fir rec archive

     A small sound. Barely there. Easy to miss. A soft, uneven sniffle from the doorway. Your eyes opened immediately. “…Chopper?” There he stood—small, shaking, framed by the dim light. His little hooves clutched the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him upright. His eyes were wide. Glossy. Afraid. “I—” his voice wobbled. “I didn’t wanna wake you, but I—” You were already sitting up. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. Come here.” No hesitation. No questions. Your arms opened, blanket shifting, an invitation he didn’t need twice. He rushed in. Climbed up with a clumsy urgency, burrowing straight into you like he was trying to disappear into something safe. You wrapped him up immediately, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.

     “I’ve got you,” you murmured softly. “You’re okay.” Behind you, Zoro shifted. A quiet exhale. A low groan as he woke—not fully, but enough. His eye cracked open, gaze flicking lazily toward the source of movement. He took in the scene in a single glance; Chopper trembling, your arms around him, the tension in the air. And without a word— He moved. Zoro shifted onto his back, lifting his arm slightly so you could guide Chopper between you both. The motion was automatic, instinctive, like this had already become something his body understood before his mind caught up. “There,” you whispered, easing Chopper down.

     He curled immediately, small form tucked into the space between you, clutching your shirt in one hoof while the other grabbed onto the edge of Zoro’s sleeve like a lifeline. Zoro’s arm settled over both of you. Heavy. Solid. There. “…Bad one?” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. Chopper nodded against your chest, unable to speak. You felt it—the way his breathing hitched. The way his small body refused to relax. So, you kept talking. Soft. Steady. “Do you wanna tell me about it?” A pause. Then, barely audible— “I was alone again.” Your chest tightened. Zoro went still beside you.

     “I was back there,” Chopper continued, voice shaking harder now. “And they were calling me a monster again and I—I couldn’t find anyone and—” His words broke, dissolving into quiet sobs. You held him tighter instantly, pressing your cheek against his head. “You’re not there anymore,” you whispered. “You’re here. With us.”

     “But it felt real—”

     “I know.” Your fingers threaded gently through his fur. “Nightmares do that. They try to trick you.” Zoro exhaled slowly. Then his hand moved. Not hesitant. Not unsure. It came to rest firmly on Chopper’s back—warm, grounding, unmoving. “You’re fine,” he said quietly. “Just a dream.” Simple words. But steady. Certain. Unshakable. Chopper sniffled, still trembling, but his grip tightened on Zoro’s sleeve—like he believed him. Or wanted to. “They’re not here,” Zoro added after a moment, voice lower now. “No one’s calling you anything.” Silence settled again. The ship creaked softly around you. The ocean breathed. And slowly—very slowly—Chopper’s sobs began to quiet.

     You kept rubbing his back, your touch never stopping, your voice dropping into soft murmurs—half-formed reassurances, gentle nonsense, anything to keep him anchored. Zoro didn’t move. Not even when Chopper shifted closer—pressing more into his side, clutching tighter. Not even when his arm went numb from the awkward angle. He just stayed. A solid wall of warmth and presence. After a while, Chopper’s breathing evened out. Not fully asleep yet—but no longer trapped in that panic. “…Can I stay?” he asked softly, voice small again. You smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Always.” Zoro huffed quietly. “Kid, you’re already in the bed.” A tiny, shaky giggle. Progress.

     Time passed. You didn’t know how much. Minutes, maybe. Maybe longer. Chopper had settled between you, his small body finally relaxing into the warmth on both sides. One hoof still held onto your shirt. The other rested loosely against Zoro’s chest now, no longer gripping—just… there. Safe. Half-asleep, you felt Zoro shift again. Carefully this time. His chin came to rest lightly against the top of Chopper’s head. Protective. You smiled in the dark. “If anyone sees you like this,” you whispered teasingly, “your reputation’s ruined.” A pause. “…They won’t,” Zoro muttered. You could hear the faint scowl in his voice. But his arm tightened just slightly around both of you. Didn’t move away. Didn’t deny it.

     By morning, the sun filtered softly through the curtains. Golden light spilled across the room. And the three of you were still there. Chopper sprawled across both of you now, one leg kicked over your waist, face buried into Zoro’s side, completely dead to the world. You blinked awake first. Then smiled. Because Zoro was already awake, staring at the ceiling. Completely still. “…You’ve been awake for a while, haven’t you?”

     “…Yeah.”

     “And you didn’t move.”

     A pause.

     “…Didn’t wanna wake him.”

     Your smile softened.

     From the doorway, a quiet voice whispered— “I knew it.” You both turned. Nami stood there, arms crossed, grinning like she’d just confirmed the best theory of her life. Zoro’s expression immediately flattened. “Get lost.” She ignored him completely. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

     “Out.”

     “You guys are literally his parents.”

     “We are not—”

     Chopper stirred. All three of you froze. He shifted slightly, nuzzling deeper into Zoro’s side with a soft, content sigh. Zoro went completely still again. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. Nami’s grin widened. “Oh my god.”

     “Leave,” Zoro said flatly.

     She finally did—but not before shooting you a look that screamed, we are talking about this later. The door closed. Silence returned. You looked at Zoro. He looked at the ceiling. “…Parents, huh?”

     “…Shut up.” But his hand came up anyway. Resting gently against the back of Chopper’s head, holding him there. And in that quiet, sunlit room— With the ocean calm outside. And the world far away. Chopper slept peacefully. No monsters. No voices. No loneliness. Just warmth.

     Just safety.

     Just you—

     And Zoro—

You had spent the last couple of weeks waiting for something to happen, although you couldn’t have said what that something was supposed to be. Nothing in your life had changed enough to justify the feeling. Work was still work, your deadlines were still piling up in the same irritating way they always did, your friends were still dragging you out to places you didn’t particularly want to go, and you were still sleeping at whatever hour people who worked in music apparently decided sleep was optional. There was no crisis, no heartbreak, no sudden realization that you had chosen the wrong career and needed to disappear to a cabin somewhere in Vermont. If anything, everything was going suspiciously well. Which, somehow, was making it worse.

You sat on the closed toilet lid in the bathroom of someone’s apartment in Brooklyn, one knee pulled against your chest while the bathroom fan struggled uselessly against the smoke filling the room. Someone had opened the tiny window above the bathtub, but it hadn’t made much of a difference. Three of your friends were crowded around the sink, passing a blunt between them and arguing about whether a guy they had met downstairs was actually attractive or just tall. You had been listening for the last ten minutes, occasionally laughing when you were supposed to, but your attention had drifted somewhere else a while ago.

“You’re not even listening,” Maya said, pointing at you with the blunt.

“I am.”

“What did I just say?”

You looked at her for a second, then glanced at the others as if one of them might have been paying enough attention to rescue you.

“Something about his eyes?”

“See?” Maya said, looking unbearably pleased with herself. “She’s gone.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’ve been tired for three weeks. You’re not even sharing one with us.”

“Well maybe I’ve been tired for three weeks.” You repeated her words like that explained something.

That earned you a round of laughter, all your friends too high to think it was a great joke, although you only smiled before looking down at your phone again. You had been checking it more than usual lately, though you had yet to figure out why. There was always something waiting for you anyway. A producer sending a revision at two in the morning, a manager asking about a session, someone needing lyrics cleaned up before a demo was sent off, or one of the artists you worked with deciding that a song they had collectively abandoned six weeks ago was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

Your own work had become particularly strange lately. You were still writing, obviously, but everything seemed to take longer. You would sit in front of a notebook and know exactly what you wanted a song to feel like without being able to find the right words for it, then spend an hour changing one line and another hour convincing yourself the original had been better. It wasn’t writer’s block. It wasn’t even frustration with the work itself. You simply felt distracted in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you needed a break, maybe you needed to sleep. Or maybe you just needed to stop saying yes every time somebody asked you to go out.. God, you were getting old.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. You glanced at the screen and saw Yoongi’s name.

For a moment, nothing about it felt unusual. You had been working together for a few months now, long enough that late-night messages from him weren’t particularly surprising. His new project was still mostly floating around in pieces, half-written ideas and unfinished melodies that existed in voice notes, scattered documents and whatever you happened to remember after a session. He was still working with his group, too, which meant your schedules were constantly shifting, so your work together tended to happen whenever you could find a few hours that belonged to neither of you.

The message contained a file and nothing else. You stared at it.

You: are you at the studio?

His reply came quickly.

Yoongi: Yeah

You: why

Yoongi: Couldn’t sleep

You smiled faintly, mostly because it was such a typical answer from him.

You: you have a session in the morning

Yoongi: I know

You: a group session

Yoongi: I know

You: so go to sleep

There was a longer pause this time.

Yoongi: got an idea.

You looked at the file he’d sent again, then at the time in the corner of your screen. It was nearly two in the morning.

You: for what? a personal or group project?

Yoongi: I don’t know yet

You could practically hear his voice in the vague little word.

You should have told him to send it tomorrow. You probably should have told him to stop working and go home, because whatever inspiration had decided to show up at two in the morning could survive until breakfast when you were in your paid schedule and sober enough to know what you were thinking about... Instead, you found yourself opening the message again without actually playing the song.

“Who you talking to?” Maya asked.

“Yoongi.”

She hummed. “Your Yoongi?”

You looked up. “He’s not my Yoongi.”

“I didn’t say he was.”

“You literally said ‘your Yoongi.’”

“Because you work with him.”

“Right.”

Maya raised an eyebrow at your defensiveness but wisely decided not to continue.

Your phone buzzed again.

Yoongi: Are you busy tonight?

You glanced around the bathroom, at the smoke, the cramped space, the people talking over each other, and then at the unopened song sitting on your screen… Busy? Not really busy now were you?

A minute later, you were typing before you could think too much about it.

You: i’ll come by.

His response was almost immediate.

Yoongi: okay

Yoongi: I’ll wait for you

That was it. No questions, no surprise, no attempt to talk you out of it and tell you how you should be out on a Friday night instead of working like him…

You slipped your phone into your pocket and stood, brushing imaginary lint from your jeans. “I’m leaving.”

Maya stared at you. “To where?”

“The studio.”

“At two in the morning?”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

You shrugged, already reaching for the bathroom door. “I’m bored.”

That was true, at least.

It was easier to believe you were leaving because you were bored than to admit that, lately, there was something strangely comforting about the idea of being around Yoongi. Not exciting, not romantic, not anything you could put a name to yet. It was just comforting. You had started noticing that you felt more settled after your sessions, even when you hadn’t actually accomplished much, you had started looking forward to working with him in a way that felt slightly embarrassing considering you spent most of your life complaining about having to work.

Yoongi just gave you a sense of comfort about your work and understood how important was music for you. Working with him had become a pleasure.

Outside the bathroom, the party was louder than you’d remembered. Music shook the walls, someone was laughing loudly in the kitchen, and two people you didn’t recognize were making out against the hallway wall as if they had paid rent there. You found your coat among the pile near the door, waved goodbye to your friends, ignored several attempts to convince you to stay, and stepped outside into the cold Brooklyn night.

The air felt good against your face. You stood on the sidewalk for a moment, pulling your coat tighter around yourself while the noise of the apartment disappeared behind the door. New York was still awake, as usual. Cars passed at the end of the street, a cab slowed near the curb, and somewhere a siren echoed between the buildings before fading into the distance.

You checked your phone again. Nothing from Yoongi. You shoved your hands into your pockets and started walking toward the studio, telling yourself that you were only going because you had nothing better to do.

By the time you got to the studio, the city had gone quiet, the streets were still full of people but the noise had softened into something distant and almost comforting. You let yourself in with the code Yoongi had given you a few weeks ago after the company gave him a studio there. You shrugged off your coat as you walked down the familiar hallway. You had been there enough times now that you didn’t really think about it anymore. The studio had stopped feeling like a place you were visiting for work and started feeling like somewhere you could show up without needing a reason, which was probably why you hadn’t thought twice about coming over at two in the morning.

There was light coming from underneath the studio door. You knocked twice before pushing it open.

Yoongi was sitting on the couch with his laptop balanced on one knee, headphones hanging around his neck and a half-empty cup of coffee sitting on the table beside him. He looked up when you walked in, and for a second his expression was almost surprised, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to come despite having told you to. Then his mouth curved into a small smile.

“You actually came.”

“You told me to.”

“I didn’t tell you to.”

“You sent me a song at two in the morning.”

“I sent you a song.”

“At two in the morning.”

Yoongi nodded thoughtfully, as if you had made an excellent point. “Right, because that’s so different.”

You laughed as you dropped your bag beside the couch. “That’s practically begging.”

“It isn’t!.”

He shifted to make room for you, and you sat down beside him, close enough that you could see the project open on his laptop. There were several tracks stacked across the screen, most of them labeled with names that were barely distinguishable from one another, along with a handful of notes he’d apparently written for himself and then forgotten to make comprehensible for other people.

“So,” you said, leaning forward to look at the screen, “what exactly was so important that you couldn’t sleep?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Great.”

“I said I had an idea.”

“You sent me a twelve-second clip.”

“It’s a good twelve seconds.”

You looked at him and he looked back at you, completely serious.

You laughed again, and he finally smiled properly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he tried to hide it by looking back at the laptop. You had noticed his smile before, obviously, but you still found it slightly strange how different he looked when he actually let himself grin. Yoongi had a naturally quiet expression, one that could make him seem more intimidating than he really was if you didn’t know him, but when he laughed properly, that entire impression disappeared. His gummy smile made him look almost boyish, and you had already seen it enough times to know that he smiled a lot more than people probably assumed he did.

You had learned that about him over the last few months.

When you’d first started working together, you’d assumed he was going to be difficult to get to know. Not because he’d been unfriendly, but because he seemed like the sort of person who could spend an entire afternoon sitting in silence and genuinely enjoy himself. You had prepared yourself for short answers, long stretches of awkwardness, and having to carry every conversation yourself.

Instead, once he’d gotten comfortable with you, you’d discovered that he talked. A lot.

Yoongi made stupid jokes when sessions got too serious, complained dramatically whenever someone suggested changing a part of a song he liked, sent you random voice notes that had absolutely nothing to do with whatever you were working on, and had somehow developed a habit of asking your opinion on things that had nothing to do with music. He was still quieter around people he didn’t know well, but with you, he seemed to have no problem filling the silence.

You liked that. And you liked working with him, too.

It had actually been one of the first things he’d told you when he’d mentioned wanting to keep working together beyond the album he was currently finishing with his group. A few months earlier, after one of your sessions had run much longer than expected, he’d casually mentioned that he had a lot of unfinished ideas and that, if he eventually put together another solo project— or even if he just wanted to keep making music without necessarily knowing what it would become— he wanted you involved.

“You have a good work ethic,” he’d told you at the time, like it was the simplest explanation in the world. “I like working with people who actually want to finish things.”

You’d laughed because you’d never considered yourself particularly disciplined, but you’d understood what he meant. You were stubborn about your work. If you started something, you wanted to see where it went, even if that meant staying in a studio until three in the morning arguing over one line.

That was how you’d ended up there, months later, with an unfinished album, dozens of half-written songs, and a friendship you hadn’t really expected to make.

And because of that, Yoongi texting you at ridiculous hours wasn’t unusual anymore.

Sometimes he wanted your opinion on a lyric. Sometimes he had a melody he couldn’t place. Sometimes he sent you something at three in the morning with absolutely no explanation and expected you to understand what he meant from context alone. You did the same thing to him. It had become part of the rhythm of working together, and somewhere along the way, the conversations had started lasting longer than the work.

Tonight wasn’t any different. You listened to the melody a few more times, stopping it occasionally to point out something you thought could work better. Yoongi played around with the chords while you hummed different possibilities, and eventually the original twelve seconds had turned into almost a minute of music.

“This part,” you said, pointing at the screen, “feels like it wants to go somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere.” He looked at you. You shrugged. “That’s why I said feels like.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“I came here for free.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“You literally sent me the song like you were begging for help.”

“I sent you the song because I wanted you to hear it.”

“And now I’m here because of those actions.”

“And now you’re complaining.”

“I’m always complaining. Be glad I’m here.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

You smiled and leaned back into the couch.

For a while, the conversation drifted away from the song entirely. It happened naturally, like it usually did with him. One minute you were talking about the melody, and the next you were telling him about the party you’d just escaped from, complaining about one of your friends and the guy she’d spent the entire night talking about. Yoongi listened with the same amused expression he’d had all evening, occasionally interrupting with a question or making some comment that made you laugh.

“Should we try putting some lyrics?” You grimaced at that. He immediately noticed. “What? Too tired now?”

“Nah. I just don’t know if now I’m able to write a song,” you said with honesty.

“What do you mean?”

With that, you found yourself telling him about the strange feeling you’d been carrying around lately. “I don’t know,” you said, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I’ve just felt weird recently.”

“Weird how?”

You thought about it. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.” He waited. You looked down at your hands. “It’s like I know there’s something I want to write about, but every time I try, it doesn’t sound right. And it’s not even one specific thing. It’s just… this feeling. It’s been there for a couple of weeks.”

“Maybe you’re overthinking it.”

“I always overthink.”

“I know.” You gave him a look but he just smiled. “You do.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re really not.”

He laughed softly, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe you just need to force yourself to write it down.”

“Force myself?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about whether it makes sense. Just write whatever comes into your head.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“It’s literally how writing works.”

“Not for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I know it sucks, I won’t leave it alone until I get it perfect.”

“Just write something that sucks and get it out of your system.”

You laughed under your breath. “That’s easier said than done.”

“You’re a songwriter. You’re allowed to write a bad song.”

“I know.”

“You don’t seem like you know.”

You turned your head toward him. “I won’t write a bad and stupid song!”

Yoongi smiled again, softer this time. “Just try it.”

You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Fine… Maybe I will.”

The conversation moved on almost immediately. He started telling you about something ridiculous that had happened during a group schedule earlier that week, and you listened, laughing when he exaggerated certain parts of the story. At some point he reached across you for the laptop, his arm brushing lightly against yours as he pulled it closer so he could show you something on the screen.

You looked down at the screen while he explained what he’d been trying to change, his voice close beside you, his shoulder nearly touching yours. You nodded along, half listening before you looked at him.

And something inside you shifted. Not because he’d done anything different. That was the worst part… It was completely ordinary. So ordinary that you didn’t even think about it at first.

He was still Yoongi. Still your coworker, still your friend-ish, still the person who sent you unfinished songs in the middle of the night because he trusted you enough to listen to them before they were ready. He was still the same person you’d been sitting beside for months, the same person whose bad jokes you had started anticipating, the same person whose messages you’d begun answering even when you were busy.

You simply looked at him and suddenly understood why everything had felt strange.

Why you’d been checking your phone. Why his messages had started standing out among all the others. Why you had started looking forward to sessions even when you were exhausted. Why you felt strangely disappointed whenever someone else had his attention. Why leaving the party at two in the morning had seemed like the easiest decision in the world. Why being around him had started feeling like something you needed rather than something you simply enjoyed.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh.

You looked away so quickly that Yoongi glanced at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He studied your face for another second, clearly noticing something you didn’t, before turning back to the laptop.

“Okay.”

You swallowed and stared at the screen, although you couldn’t tell him what he was showing you anymore. Because suddenly the feeling you’d been trying to write about for weeks didn’t seem so mysterious.

You knew exactly what it was. You just really, really wished you didn’t.

——————————

Realizing you had a crush on someone was embarrassing enough on its own. Realizing you had a crush on someone you worked with was worse. Realizing you had a crush on someone you worked with, actually liked as a person, and had absolutely no intention of doing anything about was, in your professional opinion, humiliating.

You spent the next few days trying very hard not to think about it…. This proved to be considerably more difficult than you had expected.

The problem was that there were too many reasonable explanations for what had happened at the studio that night, and you intended to use every single one of them. You and Yoongi had been working together for months. You had spent countless hours in studios together, usually at unreasonable times, talking about music and life and whatever else happened to come up when you were both too tired to keep pretending you were only there to work. Songwriting was intimate by nature, anyway. You had to be honest about things you would probably never say out loud otherwise, and even when the songs weren’t autobiographical, there was something about sitting beside another person and pulling apart emotions until you found the right words for them that made you feel closer than you probably should.

Maybe that was all it was.

Maybe you’d simply confused intimacy with attraction because you’d been spending too much time with him.

It happened… Probably.

You had read about it somewhere, or maybe you’d invented it to make yourself feel better. Either way, it sounded plausible enough.

And Yoongi was nice. Really nice. He was funny, he listened to you, he respected your work, he remembered stupid little details you mentioned in passing, and he had somehow become one of the easiest people in your life to be around. None of those things necessarily meant you wanted him. They just meant you had a good friendship.

That was normal.

Having a crush on your friend was not. Especially not when your friend happened to be someone you were professionally involved with, someone whose music you were helping shape, someone who trusted your opinion and had made it clear that he wanted to keep working with you beyond the current project. There were lines you didn’t cross simply because you were capable of understanding consequences, and you were, at the very least, supposed to be an adult with a functioning brain.

You were a professional, for God’s sake!

So you decided the best way to deal with the entire thing was to write about it. It was what you always did when you didn’t understand something. You put it on paper until it stopped being yours.

You sat at your desk one evening with a notebook open in front of you and your laptop pushed aside, determined to finally get the strange feeling out of your head. You weren’t going to write a song, exactly. You weren’t even going to write anything good. You just wanted to give the feeling somewhere to exist so it would stop taking up space inside you.

For a while, you stared at the blank page.

Then you finally started writing. You wrote about wanting something you didn’t have a name for. You wrote about how easy it was to mistake familiarity for desire, how spending too much time beside someone could make ordinary things feel important when they weren’t. You wrote about a voice that had become familiar enough that you could recognize it through a crowded room, about hands resting on a piano, about someone laughing when they were trying not to, about the strange comfort of knowing somebody would answer if you called them at an unreasonable hour….

The more you wrote, the more obvious it became that you were writing around the thing rather than about it, carefully avoiding the center of whatever you’d been trying to understand. So you kept it vague. You turned it into a poem instead, something distant enough that you could pretend it belonged to somebody else.

By the time you reached the final lines, you were almost annoyed with yourself. You stared at the page for a moment, then wrote the last sentence.

But maybe it isn’t anything at all.

You looked at it. That was good. That was exactly what you wanted. You added one more line underneath it.

But maybe it is only a feeling, and feelings passed.

Then you put the pen down.

There. Problem solved.

You tore the page out, folded it twice without really looking at what you’d written, and threw it into the trash beside your desk. You sat back in your chair and let out a quiet breath, suddenly convinced that you’d just performed some sort of emotional surgery on yourself.

It wasn’t important, it was just a crush. A stupid, inconvenient, temporary crush. You could handle that. And if you ignored it long enough, eventually it would disappear…

A few days later, you found yourself back at the studio with Yoongi and the rest of the group.

The session had been much more crowded than the ones you usually had with him, mostly because they were working on something together and you had been asked to help with a few sections. It was different seeing Yoongi around the others. He was louder, more animated, constantly interrupting someone or laughing at something happening on the other side of the room, and every once in a while you caught yourself watching him before remembering that you had promised yourself you weren’t going to do that anymore.

You were doing very well… Mostly.

By the time the session wrapped up, it was late enough that everyone was starting to gather their things. You were slipping your notebook into your bag when Yoongi looked over from the computer.

“You’re leaving?”

You glanced at him. “Yeah.”

He nodded toward the screen. “Can you stay for a bit? I want to fix something and I could use another opinion.”

You hesitated for approximately five seconds. “Um, yeah. Sure.”

Totally normal.

You were coworkers. Friends, technically. People who worked together. Nothing unusual about staying late at a studio with him. You were very normal about this.

You sat down on the opposite end of the couch, leaving what you considered a perfectly reasonable amount of space between you. Yoongi looked at you for a second, then went back to the computer. You tried to focus on the track, you really did. Unfortunately, your brain had apparently decided that now was the ideal time to become hyperaware of every single thing about him. The sound of his voice, the way his fingers moved across the keyboard, the little crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he concentrated. You became painfully conscious of the fact that he was sitting only a few feet away.

This was ridiculous.

You shifted farther toward the edge of the couch.

Yoongi looked over. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you sitting over there?”

“I like this part of the couch.” He stared at you and you looked around trying to ignore his eyes.

Yoongi seemed unconvinced but didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned back to the computer, played the section he’d been working on, and asked what you thought.

You listened carefully, giving him a few suggestions, and slowly the tension in your shoulders began to disappear. It was strange how quickly that happened around him. Within twenty minutes, you were back to normal, arguing about a lyric and laughing when he insisted one of your suggestions was “objectively terrible.”

“You’re the one who asked me.”

“I regret it.”

“You always regret asking me shit”

“Because you’re mean.”

“You can handle it.”

Yoongi didn’t directly looked at you. He only smiled behind his fingers before shaking his head. “See? Mean.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The rest of the evening passed almost exactly like every other session you’d had together. The work became less important as the hours went on, conversations drifting from music to food to his schedule and then somehow to a story about one of his members that made you laugh so hard you had to put your head down on the table.

You forgot, for a while, that you were supposed to be worried about liking him.

You realized that was the thing with Yoongi. He made it too easy to forget. There was something calming about being around him that you hadn’t fully appreciated until recently. You could sit beside him without talking and it didn’t feel awkward. You could complain about something stupid and he would listen without making you feel stupid for complaining. He never seemed to expect you to perform a particular version of yourself around him. You could be tired, irritated, sarcastic, quiet, distracted, and he treated all of it like it was normal.

By the time you finally looked at the clock, it was well past midnight.

“Oh, shit.”

Yoongi glanced over. “What?”

“It’s late.”

He checked the time too. “Yeah.”

“I’m going home. I have an early session tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Yoongi didn’t seem bothered by it. He simply saved the project and started shutting things down while you gathered your things.

“You staying?”

“Probably.”

“You should sleep.”

“I’ll do that eventually.”

“That’s why people always complain when you fall asleep in random places.”

“I’m trying to survive.”

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.” He smiled. You put your coat on and slung your bag over your shoulder, lingering for a second longer than necessary before finally heading toward the door “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Get home safe.”

You walked out before you could think too much about the fact that you’d spent another night with him and survived.

See? It wasn’t that bad.

Maybe you’d exaggerated everything in your head. Maybe the crush really was just a crush, something small and harmless that had appeared because you’d been spending too much time together. Maybe you could simply acknowledge it without doing anything about it and eventually it would disappear on its own.

By the time you got home, you were almost completely convinced.

You changed into your pajamas, washed your face, crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.

Except, unfortunately, you thought about Yoongi.

You remembered his laugh. Then the way he’d smiled when you’d made that stupid comment about him handling when you were mean. You remembered his hand resting on the edge of the laptop. His fingers on his lips. His voice. The way he’d looked at you when you were leaving….

Stop!

You closed your eyes. It wasn’t a big deal, it was just a crush. You could live with a crush!

Eventually, you fell asleep.

And sometime in the middle of the night, your brain decided that all of your careful reasoning had been completely irrelevant. What usually ended up with dreams about future lyrics or anxious thoughts over what will you be working on tomorrow… it all changed suddenly. Now you dreamed about him.

Not about music, or work, or some vague version of him sitting beside you in the studio. You dreamed about his mouth. His hands. The warmth of him standing close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. You dreamed about his long fingers brushing against yours, against your mouth this time, you dreamed about looking up at him and somehow knowing exactly what was going to happen before he leaned down and kissed you.

It felt real enough that when you woke up, you heart was already beating way too fast.

Your eyes opened fast. You lay completely still, staring at the ceiling, your heart pounding so hard it felt ridiculous. Your skin was hot, your hair was sticking to your forehead, and you were breathing like you’d just run several blocks.

You covered your face with both hands. “Oh, God.”

You stayed like that for another moment, desperately hoping that if you didn’t acknowledge what had just happened, it would somehow stop being real. It didn’t. You dropped your hands and stared into the darkness of your bedroom.

You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.

You didn’t just have a crush on Yoongi. You were falling in love with him.

This was going to be a problem.

——————————

The worst thing about realizing you’re falling in love with someone was that, eventually, you had to admit you were falling.

There was no pretending it was a crush anymore, not after the dream, not after the way you’d spent the following morning thinking about him before you’d even properly opened your eyes, and definitely not after you caught yourself checking your phone three separate times before breakfast in the hope that he might have messaged you. You had crossed some invisible line somewhere between one late-night studio session and the next, and now you were on the other side of it, looking back at the person you’d been a few weeks ago and wondering how she’d managed to be so blissfully unaware.

You were falling in love with Yoongi.

It was a ridiculous thing to know about yourself with such certainty.

You tried avoiding him at first, mostly because you thought distance would help. You told yourself that if you stopped accepting every invitation to the studio, stopped replying immediately when he sent you something, stopped finding reasons to linger after sessions, the feeling would eventually become less intense. It was a sensible plan. Mature, even. You could give yourself some room to breathe and allow your brain to remember that he was a person you worked with and cared about, not the center of the universe you’d somehow made him into.

The problem was that you didn’t actually want to avoid him.

That was the part you couldn’t seem to explain away.

You could spend an entire afternoon convincing yourself that you needed to create boundaries, and then your phone would light up with his name and you’d find yourself smiling before you’d even opened the message. If he asked whether you were free later, you were free. If he mentioned that he was going to be at the studio, you somehow found a reason to be there too. If he sent you a song, you listened to it immediately, even when you were in the middle of something else. You wanted to know what he was working on, what he was eating, whether he’d slept, whether the ridiculous story he’d told you about one of his members had actually ended the way he’d claimed it did. You wanted the insignificant pieces of his life just as much as the important ones, which was perhaps the clearest indication that this had stopped being a simple attraction a long time ago.

You wanted time with him. You wanted all of it.

And there was something humiliating about knowing that while simultaneously having no idea whether he wanted the same thing.

That was the worst part. You could spend hours trying to interpret every little thing he did, but there was no way of knowing what any of it actually meant. Yoongi was affectionate with people he cared about. He was attentive. He remembered things. He listened when you spoke. He had a way of making people feel like they were the only person in the room when they had his attention, and because you had become one of the people he trusted, you couldn’t tell whether the things that made your stomach flip were simply the way he treated his friends.

Sometimes you’d catch him looking at you across the studio and immediately wonder what he’d been thinking. Maybe he was wondering whether you’d finished the lyrics. Maybe he’d noticed that you were staring at him first. Maybe he was thinking about something completely unrelated.

You wished you could read his mind. You wished you could sit inside his head for five minutes and find out what he thought of you.

Not even what he felt romantically, necessarily. You wanted to know how he described you when someone asked about you. You wanted to know whether he considered you a close friend or simply someone he enjoyed working with. You wanted to know whether he ever thought about you when you weren’t around, whether he ever saw something during his day and instinctively wanted to tell you about it, whether your name ever appeared on his phone and made him feel the same small rush of happiness that his name caused in you.

Mostly, you wanted to know what he would say if he knew.

Because sometimes you imagined telling him. Not actually telling him, obviously. That would have been insane. But you’d imagine sitting across from him after a session and finally saying, I think I have feelings for you.

Then you’d imagine his face.

Would he laugh because he’d already known? Would he go quiet? Would he look uncomfortable? Would he tell you that he’d never thought about you that way? Would he say something kind because Yoongi was incapable of being cruel even when he had every reason to be? Would everything suddenly become awkward between you?

That last possibility was the one that scared you most. Because whatever you were feeling, whatever had happened inside your head over the past few weeks, what existed between you and Yoongi already felt like something worth protecting.

You didn’t know exactly when the two of you had become friends.

There hadn’t been a moment where either of you had announced it. You had simply started knowing things about each other. You knew what kind of coffee he preferred when he was tired and what kind of coffee he ordered when he was pretending he wasn’t tired. You knew which songs he was proud of and which ones he refused to play for anyone until they were finished. You knew when he was genuinely annoyed and when he was pretending to be annoyed because he wanted you to argue with him. You knew that he talked more when he was comfortable, that he got quieter when something was actually bothering him, and that his laughter changed depending on how funny he found something.

Yoongi knew things about you too.

He knew when you were lying about being tired. He knew which parts of your writing you were insecure about. He knew that you hated being interrupted when you were trying to tell a funny story and that you tended to tap your fingers against whatever surface was closest whenever you were thinking.

None of it was extraordinary but, somehow, it was everything.

One afternoon, you were sitting across from him in the studio while he worked through a melody, and you caught yourself watching his hands instead of the screen. He noticed after a while. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep staring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“The song.” He looked at you skeptically. You held his gaze for a second before smiling. “I’m allowed to think.”

“I know. I’m just curious what you’re thinking about.”

You almost told him. The answer was sitting right there, painfully obvious, and for one terrifying second you wondered what would happen if you just said it.

You.

Instead, you pointed at the laptop. “I think the second verse needs something.”

He nodded and turned back to the screen. You breathed again.

Another time, he sent you a message asking if you wanted to grab food before a session. You spent the entire walk there wondering if he’d asked anyone else or if he’d thought specifically of you. When you arrived, he had already ordered something for you because he remembered what you liked.

You stared at the food. “How did you know I wanted this?.”

Yoongi looked up from his phone. “I think by now I pretty much know everything you like.”

It was such a simple answer but you didn’t like how much it affected you.

“Right. We are spending a lot of time together.”

He smiled. “We are.”

You wanted to ask him what he thought about that.

You wanted to know whether remembering you was something he did without thinking because he knew you well, or whether there was some part of him that actively paid attention to you in the same way you paid attention to him.

But you didn’t ask, you never asked. You became an expert at almost asking.

You’d start a sentence and change it halfway through. You’d look at him for a second too long and then pretend you were distracted. You’d find yourself wondering what would happen if you leaned closer, then immediately move away as if your body had betrayed you.

And Yoongi never seemed to notice… Or maybe he did.

That was the other thing driving you insane.

Sometimes you’d catch a look on his face that you couldn’t interpret, something quiet and thoughtful that disappeared before you could decide what it meant. Sometimes he seemed to anticipate what you were going to say before you said it. Sometimes he’d look at you for a little longer than necessary, and you’d spend the rest of the night wondering if you’d imagined it.

You wanted to ask him. God, you wanted to ask him so bad. But every time you came close to the idea, you remembered what you already had.

This new friendship, those stupid late-night messages. The jokes that weren’t funny enough to justify how hard you laughed at them. The comfortable silence. The way you could walk into a room where he was and immediately feel less tired.

You had spent your entire life believing that knowing whether someone loved you was the most important part of loving them. Now you weren’t so sure. Because the more you thought about it, the more you realized that even if someone could guarantee that Yoongi didn’t feel the same way, you still wouldn’t want to lose him.

You would still want to sit beside him in the studio. You would still want to hear all his unfinished songs. You would still want him to send you ridiculous messages at two in the morning. You would still want to know what made him laugh, what annoyed him, what he was thinking when he stared at the ceiling after a long session. You would still want to be his friend… And maybe that was what frightened you most.

You had always thought love was supposed to make you want more.

More time, more certainty, more closeness, more of the person until eventually you couldn’t imagine being satisfied with anything less. But with Yoongi, wanting more didn’t make you want less of what you already had. You wanted him desperately, yes, but you also wanted to keep the exact relationship you had with him now, even if it meant carrying this ridiculous, aching secret for as long as you had to.

Maybe that was love too. Maybe love was wanting someone so badly that you were willing to let them remain exactly where they were, simply because having them in your life was better than having nothing at all.

So you stopped trying to figure him out. Not completely, of course. You were still curious. You still wondered sometimes what he would say if he knew, still caught yourself studying his expression when he looked at you, still wished you could reach into his mind and steal one honest thought about yourself.

But you stopped needing the answer. Because whatever Yoongi thought about you, whatever he might or might not feel, there was one thing you already knew. He was your friend. And you loved him.

And for now, that was enough.

——————————

You had written three versions of the same chorus, hated all three, deleted two of them, and were currently staring at the third one as if looking at it long enough might make the words rearrange themselves into something worth keeping… They didn’t.

The cursor blinked at the end of the line, patiently waiting for you to figure out what came next. You played the melody again, fingers moving absentmindedly over the keys while the piano filled the studio with something soft and unfinished, and the moment the chorus came around you made a frustrated noise and stopped playing altogether.

“God, this is so stupid.”

You leaned back in your chair and rubbed both hands over your face.

The problem wasn’t that you didn’t have anything to say. You had too much. And that’s what made it so unbearable. For the first time in your life, you understood what it meant to have a feeling that was bigger than your vocabulary. You had spent years turning emotions into songs. Heartbreak, jealousy, loneliness, desire, grief, infatuation, all of it had always been manageable once you had a melody and enough time alone with a blank page. You could take something messy and private and turn it into three minutes of words that made sense.

But this was different. Every line sounded too small. Every metaphor felt embarrassing. Every attempt at describing what you felt seemed almost insulting to the feeling itself, as if reducing it to a lyric made it less true. You had written about someone’s hands and deleted it because it sounded too obvious. You had written about someone’s laugh and immediately hated yourself for how sentimental it looked on the page. You had tried writing about wanting to be around someone all the time and decided it sounded like something a seventeen-year-old would put in their diary.

Nothing worked, nothing came close.

You played the chorus one more time, grimaced, and started pushing two notes with anger making the piano sound horrible.

“Stupid ass song. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

The studio door opened behind you.

“If you break it you’re gonna pay it.”

You turned your head, stopping your tantrum. Yoongi stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, looking at you with a small smile. You stared at him for a second before turning back toward the piano. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He closed the door behind him and walked farther into the room. You heard him move around behind you, followed by the quiet sound of him dropping his things somewhere near the couch. You didn’t turn around again. You were too busy pretending that the last thing you’d said hadn’t been heard. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Working.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“I’m working badly.”

“Ah. Makes more sense.”

You heard the couch creak as he sat down behind you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You adjusted one of the controls on the equipment in front of you even though there was nothing wrong with it, then played a few notes without really listening to them. Yoongi didn’t interrupt. That was something you’d learned about him. He never rushed you when you were struggling to explain something. He didn’t fill silence just because it existed. He seemed perfectly comfortable letting you take your time, even when you were obviously trying to figure out how to say something.

Eventually, he spoke again. “What’s wrong with it?”

You sighed. “Everything.”

“Be more specific for me.”

“I’ve been trying to finish this for hours and I can’t.”

“Why? What’s it about?”

You hesitated. Then you shrugged, pretending like it wasn’t something big. “Love.”

There was a small pause behind you. “Love?”

“Yeah.”

“Since when do you write love songs?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. “I’ve written love songs.”

“You’ve written songs that sounded like love songs.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and he smiled. You turned back around, trying not to smile yourself. “Whatever.”

He was quiet again for a moment. “So what’s different about this one?”

You stared at the keyboard. You could have lied and you almost did. Instead, you said, “I’m trying to write how I feel about someone. How I’m… in love with someone.”

The words felt strange as soon as they left your mouth. Not because you hadn’t admitted it to yourself. You had. You’d spent weeks thinking about it, arguing with yourself about it, trying to write it away and failing spectacularly. But saying it aloud made it real in a way thinking about it never had.

Behind you, Yoongi was silent.

“Oh.”

You couldn’t see his face. But didn’t turn around anyway. For some reason that made it easier for you.

You watched the little light blinking on the equipment in front of you while you continued, your voice quieter now. “I thought I could just write about it, because that’s what I do when I’m overwhelmed about my feelings… But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

You rested your elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “Everything I write sounds stupid. I keep trying to describe it and it just feels…” You searched for the word. “Wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Too small.” He didn’t say anything. You swallowed. “It’s like I know what I feel, but I don’t know how to explain it. And that’s never happened to me before.”

Yoongi hummed quietly, thoughtful rather than judgmental.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard to explain it.”

You frowned at the screen. “What does that mean?”

“Maybe you don’t have to explain the feeling.” You looked over your shoulder again. Yoongi was still sitting behind you, relaxed against the couch, his attention on you even though you weren’t facing him properly. “You always try to make everything make sense,” he continued. “Maybe this doesn’t have to.”

“But it’s a love song.”

“I know.”

“So it has to make sense.”

“Does it?” You opened your mouth to argue but nothing came out. Yoongi smiled faintly at that. “You could just write what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Something happened.”

“No, I mean…” You sighed. “Nothing happened between us.”

That earned a brief silence. You hadn’t intended to emphasize the us. You immediately wished you hadn’t.

Yoongi didn’t comment on it but instead, he asked, “So what happened to you?”

You looked down at your hands. “I just started feeling differently.”

“About them?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You laughed softly. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Maybe you don’t need to.” You looked at him again. He shrugged. “Maybe you just like them.”

“Him. I love him.”

The words came out too quickly. You froze in place for a long second. It was the first time you had said it out loud. You loved him.

Yoongi didn’t say anything for a second. “Okay.”

You looked back at the keyboard. You weren’t sure why saying it in front of him made your chest feel so tight. You wanted to throw up so badly. Maybe because you’d never told anyone. Maybe because you’d spent so much time trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t serious, and hearing yourself say I love him made every excuse you’d invented seem ridiculous.

Yoongi’s voice was gentle when he spoke again. “Does he know?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

You smiled bitterly. “He’s my friend.”

“So?”

“And we work together.”

“That’s complicated.”

“Exactly.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “Do you think he’ll be upset?”

You thought about it. “No.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t want to lose what we have.” There was something about the silence that followed that made you feel as though he’d understood more than you’d actually said. You kept your eyes on the keyboard. “I really like what we have now,” you admitted. “They’re one of the few people that understands me. I don’t want to risk that just because I decided to develop feelings.”

“You can’t really control that.”

“I know.”

“Then maybe you don’t have to do anything.”

You looked over your shoulder. Yoongi was already looking at you. You couldn’t quite read his expression from the angle, but there was something soft about it, something that made you look away again before you could think too much about it.

“Have you ever felt like that?” you asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you loved someone and didn’t know what to do with it.”

He considered the question. “Yeah.”

You turned slightly in your chair, just to see him properly. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

He smiled a little, looking at the other side of the room now. “A while ago.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was talking about someone specific. You didn’t ask, you didn’t want to know really . Instead, you looked back at the piano and said, “So we’re both idiots.”

Yoongi laughed quietly. “Maybe.”

You smiled. The tension you’d been carrying in your shoulders seemed to loosen a little. There was something comforting about knowing that he understood, even if you had no idea whether his experience had anything to do with yours. He didn’t try to convince you to confess. He didn’t tell you that you were being stupid. He simply listened, offering small pieces of advice when you needed them and leaving everything else alone.

Eventually, you played the song again. This time, you didn’t try to fix the words. You let the melody run while you listened to it, thinking about what he’d said. Maybe you didn’t need to explain everything. Maybe the feeling could exist without being perfectly translated. Maybe the song didn’t have to capture all of it, maybe it didn’t have to be the greatest melody or the most heartfelt lyrics.

Maybe it could just be a stupid song.

“That part,” Yoongi said from behind you, “is good.”

You glanced back. “Which part?”

“The melody of the chorus.”

“It’s unfinished.”

“I know.”

You smiled. “It’s still bad.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Wow. High praise.”

“I’m serious.”

You turned back toward the piano, trying not to smile too much.

For another few minutes, you worked quietly while Yoongi sat behind you. He didn’t offer more advice unless you asked for it, and eventually you realized that you weren’t struggling quite as much as you had been before he’d walked in.

When you finally stopped playing, you leaned back in your chair.

“I think I’m done for tonight.”

“Good.” You heard him stand. He walked around the chair and stopped beside you, looking down at the notes scattered across your desk. You expected him to say something about the song, but instead he simply looked at you. “You got this.”

You smiled tiredly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Then he reached down and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, the kind of casual gesture you’d seen him make countless times before, and stepped away. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It was just Yoongi being Yoongi. You watched him grab his things and head toward the door. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight.”

The door closed behind him. You stayed in your chair for a while, staring at the empty doorway.

When you turned back toward the piano and looked at the unfinished song for once you didn’t hate it. It still wasn’t enough to say everything you felt. But maybe that was okay. Maybe some things weren’t meant to fit neatly into three minutes of music.

——————————

By the time dinner started, you had almost convinced yourself that you were doing better.

Not better in the sense that you had stopped loving Yoongi, because you weren’t delusional enough to think a few days of trying not to think about him could undo months of growing closer. But you’d gotten better at carrying it. You could sit beside him without analyzing every word he said. You could listen to him talk about music without wondering whether every opinion he gave you had some hidden meaning. You could leave a studio after spending four hours with him and make it all the way home without replaying every second of the evening in your head.

You were learning how to live with it… Which was why it was particularly unfair that the universe had apparently decided to test you at dinner.

It was supposed to be an easy night. Nothing formal, nothing work-related, just a group of friends getting together at a restaurant in Manhattan because it had been too long since everyone had been in the same place at the same time. You had arrived in a good mood, genuinely excited to see everyone, and for the first hour or so, you had almost forgotten that you were supposed to be worried about anything at all.

Yoongi was sitting across from you, laughing at something one of the others had said, and every once in a while you’d catch his eye from across the table. He’d smile, you’d smile back, and then you’d go back to whatever conversation was happening beside you.

It felt normal and comfortable… Until she arrived.

You had known who she was long before you’d ever met her. Most people in the industry did. She was a well-known producer, someone who had worked with Yoongi for years, long before you’d ever been introduced to him, and their history together was one of those things people seemed to know without ever knowing exactly what was true. There had been rumors about them dating years ago, speculation that had never really disappeared despite neither of them ever confirming anything. They were close, obviously. They had worked together for years, understood each other’s music almost instinctively, and had the kind of familiarity that came from knowing someone long before anyone else had a reason to pay attention.

It didn’t bother you at the start. Even before you had feelings for Yoongi, you’d noticed them. You’d noticed the way she could interrupt him without apologizing. You’d noticed how easily they fell into conversations that nobody else at the table could follow. You’d noticed the way he laughed around her, the way she leaned toward him when she spoke, the way he sometimes looked at her like he already knew what she was going to say.

It had never mattered before. Or at least, you’d never had a reason to let it matter. Now, sitting across the table and watching her lean closer to him as they talked, you felt something inside you quietly collapse.

It wasn’t even anything dramatic. She said something you couldn’t hear over the conversation happening around you, and Yoongi laughed, lowering his head for a moment as she nudged his arm. She laughed too, covering her mouth with her hand, and then she leaned closer again so she could say something else.

You looked away so quickly it made you dizzy for a second.

You tried to keep eating. You tried to listen to the person beside you talking about something that had happened at work, nodding at the right moments and making the occasional comment, but your attention kept drifting back to the other side of the table.

You hated yourself for noticing every little thing. You hated that it was bothering you. Most of all, you hated that you didn’t have the right to care.

Yoongi wasn’t yours. He had never been yours.

He hadn’t promised you anything, hadn’t led you on, hadn’t done anything wrong. He was sitting at dinner with a friend and talking to someone he’d known for years. There was nothing inappropriate about it, nothing you could point to and say there, that’s the problem. The problem was you. You were the one who had fallen in love with him without permission. You were the one who had started wanting things you had no claim to.

By the time the main courses had been cleared, you were barely participating in the conversation anymore. Your mood had gone from bright to flat so gradually that nobody seemed to notice. You weren’t angry, you weren’t even exactly sad, you simply didn’t feel like pretending anymore.

When someone suggested ordering dessert, you shook your head.

“I’m good. I think I’m probably going to head out.”

Several people immediately looked at you. “Already?”

“Yeah. I’m really tired.”

It was a terrible excuse. You knew it. Yoongi knew it too. He had looked at you the moment you said it, his expression changing slightly as he studied your face. “Hey. You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Just really tired.”

He didn’t argue about that. You said your goodbyes, hugged a couple of people, and slipped your coat on. You were almost at the door when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Hey. I’ll take you home.”

You turned around and Yoongi was already reaching for his coat. “Oh, you don’t need to. I’m taking a cab.”

“It’s safer if I take you home.”

“It’s just a car. I can’t take a taxi by myself. You were having a great time here I don’t want to bother you.”

You stared at him, starting to get a little irritated. Yoongi stared back. “I’m taking you home.” There was something so matter-of-fact about the way he said it that arguing seemed pointless.

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.”

You sighed, already feeling exhausted. “Fine.”

The drive started quietly.

You sat in the co-pilot seat looking out the window while Manhattan passed by in streaks of light, your hands folded in your lap. Yoongi drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the center console, and for several minutes neither of you said anything. Which actually made you a little glad, you didn’t want to talk at all.

Eventually, he turned the music down a little bit.

“Was dinner bad?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even wanted to stay for dessert. That’s when the conversation gets better.”

“I guess I’m really tired.”

“Yeah. You’ve said that twice.” You looked out the window. Yoongi didn’t push. Instead, he tried something else. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

You could tell from his voice that he didn’t believe you. You didn’t blame him, you weren’t doing a great job either trying to hide your frustration.

The silence returned and you watched the city outside, trying to settle the uncomfortable feeling in your chest. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to lie to him, either. There was no version of the conversation where you could explain why you’d suddenly become miserable without saying something you weren’t ready to say… so you stayed quiet.

After a few more minutes, Yoongi spoke again. “You know you can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to cry so bad it felt almost pathetic. “I know.”

“Okay.” He left it there. A few blocks later, he glanced at you. “Did I do something?”

You turned toward him. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, but you could see that he was thinking. You looked back out the window. He didn’t ask again. That somehow didn’t make it better. You knew he was giving you space, but you also knew he was paying attention. He wasn’t going to force you to talk, but he wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t noticed either.

When he eventually pulled up outside your building, you unbuckled your seatbelt. “Thanks for driving me.”

“Of course.” You reached for the door but eh called again. “Hey.” You paused and looked back at him. Yoongi was already looking at you. “If you change your mind…” You waited and he smiled faintly. “You know where to find me.”

You were supposed to complete the inside joke with ‘At the studio. As always’. Instead you nodded at him slightly before looking away. “Goodnight.” You stepped out of the car and closed the door.

You were halfway to the entrance when the window rolled down. “Hey!” You turned and Yoongi was watching you with that same patient expression. “You really were quiet tonight.”

You shrugged weakly, not knowing exactly what to say. “I guess.”

“You don’t have to be.”

You stared at Yoongi but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

For a second, you wondered if he knew. Not everything, surely. Not the extent of it. Not the fact that watching another woman laugh with him had made something inside you ache so badly you’d wanted to disappear. He couldn’t possibly know that… Could he?

You smiled faintly, because you didn’t know what else to do. “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

He held your gaze for another second before nodding. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

The window rolled back up and you walked inside.

You didn’t see him leave. You didn’t see the way Yoongi stayed parked for another minute, staring at the entrance you’d disappeared through, or the small sigh that escaped him as he finally started the car again. You didn’t know that he’d recognized the look on your face the moment she had sat beside him. He had noticed the way you’d gone quiet. He had noticed the way you’d stopped laughing. He had noticed that every time he looked across the table, your eyes were somewhere else.

He had even wondered, for a brief moment, whether he should move away from her. Not because there was anything between them, there wasn’t. There hasn’t been anyone… for a very long time. But because he’d started understanding you well enough to know that sometimes you needed things to be said without actually asking for them.

Yoongi hadn’t known whether you’d wanted him to move. So he’d waited. He would keep waiting. Not indefinitely, perhaps, but patiently. Because he wasn’t interested in guessing games, and he wasn’t interested in making you jealous just to see what you’d do. He stopped guessing and trying to read your mind the second he saw that look on you three months ago. The one he could recognize immediately because he had been wearing it for months before you even had the chance to wonder.

That’s why Yoongi didn’t want to manipulate whatever you were feeling into becoming something you weren’t ready to admit. He simply wanted you to know that if there was something you wanted to say, you could say it… And if there wasn’t, he would still be there.

That was the difficult part about caring for someone who hadn’t caught up to you yet. You couldn’t drag them there. You could only leave the door open and hope, eventually, they decided to walk through it.

——————————

It was insane how much you could think about one person.

You had always assumed there was a limit. A reasonable amount of time a human being could spend thinking about another human being before their brain simply became bored and moved on to something else. Apparently, you had been wrong, because Yoongi had managed to occupy an unreasonable amount of your thoughts without even being there.

It had gotten particularly bad over the last few weeks. His group had been busy promoting their new album, which meant their schedules had become impossible, and your usual late-night sessions had almost completely disappeared. You had seen him only a handful of times, usually briefly, usually surrounded by other people, and your conversations had been reduced to messages sent between schedules. Sometimes he’d send you a song or a voice note, sometimes you’d send him something you’d been working on, and every once in a while you’d manage to have an actual conversation that lasted longer than five minutes.

It shouldn’t have been enough to make you miss him but it was.

You missed him in embarrassingly specific ways. You missed hearing him complain about songs he was the one who had written. You missed the way he’d lean back in his chair and close his eyes when he was listening to a new melody. You missed his stupid jokes and the way he’d pretend to be offended whenever you told him one of his ideas was terrible. You missed sitting in the same room with him without having to talk at all.

You even missed his messages. That was when you knew you had a problem. You had started sleeping badly too, which would have been easier to blame on work if your dreams hadn’t become increasingly inconvenient. Yoongi had somehow managed to make an appearance in your subconscious often enough that you were beginning to resent your own brain for its lack of boundaries. You could go an entire day without seeing him and then wake up the next morning having dreamed about him as if you’d spent the entire night with him.

It was exhausting and very humiliating. But, worst of all, there wasn’t really anything you could do about it. You couldn’t exactly call him and say, Hey, I’m thinking about you so much that my own dreams have become a hostile environment.

… So you worked. You worked until late nights and early morning, because work was at least something you could control.

And one nigh, by the time you finally shut down your laptop and started gathering your things, the studio was almost empty. You stretched your arms above your head, rolled your shoulders and checked your phone before slipping it into your bag. Nothing from Yoongi. That was totally fine. You haven’t heard from him in three day, you could live like that… Yeah, you were lying.

You had just reached the hallway when you nearly walked straight into him.

You stopped so abruptly that your bag swung against your hip. Yoongi looked up from his phone. For a second, neither of you said anything.

You blinked confused. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “Hi to you too.”

“Hi.” You looked at him again, as if there was a chance you’d somehow mistaken him for someone else. “You’re supposed to be on promotions.”

“I am.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Finished early.”

“Oh.”

It was ridiculous how much relief you felt at seeing him. You tried very hard not to let it show, although you weren’t sure you succeeded.

He looked tired. Not exhausted, exactly, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it too many times during the day. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on for his schedule, and something about seeing him like that, still carrying the evidence of a long day, made the familiar ache in your chest return.

“You just finished?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going to work?”

He glanced toward the studio. “I was going to.” You waited as he lazily shrugged. “Don’t really feel like it anymore.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You came all the way here to not work?”

“I guess.” There was something almost amused about the way he said it. You didn’t think too much about it. He looked at the bag hanging from your shoulder. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you eaten?”

You hesitated. “Not really.”

“Do you want to?” You looked at him. He nodded toward the elevator. “I mean, I’m hungry. Could use some company.”

There was no reason to say no. “Sure.”

His gummy smile appeared almost immediately. “Okay.”

You followed him toward the elevator, trying not to think about how stupidly happy you suddenly felt.

And if dinner was supposed to be quick, it clearly wasn’t.

You ended up at a small restaurant a few blocks away, sitting across from each other at a table near the window while the city moved around you. It wasn’t particularly fancy, and neither of you seemed interested in making it anything more than what it was. You ordered food, Yoongi complained about how hungry he was, you made fun of him for acting as though he’d been stranded in the wilderness, and within ten minutes you had fallen back into the rhythm you hadn’t realized you’d been missing so badly.

You had almost forgotten how easy it was with him.

He told you about his promotions, about how chaotic the schedules had been, about one of the members nearly falling asleep during a waiting period and another one stealing his food. You laughed at all the parts you’d already heard through messages, mostly because the stories were funnier when he told them himself.

“You look tired,” you said.

“I am.”

“You should sleep more.”

“I’ll sleep.”

“You always say that.”

“I do sleep.”

“Eventually.”

He smiled. “You’re keeping track?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You remember everything I tell you.”

You looked down at your food. “I worked with you a long time.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It is.”

He smiled to himself. You hated that you couldn’t tell whether he was teasing you or genuinely pleased by the fact that you remembered things about him.

The conversation moved on, and eventually he asked about your work. You told him about the song you’d been struggling with, leaving out the part about what it was actually about. He listened carefully, resting his chin against his hand. “Did you finish it?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s not finished.”

“You always say that when you don’t like something.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Because it doesn’t sound right.”

“Still writing about love? Is the same song ?”

You looked up, caught in action. He was already watching you. You had forgotten you’d told him that. “Yeah.”

Yoongi nodded slowly. “How’s that going?”

“Badly.”

He smiled. “Maybe you’re getting better at it.”

“Or worse.”

“Could be.”

You laughed. There was something about the way he looked at you when you laughed that made you want to look away, but you didn’t.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t really awkward. You could sit there with him, looking at him across a table in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and somehow feel like you were alone. You found yourself wondering what it would be like to have this all the time. Not the studio or the late nights, or the unfinished songs. But dinner after work. Talking about nothing, knowing how his day had gone. Knowing he’d be there when yours was over.

The thought was so simple that it almost hurt.

Yoongi reached across the table and stole something from your plate.

You stared at him. “Did you just take my food?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s mine.”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was going to!”

“Too late.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’ve become really annoying.”

“You’ve known me for months.”

“And you get more annoying over time.”

“But you’re still here.”

You looked at him and he was already smiling.

Something in your chest tightened. “Unfortunately.”

“Sure.”

You rolled your eyes, but now you were smiling too.

He leaned back in his chair, looking completely comfortable, and you realized how much you’d missed this. Not simply seeing him, but being around him without a schedule, without a deadline, without a room full of other people. You had forgotten how much you liked the version of Yoongi that appeared when he wasn’t working.

He was softer, looser. He laughed more, he talked about stupid things. He looked at you like you were someone he had chosen to spend time with rather than someone he’d happened to end up working beside. And that thought stayed with you. Because you couldn’t stop wondering why he was here.

He could have gone home, he could have gone back to the studio and worked. He could have called one of his friends. Instead, he’d found you leaving and asked you to dinner.

You didn’t let yourself read too much into it. You couldn’t. Maybe he was simply hungry. Maybe he really had wanted company. Maybe you were just projecting because you were hopelessly in love with him and had started turning ordinary kindness into evidence. So you pushed the thought away. You focused on him instead. On the way his eyes softened when he talked about something he cared about. On the way he smiled when you made him laugh. On the way he remembered things you’d mentioned weeks ago without you ever having to remind him. On the way he seemed to know when you were about to change the subject because something had made you uncomfortable.

You wondered, not for the first time, if he knew you were in love with him.

Then you immediately decided that was impossible. If he knew, surely things would be different… Wouldn’t they?

You didn’t notice the way Yoongi watched you when you looked away. You didn’t notice that he’d spent the last week thinking about seeing you. You didn’t know that when his schedule had ended early, the first place he’d thought of going was the studio because he knew there was a good chance you’d still be there. You didn’t know that he’d checked your usual working hours before leaving the building, or that the decision not to work had been made long before he’d found you in the hallway.

You only knew that he was sitting across from you now. And that you wanted him so badly it almost frightened you. You were sure nobody has ever wanted another person like this. Not with this much tenderness, not with this much patience. Not with the strange certainty that even if you never got what you wanted, you would still be grateful that you’d gotten to know him at all.

When dinner was finally over, neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave. You two slowly stood outside the restaurant together, the night air cool against your face.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” Yoongi said.

You smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

“I was hungry.”

“Me too.”

He chucked. You started walking toward his car, but after a few steps he fell into pace beside you.

“I’ll take you home.”

This time you didn’t fight him. “Thanks.”

You looked at him and he smiled softly at you.

And as you drive beside him through the city, talking about nothing and everything, you found yourself thinking that maybe this was enough. Maybe you didn’t need to know what he felt. Maybe you could just keep having nights like this. Maybe you could keep loving him quietly, keep writing songs that never quite captured it, keep pretending that your heart didn’t jump whenever he looked at you for too long.

Because if this was all you ever got, you thought, you’d still be happy… You didn’t know that Yoongi was thinking something remarkably similar. Only his conclusion was different. He didn’t need you to say it tonight. He could wait.

——————————

By the time you finally gave up, there were pieces of paper everywhere.

Some were crumpled tightly enough that you couldn’t remember what you’d written on them. Others had been folded in half, crossed out so aggressively that the ink had nearly torn through the page, while a few had been abandoned beside the piano with single lines written across the top and nothing underneath. Your notebook was open in front of you, several pages covered in half-finished verses, arrows, corrections and words you’d circled so many times that you’d almost worn holes through the paper.

You had spent the better part of the evening trying to write a love song. Again.

You had started with different type of music in your mind. But then you came up with a lovely melody, then changed it. You’d written a verse, hated it, rewritten it, hated that one too. You’d tried something softer, something more honest, something less obvious, something that didn’t sound like every other love song you’d ever heard. You’d tried metaphors and descriptions and memories and everything else you’d spent years learning to use when feelings became too complicated to say plainly.

Nothing worked and eventually, you had stopped trying.

You pushed yourself back in your chair and stared at the ceiling, letting your head rest against the backrest as the silence of the studio settled around you. The equipment was still on, little lights blinking quietly across the room, but you had stopped listening to the melody hours ago. For the first time, you weren’t angry about it. You weren’t frustrated anymore. You had simply accepted it.

Maybe some feelings couldn’t be turned into words.

Maybe that was all there was to it. You had spent your entire career believing that every emotion had a language if you were patient enough to find it, that somewhere beneath the mess of a feeling there was always a sentence waiting to be written. You’d built your life around that belief. You’d made a career out of taking things people couldn’t say and finding a way to say them for them.

And now you were sitting in the middle of a room full of paper because you couldn’t describe how much you loved one person.

It was almost funny….

The studio door opened. You didn’t move.

“What the fuck?”

You recognized Yoongi’s voice immediately. You lowered your eyes from the ceiling. He was standing in the doorway, looking around at the state of the room with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and genuine concern.

You sighed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way. Don’t say anything.”

He ignored you. “I was going to ask what happened.”

You gestured vaguely toward the floor. “This.”

He stepped inside, carefully avoiding the papers scattered across the floor. “Did you lose a fight with your notebook?”

“I lost a fight with songwriting.”

“Again?” He asked jokingly.

You looked at him annoyed. “Again.”

Yoongi smiled faintly and closed the door behind him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at the mess again. “Sure?”

You laughed quietly. “Yeah. I finally accepted something.”

He pulled the other chair closer to you and sat down, turning it slightly so he was facing you, your knees brushing. “What?”

“I can’t write love songs.”

He stared at you. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“So you’ve decided you’re incapable of writing about love?”

“I’ve decided that whatever I’m feeling isn’t something I can write about.” He nodded slowly, as if he understood the distinction. You looked down at the papers near your feet. “It’s driving me insane, though. I keep trying to forget about this but every time I sit down to write something else I just go back to this, it turns into this stupid love song, and then I hate it because it doesn’t sound like enough.”

“Enough for what?”

You hesitated. “For how I feel.” He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward and picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper beside your chair. You reached for it. “Don’t.”

He looked at you. “Why?”

“It’s terrible.”

“I’ll decide.”

“You don’t want to read it.”

“I do.”

You sighed and let your hand fall. He unfolded the paper carefully, smoothing out the creases with his palm before looking down at the words. You watched his eyes move across the page, suddenly much more self-conscious than you had been when you’d written it.

It wasn’t really a song anymore. It was barely even a verse. Just fragments of thoughts you’d been unable to organize, lines about wanting someone so much that it made everything else feel insignificant, about being so consumed by another person, about cliches, about stupid songs. There were lines you’d crossed out and rewritten, words you’d circled and then abandoned, little pieces of honesty you’d only been brave enough to write because you knew nobody was supposed to read them.

Yoongi finished. He didn’t laugh, he didn’t make a joke. He simply looked at the paper for another moment before folding it once along one of the existing creases.

“I told you,” you said quietly. “It sucks.”

“I don’t think it does.”

“It does.”

“It’s unfinished.”

“That’s a nicer way of saying it sucks.” He smiled but you looked away. “I just hate that I can’t explain it.”

He glanced back at the page. “You write about everything.”

“I know.”

“You’ve written songs about things you said you couldn’t explain before.”

“I know.”

“So what’s different?”

You thought about it. “I don’t know.” There’s seconds of silence and after a moment, you added, “Maybe it’s because I want the person too much.” His eyes lifted toward you. You continued before you could lose your nerve. “I want them so much that everything I write feels smaller than what I’m actually feeling. I want him more than any stupid song could ever say. And that’s the one thing I’m supposed to be good at. I’m supposed to be able to take something like that and make it make sense.” You laughed softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “I can describe heartbreak. I can describe wanting someone. I can make a stupid three-minute song about missing someone sound like the end of the world, but apparently when it actually happens to me, I can’t find a single fucking word that feels right.” Yoongi listened without interrupting. You looked down at your hands. “I think I finally accepted that maybe some things just aren’t meant to be put into words.”

Yoongi looked at the page again. “Maybe.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s annoying.”

“Yeah.”

“Especially because I keep writing them anyway.”

He looked at you. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

You laughed under your breath. “You don’t have to be nice.”

“I’m not being nice.”

“You are.”

“I’m telling you what I think.” You looked at him. He was holding the paper loosely between his fingers now, his expression thoughtful. “I like it.”

“Yeah?.”

“Yeah,” his tone was softer. “And I think the person would understand.”

Something in the room changed.

It wasn’t obvious. There was no sudden movement, no dramatic shift in the air, nothing you could point to afterward and say that was the moment. It was just a look. Yoongi looked at you. And for the first time, you actually saw him. Not the version of him you’d spent months trying to understand from across studio tables and restaurant booths. Not the person whose smiles you’d memorized, whose messages you waited for, whose kindness you kept trying to convince yourself was simply kindness.

You saw his eyes. And you recognized them. Because you’d seen that look before. You had seen it every time you’d caught yourself staring at him in the reflection of a dark studio window. Every time you’d looked at yourself in the mirror after a long day and realized you were smiling because you’d been thinking about him. Every time you’d wondered what love was supposed to look like when nobody else was around to see it.

It was the same look you had.

It was him looking at you like you were something he didn’t know how to put into words either.

Your breath caught.

Oh.

You stared at him, suddenly understanding why he’d always been so patient. Why he’d never pushed. Why he’d always seemed to know when something was wrong without asking for an explanation. Why he’d found you at the studio after his schedule and claimed he didn’t feel like working. Why he’d insisted on driving you home. Why he’d sat in silence in the car and given you every opportunity to tell him what was wrong. Why he’d kept leaving the door open. Why he’d kept waiting.

You had spent so long wondering what Yoongi thought about you that you’d never considered the possibility that he’d been wondering the same thing.

Your voice was barely above a whisper when you finally spoke. “Would you…” You stopped for a second, and he waited again. “Would you understand?”

Yoongi didn’t hesitate. “I would.”

That was it.

Two words. Nothing poetic, nothing clever, nothing that could ever become a chorus or a bridge or a line worth putting in a notebook. But they were enough.

You looked at him, your chest suddenly too tight, your thoughts too quiet for once. Yoongi looked back at you. There was no uncertainty in his expression now. Now that you could see him clearly. There was only patience, only that same softness you’d been trying to write about for weeks.

You looked down at the crumpled paper still in his hand. “Don’t throw this away,” he suddenly said. “I think it can become something.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s a stupid song.”

“Well if you don’t want it,” Yoongi folded the paper again, more carefully this time, “I’ll keep it.”

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary before nodding. “You can keep it.” A tiny smile tugged at your lips. “It’s yours anyway.”

okay i’ll wait for you

you’re walking through the city with your sister sofia. you have an iced coffee in one hand and shopping bags in the other; you’re arguing about where to have lunch.

“no, sof—if we are getting tacos, we should go to that place on seventh avenue.”

“but that’s a twenty minute walk.”

“it is worth it, though.”

before she can even object, a grinning guy with a tiny microphone suddenly appears in front of you. you and sofia freeze.

“hi, i’m mikey. i’m filming a quick question for tiktok. can i ask you something?”

you shrug. “sure.”

mikey holds out the microphone, while one of his friends holds up a phone.

“who is the most famous person in your contacts?”

“what?” you ask, laughing.

the guy chuckles slightly at your stunned reaction.

“the most famous person in your contacts,” he repeats.

you look at him, thinking. who among the people you know is famous? you start frantically running through names in your mind. none of your relatives, none of your current friends or classmates…no. and then, it suddenly hits you.

“oh!”

mikey perks up. “oh?”

you point at him, recalling. “macklin celebrini. i guess.”

his eyes widen, and he laughs, a bit surprised.

“you guess?”

“well, that is assuming he hasn’t changed his phone number since high school.”

mikey looks at you. his friend with the camera is looks at you. sofia looks at you with a knowing smile. it gradually dawns on you: perhaps they were expecting a completely different answer.

“wait.” mikey says, leaning closer to you. “did you go to the same school as macklin celebrini? from the sharks?”

“oh, yeah.” you shrug. “we both played hockey.”

mikey looks shocked. “seriously?”

“yeah. not on the same team, of course. but we did a lot of the same things.”

sofia snorts beside you, because she knows you’re trying to downplay it as much as possible.

“so, you really knew him?” mikey asks.

“yeah.”

“and what was he like?”

you pause for a moment, trying to reconcile the person you knew with the image you have seen in his few interviews. honestly, he seems the same.

“good. a really humble guy,” you reply.

“…is that it?” mikey asks, glancing at the camera; he clearly expected to hear more.

you laugh. “i don’t know. he was just mack.”

mikey clearly is not thrilled with that answer— it’s unlikely to generate the kind of views he was hoping for. you pause to think, carefully choosing your words.

“we’d run into each other at hockey-related events sometimes. you know, parties, team gatherings. we’d ride the same buses to tournaments. he was a funny guy.”

the interviewer raises an eyebrow. “funny?”

“yeah.” you pause, smiling at the memory. “one time he spent the entire two-hour bus ride trying to convince half the team that anteaters do not exist.”

mikey bursts out laughing.

“no way.”

“seriously,” you giggle.

after a couple more questions, mikey thanks you and moves on. about thirty seconds later, the conversation slips your mind.

°°°°°

three days later, the video is posted. a day after that, it’s everywhere. “hockey tiktok” picks it up. then sharks fans see it. and right after, macklin celebrini’s personal fans stumble upon it. the video is flooded with comments.

wait she knows mack???

THE BUS STORY — IM SOBBING

i desperately need more stories about mack from his high school days

“he was just mack” that is so damn cute

of course, there are always people who write nasty things out of envy, but this is the internet— so who really cares? they don’t even know you.

you watch the video, laugh at how ridiculous you look, hit “like”, and keep scrolling. after all, nothing special really happened.

what matters far more is this: a week goes by, you’re lying on the couch after work with some reality show playing on tv, and suddenly your phone vibrates. You glance at the message preview.

unknown number

you’re tempted to just ignore the message. it’s probably spam. but curiosity gets the better of you — what if it’s a discount code or some great deal? that would be cool. still, that is not really the point— and it wouldn’t have been anything special anyway. you open the message and immediately straighten up.

unknown (maybe: mack)

hey, it’s mack!

you blink in confusion. what the fuck? you read it again: “hey, it’s mack!” no last name, no explanation. just mack— well, of course. he doesn’t need to add a surname or explain anything. he knows, and you know.

a second message comes through.

unknown (maybe: mack)

can’t believe i still have your number, lol

but i saw the tiktok and decided to check in on you. i know it’s been a while, but i was wondering what you’re up to these days?

how’s your knee? are you still skating?

that last message makes your chest tighten a little. of all the things he could’ve asked about, he remembered that— the very injury that derailed your life. years have passed. years. and yet, somehow, mack still remembers. then the phone pings again.

and another thing, anteaters still can’t possibly be real

you burst out laughing— and suddenly you’re sixteen again. memories surface that you haven’t thought about in years— as if someone had opened a dusty box at the back of the closet.

°°°°°

back then, everyone in shattuck knew one another. how could it be otherwise when there were so few kids in the school? that was especially true within the hockey community there. the teams knew each other well, since you spent practically all your time at the rink. if you weren’t playing yourself, you were watching others play. when mack’s team was on the ice, you’d sit in the stands with your own teammates; and when your team played, you’d usually spot him somewhere in the crowd.

you remember that tournament weekend when you sat side by side watching another team play, neither of you caring who won. you just joked about the way the announcer butchered the players’ names.

“do you think he’s doing that on purpose?” you whispered to mack.

“totally. or maybe he lost a fantasy football bet and this is his punishment.” he laughed.

you laughed too, and then— when he botched a name particularly badly— you both couldn’t contain yourselves and nearly fell out of the stands. but that was just mack: always chatting, always making someone laugh. and he always found a way to make those long tournament days fly by.

and then came the state tournament. and everything changed. even now, nearly four years later, the memories remain just as vivid and sharp— as if your brain had recorded everything in high definition. you remember the crowd, the noise, the excitement fluttering in your chest. you remember spotting familiar faces in the stands during warm-ups: parents, the whole family, friends, players from other teams. you even remember seeing mack and a few other guys sitting together. they had come to watch, of course— just as they always did.

the game itself had blurred into a shapeless haze— until a specific moment, that one defining instant. one second you were chasing the puck along the boards, and the next, someone slammed into you. it was a dirty hit— late and dangerous. you remember the impact itself and the way your skate caught awkwardly. then, the unnatural way your knee twisted. and the pain— instant, blinding pain. you remember crying out before you could stop yourself, clutching your leg as tears sprang to your eyes. You knew right away: something was wrong. for a moment, everything around you seemed to go quiet— the only sound was the pounding of your own heart echoing in your ears.

then chaos erupted: teammates shouting, someone trying to pick a fight, coaches vaulting over the boards, referees rushing toward you. it was all happening at once, and cutting through that chaos was a searing, terrible pain.

at the hospital, the worst fears were confirmed: you had completely torn your acl and your mcl. your season was over, and with it, your hopes for a future in hockey crumbled. instead of the national tournament, you faced surgeries and a long recovery process. you remember looking at the doctor as he explained it all— it was as if he were speaking a foreign language. hockey had always been a part of your life, and now it was gone.

the next few days were among the hardest. everyone tried to support you— coaches, teammates, family, and friends. then, one afternoon, there was a knock at the door. your mom opened it, and suddenly mack and two other guys from the team appeared in the living room with a huge bag of snacks.

after that, they stopped by more than once— just to check in on you and share funny stories from the rink, so you wouldn’t feel like you were completely out of the loop with the team.

but then life sped up. people grew busy, and schedules became increasingly packed. mack moved away— first to boston for university, then to san jose. you kept meaning to get in touch with him. to be honest, he probably meant to as well. but months turned into years— that’s just how life goes.

°°°°°

now you sit on the couch, staring at messages from macklin. and even though everything around you has changed, he remains exactly the same.

you seem to stare at the keyboard for an eternity: how do you even answer this? how do you fit years of your life into a single message? how do you explain that your knee healed, but something else— something else never did? after all, physically, you’re fine. doctors cleared you to return to skating years ago; the scars have faded, and your strength has returned. but the part of you deep inside remembers it all. the sound of your knee snapping, the pain, the looks on your teammates’ faces. the realization that your hockey career was over. yet you don’t tell him any of that. can you really dump all that on him in the very first conversation you’ve had in years?

so instead, you write something simpler, something lighter. something that is still true— just not the whole truth.

you

i’m doing great! my knee has completely healed; there are no issues anymore.

okay, maybe that’s a lie. not a lie. just not entirely accurate.

you

i’m in college now, and i really love it!

i watch your games! it’s still so strange seeing you on tv

but i’m truly proud of you, mack

you pause to reread what you’ve written. then you remember there’s something else you can add.

you

honestly, i wouldn’t have expected anything else from you

a notification pops up almost immediately indicating that mack is typing, though the message itself doesn’t appear right away. you smile, waiting for his reply. apparently, even nhl players sometimes sit there staring at their keyboards, trying to figure out what to write. finally, your phone vibrates.

mack

that’s really nice of you to say

but i’m even happier that you’re doing well

it’s also funny that you find it strange seeing me on tv because i sometimes still feel like i’m 16 and back at shattuck

you laugh out loud. the conversation flows naturally and easily from there. it’s unhurried— you just share news, reminisce about school and former teammates, people you haven’t seen in years.

mack

remember that time owen accidentally locked himself in the sports equipment closet?

this makes you laugh heavily again. it feels like you’re back in high school.

later, lying in bed after the exchange of messages has finally died down, you read through them again. one message, in particular, holds your attention.

mack

but i’m even happier that you’re doing well

so simple— and so like mack. sincere and kind; it’s something he might have said back then, in the past.

you lock your phone and set it on the nightstand. thoughts are still swirling in your mind— all circling back to that one question you never answered. “are you still skating?”

it weighs heavily on your heart. this is a hard truth to accept. you haven’t skated since the injury. but you tried. you would lace up your skates and step onto the ice. yet, suddenly, it was as if you were transported back to the state championship, and all the memories came flooding back at once. you breathing would grow ragged, a tightness would grip your chest, and in the end, you would have to sit down, take off your skates, and simply admit it: you couldn’t do it.

maybe someday you’ll tell macklin about this. but not tonight. tonight, you can just be happy. happy that a silly tiktok video led to this, and that after all these years, he hadn’t forgotten. happy that the funny kid who used to sit by you on the bus somehow became an nhl player without losing the qualities that truly mattered.

°°°°°

the next day, you’re sitting in the student center between classes when your phone vibrates. you smile: lately only one person texts you this often.

mack

okay, i have a question

you

okay???

the typing indicator appears and then instantly vanishes. it’s as if you can see him hesitating and wavering. finally, your phone vibrates again.

mack

i had a thought— feel free to say so if it’s weird

and you can totally say no— no problem at all

seriously, no pressure, nothing like that

you

mack, what are you talking about lol

a few seconds pass.

mack

we’re playing in minnesota in a couple of days

and i was thinking maybe you’d want to meet up before the game?

you know, grab a coffee, have lunch, or something like that?

just hang out in person

you stomach does a flip, and before you can even reply, he sends another message.

mack

if this doesn’t seem weird…

you don’t even have to think about it: you want to see him. you want to know if he’s still the same, want to hear his laughter in person again. you want to see a friend.

you

mack, it’s not weird at all

i’d love to meet up

he replies so quickly that it’s clear that he’s been waiting for your message the whole time.

mack

great

i was worried it would sound weird

but that’s really great

°°°°°

in less than an hour, you’ll be seeing mack in person— for the first time in years. you’d think you’d be nervous. you imagined spending the whole morning agonizing over your outfit, your stomach tied in knots. but instead, you’re filled with anticipation and feel surprisingly calm. once you’re ready, you send mack a text.

you

is practice over yet?

a reply comes a few minutes later.

mack

almost

coach is talking

a couple of minutes pass.

mack

still talking

you “like” his message. another one comes in.

mack

save me, please

you laugh.

you

meet me here when ur done

you send him the café’s address. it’s one of your favorite spots— a small, quiet, and cozy place in the city. Great coffee, delicious pastries, and a peaceful atmosphere— no need to worry about being bothered.

mack

perfect

see you soon :)

and across the twin cities, practice has officially wrapped up. unfortunately for his teammates, mack has lost the ability to act normally. he bolts off the bench, tears off his gear, shoves it into his bag, and immediately rushes to the showers. he is simply impossible to deal with. his teammates watch the scene unfold, torn between amusement and annoyance. finally, tyler’s patience snaps.

“look, man… you need to chill out,” he says as mack looks up from his phone.

“i am chill.”

sam snorts, and will has to stifle a chuckle with a cough.

“i’m serious,” mack says, sounding almost offended.

“mack,” toff says, his tone serious now.

“what?”

“you’re vibrating. take a deep breath.”

the next twenty minutes go even worse— if that’s even possible. mack stands in front the mirror, messing with his hair. he fusses with it for about five minutes without getting anywhere, until will finally loses his patience.

“god, let me help.” will reaches for mack’s head, but mack immediately bats his hand away.

“no.”

“i’m helping.”

“no.”

“my hair is objectively better than yours.”

“exactly.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” will asks, picking up on the tone.

“it means: keep your hands off me.”

will looks offended. dickie nearly falls off the bench laughing.

then comes the agony of choosing an outfit. first, he pulls on a gray sharks hoodie and walks over to the mirror. he frowns at his reflection and takes it off. he goes back to his gear bag and pulls out the teal sharks hoodie. he stares at it for a long time before trying it on, glancing in the mirror, and immediately taking it off.

“mack. just pick a hoodie and relax.” groans sam, tired of watching the fuss.

macklin sighs. “it just doesn’t look right.”

“why?” will asks.

toff answers before mack can. “he doesn't want to look like he’s showing off the nhl logo.”

mack feels his face flush; tyler hit the nail on the head.

“ohhhh.” will, sam, and misa chorus.

“no,” mack says, tossing the hoodie aside. “i’ll just wear a t-shirt.”

“macklin, it’s forty degrees out there,” tyler says; and he feels like shaking the kid to snap some sense into him.

“it’s fine, i’ll survive.”

five minutes later, he’s already in an uber, constantly glancing at his phone and rereading your messages. years have passed, and he’s nervous— even though it seems ridiculous, because it’s you. it’s just you. so why is there a fluttering in his chest?

the café turned out to be exactly as you had described it to him: cozy, quiet, and small, filled with the aroma of fresh pastries. when macklin walks in, a bell chimes above the door. he spots you immediately: you sitting in a corner booth by the window, studying the menu and tapping your fingers against the table. he recognizes the habit— a nervous tic he had completely forgotten about. and suddenly, it feels as though no time has passed at all. he remembers it all. he recalls weekends of the tournament, where you would sit beside him on the bus or between games, doing the very same thing— constantly tapping your fingers on whatever surface was within reach.

for a moment, he simply stands there looking at you— at how achingly familiar you seem. you’ve grown older— that’s obvious. you’ve changed a little. but it’s still you. and before he can even begin to process the moment, you look up. your eyes meet instantly, the tapping of your fingers stops, and your face lights up with a smile. suddenly, a strange feeling washes over mack: it’s as if he’s sixteen again, walking not into a coffee shop, but onto an ice rink. and it’s feels as though the years that have passed since then have simply vanished.

you rise from your chair as he approaches you.

“mack,” you say, smiling gently.

he smiles back immediately at the sound of your voice. “hi.”

for a second, you both stand motionless, grinning like idiots and unsure of what to do next. then mack opens his arms— and suddenly, everything becomes simple. you step forward and hug him. it isn’t one of those awkward half-hugs people exchange when they’re no longer sure how well they know each other. it’s a real, familiar embrace— as if those intervening years had never happened. the only difference is that he’s bigger now. much bigger. as you pull away, you have to tilt your head back a little further than before. his shoulders are broader, his arms more powerful— a year and a half of strength training in the nhl has clearly paid off. but he’s still the same mack: the same green eyes, the same freckles across his nose, the same smile. he’s just gotten a little bigger.

you order drinks and head back to your table. you ask about traveling for games, his teammates, rookie life, and how he’s liking san jose. mack answers with that same modesty that always drove you crazy.

“it’s cool.”

you stare at him blankly. “‘cool’?”

he shrugs.

“mack, you were the number one overall pick. and that’s all you have to say?”

“what else am i supposed to say?”

“i don’t know… maybe acknowledge just how incredible it is?” you say, only half-joking.

he laughs. “i just got lucky.”

you groan in protest. “mack, it is not luck. you worked hard, you’re dedicated. you don’t have to be so modest.”

mack just grins. eventually, the conversation shifts to you.

“what are you studying?” mack asks, leaning closer across the table, genuinely interested.

you immediately perk up. “film and photography.”

his eyebrows go up. “really?” when you nod, he adds, “that’s awesome!”

you smile. “i really love it.”

he asks for more details, and you launch into an enthusiastic explanation, gesturing animatedly. you talk about the beauty of the cinematography, how a single shot can either save a film or ruin it, and how directors know how to create the right emotional mood through visuals. mack listens intently— as always.

“whose work do you like best?” mack asks.

“luca guadagnino’s.”

mack nods, though he clearly has no idea who that is.

you laugh. “you have no idea who he is, do you?”

“yeah.” mack smiles.

“at least you’re honest.”

“always.”

you shake your head and smile. “i like christopher nolan, too. he makes beautiful films.”

“oh, i know him!”

for the next ten minutes, you talk about what you’ve learned regarding cinematography, lighting, and composition. mack asks questions, nods, and makes it clear that he’s truly listening. you mention that you’d like to shoot movies— if you get lucky— or, if that doesn’t work out, perhaps get into sports film and photography. mack just smiles the whole time.

and then comes the question. the very one you’d hoped he wouldn’t ask— the kind that was easier to dodge over text.

macklin takes a sip of coffee, sets his mug on the table, and looks at you gently. “so… do you still skate?”

your heart sinks. you look down at your coffee, meeting his gaze right now feels like an impossible task. you could lie— say yes, you skate sometimes. you could change the subject. but mack would realize you were dodging the question. so, you simply sigh and tell the truth.

“no,” you admit quietly. he remains silent and simply waits, giving you space, because he understands there is more to it. you swallow hard. “my knee has healed.”

“i know.”

“physically, i’m fine.”

mack’s expression softens; he suddenly realizes that the issue isn’t really about the knee at all.

you take a shaky breath. “i tried to get back on the ice for the first time last year.” his eyes widen— stunned by how much time has passed since the injury— but he remains silent. “i even managed to put on my skates and make it to the ice, but the moment the blade touched the surface…” you shake your head, as if trying to shake off the memory. “i had a panic attack. it was like i was right back there, in that moment. and i could hear myself screaming.”

the admission feels awkward, laying bare your vulnerability and emotional pain. but now it’s out in the open. his expression shifts slightly, yet there is no pity in it, only sadness and empathy.

“i know it sounds silly,” you say, rubbing your eyes, even though you aren’t crying.

“not at all.”

“i think it is.”

before you can look away again, macklin reaches across the table and gently places his hand over yours. he doesn’t hold your hand, he simply touches it, reassuringly.

“not at all.”

his green eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment, you’re flustered. not because of the touch itself, but because of how natural it feels. years ago, it wouldn’t have mattered at all: you’d ridden the bus shoulder-to-shoulder so many times that physical contact had become second nature. but now— after so much time, when you’ve essentially become strangers— the sensation feels so familiar. strange, perhaps, but certainly not unpleasant. you hold his gaze a moment longer before looking back down at your drink. and yet, somehow, for the first time since you started talking about it, you don’t feel awkward. you just feel tired. you’re so tired of carrying this burden and pretending it doesn’t affect you. tired of acting as if you’ve fully recovered and moved on.

after a moment of silence, mack pulls his hand away and looks at his coffee. then, quietly, he says, “you know what i remember most about that day?”

you shake your head. “what?”

he doesn’t answer right away, he just exhales slowly. “how helpless i felt.”

the words take your breath away. “what?”

“i was in the stands.” he gives a slight shrug. “i remember how hard you fell… and how everyone sprang into action. Your teammates, the coaches, the trainers— they all rushed toward you.” he looks you straight in the eye again. “but there was nothing i could do. all i could do was sit there and watch as they took you off the ice.”

you look at him. “i didn’t know that.”

he smiles faintly. “well, i never told you.” another pause. “i remember walking back to the hotel that night, thinking… ‘she’s going to be so mad that she can’t play…’.” he chuckles softly.

you smile a little, too.

“i knew hockey was everything to you.” the smile fades from his face. “and hearing that you still can’t get out on the ice… it sucks.”

simple, sincere, classic macklin.

“and i’m so sorry you had to carry that burden alone.”

you don’t answer right away, simply letting mack’s words hang in the air between you. honestly, you aren’t even sure there is something to say to that. instead, you just sit in comfortable silence. outside the cafè window, people stroll by, at a nearby table someone is laughing, a barista calls out a name to announce a drink is ready— life goes on.

finally, you slowly exhale. “i don’t know if i’ll ever put on skates again.”

the words slip out on their own— you hadn’t intended to say them aloud. mack doesn’t rush to object, he simply studies you intently.

“i don’t know either,” he says at last, and you look up at him. “but i hope that one day, the rink won’t just remind you of that terrible day… i hope it will remind you of everything that came before, too.”

a lump rises in your throat. for the past few years, hockey and skating have been associated only with pain, loss, and fear. but before that… there were bus rides and early-morning practices set to loud music, inside jokes, state championships, friends, mack. your whole childhood.

you swallow the lump in your throat. “i’d really like that.”

macklin smiles. “me too.”

the conversation dies down for a moment before mack suddenly slaps his hands on the table. “anyway.”

you blink at him. “…anyway?”

he shrugs. “i’m changing the subject. we earned this.” he leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “will almost got us kicked out of our hotel in seattle.”

you cover your mouth in shock, letting out a laugh. “what did he do?”

“he forgot the room key.”

“and? how did that lead to you almost getting kicked out?”

“no, that wasn’t it.” you raise an eyebrow and wait for him to go on. “he climbed onto someone else’s balcony.”

your jaw drops. “he did what?”

“he thought it was our room. but he was mistaken.”

you burst out laughing. “mack!”

“hey! i know it’s crazy— don’t look at me like that!” mack says defensively.

“what was he thinking?”

“nothing.”

“okay, but what happened? did he get caught?”

“well, the poor couple staying in that room thought they were being robbed.”

you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “mack, no!”

“yeah. security came running, and will was trying to explain that we were staying there. and then toff had to go downstairs in flip-flops to convince security we were actually there with the hockey team.”

you wipe away tears from your eyes. “i can’t believe it. you guys are just unbelievable.”

“yeah, will, mostly,” mack corrects.

“but you share a hotel room with him,” you point out.

“every day i ask myself if i made the right choice.”

“oh, come on.”

“nah… it’s actually pretty fun with him. but don’t tell him i said that,” mack admits.

“i knew it! no promises, though.”

he gasps theatrically and presses his palm to his chest.

“i fly all the way across the country to minnesota just to see you…”

“really? just for me? and not because you have a hockey game or something like that, right?”

“of course not. just for you.”

“right.” you laugh and shake your head.

he smiles. “i missed this.”

the words are so quiet you barely catch them. you tilt your head to the side, questioningly.

he looks down at his nearly empty glass. “…just talking. i missed this.”

a warm feeling spreads through you. “yeah. i missed it too.”

mack glances out the window, and his eyes go wide. “shit.”

“what is it?” you ask.

mack checks the time on his phone. “i’ve got a game.” he jumps up so abruptly that he bumps the table. “i need to be at the rink.”

you laugh. “i was wondering when you had to leave.”

“it completely slipped my mind.”

“you forgot you have a game in four hours?”

“well, i’m not really running late yet. i just need to get back to the hotel. i got a little distracted here.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” you smile.

“that’s exactly how i meant it.”

now you stand up, too. “i should probably let you go.”

“yeah.” he nods.

yet neither of you rushes toward the door. a pause settles in; you both want to say something but don’t know what. you don’t want this to end. finally, mack rubs the back of his neck.

“so…” He looks almost embarrassed. “if you already have plans or anything, just totally ignore this, but…” his gaze drops to the floor for a second. “are you coming to the game tonight?”

for a moment, you’re caught off guard, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. he notices your reaction.

“it’s fine if you can’t.” he adds hastily. “it’s just that i’d…” he pauses, then— almost as if he’s forcing himself to finish before he loses his nerve— he says, “i’d really like it if you did.”

there’s no pressure, no attempt to make you feel guilty, just honesty. he is admitting he’d like to look up from the ice during warm-ups and see a familiar face.

you look at him for a moment. at those same green eyes, that same gummy smile, that same boy who used to save a seat for you.

“i’d like that too,” you say quietly.

the smile spreading across mack’s face is so wide and radiant that he looks like a sixteen-year-old again.

“really?”

you laugh. “really.”

he checks his phone again. “all right, i really have to go. but i’ll save a ticket for you. i’ll leave it at the front office.”

you nod, and he heads toward the exit, then disappears into the cold minneapolis day.

°°°°°

back home, you realize you have no idea what to wear to the game. after all, you do not own any sharks gear. you stand in front of your closet, weighing your options.

you have a wild jersey with fleury’s name on the back— a real classic. you are in minnesota, after all.

then, while sorting through your clothes— dresses, old hoodies— you see something tucked away in the very back corner: an old ssm hockey team hoodie. you pull it out. the fabric is faded and the cuffs are a bit worn— it looks like it’s been sitting there forever. but you smile, mack had one just like it, they were issued to every player on the team. you wonder if he still has his.

you pull on the hoodie, and a second later, you throw a wild jersey over the top. one glance in the mirror— perfect. you grab your bag and head out the door.

your ticket is waiting at the box office— exactly as macklin said. you give the attendant your name, and she hands you an envelope. after thanking her, you step aside and open it. your eyes widen in amazement when you see the seat assignment. front row.

you laugh in shock. “no way.”

you immediately pull out your phone, intending to text mack, but then you remember he’s getting ready for an nhl game and surely has more important things to do. so, you just shake your head.

“total nonsense,” you mutter, heading toward your seat.

you sit down, and suddenly a wave of mild nervousness washes over you. it’s not because of the game— though you do hope the sharks win, despite the wild logo on your chest— but because he might spot you here. still, that's silly, he’d almost certainly be nothing but excited.

the arena around you gradually fills with people, the music grows louder, and the teams take the ice for warm-ups. your eyes immediately find mack. you recognize his skating style even from a distance. he’s holding his stick, skating laps with that effortless stride you’ve seen before. you watch him for just a few seconds when suddenly he glances your way. it lasts only a moment before he skates on— but then he whips his head back around, as if he can’t believe his eyes.

you laugh at the priceless look on his face. his eyebrows shoot up, and a wide grin spreads across his features.

you smile, wave, and mouth the word, “hi!”

he laughs and heads toward the glass separating him from you. then his gaze falls on your jersey, and he looks at you with mock disappointment. but when you lift the jersey to reveal the shattuck hoodie underneath, his expression changes again. now he’s smiling differently, more softly.

you let go of the wild jersey, and it drops back into place. mack shoots you another wounded look.

he leans closer to the glass, practically shouting to be heard over the crowd noise and music. “i need to get you one of my jerseys. i think you’d look a lot better in one.”

you feel heat rush to your face, but before you can reply, a teammate shoves mack on the shoulder, pulling him away for practice. but as he skates off, mack glances back at you, still smiling.

by the time warm-ups are winding down, you’re smiling so wide your cheeks actually ache. you aren’t thinking at all about what you’ve gone through before— only about the game, only about watching mack. and the rink no longer feels like a place where you lost something. you’re enjoying yourself again.

warm-ups end, and mack skates past your section one last time. he gives the glass a light tap with the blade of his stick right in front of you. you smile back at him.

“i do like the hoodie.” he shouts.

you smile and nod in agreement. then he heads into the tunnel with his team, and you remain looking out at the open ice, waiting for the game to start.

°°°°°

after the game ends in a sharks victory, you follow the arena staff’s directions and head toward the area reserved for players’ friends and family. you walk down the tunnel, still buzzing with the intense energy of the game.

stepping into the room, you nearly freeze in your tracks. it’s packed with nhl players. wild players you’ve watched on tv since childhood, spurgeon, kaprizov and— holy fucking— fleury. for a moment, you’re stunned, but then you remember why you’re here. for mack.

you look around, but he is not here yet, so you wait. you try your best not to stare at the players around you. you don’t do a very good job of it, but who could blame you?

the door opens again, and suddenly you don’t care who else is in the room— because mack is walking in. his hair is still damp from the shower, and his face is flushed. he scans the room and spots you. ignoring everyone else, he heads straight for you. you smile as he stops right in front of you.

“i’m so glad you came,” he breathes, hugging you.

you smile, a bit mischievously, and reply, “that’s what she said.”

mack’s arms let go of you. he pulls back with a completely deadpan expression, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“oh my god! i can’t believe you. are you twelve?” he asks, trying not to laugh.

you burst into laughter, nearly doubling over.

“i made my way over here, i was so kind… and this is how you treat me?”

“mack, i know, i know. but you walked right into it and i couldn’t resist.”

he shakes his head, laughing. “i can’t believe you.”

“you should have known better.”

“well, i didn’t think you’d say that!”

“it’s your fault, macklin.”

he laughs again, but then the mocking note vanishes, and his expression softens, turning warm. “but seriously… i’m glad you’re here.”

“i know. me too.”

his gaze warms, but before he can say anything else, someone calls out to him.

“mack? where the hell…”

you both turn to see will scanning the room. his eyes land on mack, shift to you, then back to mack— and a slow smirk spreads across the blond’s face. he walks over.

“oh.”

mack groans. “don’t.”

“i didn’t say anything,” will says, feigning offense.

“you were about to.”

“no. i was just looking,” will smiles. “anyway, the bus leaves in twenty minutes.”

mack nods. “i know.”

will shifts his gaze from you to mack again. and then, because he seems unable to help himself…

“so, this is the famous girl from tiktok.”

you laugh, while mack looks embarrassed.

“will,” mack groans.

“by the way, i showed him that tiktok. i’m the reason we’re here.” will says proudly.

“that’s debatable,” mack counters.

“i reunited the two of you,” will says, ignoring mack.

“you made fun of me for a whole week.”

“both things can be true at the same time.”

you laugh again, giving mack a gentle pat on the shoulder. finally, will turns to you.

“it’s really nice to finally meet you.”

“you too. mack has told me a lot about you. mostly about your hotel antics.” you say, with a mischievous smile.

will laughs, then looks back at mack. “alright, we really have to go.”

mack nods. “give me a second.”

he turns to you as will steps aside. his expression has turned a little more serious now.

“so… i wanted to give you something. come with me.”

you follow him down the hallway to the visitors’ locker room, trying to move quickly since time is short. mack peeks inside first to make sure no one is there, then swings the door open. you follow him in. he walks over to his locker, rummages through his bag, and pulls out a teal jersey.

you look at the name printed on the back— his name.

“mack…”

he holds the jersey out to you, offering it gently. “it’s for you. i told you we needed to get you out of that wild one.”

you take it carefully. “is this the one you played in tonight?” you ask.

“no. definitely not a game-worn one. it’s clean,” he says with a laugh.

you laugh, despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “thank god. because i wouldn’t take your sweaty jersey.”

“fair enough.” he laughs.

you unfold it and look at his name. proof that he made it. he made it beyond shattuck, made it to the pros. your eyes begin to sting, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the touching nature of the gesture or because of what you’ve lost. maybe it’s a bit of both. you quickly look down, and macklin notices.

“hey.”

you shake your head. “i’m fine.”

he doesn’t believe you— you know that. he tilts his head cautiously, trying to catch your eye.

“you know… i always thought that one day i’d get one with your name on it.”

you look up at him, your eyes still brimming with tears. “i missed you so much.” the words escape your lips before you can hold them back. mack freezes.

now the whole day makes sense— the way everything just fell into place so easily. you hadn’t just missed an old school friend; you had missed mack. you missed that friendship— missed the person who knew you from before everything changed.

mack’s expression softens. “i missed you, too. i saw that tiktok— and suddenly, i was…” he trails off, chuckling softly. “i don’t know. it all just came flooding back.”

you smile through your tears. “me too.”

mack takes a step closer and hugs you again. you immediately hug him back, no longer caring that you’re crying. you missed him. fuck, you really missed him. and only after losing him did you realize what a huge part of your life he occupied.

the locker room door opens.

“mack!” will says loudly.

you pull away from macklin. will points to the analog clock on the wall.

“we’ve got to go.”

mack nods. “alright.”

“no, right now.”

“i know.”

“the bus is leaving soon, and if you miss it, you’ll have to walk back to the hotel.”

“got it.” mack laughs.

will starts backing away. “two minutes.”

mack looks at you again. “i’m not going to lose you again.”

you just look at him.

“i mean it,” he adds. his green eyes are steady. “i won’t let you disappear from my life again.

“mack…” your breath catches in your throat.

“i don’t think i’ll get this lucky twice.”

a shout immediately rings out from the hallway, “that wasn’t luck!”

mack closes his eyes and sighs heavily. you laugh as will sticks his head back into the room.

“it was all thanks to my doomscrolling on tiktok.”

mack turns toward him. “will.”

“just saying.”

“will, get out of here.”

“i reunited you two. you’re welcome.” and will immediately ducks back out the door.

mack laughs and shakes his head.

“he’ll never let you forget that.” you laugh.

“yeah.”

“but he’s right, in a way, you owe it to him.” you smile.

“maybe.” mack sighs. “but i still take credit for texting you.

you laugh again. “fair enough.”

macklin pulls you into a final embrace— tighter than before.

“i’ll text when i get to the hotel,” he says.

“okay.”

“and you better text me too.”

“i will.”

“promise?”

you nod. “i promise.”

he smiles and finally lets you go. you walk out of the building with him and watch as he boards the bus. as you gaze after him, a pang of emotion strikes you at the thought that you might have lived out the rest of your life without getting this back— without getting him back.

and judging by the way he keeps glancing back at you as he climbs onto the bus, and settling into his window seat, he realizes it too.

°°°°°

BONUS:

will smith is the first of his teammates to stumble upon the tiktok video. he’s sitting in the locker room after the morning skate, fresh out of the shower, waiting for macklin. mack takes forever to shower, so will has nothing to do but scroll through his feed. and scroll and scroll. then he comes across a video captioned: “MACKLIN CELEBRINI??” naturally, will stops to watch.

the video already has a couple of hundred thousand views and thousands of comments. half of them say things like:

“she knows macklin????”

“GIRL EXPLAINNNN”

“i need all the details”

will immediately closes the comments and watches the video. the interviewer asks, “who’s the most famous person in your contacts?” will expects to see the question put to some influencer, or, say, an obscure musician. but then the camera pans to you— a girl he has never seen before and whom mack has certainly never mentioned. and you answer casually:

“oh! macklin celebrini, i guess. unless he has changed his number since high school.”

will stops leaning against the wall of his stall and straightens up. the video plays on. you talk about hockey, parties, tournaments, and bus rides. at first, will is convinced you’re lying— maybe just trying to grab your fifteen minutes of fame. after all, why wouldn’t mack have ever mentioned some girl from high school who had his number? fortunately, the answer to all of will’s questions emerges from the showers at just the right moment.

macklin walks over to his spot on the bench— he’s still soaking wet. will wants to get annoyed, since mack is going to drip water all over his shit, but there are more important things at hand. will shoves his phone right in mack’s face, the video keeps playing on loop.

“do you know this girl?”

macklin blinks in surprise. “what girl?”

“watch the video!”

mack leans forward as the interviewer talks about the opening. then the camera cuts to you. the dark-haired man squints at the screen, furrowing his brows. then he raises them in surprise when you say, “macklin celebrini, i guess.”

mack’s eyes go wide. “what the fuck?”

will smirks. “THAT’S WHAT I SAID.”

as you tell the story, mack’s eyes are glued to the screen. a story about hockey. about the time mack tried to convince everyone that anteaters were made up. mack bursts out laughing.

“oh, my god.” he manages to say through the laughter.

“you actually did that?” will asks, incredulously.

“yeah.”

“why?”

“i don’t know. just for a laugh? we were fifteen.”

will just stares at him, wide-eyed. “that is so weird, man.”

mack, however, barely hears that, as he is once again staring at the phone will is still holding in front of him. will watches as he recalls every story you’ve told, watching his expression shift into something unnervingly tender.

finally, will gives mack a light nudge on the shoulder and puts the phone away. “well?”

mack looks at him. “well, what?”

“do you really know her?”

At first, you never thought it would get to this point, sitting at the edge of your bed, phone in hand, staring at chats that kept getting quieter and quieter from one name: Yoongi.

Back then, he was always the one who started first. Waking you up in the morning, asking what you ate, even little things like “what are you doing?” felt meaningful because it was him. Min Yoongi, the one everyone said was cold, was actually the one putting in the most effort chasing after you.

Now? His replies are short. Sometimes late. Sometimes you have to wait hours just for one reply that feels… ordinary.

You start thinking about something you don’t want to admit. Did he only like the chase? After he got you… did he lose interest?

You’re upset. Honestly, really upset. But at the same time, you also know what his life is like. Comeback, practice, recording, schedules that aren’t humanly possible. You don’t want to become a burden. So you hold it in. You learn to understand him. And maybe that was the small mistake that slowly became something bigger.

You start keeping yourself busy. Joining office activities you used to always turn down. Watching movies with your team after work, casual dinners, sometimes even continuing to talk late into the night. You still update Yoongi, always. “I’m watching a movie,” or “I’m having dinner with office friends.”

He always replies… normally. Not angry. Not bothered. Like all of it is completely fine.

And that’s exactly what makes you even more confused.

Until one night, after an office dinner, heavy rain started pouring down. The roads were wet, it was hard to get a ride, and one of your coworkers who happened to live not far from your apartment offered to drive you home.

You hesitated for a moment. Reflexively, you opened your chat with Yoongi.

You: I’m getting a ride from a coworker, okay? It’s raining.

You wait. One minute. Two minutes. Ten minutes. No reply.

Eventually, you let out a sigh. “Whatever… maybe he’s busy.” You know he often doesn’t touch his phone while working. So you just assume… It's not a problem.

And really, nothing happened. You just went home, talked a little in the car, then got out and entered your apartment safely.

Everything was normal.

Until your phone buzzed.

Yoongi: You mean a guy drove you home?

You stay silent for a moment before replying.

You: Yeah, a coworker. Why?

His typing bubble appears for a long time. Then it disappears. Then it appears again.

Yoongi: Next time, don’t let a guy drive you home.

The tone is immediately obvious. Not just a sentence, that was Yoongi being possessive, something that rarely came out but was always intense.

You immediately frown.

You: It was raining, Yoongi. Besides, he’s just a friend.

His reply comes quickly this time.

Yoongi: Still.

You bite your lip, the small emotions you’ve been holding in for so long starting to rise to the surface.

You: Besides, you can’t pick me up either.

The moment it sends, you immediately regret it. Your heart pounds. You know that hit a nerve, especially when you also know why he can’t.

You quickly send another message.

You: Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.

A few seconds feel unbearably long.

Yoongi: Are you lonely?

The question is simple. But the way he asks it… makes your chest tighten.

You stare at the screen for a long time. Honestly? Yeah. But you don’t want him to feel guilty.

You: I’m not lonely, I’m just… trying to understand you.

The three dots appear again. This time longer than before.

You continue, your fingers trembling slightly.

You: It’s just sometimes… I feel like I don’t even have a boyfriend.

Silence. No reply.

And somehow, that hurts more than his anger.

You pull the blanket over yourself, hugging yourself on the bed. Not because you’re cold, but because of the emptiness that suddenly arrives without permission.

You still love him. That hasn’t changed.

But for the first time, you feel like… maybe love alone isn’t enough if you constantly feel alone, even while having someone.

Your phone finally buzzes again.

Yoongi: I’m at the studio. I thought you understood without me having to explain it.

You smile faintly, bitterly.

You: I understand, That’s why I stayed.

This time, he’s the one who takes a long time to reply.

And in the middle of the rain still pouring outside, you realize... The thing you’re waiting for isn’t just a text from him.

But the feeling that you’re still his priority… like before.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

A few days after that conversation, you really try to hold yourself back.

Not just your emotions, but also your expectations.

You stop waiting for his texts every few minutes. You stop hoping he’ll suddenly call just to hear your voice. You still update him as usual, but this time without expecting more.

Because you know Min Yoongi is in the busiest phase of his life.

And you choose… to stay.

That night, you join another office after-work gathering. More relaxed than before eating, talking, laughing a little, but not really feeling it in your heart. It still feels like something is missing, even if you don’t want to admit it.

You briefly open your chat with Yoongi.

You: I’m having dinner with the office team, okay?

This time, you don’t wait for a reply. You immediately put your phone back into your bag and continue talking, trying to enjoy the moment without constantly thinking about him.

It’s already pretty late when the event ends. You walk out of the restaurant, the night air slightly cold, the streets starting to quiet down.

Reflexively, you open the chat again.

You: I’m done. I’m going to walk to the bus stop.

You send it. And like the past few days, you don’t expect anything.

You’ve already walked away from the restaurant, heading toward the bus stop, your footsteps soft against the slightly damp sidewalk.

Your phone buzzes.

You think… Maybe it’s just a regular notification.

But the moment you look...

Yoongi: Don’t take the bus.

You stop walking.

Your brows furrow, your heart suddenly beating faster.

“How?” you reply.

His reply comes quickly.

Yoongi: I’m in front. Waiting for you.

Your world feels like it stops for a few seconds.

“What?” you almost whisper to yourself.

You immediately look toward the street ahead—city lights, a few passing cars, and… across the street, the black car you know so well.

And the figure standing beside it.

Low cap, hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets. But there’s no way you could mistake him.

It’s him.

Your steps automatically quicken. Not running, but close to it.

When you get closer, he lifts his head slightly. Your eyes meet, and for the first time in days… you see something you’ve missed.

Warmth.

“What are you doing here…” your voice is soft, still half in disbelief.

Yoongi lets out a quiet sigh, then opens the car door for you. “Get in first.”

You obey, still silent, still trying to process everything.

Once he gets into the driver’s seat, the inside of the car stays quiet for a few seconds. Only the sound of your breathing fills the space.

Then he speaks.

“I read your chat late,” he says softly. “The one from before.”

You stare ahead, your hands clasped together in your lap.

He continues, his voice lower.

“The one where you said… you feel like you don’t even have a boyfriend.”

There’s a pause. You don’t answer.

“I kept thinking about it,” he continues. “Until today.”

You swallow hard, your chest starting to feel heavy again, but this time, it’s different.

“I’m not good at giving time,” he admits honestly. “And I can’t always be there. But that doesn’t mean…” he pauses for a moment, searching for the words.

“…doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

You finally turn to look at him.

Yoongi’s gaze is serious, tired, but sincere.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “For making you feel alone.”

The sentence is simple. But coming from him, the one who rarely talks this much about feelings, it means everything.

You take a deep breath.

“I know you’re busy,” you answer quietly. “That’s why I never got angry.”

“But you still felt it,” he cuts in softly.

You stay silent. Because it’s true.

Yoongi reaches out, gently taking your hand. Warm, familiar.

“I’m still learning,” he says. “Not to just expect you to understand me… but I also have to understand you.”

Your tears almost fall, but you hold them back. You just squeeze his hand in return.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to pick me up?” you whisper.

He smiles faintly, tired but soft.

“Because if I told you, you definitely would’ve refused.”

You fall silent, then unconsciously smile a little.

…yeah, true.

Yoongi lifts your hand slightly and presses a brief kiss to the back of it.

“From now on,” he says softly, “I might still be busy.”

You nod slightly.

“But never think you’re alone again.”

This time, you truly believe him.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The car is still parked by the side of the road, the engine humming softly, city lights reflecting against the windshield. Your hand is still in Yoongi’s grip—warm, but your heart still hasn’t completely calmed down.

You look down for a moment before speaking softly.

“I… don’t want to be someone who doesn’t understand you.”

Yoongi furrows his brows slightly, but stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I know what your life is like,” you continue, your voice softer than usual. “Your schedules, your pressure… everything. I don’t want to add more burdens for you. I don’t want to be an annoying girlfriend, demanding this and that…”

Your sentence trails off. Because honestly, it’s not completely true, not because you’re lying, but because you’ve been holding in too much.

Yoongi lets out a quiet sigh.

Then his hand tightens slightly around yours.

“You’re wrong.”

You immediately turn to him, slightly surprised by how firm his tone is, but he’s not angry.

“You have the right to do that,” he continues, softer now. “You’re my girlfriend.”

You stay silent.

“If I’m wrong, you have to tell me,” he says again, looking straight at you. “Not keep it bottled up.”

Your chest tightens again, but this time because of something different.

“Yoongi, I just...”

“Listen to me first.”

His voice stays gentle, but there’s something there you can’t argue against.

“I hate it more when you stay quiet,” he says. “More than when you’re angry.”

Silence for a moment.

He takes a breath, then his voice lowers, almost like a whisper.

“Especially if you end up feeling alone… even while you’re with me.”

You can’t hold your gaze steady anymore this time. You immediately lower your head, trying to hide the tears starting to fall.

Yoongi moves right away. His other hand gently lifts your chin.

“Hey…”

His gaze changes softer, more careful.

“If you ever feel like you don’t even have a boyfriend…” he pauses for a second, his jaw tightening slightly. “…that means I failed.”

That sentence hits you instantly.

“Don’t say that—” you respond reflexively.

“But that’s the truth.”

No defensiveness. No excuses. Just honesty.

And somehow, that makes you even more shaken.

“I might be busy,” he continues, his thumb gently brushing your cheek, wiping away your tears. “I might not always be there.”

“But you shouldn’t have to feel my absence that deeply.”

You bite your lip, your voice almost disappearing when you speak.

“I was scared… that if I asked for too much, you’d get tired of me.”

Yoongi immediately shakes his head slowly.

“I’m tired because of my work,” he says honestly. “Not because of you.”

That one sentence… simple, but it feels like something you’ve needed for a long time.

He leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours.

“You’re my home,” he whispers. “Not something that makes me tired.”

Your tears fall again, but now not because of pain.

Yoongi smiles faintly, sad but warm.

“So if you miss me, say it.”

“If you’re upset, say it.”

“If you feel lonely… tell me.”

He pauses for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Don’t pretend to be strong all by yourself.”

You let out a small laugh through your tears, your voice hoarse.

“It’s hard…”

“I’ll help you,” he answers immediately.

Without many more words, he gently pulls you closer to him, not rushed, not driven by desire, he just wants to be close.

Your head rests on his shoulder, and for the first time after several difficult days…

you don’t feel alone anymore.

Above your head, Yoongi whispers softly, almost like a promise.

“I’m learning to be a better boyfriend.”

“You also shouldn’t learn how to pull away, okay?”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The car is still parked, but the atmosphere has changed. The warmth doesn’t just come from your intertwined hands, but from the way you look at each other. More honest, more open.

You glance toward your apartment building not far from there. Deep down, you really want to say, “come inside.”

You want to sit together, want to stay close longer, want to feel him without a time limit.

But you also see his eyes.

Tired.

Not ordinary tired, that kind of exhaustion you know comes from long days without rest.

So you hold yourself back.

“You have to go back, right?” you say softly, almost like you’re reminding yourself more than him.

Yoongi doesn’t answer immediately. His hand is still holding yours. Not letting go. Even slightly tighter.

As if he also… doesn’t want to leave yet.

“Should I walk you upstairs?” he finally asks.

You smile faintly, but shake your head. “No need. You’re tired.”

There’s a pause.

Yoongi stares at you for a long moment. His expression changes slightly—confused, but also… something else.

“You… don’t want me to come with you?” he asks quietly.

You immediately look shocked. “Huh? That’s not what I meant—”

But he’s already drawing his own conclusions.

“You’ve been holding me back this whole time,” he says, his voice calm but carrying a feeling you recognize, slightly hurt. “I thought you didn’t want me to come.”

Your chest tightens immediately.

“I actually…” you stop, swallowing words that almost come out too honestly. “I was scared you were tired.”

Silence.

You stare at each other. And right there, everything becomes clear.

You held back because you love him. He thought you held back because you didn’t want him.

Yoongi lets out a short sigh, then suddenly… he unbuckles his seatbelt.

“I’m coming with you.”

You blink. “Yoongi...”

“I’m tired,” he cuts you off, but this time there’s a faint smile on his lips. “But I miss you too.”

That sentence makes your heart race instantly.

Without waiting for your answer anymore, he’s already stepping out of the car. You can only follow, still a little confused but also… warm inside.

The walk upstairs feels short. Too short, even.

Once you arrive in front of your apartment door, you stop for a moment, your hand on the doorknob.

Nervous.

You open the door and step inside first, Yoongi behind you. And the moment the door closes...

click.

Before you can even fully turn around, Yoongi is already pulling you toward him.

Fast, but not rough.

His lips immediately find yours.

You’re surprised, but only for a split second before you kiss him back. His hands hold your waist, pulling you closer, as if he doesn’t want any distance between you anymore.

The kiss is deep. Long. Full of something he’s been holding back all this time.

Longing. You can feel it without him needing to say it.

When he finally pulls away slightly, both of your breaths are unsteady, his forehead resting against yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers, his voice low and honest.

Your heart feels like it’s being held from the inside.

“Me too…” you answer softly.

His hand moves up, touching your cheek, his thumb stroking it gently.

“I love you,” he continues. “And I don’t want you to feel alone anymore.”

You look at him, your eyes still slightly wet, but now there’s a small smile there.

“That’s why I came here.”

He leans in again, this time slower—as if savoring every second.

The kiss becomes softer, but no less deep. His hands keep you close, as if he wants to make sure you’re really here, with him.

Not just words.

He truly wants to show you. How much he loves you. And that night, inside your small apartment, you both finally stop holding back your feelings.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The door is already closed, but Yoongi still hasn’t pulled away. His hands are still on your waist, his breath still close, and your foreheads are still pressed together. The atmosphere is calmer now, not as intense as before, but somehow it feels deeper.

“I’m… sorry.”

His voice is soft, but clear.

You immediately look at him. “Yoongi...”

“I’m serious,” he cuts you off, his eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t realize.”

There’s a short pause, as if he’s arranging words he rarely says out loud.

“I didn’t notice that my texts to you were getting less frequent,” he continues. “In my head… everything was still the same. I thought I was still doing enough.”

You swallow quietly.

Because it makes sense. And that’s also why you could never truly be angry at him.

“You’ve been busy,” you answer softly. “I understand.”

Yoongi immediately shakes his head.

“That’s not the point.”

His hand moves up, touching your cheek again, this time more carefully.

“You understand me… but I can’t become someone who keeps making you understand me without trying to understand you back.”

That sentence makes your chest feel warm and ache at the same time.

“I love you,” he says again, firmer this time. “And I want to still be there for you. Not just… when I happen to have time.”

You stay quiet, listening.

“If you feel like I start replying less… or you start feeling lonely...” he pauses for a moment, looking deeper into your eyes. “You have to tell me.”

You frown slightly. “I was scared of bothering you.”

“I’m more scared of losing you slowly,” he answers quickly.

Silence.

Those words aren’t loud, but the impact hits instantly.

“I don’t want us to drift apart just because I got too busy and forgot what’s important,” he continues. “And you are… important.”

Your heart beats faster.

“So tell me,” he repeats softly. “So I can fix it.”

You finally nod slightly. “Yeah…”

Yoongi smiles faintly, then pulls you a little closer.

“Not just ‘yeah,’” he says softly. “Promise.”

You laugh quietly, weak but sincere. “Yeah… promise.”

He nods in satisfaction, then without many more words, he hugs you.

This time it’s not a rushed hug. A hug that lingers. A hug that feels like… home.

Against his shoulder, you close your eyes, your breathing slowly becoming calmer. And for the first time after all the doubts from the past few days— you don’t just feel loved. But  also… fought for.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Yoongi still hasn’t fully let go of you.

The hug is still there, even tighter now, as if he’s scared you might suddenly disappear. His face dips slightly into your neck, his warm breath making you unconsciously close your eyes for a second.

“I don’t want to go home,” he murmurs softly.

You immediately pull back a little, looking at him. “Huh?”

He just grins faintly, but his eyes are serious. “I’m staying over.”

You immediately laugh softly out of reflex. “What are you talking about? You’re tired, Yoongi. Go home and rest.”

Instead, he moves even closer again, his arms wrapping around your waist once more.

“This is resting,” he answers casually.

You frown, half disbelieving. “How is this resting…”

He leans closer again, his nose almost touching yours, his voice dropping lower.

“I get to sleep with you,” he whispers, “and my exhaustion disappears.”

Your heart immediately beats faster.

You try to stay calm even though your cheeks are starting to feel warm. “Are you really… not going to do anything?”

Yoongi immediately shakes his head quickly, almost like a little kid caught doing something.

“Nooo,” he says, using a spoiled tone that rarely comes out. “Well… maybe a little.”

You immediately pinch his arm lightly. “Yoongi.”

He laughs quietly, then grins, his eyes half closed.

“But seriously,” he continues, softer this time. “This exhaustion is different.”

His hand lifts, carefully tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Being tired from work… and being tired from missing you are different things.”

You immediately go quiet.

That simple sentence… hits hard.

He leans closer again, this time not rushing. His lips touch your forehead first, lingering there, as if savoring that small moment.

“I missed you,” he whispers again.

You look at him, softer now. “Me too.”

Yoongi smiles faintly, then without thinking much, he pulls you back into his arms again—clingy, unwilling to let go.

“So I’m staying over,” he says again, this time sounding like a final decision.

You let out a small sigh, but your smile can’t be hidden. “You’re so stubborn.”

“Only with you,” he answers casually.

You laugh softly, then finally give in. “Fine… but really just sleeping.”

Yoongi nods quickly.

“Yeah,” he says.

Two seconds of silence.

“…while hugging you.”

You immediately shoot him a sharp look. “Yoongi.”

He laughs, then pulls you even closer again, his chin resting on top of your head.

“Just hugging,” he whispers, softer now. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been like this.”

This time, you don’t protest. You just hug him back. And in the middle of a night that finally feels warm again, Yoongi doesn’t stop clinging to you—clingy, spoiled, but sincere.

As if he’s trying to make up for all the lost time. And you… don’t mind at all.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Yoongi wasn’t joking.

Even though you already said “just sleeping,” the way he hugs you, tight, pressed close, his warm breath against your skin, makes it obvious that he’s still not satisfied stopping there.

“I’m exhausted from missing you…” he whispers softly into your ear.

That sentence makes you close your eyes for a moment.

“…and this is the only cure.”

You immediately know what he means. Your breathing catches slightly, your hand reflexively gripping his shirt.

“Yoongi…” you try to stay reasonable. “You’re tired.”

“That’s why,” he answers quickly, almost spoiled. “I need you.”

That tone… is hard to refuse.

You stare at him for a long moment, trying to find a reason to stay stubborn but all you see is him. Eyes full of exhaustion, but also full of feeling. And all those feelings… are for you.

Eventually, you let out a quiet sigh.

“…slowly,” you whisper softly.

A smile instantly appears on Yoongi’s face, not a mischievous smile, but more like… relief.

“I always do,” he whispers.

And it’s true.

Every time he’s with you, Yoongi is never in a rush.

His hands are always careful, as if you’re something to be protected, not just touched. Every movement is slow, full of attention, as though he wants you to truly feel him, not just physically, but the feelings he carries in every touch.

Sometimes to the point where you’re the one taking deep breaths, holding yourself back, because he’s too slow… too intentional.

“Yoongi…” you whisper, half protesting, half losing focus.

He only smiles faintly close to you.

“I want this to last,” he answers softly.

And you know… this isn’t about time.

This is about him not wanting to waste even a single second without truly being there, with you.

When everything is over, he doesn’t pull away immediately.

Actually, it’s the opposite.

Yoongi stays close, his breathing still heavy but his hands immediately searching for you again, stroking your arm, your hair, making sure you’re okay.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod slightly, still trying to steady your breathing.

He kisses your forehead briefly, gently.

“Wait here.”

He gets up, and a few minutes later comes back with a warm towel. Carefully, he helps clean you up, slowly, without rushing, without making you feel awkward even a little bit.

Like always. Like every time.

After that, he takes your hand.

“Come on,” he says gently.

You follow him, and he leads you to the bathroom, staying close, making sure you don’t stumble. Warm water touches your skin, and he stays there, not saying much, but his presence is enough.

When everything is done, he wraps you in a towel, then brings you back to bed. This time, he’s the one pulling you into his arms. No more rushing. No more urges. Just… warmth.

His hand slips around your back, pulling you closer.

“Did your exhaustion disappear?” you whisper softly, half teasing.

Yoongi lets out a quiet sigh, his face buried in your hair.

“It did,” he answers honestly. “Because of you.”

You smile faintly against his chest.

A few seconds of silence. Then he adds, more softly...

“…I love you.”

This time, you don’t answer with words. You just move a little closer. And for that night, that’s enough.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

That morning, sunlight slowly slipped through the curtains, falling right onto Yoongi’s face as he slept beside you.

You had already woken up first, but hadn’t really moved yet. You just watched him for a moment, his hair slightly messy, his breathing calm, his face far more relaxed than usual.

Last night… still lingered.

You finally smiled faintly, then gently shook his shoulder.

“Yoongi…”

He only groaned softly, not opening his eyes yet.

“Wake up,” you whispered again, a little clearer. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Yoongi’s eyes opened halfway, still heavy with sleep. He stared at you for a few seconds, then—without even a little bit of guilt—answered,

“You.”

You immediately smacked his arm lightly. “What the hell.”

But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he pulled you a little closer, his eyes more open now, more focused.

“I’m serious,” he mumbled, his voice still husky from sleep.

You immediately shook your head, trying to pull away. “No. We’re actually eating.”

“After that,” he replied casually.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Yoongi, last night...”

“Still not enough,” he cut in quickly, now with a faint smile on his lips.

You immediately fell silent, your cheeks beginning to warm. He lifted a hand, touching your waist gently, pulling you slightly closer.

“I told you,” he continued softly, “I wanted to make up for it.”

You immediately pulled away, getting out of bed. “Enough. I’m cooking.”

He just laughed softly behind you. You walked into the kitchen and started preparing a simple breakfast. But before you could really start—two arms were already wrapping around your waist from behind.

You immediately paused. “Yoongi…”

He just rested his chin on your shoulder, his eyes half closed again.

“I’m sleepy,” he mumbled.

You sighed quietly. “Then go sleep over there.”

“I want to be here.”

His hug only tightened. You tried continuing to cut ingredients, but clearly… it was difficult.

“Yoongi, I can’t cook if you’re like this.”

He just laughed softly against your ear.

“You can,” he answered casually.

“You’re bothering me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are,” you repeated, laughing a little this time.

He finally opened one eye, a small smile appearing.

“Fine… I’ll help.”

“Your hands aren’t even letting go.”

“This is helping so you don’t go anywhere.”

You immediately shook your head, but you couldn’t stop smiling. Yoongi was definitely still tired—you could feel it from the way he leaned against you, from his still-heavy breathing. But at the same time… he also didn’t want to be far from you.

After a while, he pressed a brief kiss to the side of your neck not rushed, but enough to make you stop for a second.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been like this,” he whispered.

You stayed quiet for a moment, then slowly leaned your head back against him.

“Yeah…”

He smiled faintly, his arms never letting go. And even though you kept protesting every few seconds because he was making cooking complicated—he only laughed softly behind you. Didn’t leave. Didn’t pull away. As if that morning… he truly only wanted to be close to you.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

After breakfast that, honestly, had more distractions from Yoongi than actual cooking, you both finally moved to the living room.

The TV was on, but the volume was low. Neither of you was really focused on watching. You sat leaning back against the couch, and Yoongi… as usual, stayed close. His arm rested casually around your shoulders, his fingers sometimes playing with the ends of your hair without realizing it.

That day felt slow. Peaceful. And for the first time in a while, you truly had time to just exist—without interruptions.

“We need to talk,” you said softly, still staring at the TV screen.

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately, but you could feel his hand pause slightly.

“Yeah,” he finally said.

You turned to him, and he was already looking at you first.

“I don’t want us to misunderstand each other again,” you continued.

He nodded slightly. “Me neither.”

There was a short pause, but not an awkward one. More like… both of you were searching for a way to be honest without hurting each other.

“I know I seem cold,” Yoongi started, his voice low. “Or distant.”

You didn’t immediately deny it. You just listened.

“That’s just how I am,” he continued honestly. “I don’t show everything.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze lowering to your hands resting on your lap.

“But…” his fingers slowly slipped between yours. “…once I focus on something…”

He lifted your joined hands slightly.

“…I’ll really focus on it.”

You looked at him. His tone had changed—deeper, more serious than usual.

“Just like with you.”

Your heart immediately started racing.

“I can be… too much,” he searched for the words, his brows furrowing slightly. “Too attached.”

You stayed silent.

“It can even become… obsessive,” he said quietly.

You blinked, then… ended up laughing softly instead.

“No way,” you said, half amused. “You love me that much and I’m supposed to be scared?”

Yoongi didn’t laugh along. Instead, he looked at you more deeply. “Yeah,” he answered softly.

You immediately stopped.

“I don’t want that,” he continued. “I don’t want my love… to become something that suffocates you.”

He lifted his hand, slowly pulling you closer—not holding you tightly, but enough to make you feel warm.

“I could hold onto you so tightly,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. “Until you can’t breathe.”

Your heart immediately pounded harder.

“But I don’t want to,” he continued quickly. “That’s why I hold myself back.”

You looked at him, softer now.

“Not because I don’t love you,” he added. “It’s exactly because I do.”

Silence. But a silence full of meaning.

You lifted your hand, gently touching his cheek. “Yoongi…”

He turned slightly, pressing his cheek into your palm.

“You think too far ahead,” you said softly, a small smile appearing. “I’m not scared.”

He looked at you, traces of doubt still lingering in his eyes.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

You leaned in slightly, the distance between you now only a few centimeters.

“If you love me that much…” you whispered, “…then I’m the lucky one.”

Yoongi’s expression changed instantly. Warmer. Deeper. The hand on your waist tightened slightly on instinct, but still gentle.

“Don’t say things like that,” he mumbled, half laughing softly. “Or I really won’t be able to hold myself back.”

You laughed softly too. “Then I’ll remind you.”

He shook his head, a faint smile appearing. “That just makes you even more dangerous.”

You grinned slightly, then without thinking much, leaned closer and kissed him—brief, but enough to make him go quiet.

The moment you pulled away, he immediately pulled you back closer than before.

“This,” he whispered, barely any distance left between you. “This is what makes it hard for me to hold back.”

You laughed softly, but your heart couldn’t lie, it was racing. Eventually, you leaned against him, your head resting on his chest. Yoongi automatically hugged you, this time slightly tighter. But still… just right. Not too tight. Not suffocating. Just enough to make you feel held, but still free. And maybe, that’s how he loves you now. Learning to hold back… without ever lessening how deeply he feels.

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You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.

It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.

Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.

When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.

He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.

Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.

The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.

You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.

Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.

Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.

“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”

You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.

Max noticed that.

Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.

“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”

Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”

Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.

You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.

You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.

Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.

Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.

The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.

You laughed at the story.

You said, “That’s really sweet.”

Max heard the softness in your voice.

For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”

Then Max looked at you.

You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.

No flowers.

No post.

No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.

No little public signs that he was proud to love you.

No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.

His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.

He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”

Had you?

Had you really?

Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?

He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.

Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”

Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”

You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.

Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.

He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.

For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.

He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.

You liked flowers.

Of course you liked flowers.

Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.

Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.

How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?

How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?

How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?

Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.

Everyone laughed.

His girlfriend cried.

You smiled.

Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.

He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.

On the drive home you were quieter than usual.

Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.

Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.

Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.

You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”

Lovely.

The word sat between you.

Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”

“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”

There it was again. That careful admiration.

Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”

You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”

He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”

You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”

Max’s chest tightened.

That wasn’t what he had asked.

“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”

Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.

“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”

Max nodded once, jaw tense.

Thought.

That was the word that stayed with him.

You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.

Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.

“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.

You went very still.

The car felt smaller suddenly.

“Max…”

“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.

But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.

So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”

Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.

You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.

“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.

“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.

You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”

“You are not a thing on the list.”

“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.

Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.

You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.

He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.

Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.

He liked coming home to you.

He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.

The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.

Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.

“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”

There was a pause.

Max’s body went strangely still.

He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.

“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”

The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.

“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”

His throat tightened.

“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”

Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.

He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.

You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.

“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

Max’s chest ached.

He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.

“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”

Max couldn’t breathe properly.

He hadn’t known.

He really hadn’t known.

He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.

The conversation ended a few minutes later.

He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.

You stopped when you saw him.

For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.

That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.

He kept hearing your voice.

“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.

God.

How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?

It gutted him.

You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.

You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.

You didn’t expect anything to change.

Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.

So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.

It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.

The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.

Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.

You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”

Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”

His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.

“I listened,” he said.

You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.

“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”

Your throat tightened.

“Max…”

“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”

You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.

He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.

You stared at it for a second before picking it up.

In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:

I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.

Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”

You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”

Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.

“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.

Then you finally kissed him.

Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.

Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.

You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.

“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”

Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”

“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”

You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”

He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”

“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.

“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”

“Oh, God.”

“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”

You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.

It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.

Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”

Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”

“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”

Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”

For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.

“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.

“Hey, can you get a VBG for fifteen?” Samira asks. “I wanna’ see if it’s come up since he’s been intubated.”

“Definitely,” You say, already pulling up the chart on your tablet, nodding. “I’ll go right now.”

“Could I observe?” Ogilvie questions, perking up from where he’s standing, having heard the brief exchange. 

You look at Samira, who shrugs. “Your call.”

“Sure, come on,” You say, already walking towards the patient’s room. “You ever done one?”

“A VBG?” He clarifies. “A couple.”

“Great, you can get more practice,” You say, pushing the door open. 

He smiles. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” You confirm, already grabbing the syringe he needs from one of the drawers, setting up a tray. “The less work for me the better.”

You ask him a few questions as he sets himself up, leaning over his shoulder to watch what he’s doing—how deep he needs to go, what angle, which vein. He answers without hesitation, unsurprisingly, and you nod for him to go ahead. The blood fills quickly, and he pulls the needle out once he’s done, capping it and setting it on the tray beside him. 

His eyes widen when he turns back to the patient, seeing blood dripping off his arm and onto the floor. 

“Oh, shit,” He says, not realizing that you’re right behind him, already holding a wad of gauze. He pushes back on the stool, reaching for the drawers, knocking you off balance when it collides with your knee. 

You step back to try and catch yourself, not realizing that the suction canister is sitting farther from the bed than usual, making you fully trip. You try to grab something, but it’s futile, and you feel something sharp thack against the back of your head before you’re on the ground. White spots flash across your vision. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Ogilvie asks, eyes leaving the patient, who’s still bleeding. 

You blink, embarrassment washing over you. “Yeah, I’m good—hold pressure.”

“Right, right,” He says, finally grabbing gauze and pressing it to the wound. “Did you hit your head on the monitor?”

Ah. That’s what it was.

“Possibly,” You say, carefully pushing yourself to your feet and setting a hand against the back of your head. It’s warm, and you already know that there’s going to be blood on your fingers when you pull away. You grab more gauze for yourself, moving your hair out of the way to get it as close to your scalp as possible.

“Are you bleeding?” Ogilvie asks, a small amount of horror in his voice. 

“I’m fine, you know scalp lacs bleed like crazy,” You insist. “Keep holding pressure, it’s just because he’s on anti-coags.”

You continue to watch him for a few minutes, until the bleeding slows enough to put a dressing over the wound, all while trying to keep your own under control. By the time Ogilvie’s finished you’re starting to feel a bit nauseous, dizzy, and your head throbs with your movements. 

“You need a CT,” Ogilvie says, holding the door open for you. “Again, I am so sorry-”

“Hey, it was an accident, you’re alright,” You promise. “You can make it up to me by finding some dermabond.”

“What happened to you?” Dana calls, speedwalking towards you, setting a hand on your shoulder as she looks you over. 

“I tripped on the suction canister,” You explain. “I’m okay, seriously, Ogilvie’s already grabbing dermabond.”

Dana ignores you, spinning you around to look at the injury. She pulls the gauze away, despite your protests, shaking her head. 

“This is not a dermabond situation, sweetheart,” She says. “Let me see what’s open.”

“There’s no need for that,” You counter, but it’s no use, because she’s already looking up at the board. 

She steers you towards an open room, holding the door for you, keeping her hand up to guide you inside. You sigh, stepping in, sitting on the bed when she gestures for you to. She lifts the head up so you can stay upright, then passes you a new piece of gauze, throwing the old one in the biohazard bin. 

“I’ll be right back,” She says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Frank opens the door thirty seconds later, Dana hot on his heels. He smiles a bit, raising his eyebrows. 

“You better not be out for the day,” He jokes. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my shift without an RT.”

You roll your eyes, the action sending a shot of pain through your head. “Just put some staples back there, or whatever, then I’ll be fine.”

He leans over, already pulling his penlight out. “Can you tell me your name and where you are?”

“Seriously?” You ask, but he doesn’t let up. You say your name, first and last. “I’m at PTMC.”

“Great,” He says, flicking the light away and taking your hands in his. “Squeeze my fingers.”

You do, satisfactorily. Frank steps back as the door opens again, revealing Robby. 

“What happened here?” He asks. 

“She fell and hit her head on a monitor,” Dana explains, clearly having gotten the full story from Ogilvie while she was gone. “Occipital laceration, bleeding pretty badly, about three centimetres long.”

“Neuro exam okay,” Frank adds. “Do you have any pain, nausea, or dizziness?”

“My head hurts a little,” You admit. “But other than that it’s fine.”

Robby watches as Frank leans you forward, examining the cut himself. You stop yourself from grimacing when he palpates the surrounding area. 

“Yeah, sorry, that’s gonna’ need a couple staples,” He decides, letting you sit back again as he stands up. “You want a CT to be safe?”

Robby thinks for a second. “Let’s hold off for now, but you’re staying down here for the time being.”

“As long as I don’t have to be the one to break that news,” You say. Everyone chuckles, and Dana volunteers to let the ICU know what’s going on. Robby steps closer, arms over his chest, face comforting. 

“You want me to give Whitaker a call?” He asks. You shake your head, immediately regretting the action. 

“He’s probably still sleeping,” You say, seeing that it’s only nine on the clock hanging on the wall. “I’ll talk to him later.”

He nods. “Okay, come find me if anything changes.”

“Will do,” Frank says, already logging on to the computer, making a chart for you and filling it in. He asks you about allergies, prior injuries, and a handful of other things before Dana comes back. She sets up a tray for the staples, then draws up lidocaine. Frank puts on a new pair of gloves, taking his place beside you. 

“Lean forward, hon,” Dana says, and you listen, giving them access to the wound. Frank picks up the syringe, adjusting his grip on it and placing the other hand on the back of your head. 

“Small pinch,” He says, inserting it. You clench your teeth for a second, but then the worst of it is over. He pulls back, passing the empty syringe to Dana, who disposes of it. “Some pressure as the staples go in, doing okay?”

“Yep, all good,” You say, feeling the tool press against your head. A resounding ‘snap’ echoes in the room when he puts the first one in, making you flinch. 

“Still okay?” He asks, moving higher up the laceration. 

“Mhm,” You hum. The next few are easier, and he’s finished in a few minutes. Dana disinfects the area as he updates your chart. 

“Alright, just hangout for a bit, yeah?” He says. “Let us know if anything changes.”

“Okay, I will,” You say. “Thank you.”

You’re only alone for about twenty minutes before Dana comes back. 

“How’s it going?” She asks, and you give her a smile. 

“Good, no changes,” You say. “My head still hurts, but nothing crazy.”

She does another neuro check, making sure everything’s functioning the way it should be. Your vision starts to swim a little as she’s finishing up, making you blink a few times, trying to clear it. She frowns at the action, ducking so she’s in your line of sight. 

“You alright?” 

You swallow, still blinking, trying to quell the nausea that’s building in your chest. 

“Uh, I’m a little nauseous,” You admit. “Dizzy, too.”

“Okay, that’s alright,” She promises, setting a hand on your knee, squeezing it. “Lean back, close your eyes if you need to.”

You listen, screwing them shut, taking a few deep breaths. 

“I’m gonna’ go grab Langdon,” She says.

You start to get anxious when the feelings don’t subside after a couple minutes. Your head is still throbbing, you feel like the room is spinning, and the nausea is unlike any you’ve experienced before. 

“Litre of LR, four of zofran?” Frank suggests, and Robby nods. Princess has taken Dana’s spot, setting up your IV. Robby watches as your heart and respiratory rate tick upwards on the monitor, and he can see the nerves creeping in on your face. He sits beside your bed, wheeling the stool close, resting his arms on the guardrail. 

You don’t look at him. You’re avoiding moving your head as much as possible, and you don’t think you can take his casually disapproving gaze right now. 

“We’ve got you,” He promises. 

“I know,” You insist, trying to keep your breathing even. Princess hangs the requested fluids and medication on the IV pole, adjusting the pump settings. 

“I think we should get a CT,” Frank says. 

“Agreed,” Robby confirms, and your heart rate jumps as you close your eyes again. The three of them exchange a look, but no one gets the chance to say anything before you speak. 

“Can you call Dennis, please?” 

“Absolutely,” Robby says. “I’ll do it right now.”

“You might have to call twice to get it to go through,” You say, eyes still closed.

“Okay,” Robby says. “I’ll get a hold of him, don’t worry.”

He steps out, already unlocking his phone and clicking on Dennis’ contact. He heads towards the central hub as the line rings, leaning against the desk. 

“Calling Whitaker?” Dana asks. Robby nods, hearing the intern’s voicemail. He calls again, just like you said he might have to, putting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Dennis’ voice comes through, slower than usual, a byproduct of the phonecall pulling him out of a deep sleep. 

“Hey, it’s Robby,” He says. “Sorry to wake you.”

“All good,” Dennis says. “You need some extra hands?”

“Actually, no,” Robby clarifies, then he says your name. “She hit her head earlier, gave herself a pretty decent head lac. She’s probably got a concussion, and we’re sending her to CT to be safe.”

There’s rustling on the other end. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, the phone clearly now on speaker as he gets himself together. 

“Neuro exam is normal, but she’s not feeling great,” Robby explains. “Dizziness, nausea, headache. She’s getting some fluids and Zofran right now.”

“Okay, uh, I’ll be right there,” He says. “Thanks for calling, Robby.”

“Yep, ‘course,” Robby says. “See you soon.”

Frank watches as Princess takes your hand in her’s, patting it a few times, trying to reassure you. You haven’t opened your eyes since Robby left, and you keep shifting as your anxiety continues to rise. You feel as though you're on a boat, even with your eyes closed, and the Zofran has barely touched the nausea. 

Robby comes back in. 

“You talked to him?” You ask. 

“He’s on his way,” He says, looking at your monitor. “Do you want some lorazepam?”

You think for a moment, wondering if you can make it until Dennis gets here, but the tachycardia is starting to get uncomfortable. 

“Yeah, please,” You say. 

“Dr. Langdon?” 

“One milligram,” Frank says, and Princess goes to grab the medication. “Any estimate on when CT will be ready?”

“Hopefully soon,” Robby says. 

Keeping your eyes closed is starting to not be enough to keep the nausea manageable, but you do not want to throw up right now. You focus on your breathing, fingers curling into the sheets. 

“How’s the Zofran feel?” Frank asks. You don’t dare open your mouth, simply giving him a thumbs down in response. “Alright, you think you could swallow a pill?”

You shake your head. 

“Okay, we’ll get you some more through your IV,” He says, trying to reassure you as best he can. “I’ll go find Princess.”

Robby silently grabs a bin, placing it beside you on the bed before reaching over and dimming the lights. You place the bin on your lap, relishing in the sensation of the cold metal against your fingertips. 

“You’re doing great,” He says. 

Princess and Frank come back a few minutes later, and she administers the medications. He does a repeat neuro check, which makes you feel even worse, but at least there’s still nothing suggesting it’s anything more than a concussion. 

Trinity sees Dennis first, making her brows furrow. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, his curls more chaotic than usual as he walks through the doors, looking around as though he’s trying to find something. 

“Hey, what are you doing here?” She asks, stepping away from the trauma room that she just finished up in. “Missed me too much?”

He barely reacts, he just says your name. “She hit her head earlier, Robby called me.”

“Oh, shit,” Trinity says. “She okay?”

“Sounds like she’s got a concussion,” He says, walking further into the department, Trinity beside him. Dana sees him coming closer, and she calls his name. 

“She’s in fifteen,” She says. He nods, pivoting towards the room. Trinity follows, at least wanting to lay eyes on you before she gets back to work. Dennis pushes the door open, slowly, seeing that the lights are dimmed. Trinity steps in after him, closing it behind her to keep as much noise out as possible. 

Robby’s been pulled away, but Frank’s still in there with you, his hands on the railing as he watches your vitals. You’re clammy and visibly shaking now that the adrenaline has fully worn off, leaving you with nothing to work with. Your hands are clutching the emesis bin like your life depends on it, breathing slow and uneven as you try to keep it together. You don’t open your eyes when he walks in, assuming that it’s Princess or Robby coming back to check on you. 

“Hey, he’s here,” Frank says, softly, and you squint. Relief crashes over you at the sight of your boyfriend, and tears start to pool along your lower lash line. He’s by your side in a second, setting a comforting hand on your thigh, squeezing it softly. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” He says, keeping his voice down, not wanting to make your headache worse. “How’s-”

You lean forward, throwing up, cutting him off. He jumps into action, steadying the bin with one hand and putting the other on your upper back, rubbing softly. 

“Okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Dennis murmurs, taking the tissues that Trinity’s holding out once you’re seemingly finished. Frank takes the bin wordlessly, passing you a bag instead. Dennis keeps his hand on you, but he looks towards your monitor, then to Frank. 

“First episode,” He says. Dennis nods, helping you lean back, letting you take the tissues from him and wipe your mouth. 

You slump against the bed, curling into yourself slightly, tears starting to drip down your cheeks. 

“Den,” You whisper, reaching for his hand. He takes it, coming closer, kissing your hairline before taking a seat on the stool. 

“I’m here,” He says. “Do you feel any better?”

“No,” You say, voice trembling. Your heart rate has come down with the lorazepam on board, and the nausea has eased a touch, but your head hurts worse now. “Not really.”

“I’m gonna’ call CT, see how much longer,” Frank says, leaving the room. Trinity leaves too, not wanting to hover. 

He doesn’t talk for a minute, instead lifting his hand, pushing some hair off your forehead. He rubs his thumb over your cheek a few times, closely listening to your shaky inhales, making sure you’re okay. 

“What’s the prognosis?” You mumble, leaning into him. He smiles. 

“Probably a concussion,” He says. “You’re alert and oriented, tracking well—some vomiting’s expected.”

You nod, fingers curling into the sleeve of his sweater, moving to play with the ring that he wears whenever he isn’t at work, spinning it. He flattens his hand out, letting you focus on the movement, not saying anything. 

“Knock knock,” Princess says. “Antoine’s gonna’ get you up to CT.”

Antoine waves as he steps into your room. “How’s it going, kid?”

“Okay,” You say, begrudgingly letting go of Dennis’ ring, letting him put his hand in his lap. Antoine makes sure your bed is ready to move, then he sets his hands on the guardrail as Princess takes the other side. 

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Dennis says. “You’re gonna’ be fine, promise.”

You nod, keeping your eyes on him for as long as you can, then shutting them the second the bright overhead lights hit. You cover your face with your arm, making Dennis frown as he steps out behind you, trailing off once you’re past the nurses station. He can’t go with you, despite how badly he wants to. Robby comes out of a room as you’re wheeled by. 

“CT?” He asks. Princess nods, pushing you towards the elevators. 

Frank catches Robby before he can make it to Dennis, gesturing in your direction. “She had a single episode of vomiting, but seemed a bit better after that.”

Robby nods, humming. “Probably had more to do with him showing up than anything else.”

Dana smiles when she overhears that, glancing over at Dennis, who has both hands in his pockets as he watches you go.

“How you doing, Whitaker?” She asks, coming over to him, setting her tablet down on the counter. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” He insists, then pauses, hesitating. “She looked…worse than I expected, I guess.”

Dana hums. “The nausea came on pretty fast, before that she was insisting that she just needed a little dermabond.”

He laughs a little, shifting his weight between his feet. “Sounds about right.”

“She stubborn?” Dana asks, smiling. 

“No, well, a little,” He admits. “Doesn’t really like to be ‘babied.’”

The quotes around the last word make Dana chuckle.

“She must’ve been feeling pretty crappy then, hey?” She says, and Dennis nods. 

“Yeah,” He says, frowning.

Dana rests her hand on his arm for a second. “Why don’t we go get you some water?”

He watches the clock tick while he waits, allowing himself to feel anxious when it hits thirty minutes since you left. It should’ve only taken ten to get the image, maybe twenty total. Everyone else in the vicinity keeps glancing over too, awaiting your return. Frank’s moments away from calling to figure out where you are when the elevator dings, and Princess and Antoine wheel your bed back into the department. 

Dennis stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. You look worse, somehow, and Princess taps Frank on the shoulder as she walks by. She leans in, saying something to him before pushing you back into your room. Dennis waits for a second, letting them get you back in place. 

Frank slips past Antoine as he’s leaving, standing beside your bed. “Status?”

“Neuro’s still good,” Princess says. “Another vomiting episode before we got upstairs, but the nausea’s better now, right?”

“Yeah, mostly,” You say, already closing your eyes, fatigue starting to take over. 

“How’s the pain?” He asks. 

“Not…great.”

“Yeah, I bet,” He says. “As soon as your CT comes back we’ll talk about pain meds, okay?”

“Okay,” You say. “Where’s Den?”

“Right here,” Dennis says, stepping fully into the room, letting the door close behind him. “How you doing?”

You smile when he sits on the stool, putting his hand back where it was, letting you fiddle with his ring again. “A bit better.”

“Good,” He breathes. 

“Let’s do two more of Zofran,” Frank says, quietly, and Princess nods. “I’ll be back once we get results.”

You’re falling asleep when you’re left alone again, Dennis watching your chest rise and fall, holding your hand. You grimace when the dizziness returning with a vengeance. He notices immediately. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, shifting closer. 

“Dizzy,” You answer. 

“Okay, just keep your eyes closed,” He says, checking your vitals quickly. “I’ve got you, angel.”

He lowers the guardrail, his knees touching the edge of the mattress, letting you hold both his hands tightly until it passes. Your grip relaxes, and you slowly open your eyes, exhaling with relief when you confirm that it’s over. 

“Better?” He asks, and you nod. 

He eventually puts his arms on your bed, resting his head on them, keeping his eyes on you while you sleep. 

Robby knocks half an hour later, and Dennis stands up, moving quietly. He blinks, trying to adjust to the chaos of the rest of the department once he’s out of your room. 

“How’s she doing?” Robby asks, and he nods. 

“Okay, yeah,” He says. “CT back yet?”

Robby hands him the tablet, showing your scan. He lets go of a breath when he realizes that it looks completely normal, scrolling to read the radiologist’s comments, which confirm exactly that. 

“All clear,” Robby says. “We’ll monitor her for a few hours, make sure she can keep things down, then you can take her home.”

Dennis passes the tablet back. “Thanks, Robby.”

“Of course,” He says. “Get back in there.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

A few people come and go over the next few hours, but they mostly leave the two of you alone, trusting Dennis to come find someone if anything changes while you rest. Dana brings another blanket by at one point, draping it over his shoulders without a word. One of the ICU nurses comes down with your belongings, quickly asking him how you’re doing before leaving too. He notices the way people keep poking their heads over the frosted glass, which makes his chest warm with how much everyone cares about you. 

You wake up around one, eyes fluttering open, and Dennis immediately lifts his head up. 

“Hi,” He says. 

“Hi,” You repeat, quiet, squinting a little despite the lights being off. “My CT come back?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He says. “Everything looks great, but you’ve got a pretty bad concussion.”

You nod. “Could be worse, I guess.”

“Definitely,” He agrees, moving closer, picking your hand up and intertwining your fingers. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry if I scared you, Denny,” You whisper. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” He insists. “But you did scare me a little.”

The door opens slowly, making both of you look over. Frank steps inside, smiling when he sees that you’re up.

“You’re awake,” He says. “How’s it going?”

You shrug. “Bad. But better.”

“I’ll take it,” He says. “How’s the pain?”

“Not the worst,” You answer. 

“Nausea? Dizziness?”

“Yes and yes,” You say. “Not as bad as before, though.”

“Okay, I'll get you some Compazine, and then maybe you can try to eat something?” He suggests. “If that helps then I’ll send you home. Usually, I’d keep you overnight, but I think Whitaker’s got you covered.”

You laugh a little. “Sounds good, Langdon, thank you.”

He gives the okay for you to go home a few hours later, once you’ve perked up a bit and your headache and nausea is under control. Dennis helps you off the bed, holding your discharge papers, letting you lean against him once you’re on your feet. He takes your hand in his own, holding the door open. 

“Hey, heading home?” Robby asks, stopping in front of the two of you. 

“Yeah, good to go,” Dennis says, holding the discharge papers up. 

“Good, I’m glad you’re okay,” He says, looking at you, giving you a soft smile and setting his hand on your shoulder for a second. “Would hate to lose my favourite respiratory therapist.”

You smile. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Robby.”

He points at Dennis. “I better not see you in this hospital for at least a week.”

“Yes sir,” Dennis says, definitely not wanting to argue that. He’d stay home with you for months if he had to to make sure you were okay. “See you next week, boss.”

Other people tell you to feel better as you go, letting you know that they’re happy it wasn’t anything serious, then you finally make it through the front doors. The bright, summer sun beams down on you, making your head spin. Your grip on Dennis’ hand tightens, and he stops, turning to look at you. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks. 

You exhale. “Dizzy. Again. One second.”

He adjusts his grip, holding your lower back, keeping you upright. You try to breathe through it, but that doesn’t work—the dizziness just gets worse.

“Let’s sit down for a minute,” He says, guiding you over to a bench. “Deep breaths.”

He positions himself so the sun isn’t hitting your face, keeping a hand on your shoulder until you open your eyes again. 

“I’m gonna’ go grab the car,” He says. “I’ll be right back.”

You’ve never been happier to be home in your entire life. 

Dennis sets you up on the couch, propping your head up with a few pillows and tucking a blanket around you once you’ve changed out of your scrubs. You sit in silence as he moves, closing blinds and turning on a few lamps that won’t be too hard on your eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask, dramatically. “I can’t read, I can’t go on my phone, I can’t watch TV.”

He laughs a little, poking his head over the back of the couch. “I’ll keep you entertained.”

“Really?” You ask, grinning. 

“Absolutely,” He says, going over to the bookshelf, scanning the several options that you’ve collected over the years. He pulls your favourite off, then sits in one of the chairs. You whine, extending your hands towards him, making him smile. 

You lift your head up, pushing the pillows onto the ground and letting him take their place. He smoothes your hair back once your head is on his lap, before opening the book and reading aloud. You fall asleep within minutes, and he just watches, scratching your scalp gently, making sure to avoid your staples. 

He moves you into the bedroom at one point, putting your cat in there with you, smiling when he curls up on the bed beside you. He opens the fridge just after six, frowning at the lack of food, already thinking about what he could order you for dinner. Then, there’s a knock on the door, making him raise an eyebrow. 

Garcia’s standing on the other side, holding a bag of takeout, along with a few plastic bags. 

“Dr. Garcia,” Dennis says. “What’re you doing here?”

“Santos texted me, said Hot Shot lost a fight with a monitor today,” She says. “I brought dinner and some groceries for the next few days so you don’t have to leave the house.”

She thrusts them towards him, and he’s stuck for a moment, but then he takes them in his arms. 

“Oh, uhm, thank you,” He says, setting everything on the bench by the door. “That’s…really nice.”

She nods, moving on from his gratitude quickly. “How’s she doing?” 

“Her head hurts, and she’s still pretty nauseous,” He explains. “I can give her some more Zofran in a bit.”

“CT was fine?”

“Yeah, totally clean,” He says. “She should be back to normal in a couple weeks.”

Garcia exhales, and Dennis thinks it’s the most emotion he’s ever seen her show. “Good, I’m glad she’s alright.”

“Me too.”

“Take care of her,” She continues. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay? I can come babysit if you’ve got anywhere to be tomorrow, and people are already fighting over who gets to bring dinner for the next few days.”

“Okay, yeah, will do,” He says, slightly shocked by the amount of support. “Thanks again.”

“Have a good night, Huckleberry.”

A/N - love u currently working on a little part two to self explanatory and also poly!garsantos x reader 🤩🤩🤩

tags:

“Hey, are you able to cover the ED today?” Your coworker asks. “I’m still getting over that flu I had last week, and I think running between here and there might just kill me.”

“Of course, yeah, no problem,” You say, accepting the trauma pager from her, tucking it onto your scrub pocket. “Did you test?”

“Yeah, flu A,” She says, and you grimace. 

“Rough,” You say. “I’ve got it covered, let me know if you need anything else, yeah?”

The first trauma that requires respiratory assistance rolls in around nine. 

“Eighteen-year-old male, motorcycle versus SUV at approximately sixty MPH,” The paramedic says, wheeling the gurney through the doors as people begin to crowd around. “Helmeted, significant damage to the bike.”

They push him through the trauma bay doors, still listening intently as the paramedic continues. 

“Airway intact, alert and oriented times four, awake and talking on scene,” She adds. “GCS fourteen—confused, repeating questions. Obvious deformity to the left femur, no open wound noted, distal pulses weak but present.”

“Heart rate one twenty-eight, BP ninety-eight over sixty-two, resps at twenty-six,” The secondary paramedic says, just as Samira counts down from three, everyone lifting the sheet up and transferring the patient onto the hospital bed. “Two large bore IV’s, fifty of fent, femur splinted in traction.”

“Great, thank you,” Robby says, letting them leave. 

Princess cuts the rest of the patient’s clothes off while Donnie hooks him up to the monitors, the screens coming to life and showing the mildly concerning vitals. Dennis is already examining the chest, stethoscope in as he listens to his lungs. 

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” Samira says, getting a confused groan in response. 

“My fucking leg,” He mumbles. “Where—what happened?”

“You were in an accident,” She explains. “You’re at PTMC now, we’re gonna’ take care of you, okay?”

She looks at Dennis, asking what his next steps are. 

“Uhm, trauma labs, chest and pelvis ultrasound,” He says, glancing towards the monitors, watching his sats come down a few points. “Let’s get him started on high flow, page RT and ortho.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” Samira says. “Who’s here for respiratory?”

“Adams,” Robby says, having already asked Dana earlier that morning. 

Samira frowns. “She’s not here?”

The question is directed at Dennis, who stutters for a second. “Oh, no, she is. She’s just in the ICU today.”

“Too bad,” She says. 

When the door opens to reveal you everyone reacts a little more enthusiastically than they usually would, happy to have you instead of anyone else. 

“Dana said Adams was here today,” Robby says, watching you pull on gloves. 

“Yeah, she had the flu last week, still struggling with some SOB with exertion,” You explain. “Is it okay that it’s me?”

“Definitely,” Samira says. “Motorcycle versus car, GCS fourteen but his sats keep dropping, eighty-seven on a hundred percent.”

“That’s not great,” You say, making your way to the head of the bed. Dennis’ hand comes back as you move behind him, gripping the front of your thigh for a second, making you smile. You introduce yourself to the patient. “I’m with respiratory. Can you tell me your name?”

“My…leg,” He says, taking an obvious breath between the two words. 

“We’re gonna’ get it fixed up for you, okay?” You say. “Your chest hurt at all?”

He doesn’t respond. 

“Can I grab an ABG?” You ask, and Samira nods. “How was the eFAST?”

“Negative,” Dennis says. “No pneumo, no fluid.”

“Femur fracture?” You question, making the assumption from the splint that’s wrapped around his thigh as you grab the syringe, positioning it over his wrist. 

“Yeah, a bad one,” Samira says. “Why, what’re you thinking?”

“FES?” You suggest, drawing his blood up, capping the needle and passing it to Princess. 

“Definitely a concern,” Samira says. 

“Non-rebreather?” You ask. “He’s too agitated for BiPAP.”

“Yep, do it,” She says. “Let’s prep an intubation tray, just to be safe.”

You slip the mask onto his face, assuring him that everything is going to be just fine, then you start collecting the supplies you would need to intubate. Robby leaves at some point, his attention being pulled by another trauma, putting Samira completely in charge. 

“Did you tell ortho this was urgent?” She asks, and Donnie nods. 

“Sure did.”

“Who’s on for ortho?” You ask, mindlessly adjusting the tube you’ve chosen, lining everything up perfectly. 

“Shark,” Donnie says. Dennis rolls his eyes at the mention of the name, shaking his head a little to try and focus on the patient again. 

“Oh, I’ll call,” You say, making everyone raise an eyebrow, not sure why that would change anything, but they don’t stop you. You pick up the phone on the wall, putting in the right number and bringing it to your ear, waiting for a few seconds before someone picks up. “Hey, is Park still up there?”

The room stills, especially Dennis, his hands coming to a complete stop over the patient’s abdomen that he’s about to palpate again. 

“Great, can you let him know that we need an urgent ortho consult down in trauma three?” You ask. You ask for the person on the other end to tell Park that it’s you asking, and Princess smirks. “Thank you so much.”

The door opens four minutes later, Park coming through, his eyes immediately finding you—then the patient. 

“What’ve you got?” He asks, and Samira gestures for Dennis to go ahead. 

“Motorcycle versus car, closed femur fracture, concerned about FES,” He explains. Park nods, leaning over the patient, gloved hand raising to touch the area. 

“You calling me personally now?” He asks, looking at you again. 

“When the situation calls for it,” You say, a small smile on your face, one Dennis does not miss. “Wouldn’t be necessary if you guys would actually answer pages at a reasonable pace for once.”

“I like to make an entrance,” He says, crouching a little to get a better look at the injury. “Especially when you’re here.”

“Okay, relax,” You say, but you’re laughing through the words. “Just fix his fucking thigh, Brendon.”

“For you?” He asks. “Anything.”

That was when things started going downhill for you and Dennis. 

Had that happened any other day? It wouldn’t have been an issue. People flirt with you all the time, not just at work, but everywhere. It’s a constant that he’s grown used to, and up until today he thought that he could handle any amount of people throwing themselves at you. 

But, apparently he can’t. 

The mass casualty happens at three-fifty-nine. 

A multi-vehicle pile up on the highway with twenty of the thirty-two victims arriving by ambulance and helicopter fifteen minutes later. 

You spend the first hour floating from room to room, assisting with oxygenation and administering medications when the nurses are already stretched thin. You start a few arterial lines, intubate two patients, and do six rounds of chest compressions all within sixty minutes. 

Your name is called from one of the rooms, making you quickly tape an arterial line in place, asking Mel if she needs anything else before making your way over to Dana. You dodge people as you move, following her through the curtain, revealing Dennis standing at the head of the bed, preparing to intubate. 

“Where do you want me?” You ask, looking at Frank, who’s squeezing a bag of blood. 

“You can assist Whitaker,” He says, and you nod, taking the spot beside your boyfriend and accepting the bag mask from Sophie, placing it over the patient’s mouth. 

The ED is loud. 

That’s all Dennis can think about until you’re standing next to him, and then he starts thinking about you and Park earlier. Someone asks what size tube he wants just as he puts the laryngoscope into place, turning the light on and glancing towards the monitor that’s been wheeled in, revealing the patient’s throat. He doesn’t realize that the question was for him, clearly, so you answer.

“Seven, probably,” You say, turning around and opening the drawer, grabbing the correct tube.

Dennis inches farther into the mouth.

The cords still aren’t visible. 

“That’s super anterior,” You say, already reaching towards the patient’s neck, pressing your hand against it. You watch the screen, adjusting to try and bring the cords into view, but the visualization still isn’t great. “Lift the blade slowly, that might help.”

“Yeah, I know,” He says, his tone a little firmer than usual, but you quickly brush it off as the pressure of the mass casualty. 

Her airway is swollen, and even when the cords come into view he doesn’t feel good about the landmarks. He keeps looking down into her throat and back up at the screen, and then Sophie speaks up. 

“Sats down to seventy-one.”

Dennis shakes his head, pulling back in a swift motion. 

“Switch?” You ask, and he nods, passing you the tools. You take his place, and he sets his hand where yours was moments prior, mimicking the pressure that you were doing for him. 

You get the same view that he had, but you’re much more confident as you adjust the blade, sliding the tube into place without even looking at the monitor. Dennis puts his stethoscope in to confirm breathsounds. 

“Waveform looks good,” Frank says. “Yellow on end-tidal.”

“Good breath sounds bilaterally,” Dennis adds. 

“Thank you,” Frank says, and you nod, your hand landing on Dennis’ side as you walk past him, a slight action of reassurance. 

“Call if you need anything else,” You say, then you slip through the doors, off to the next critical patient. 

He’s rattled after that, and he can’t help but notice the difference in how you’re doing compared to him. People call for you specifically, anticipating your next move and passing you whatever you need before you can even ask, thanking you or even congratulating you once you finish up with patients. You move through the chaos in a way that he can’t, and it seems like everyone does their best to make it easy for you. 

He ends up in one of the back hallways between crises after Robby tells him to take a breather. 

He lost the patient that you intubated, and he can’t stop wondering if maybe he wouldn’t have if he had been able to get the tube in. You eventually come into the hallway, sliding down the wall beside him, tucking your knees up to your chest, a small amount of dried blood on your scrubs. 

“You okay?” You ask, nudging his leg with your own. 

He nods. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” You say. “Heard you lost a patient.”

He inhales sharply, shifting his legs away from you ever so slightly. “I did, yeah.”

He pauses for a second before continuing. 

“I should’ve let you intubate from the get-go,” He says, but it’s not proud like usual—it’s bitter. “Maybe that extra minute of oxygen would’ve saved her.”

“Don’t do that,” You say. “Don’t blame yourself, you did everything right.”

He scoffs. “Not as right as you.”

“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have, Denny,” You counter. “You’ll get used to it, I promise. And, I’ve got your back. Always.”

He nods, his frustration finally coming to the surface, spilling out with his words. “Would be a lot easier if the entire department wanted to sleep with me.”

You stiffen, and he doesn’t see the way your face drops. 

“What?” You ask, incredulously. 

“Surgeons don’t come quickly when I page,” He continues. “People aren’t lining up to make my life easier because they think I’m attractive.”

You don’t speak for a minute, but you push yourself away from him on the floor, hurt rising in your chest. 

“And if they were? I at least wouldn’t be entertaining it in front of you,” He adds. “Is that why you always want to look nice at work? So people will trip over themselves to try and impress you?”

You blink a few times. 

“Is that really what you think?” You ask, already standing up, wanting to put as much distance between you and him as possible. “Cool, good to know.”

You’re gone before he can say anything else. 

Somehow, because the universe hates you, you end up in a trauma together during the last thirty minutes of your shift. 

Your entire demeanor changes the second you see that he’s in there, silently adjusting oxygen settings and doing whatever you’re asked as everyone works around you. Dennis keeps trying to catch your eye, but you barely look in his direction, keeping all your focus on staying fucking professional. 

Jack, who showed up shortly after the pile-up was on the news, notices the tension between the two of you right away.

“Everything okay?” He asks, mostly to you. 

“Yep,” You say. “You want BiPAP?”

“Yeah, and let’s page ortho for that arm,” He says, raising an eyebrow, watching closely as you set the mask up. “Then you can get out of here, pass this off to the nightshift.”

“Great,” You say. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

“You wanna’ give them a call, let Park flirt with you again?” Princess asks, to which you shake your head. 

“Not this time, sorry,” You say, a tight smile on your face. “Can’t pull that card too often, people might start questioning my clinical abilities.”

Dennis goes completely still over the chest, one hand holding the diaphragm of his stethoscope mid-air. Jack raises an eyebrow, barely looking up from his task.

“Why would that make someone question your clinical abilities?” He asks, to which you shrug, reaching for the BiPAP settings. 

“Beats me,” You say. “Eight over four?”

“Whitaker?” Jack asks. 

“Yeah, eight over four, please,” He says, giving you a quick nod. 

You adjust them accordingly. “Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Whitaker?”

He glances up at you, shaking his head. “No, uh, thank you.”

Your last name stumbles awkwardly out of his mouth at the end of the sentence, and Jack watches as you leave before turning back to Dennis.

“That was fun,” Jack says. “You wanna’ tell me what happened?”

“Not really,” Dennis mumbles. 

You’re standing by the central hub when Park comes back down into the department, pivoting away from the room and instead heading towards you, calling your name to get your attention. 

“Hey,” You greet, giving him a small smile. “Here for two?”

“Yeah, the broken arm,” He says. “You intubate?”

“Nope, just BiPAP,” You answer. “They’re A&O times four.”

“Great,” He says. “You still somehow look amazing, even after that mass cas.”

Your response is foreign to him. He’s been harmlessly flirting with you for years, and both of you would go as far as saying the other is a friend, and you’ve always joked back or at least smiled. Now, you take a half step away from him, eyes flitting towards the trauma room, your expression neutral.

“Hey, don’t,” You say, making him chuckle a little. 

“Okay, sorry,” He says. “Didn’t realize I couldn’t compliment my favourite RT anymore.”

“Yeah, you know, we’re at work,” You say. 

“When are we not?”

Your eyes land on Dennis when he comes out of the room, only for a second, but Park turns around, seeing your boyfriend. 

“Did Whitaker say something?” He asks. 

“No, no, I just think we should keep it professional, okay?” You say, wanting today to end. “I’m sorry.”

“He said something,” He says. “After he choked in that trauma and lost his patient?”

“Don’t fucking say that,” You counter. 

“Did he take that out on you?” He questions. “Couldn’t handle the fact that you had to swoop in and save his ass?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t ‘save his ass,’” You argue. “I’m an airway specialist, I’ve had to step in for practically every doctor in this department at least once. I lost that patient just as much as he did, and he didn’t do anything wrong.”

The nurses at the hub go completely silent, quickly acting as though they weren’t listening to the conversation. Jack smirks, reminding himself to never get on your bad side. You look to Dennis again, who heard the majority of the exchange, before pushing off the desk. 

“I have handover,” You say. “See you later.”

Dennis reaches for you as you walk by. “Hey-”

You twist your body away, avoiding him entirely as you make it to the door, heading back up to the ICU without another word. Trinity lets out a low whistle, waiting until you’re gone before speaking. 

“You fucked up, Huckleberry,” She says. 

Dennis grits his teeth. “Yeah, I know.”

He’s actually shocked to see you waiting for him outside the ER once he’s finished. 

You’re leaning against a pillar, headphones in, a grim look on your face. Trinity widens her eyes at Dennis, the look saying something along the lines of ‘fix this, you fucking idiot.’

She says bye to you as she walks past.

“Night, Santos,” You say, tugging your headphones out and putting them in your jacket pocket. Dennis approaches slowly, holding the straps of his backpack, head slightly tilted towards the floor. 

“I-”

“Can we stop and pick something up for dinner?” You ask, reaching for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “We don’t have any leftovers and I don’t feel like cooking.”

His fingers are frozen around yours for a second, then he curls them over your hand, falling in step beside you. 

“We can do whatever you want,” He says. “Do you want me to take you home first? Then I can go-”

“No, I wanna’ come with you,” You interrupt, swinging your arm a little, leaning into him like you usually do. He’s warm, protecting you from the wind as you step outside. 

He doesn’t say anything as you walk to the car, just opening your door for you, shutting it as gently as he can before hopping in the driver’s seat. 

“You can pick what we eat,” You say. “My brain hurts.”

He nods. “Fair enough.”

You’re almost at your favourite restaurant when he speaks again. 

“You waited for me,” He says, quiet, a little nervous. 

“Of course I did,” You say. “Me being mad doesn’t mean we don’t go home together.”

You pause for a second. 

“You had a shitty day,” You add. “Let’s talk about it later, yeah?”

Later comes after you’ve both eaten, showered, and sat in silence for awhile, you tucked into his side on the couch and your cat curled up beside you. 

“Okay,” You say, making him jump a little. You shift away, turning so you’re facing him. He spins too, anxiety written all over his face. 

You take a deep breath. 

“You can’t talk to me like that,” You say, getting straight to the point. “Or even think about me like that.”

He nods, slowly, not wanting to sound remotely defensive. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know,” You insist, keeping your tone from dipping into anything close to anger. “Because if you did you wouldn’t have said it.”

“I don’t think that about you,” He says. “Not at all.”

His voice wobbles a little. 

You inch a little closer, touching your knees to his, looping a finger into the bottom of his sweatpants, toying with the hem. 

“You’re so good at…everything,” He continues, swallowing roughly, clearing his throat. “I don’t know why seeing you so…fine in the middle of it all made me so upset.”

You shrug. “You had just lost a patient and felt like it was your fault.”

“Yeah, but that happens everyday,” He counters. “And you come and fix my mistakes everyday. I don’t usually react like that.”

“Are you looking for help psychoanalyzing yourself?” You ask, the tone a bit teasing. 

He smiles. “A little, yeah.”

You purse your lips, shifting closer again. 

“Park was flirting with me in front of you,” You start. “I didn’t think anything of it because that’s the relationship we’ve always had. You felt...bad about that.”

You stop, realizing that sounded better in your head. 

“Tell me if I’m wrong, please,” You add, and he nods, gesturing for you to continue. “You lost a patient after having to pass the intubation to me, and I don’t think it being me had anything to do with it. You would’ve been upset no matter who took over, because you felt like you should’ve been able to get that airway.”

His face flickers, and you can tell that you’ve said something that doesn’t completely resonate. 

“It did matter that it was you,” He corrects, gently. “I…I always wanted to impress you when we worked at the clinic, and I still do. Even five years later.”

“You do impress me,” You promise. “Every single day. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

You don’t give him the chance to answer. 

“I tell literally anyone who will listen that my boyfriend is the most caring, patient, amazing doctor every chance I get,” You continue. “I’ve seen so many interns in that emergency room and you’re better than all of them. And I’m not just saying that because I’m in love with you.”

“Wait, you’re in love with me?” He asks, smiling, the joke making you grin, the tension genuinely starting to loosen now. 

“Extremely,” You say.

He clenches his jaw, on the verge of tears. 

“I love you so much,” He says. “And I know that your job is just as hard as mine, and that people finding you attractive doesn’t make it any easier.”

You squint, tilting your head to the side. “Well…”

He wipes a tear off his cheek, chuckling. “Yeah, the thing with Park was pretty helpful.”

“Sometimes people listen more,” You say. “Sometimes they don’t take me seriously. It balances out.”

He nods. “Right.”

His hand moves towards you, but he hesitates, placing it back in his lap. 

“I had no right to say that to you,” He says. “Not during a mass cas, not ever. I’m so sorry, angel.”

“I know you are,” You say, reaching for his hand, taking it in your own. “I’m still upset, but-”

You feel him stiffen, eyes dropping to your lap, more tears pooling on his lashline. 

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” You say. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, nodding. “Okay.”

“I’m still upset, but I just need time,” You continue. “And I need you to not do that again.”

“I won’t,” He says, opening his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

An hour later you’re curled up on the couch, a blanket over you, the light from the TV flickering over your face. You’re not really paying attention, but it’s nice to have in the background as you process the day while Dennis busies himself in the kitchen, putting your leftovers away and making some tea. 

He sets a mug in front of you on the coffee table, earning a tired smile from you. He looks towards the couch, then back to you. 

“Can I—”

You sit up a little, nodding. 

“You don’t have to ask,” You say. 

He sits beside you, leaving a few inches of space, not wanting to overstep. You lean over, setting your head in his lap, pulling the blanket up to your jaw and putting your hand on his thigh. He exhales with relief, slipping a hand under the blanket and resting his arm across your chest. 

Trinity barely gives him a second to put his bag in his locker before she’s on him the next day, her arms folded over her chest as she squints slightly. 

“What?” Dennis asks, his actions slowing when he notices her. 

“Did you apologize?” She questions, and he sighs. 

“Yes, of course I did,” He says. 

“So, you guys are good?”

“Why are you so invested?” He asks, holding the door open for her as they both walk out of the locker room. 

Trinity hesitates on the answer for a second. 

“She’s Garcia’s best friend,” She says. “That means I give a fuck about her, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dennis says, smiling a bit. “You’re that serious now, huh?”

“Shut up,” Trinity counters. “I’m glad you didn’t fuck anything up too badly.”

He exhales sharply. “Me too.”

Gossip spread fast about you and Dennis acting ‘weird’ towards eachother yesterday, so all eyes are on the two of you when you’re paged to help with a conscious nasotracheal intubation. You join the small group of people outside the patient’s room, already having been briefed on the situation by Dana. 

“Just in time,” Cassie says, making room for you in the circle. “We were just going over the plan.”

“Great, keep going,” You say, glancing towards Dennis for a second, who’s already looking at you, giving him a small smile. He returns it, along with a nod, then both of you focus on Cassie again. 

“We’ll topicalize, that’ll be you,” She says, setting her hand on your shoulder for a moment. 

“Got it,” You say. “Who’s doing first pass?”

“Uh, me,” Dennis says, raising his hand up a fraction. “Never done one outside the cadaver lab, so…”

You smile again. “Cool, sounds good.”

“We want to work quickly to avoid any complications,” Cassie emphasizes. “We need all meds ready, and second pass is you, too. What meds do you prefer?”

The reliance that she shows on you makes Dennis’ heart race, and not in a bad way this time.

You don’t hesitate—because you never do. Not because people make your job easier, but because you know your shit. 

“Atomized lidocaine, four percent for MAD,” You say. “Viscous lidocaine for the passageway and a little phenylephrine is what I’d start with.”

“Nasal spray or pledgets?” Cassie asks. 

“Pledgets,” You answer. “Let it sit for sixty seconds.”

“Okay, perfect,” Cassie says. “Whitaker, can you walk us through the plan step by step, please?”

“Oh, uh, Princess and Jesse will prep meds, I’ll insert the pledgets with…point two-five PE?” 

He looks to you after asking, and you nod. 

“Let those sit for a minute, set up suction, administer viscous lido,” He continues. “Start numbing the airway with MAD, give fent as needed for comfort while keeping her awake. Then I’ll do first pass.”

“You want me to set up your tray?” You ask. 

He nods. “That would help, yeah, thank you.”

“You got it.”

Everyone can see that you’re slightly different with eachother, but not in the way they thought you might be. They expected a day filled with awkward tension, maybe even wished for it, but the two of you are just…softer. Leaving less unspoken than you usually would, making sure you communicate everything you need. 

“Okay, let’s get in there,” Cassie says, and the five of you step inside the room. 

You introduce yourself to the patient before Cassie can do it for you, saying your first name and walking over to the side of her bed. 

“I’m a respiratory therapist,” You say, smiling, reassuring the patient with ease. “We’re gonna’ get you breathing better, yeah?”

“Yeah, right,” She says, smiling back, but her voice is laced with anxiety. 

“You’re gonna’ do great,” You say. “You’ve got a really good team here.”

Dennis feels his chest and neck start to heat up when you look directly at him as you say it. 

You move towards the cart, opening drawers and setting up the intubation tray for Dennis, placing two tubes down incase the larger one doesn’t fit. He walks her through what he’s doing as he moves, inserting the cotton and explaining what she’ll feel once it starts to kick in. You set up the MAD, coming back to the side of the bed once you’re done, viscous lidocaine in hand.

“I’m gonna’ put some of this in both nostrils, okay?” You say, showing her the syringe. “It’s like a jelly, it’ll be a little cold. Ready?”

She nods, leaning her head back. You apply the medication, handing the empty syringe to Princess. You pick up the MAD again.

“This’ll slowly go down your throat so I can numb your airway,” You explain. “It might not feel super nice, but there shouldn’t be any pain. If it hurts just grab my arm and I’ll stop.”

You advance the tube into her nose, the pacing muscle memory, keeping an eye on her to make sure she’s okay as you work. 

“Push the fent,” Cassie says. Princess does. 

“Almost there,” You say, eyes on the monitor. “You’re doing great, almost done.”

You pull out once you’re finished. “Dr. Whitaker’s gonna’ put the tube in now, okay?”

“Same thing, goes in slow,” He says. “Let me know if it hurts.”

You shift to stand beside him, not too close, just wanting him to know that you’re there. He takes the tube in his hand, gently inserting it into her nostril. 

She coughs at one point, her sats dipping for a second, making him look at the monitor. 

“Feels awful even with the numbing, I know,” You say. “Slow, deep breaths.”

She listens, the coughing fading out, her chest rising and falling more rhythmically now. You give Dennis a nod. 

You set up the vent once the tube is in place, then you step outside, finding a computer to start charting at. He comes out a few minutes later, landing beside you, making you look over. 

“Thank you,” He says. “You were amazing in there.”

“I try,” You say, teasingly. “You did great too, you didn’t even need me.”

“I did,” He counters. “I always do.”

Robby calling his name cuts the moment short, and he glances over his shoulder before looking at you again, quickly. 

“See you later?” He says.

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll be around.”

tags:

“You’re staring at your phone like it personally insulted you.”

You looked up from the kitchen island to find your best friend grinning at you over her coffee cup.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Shut up.”

She snorted.

You glanced back down at your phone again.

Specifically at the reference photo currently open on the screen.

Small.

Delicate.

Simple black ink.

The word:

윤기

Yoongi.

Written in elegant script.

Right over the rib cage.

Your friend nearly choked when she realized what she was looking at.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You’re getting his name tattooed on you?”

You immediately defended yourself.

“It’s small!”

“That’s not the point!”

“It’s tasteful.”

“It’s insane.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile.

Maybe it was a little insane.

But you kept thinking about the way Yoongi loved.

How every song he wrote carried pieces of the people he cared about.

How his fingers automatically searched for your hand in crowded places.

How he looked at you like you were something precious he still couldn’t believe belonged to him.

You’d been married for almost two years now, and somehow he still looked startled every time you kissed him first.

Still softened every single time you called him your husband.

Still loved you with this overwhelming sincerity he tried so hard to hide beneath sarcasm and sleepy grumbling.

And maybe getting his name tattooed on your ribs was dramatic.

But loving Min Yoongi had never been a casual thing.

“I think he’ll like it,” you admitted quietly.

Your friend stared at you.

Then her expression melted.

“Oh,” she sighed. “You’re gone gone.”

You smiled into your coffee.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really am.”

The tattoo studio smelled like antiseptic and ink.

You sat nervously on the padded table while the artist prepared the stencil.

“You sure about the placement?” she asked kindly.

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

Just beneath your left breast, curved delicately over your ribs.

Private.

Intimate.

Somewhere only Yoongi would really see.

The artist smiled slightly.

“Name tattoos usually come with dramatic stories.”

You laughed softly.

“It’s not dramatic.”

“No?”

“No.” Your smile turned helpless. “I just really love my husband.”

The artist made a quiet awh sound.

“You’re cute.”

The stencil pressed cold against your skin.

Then came the needle.

You hissed immediately.

“Oh, fuck.”

The artist laughed.

“Ribs are brutal.”

She was not exaggerating.

The pain was sharp and burning, vibrating straight through bone. You squeezed the edge of the table, breathing through it while the buzzing filled the room.

But somewhere beneath the sting was excitement.

Because you could already imagine Yoongi’s face.

The way his eyes would widen slightly.

The way he’d go silent.

The way his hands would inevitably touch your waist like he needed physical proof.

Your poor husband.

You were about to emotionally destroy him.

Keeping the tattoo secret for four days nearly killed you.

Mostly because Yoongi noticed everything.

“You’re walking weird.”

You looked up too quickly from the couch.

“I am not.”

“You winced sitting down.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

You forced yourself not to touch your side.

“It’s nothing.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes immediately.

Suspicious.

You almost folded on the spot.

Marriage had made the two of you disgustingly attuned to each other.

He could tell when you were upset from the way you closed cabinets.

You could tell when he was stressed by how quietly he moved around the apartment.

And currently, he very clearly knew something was up.

“You sick?” he asked.

“No.”

“You hurt yourself?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

You panicked.

“Constipation.”

Yoongi blinked.

You blinked back.

Then he looked vaguely horrified.

“…Why would you say that to me?”

“Because now you’ll stop asking questions.”

“Tch. Jesus.”

You turned away quickly to hide your grin.

It worked.

Mostly because your husband was now deeply uncomfortable.

The reveal happened accidentally.

Well.

Mostly accidentally.

Yoongi had been away for three days working almost nonstop at the studio, surviving on iced americanos and spite.

Which meant he came home exhausted.

Hair messy.

Voice rough with sleep deprivation.

Pretty enough to make you stupid.

You were in the bedroom changing after your shower when he finally stumbled into the apartment sometime after midnight.

“Baby?” he called tiredly.

“In here.”

You heard his footsteps approaching slowly.

Then he appeared in the doorway.

And immediately softened at the sight of you.

Every single time.

No matter how long you’d been together.

No matter how many years passed.

Yoongi still looked at you like his entire nervous system recalibrated around your existence.

“There you are,” he murmured.

You smiled warmly.

“There you are.”

He crossed the room without another word and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, burying his face against your shoulder.

Home.

You felt him exhale against your skin.

“Tired?” you asked softly.

“Mhm.”

“You eat today?”

A pause.

“…Maybe.”

You snorted.

“Min Yoongi.”

“I had coffee.”

“That’s not food.”

“It has calories.”

“You’re impossible.”

His lips brushed lazily against your shoulder.

“Missed you.”

Your heart melted instantly.

Three simple words.

Soft with exhaustion and honesty.

You turned slightly in his arms.

“I missed you too.”

Yoongi looked at you quietly for a second.

Then his eyes drifted lower absentmindedly.

And stopped.

Completely.

His entire body froze.

You felt it happen in real time.

The silence stretched.

Yoongi stared at the delicate black script peeking just beneath your sleep shirt near your ribs.

His name.

Tattooed into your skin.

He looked genuinely unable to process what he was seeing.

Slowly—very slowly—his hand lifted toward your side.

“You…” His voice nearly disappeared. “What is that?”

Your pulse jumped.

“Well,” you said nervously, “it’s your name.”

“I can see that.”

His fingertips hovered just above the ink like he was afraid to touch it.

“You tattooed my name on your body?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds unhinged.”

Yoongi looked up at you.

And the expression on his face nearly wrecked you.

Overwhelmed.

Completely overwhelmed.

“You did this for me?”

You suddenly felt shy.

Which was ridiculous considering this man was literally your husband.

“I wanted to.”

For a second, Yoongi just stared at you.

Then he carefully pushed your shirt aside further, exposing the tattoo completely.

His breath caught.

The placement.

Fuck.

Right over your ribs.

Somewhere intimate.

Somewhere hidden.

Somewhere only for him.

His fingers finally touched your skin.

Gentle.

Reverent.

You felt the shiver move through him.

“When?” he asked quietly.

“Four days ago.”