sighed. “Just really thought that I had lost you this time.” 

There wasn’t anything you could say to make him feel better. You knew that because you had been in his shoes. His head wasn’t in the best place. You knew that even better. But if there was one thing you knew for sure, it was that you loved him more than anybody else ever could.

“Thanks for coming back for me.” You whispered, a sudden set of tears slipping down your cheeks.

Ghost raised his balaclava. The material stopped just under his nose, his bare lips coming to press a kiss to the back of your hand. He made a solemn swear to himself in that moment that he’d never take you for granted again. He’d never get too comfortable with having you around and at his disposal.

Because fate was far too cruel for that.

“Always.”