fleur💐

“Um, yeah. You know The Beatles?” The way he said it, you would’ve thought they were a shitty garage group who only played indie dives and not the biggest band on earth. Still, you were enamoured enough with him to simply nod.

“We have a lot of tapes at home, and I got a player for Christmas. I’ve been doing a lot of listening.” Mike’s eyes widened comically, his brows shooting up beneath his bowl cut. It was as if he’d just woken from a spell, realising you had your own internal life. If you weren’t ten years old and in love with him, you would have thought it was ridiculous.

Without warning, Mike sprang into action, becoming the boy you’d seen him be with his friends. Words spilled from his lips, bright and stumbling as you talked about the albums you’d listened to so far, and which songs were your favourite. This was why you loved him, though it could be hard to remember when he and the boys shunned you. Mike was full of heart and passion, and it was nice to be the centre of his attention for once.

If Mrs Wheeler had any idea that you and Mike were actually in the push and pull of interesting conversation, you were sure she could — and would — have found any excuse to stay out in the garden a few minutes longer. Instead, she was worried her son had abandoned you, and you’d be moping in her beautiful kitchen on a lovely summer’s day.

“Oh!” She said, trying to turn around before Mike could spot her. The damage had been done, though, and Mike was transformed back into the girl-hating preteen he usually was.

“Um, bye,” He said awkwardly, disappearing down into the basement before his mother could even open her mouth to call him back.

“Sorry, honey,” She said, squeezing your shoulder, “One day he’ll wake up and see what’s in front of him.”

You didn’t really know what that meant. At ten, having a crush didn’t mean much. You certainly didn’t want to kiss a boy; that was gross. A boyfriend was nowhere in your cards, and wouldn’t be for a long time, so Mrs Wheeler didn’t really make sense to you. You just smiled at her, carrying out a plate of snacks and trying to ignore the giddiness you felt at being seen by Mike.

Not much changed for a very long time. You still weren’t really allowed to hang out with the boys, but at least Mike had started smiling at you when you passed each other in your house or at school. He’d be in high school next year, though, and you wouldn’t see him nearly as much, so you enjoyed what you could get.

A few times, when he wasn’t around his friends and your brother, Mike even stopped to talk to you.

“Hey,” He said, walking into your house unannounced and unaccompanied. It was standard procedure by now with any of the boys, but Mike was rarely alone. Still, you startled easily, slamming your water bottle down next to a comic you’d stolen from your brother’s room while he was out. Mike eyed it with interest.

“Hi, Mike!” You fixed your hair unconsciously, hoping it wasn’t a total mess from last period gym. “Um, what are you listening to?”

Mike looked down at his Walkman, clicking pause and sliding the headphones off his ears.

“It’s Foreigner, Agent Provocateur. Came out last year. Have you listened to it?” You shook your head, embarrassed and feeling as young as he probably viewed you as.

“But I listened to the last one. I love Juke Box Hero.” Mike nodded like you’d passed a test, and relief flooded your body. It was almost insulting that he had this much power over you.

“Girls usually like Waiting for a Girl like You,” He said with an air of disgust, like he couldn’t believe a love song would be the most popular of the album. You tried not to react and reveal it was one of your favourites, shrugging casually.

“Yeah, well.”

After a beat of silence, Mike clicked open his player, carefully removing the tape. You watched in mild interest as he fished the cover out of his backpack, closing it up. He tossed it onto your mattress, both of you watching it bounce softly. You noticed painfully that he didn’t hand it to you, not risking any physical contact. You wondered if girls still had cooties for fourteen-year-old boys. Then, like an afterthought, he said,

“Borrow it. I’ve already listened to it, like, six times. I think you’ll like it.” You smiled widely, beaming up at your brother’s best friend.

“Thanks, Mike! That’s really nice.” Mike shrugged like it was no big deal, and you supposed for him it wasn’t. While you saw it as a magical offering, an olive branch between him and you, he probably saw it as trying to make a teenage girl less lame in his eyes.

“I think they’re coming to Indiana in a few months. Sixteen plus, though, which sucks.”

Conversation came surprisingly easy between you, Mike gradually moving past your doorframe and toward where you were sitting cross-legged on top of your covers. It was mostly about music, but had started drifting to other topics, school, friends, your brother.

Just when it was getting good and you were talking like you were true peers, the front door opened, and the rest of the boys barrelled in. Mike jumped back at once, making a sad excuse to leave and disappearing down to your brother’s bedroom.

You slumped into the headboard, letting out a mournful sigh. You loved your family, you really did, but there were times when you wished you were untangled from the party’s web. If you hadn’t been at inter-family gatherings since you were in diapers, would Mike think of you differently? Would he think you were pretty? If you were from a different, random Hawkins family, maybe you and Mike could go on dates, browsing record shops as you held hands, bickering over the best albums of the year.

Late that night, once the boys had all left and the house was still, you slipped your headphones on. Lying in your bed with your eyes closed, you soaked in the album like it was gospel. The first time you listened to I Want to Know What Love Is, it felt like he’d written it just for you, every word hitting you straight in the heart. It was exactly what you wanted from Mike. You needed him to show you how to be loved.

A dramatic thought, but consistent with the general experience of being thirteen, when everything felt like the most important thing in the world. You probably listened to the album three times in full that night.

A few months later, May, after Mike had turned fifteen, he approached you at school for the very first time. Maybe it was the promise of moving into high school and leaving behind Hawkins Middle, Mike drew nearer across the hallway with purpose, so unlike how he usually interacted with you. None of his friends were with him, which might have contributed, and he even wore a small smile as he stood in front of you.

You tried to slam your locker when you noticed him, but your best friend Sally — well aware of your crush — caught it and saved you the embarrassment.

“Hey, Mike,” You said softly, shifting your weight between your feet as your friends all watched on. Your books were clutched tight against your chest.

“Heard you had a big weekend.” His smile was subtle but definitely there, almost impressed. You brightened at the unspoken praise, tossing a piece of hair over your shoulder.

“Yeah, it was fun.” You were playing coy and all your friends knew it, trying to bat your lashes without him noticing. You hoped you were coming off as sexy, but at thirteen, it was probably closer to awkward. At least you’d gotten your braces off in February and so had your smile back.

“How’d you do it?” Mike sounded genuinely interested in what you had to say, not even embarrassed to be speaking to four thirteen-year-olds.

“It was easy.” It wasn’t, you were shit-scared the entire time. “I took the bus up to Indianapolis, used my allowance on a motel room and told the guy at the stadium I was sixteen. Put on some eyeliner, pushed up my tits and he let me through no problem. Wanna see?” You turned back to your locker, fishing out the Polaroids you and Sally had taken.

Mike examined it, a light blush dusting his cheekbones. Nobody mentioned it. To be fair, you looked hot. The venue for the Foreigner concert was 16+ in the city, but you’d fallen head over heels for the album Mike had lent you and had to see them live, no matter what.

So, you and Sally had lied about staying over at each other’s houses, got the Saturday morning bus up to Indianapolis, rented a tiny motel where you slept in the same bed, and made yourselves look as grown-up as possible to get into the concert. It really was easy; you didn’t even bring an ID. All you needed to do was look up at the bouncer like you wanted to fuck him, arms pressed to your side to push your boobs up to your chin in a flimsy black boob tube, and he let you right through. Disgusting? Yes, but it got you what you wanted, so you weren’t complaining.

“That’s really cool.” Mike sounded genuinely impressed, handing the polaroids back to you. You couldn’t stop grinning. Validation from your older, cooler crush, who actually wasn’t very cool at all, filled you with a joy matched only by seeing Foreigner live in a big city.

“Thanks, Mike. I mean, it’s really all because of you, right?” You watched Mike stall, stumbling through a forced-casual shrug.

“Maybe. I wasn’t faking my way into adult venues, though. Anyway, I, um, heard about that story and thought you might want another tape to listen to.” He brandished it from his pocket, looking around like someone was going to catch him doing a drug deal. Mick Jagger’s She’s The Boss sat in your hands. You’d never even heard of it.

“It was released a few months ago — this guy’s first album. I like something a bit heavier, but I thought you might like it. Plus, after your adventure, it seems fitting.” The boss. You grinned, wishing you could hug Mike like you wanted to, but that would completely scare him off, and any groundwork you’d been laying your entire life would be utterly wasted. Instead, you schooled your features to be calm and collected, slipping the tape into the front pocket of your backpack.

“Thanks, Mike. I’ll give it a listen.”

A strange silence fell between you two, not awkward, but unsure. Your friends had long since wandered off, trying to give you the best chance with the man of your dreams, but you didn’t know what the protocol with him was. Despite years of pining, you and Mike really hadn’t actually spoken very much.

Luckily, the bell gave you both an exit, pulling you to your next classes.

“I’ll see you,” You smiled softly, hopefully flirtatiously, but you really hadn’t had enough time to figure yourself out yet. It seemed to fluster Mike all the same, all awkward limbs and stiff nodding as he mumbled out something that sounded like a goodbye before he was taking off down the hallway.

In Mr Clarke’s science class, he couldn’t explain to any of his friends why he was so jittery.

That summer, Mike got a girlfriend, El. She came out of absolutely nowhere and Mike was obsessed with her. He was never over at your house anymore, apparently spending every spare minute with her, making out as the boys all liked to tease him. You always stayed quiet. Inside you burned white hot jealousy.

How could some girl come in and scoop him up out of nowhere? You’d liked him for so long, your entire life, and you were beaten out by a quiet girl who didn’t even seem to like the same music as him! The worst part of it all, though, was that you liked her. El was really nice, and pretty, and always included you without thought, unlike the boys.

Nevertheless, the tapes were forgotten about, and Mike hardly spoke to you at all for months.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get any space from the Wheelers. All of your families were still friends, and all of the same gatherings continued to happen. How were you ever supposed to get over him when he was at your house every other week? And he wasn’t cruel; in fact, El seemed to make him more social. They’d stop as a couple in your doorway and ask how your summer readings were going, and later your homework when school went back and they were still bloody dating. Plus, he was in high school and you were still in eighth, just turned fourteen, so you didn’t even get to catch glimpses of him on campus anymore.

Your life was absolute torture.

Mike and El finally broke up a whole year later. You wouldn’t say you were pleased, necessarily, you were actually very fond of her, and you always wanted Mike to be happy, but you couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that sparked in your heart when you heard.

You didn’t reach out first, you couldn’t. You wouldn’t be the desperate younger sister running to your brother’s friend the moment he was single. So you quashed your feelings, friendly and welcoming whenever Mike came over or you saw him in the halls of Hawkins High now that you were a freshman, returning to a constant background presence in his life as you’d grown well accustomed to throughout your fifteen years.

Nothing happened for a long time. For a year after Mike and El broke up, you felt completely invisible. The boys let you hang around more often now since Lucas was dating Max and El remained part of the friend group, but you weren’t a party member. Your brother made sure you knew that.

It was one of those times when they let you hang around that something started again. The whole party, plus you, were hanging out in the Wheeler’s basement, sprawled across the room as you entertained yourselves through a boring day of winter break where it was too cold to even venture outside. Nobody reached for their homework.

Max and El were playing chess, or Max was trying to teach her how, Will was drawing, and Mike, Dustin, and Lucas were rotating through a two-player video game at the TV, creating most of the noise in the room. You were lying on the floor next to the stereo, paging through a comic you’d found stuffed among some old toys, assuming it was Mike’s once upon a time.

Music was playing out the stereo, but you didn’t recognise it and the tape cover was nowhere to be seen.

“What is this? I really like it,” You asked when Mike was booted to spectator in the game, drawing his attention from the TV. He didn’t reply for just a second too long, looking at you in amusement, like he’d forgotten he’d ever spoken to you about music. It irritated you that he could just toss you aside for any girl that caught his eye, but simultaneously felt shy under his gaze, like it was important.

“The album is Paranoid. Black Sabbath,” He started before being cut off by the boys.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know Black Sabbath!” Lucas called as Dustin egged him on, even Will looking at you like you were seriously uneducated.

“Hey,” Mike said, harsher than you imagined he meant, “It’s not her fault. Rat Salad is an instrumental feature; it’s not like they’re playing it on the radio.” You tried not to fluster as he defended you, choosing to flip your brother off instead.

“Also, didn’t this come out in, like, the sixties? Sorry I wasn’t born yet.”

“Seventy,” Mike corrected you quietly, under his breath so your brother wouldn’t make fun of you for that too.

By the time you were all done bickering, the final song on the album had finished so Mike stood to change it, placing the tape carefully back into its cover.

“Here,” He said, holding it out to where you sat on his floor, “Borrow it. It’s good music.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Your arm lifted to take it, your fingers brushing as you made the exchange. Your eyes snapped up to his to find him already looking, alarm clear on his face. You wondered briefly if he felt the same electric sparks when you touched.

Mike didn’t give much indication, coughing pointedly as he jumped back on the couch behind Dustin’s spot on the floor, far away from you. You held the tape in wonder, turning it over in your hands. When you got up to put it in your bag, you locked eyes with Max, and you knew at once she was staring into your soul. You prayed she wouldn’t tell.

After that day in Mike’s basement, you’d come to a sort of silent agreement. Usually on a Friday, if he passed you in the halls or you were at each other’s house, he’d lend you a tape, just tucking it in your hands or your schoolbag, or one magical time, into the back pocket of your jeans. You’d been flustered the whole rest of the day.

Your duty was to listen to the tape over the weekend, always in its entirety with your headphones on for the most pure experience. You took it as seriously as a paid job, dedicating anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour to fully appreciate whatever music Mike had bestowed upon you.

Then, on Monday morning or as soon as possible after, you’d return the tape to him some way or another, with the addition of a cut-up Post-it note featuring your star rating.

The best part, though, didn’t happen weekly. Maybe once a month, depending on how busy Mike was, he’d get to your house early when he was supposed to be hanging out with your brother and you’d discuss the albums he’d shared with you. It was the highlight of your month. Mike, usually serious and temperamental, was almost always joyful and passionate when you got into the albums, gushing and gesticulating like he used to when he was little.

You listened with rapt attention, and you were sure your gaze was the same as when you were ten. Mike was seventeen and cool and felt like it. He talked down to you not in the way that he thought you were stupid, but in the way that he loved having an audience to educate. He’d capture your attention as long as you’d pay it, channelling his DM skills to monologue about some of the best albums on earth. Plus, Mike listened to you. Really listened. He’d evolved to sitting on the edge of your bed, nodding along as you shared your volume of thoughts like he really valued your opinions.

The more you did it, the more comfortable you became with each other. What had started as a serious discussion of the merits of different albums devolved into both of you pouring out every feeling you had about them, singing lines you liked or didn’t, freer to criticise as you got to know each other better.

You even thought Mike was beginning to like you. Not as a girlfriend or anything, obviously not, but as an actual friend and not an extension of your brother. He asked about school and your friends when you’d exhausted the albums, complaining about the junior workload.

After a while, you could feel him be more himself around you. You didn’t know how funny Mike Wheeler was until you were fifteen years old, and honestly, you were glad it was a new discovery, because it would have ruined your whole childhood if you’d had to add that to his list of crush-worthy qualities.

He’d started lingering, too. The first few times he’d been to your bedroom, he was anxious, usually pacing or right on the very edge of your mattress, not making himself comfortable in case the rest of the party arrived to catch him. He’d be out of your room the second the front door opened, usually without a goodbye.

Later, though, Mike would sit comfortably on top of your blanket, lounging like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. And when he knew his friends would be arriving, he stood but made no move to leave the room, continuing to chat.

When the rest of the party stopped by your room, staring in bewilderment at the sight of the two of you together, Mike didn’t make a big deal of it.

“Oh, hey guys, we were just talking. Did you know she has Mayberry for bio?”

You and your brother were too busy making aggressive eye contact with each other to respond, true familial competitiveness coming out over Mike Wheeler. When you were done your silent battle, Mike was already looking at you.

“Later,” He said, waving awkwardly. What enamoured you most was his small smile, secret and just for you. Like you were in on a joke together that no one else knew about.

It was a year before you were brave enough to suggest a tape back. It happened just before Mike started his senior year; you were going into tenth. You actually didn’t know why you were at home alone together, you supposed the rest of the party must have had plans and you were the backup.

Nevertheless, there you were, lying side by side on your floor, bodies sinking into the carpet. In the background played Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon album, something both you and Mike considered perfect.

When the tape came to an end, neither of you shied away from the silence, summer crickets underscoring your peace.

“Have you ever listened to the Bat Out Of Hell album?” You asked, voice sounding surprisingly loud after minutes of nothing. Mike looked over at you, eyebrows conveying all of his feelings: disbelief, interest, admiration? You liked it. He finally shook his head no.

“Oh my God, Mike, it’s awesome. It was supposed to be for this, like, rock musical about Peter Pan, but it never happened so he just released it as a normal album, and it’s ridiculous but also kinda good? I don’t know,” You trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

“Put it on,” Mike said lightly, and you hurried before he could back out, popping in the tape.

You laid back down next to him, the distance between you almost imperceptibly less.

“Why is it really good and kinda terrible?” He laughed, his body shaking from the floor. You joined him, only stopping to sing along to your favourite guitar solo in the titular song. When it ended, you looked over at Mike, aware of what you’d just done, but he was looking at you like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.

You didn’t test it, looking back up at the ceiling to enjoy the rest of the album. Your grin didn’t leave your face for the whole album.

When the final song had finished and the tape stalled, you hesitated in getting up, wanting to live in this perfect moment forever.

“Fuck, I should get home. My mom’s been freaking out because senior year is starting,” Mike groaned, reluctantly pushing himself up to a sitting position. You took the hint, hopping up to put the tape back in its case. “Hey, where’d you learn all that stuff about the album?”

You looked back, and time stopped for Mike. In a serendipitous moment, a slowly setting sun filtered through your open window, bathing you in golden light. You were smiling at him, blinding from his spot on the carpet as everything seemed to move in slow motion. The moment snapped back into real life and he struggled to catch up with what you were saying.

“— the guy at the record store told me! Went on a whole tangent about it. Sold me the first two tapes, but apparently there’s a third he couldn’t get his hands on. I’ll lend it to you!”

Any romance movie slow-mo was long gone and Mike was consumed with fear. He was on his feet and out of your room before you knew what was happening, the distinct feeling that you’d done something wrong creeping through your limbs.

You hurried to follow him out, grabbing the tape on the way.

“Mike!” You yelled, skipping the last three steps to follow him out the door. He didn’t look at you as he tried to pick up his bike despite his obvious distraction.

“Sorry,” He didn’t look at you, “I just remembered my mom wanted me to go get some things for dinner, and now she’ll be mad and I was really trying to be nicer to her, and —”

“Mike,” You laughed softly, watching him swing his leg over the bike seat, “I was just gonna lend you a tape.” You slipped it into the breast pocket of his button-up summer shirt, not mentioning the way his whole face went red, waving happily as he pedalled off into the dusk.

Mike’s legs burned with the force of his pedalling. He had no end goal in mind, everything he told you a total lie. He didn’t need to go to the store for his mom, he just needed to get as far away from you as possible. Mike Wheeler could not be seeing his best friend’s little sister in glowing lights and romantic slow motion, that was the most off-limits thing in the world. He’d be actually murdered.

He rode for hours, lost in conflicted thought as he tried to shake any non-platonic images of you from his mind. It was so inappropriate, he could be booted from the party! He had to keep things completely friendly with you.

The only issue was that you’d started lending him tapes back. So once a week, Mike got another little insight into your brain, into your life. The problem with this, was that he thought you were really fucking cool. After a life spent listening to other people’s tapes that you could get your hands on, you’d started to be able to afford to explore your own taste. Mike thought it was unbelievably cool.

When he visited for his monthly-ish album discussion parties, he watched your collection grow, stacking up nearly an entire wall. Not to mention the albums from the rest of your family that you’d stored across the house. A special glow illuminated his chest when he spotted tapes he’d lent you over the years, meaning you liked them so much you’d gone out to buy them after returning them.

And so the agreement continued all through the year, swapping tapes and finding secret times to meet up to discuss your favourite albums.

It was a sacred ritual. Every weekend, just as you did when you were thirteen that very first time, you set aside thirty to sixty minutes to lay above your covers, eyes closed and headphones on as you absorbed the music Mike gave you. Most weeks, it was the best hour of the whole seven days.

Unbeknownst to you, Mike was beginning to feel the same way about it. At first, the tapes were nothing to him. He was just lending them out and you always returned them quickly and in good condition, why should he think anything about it?

Then you started talking about them, and Mike started to see you in a brand new light — even aside from that one terrifying moment over the summer. No longer were you just a younger sister of the party, annoying and desperate to be included, but you were a real person with interesting thoughts and opinions on the same music he loved.

It was ridiculous, really, that he’d developed a crush on his best friend’s younger sister because of her music taste. But that wasn’t really the truth, anyway, was it? The truth was, Mike liked that you were passionate and opinionated, and were still the same girl that snuck out to the city to go see concerts, though now you could get in 16+ venues without any tricks (the bouncer’s face was priceless when you showed him your real ID for the first time).

He liked that you weren’t afraid to disagree with him, pushing back at his album analysis so that he really had to think about it. He liked that you didn’t mind when he was moody, content to sit in silence, a new or old album playing between you.

It was terrifying. Totally off limits, a little bit taboo, nothing about it made sense. Mike hated it, but also couldn’t bring himself to stop your secret ritual.

Mike had to go to college. You’d been dreading it since he got his acceptance letter. He wasn’t going far, not across the country or anything, but far enough that he wouldn’t be coming home to visit.

It wasn’t like you could do anything about it. You just held on to the albums and the passing conversations while you still could.

“Are we still gonna talk about music when you’re gone?” You asked, fiddling with your next tape, pointedly not looking at him. “Or are you gonna forget all about me when you meet college girls who know cooler albums.” You finally loaded the cassette into the player, Starship’s Love Among the Cannibals. You didn’t think Mike was going to love it, but it had been released two weeks ago and you’d been saving it to listen to together.

Mike laughed behind you, and the smile grew back on your face.

“C’mon, you think I’m gonna find someone else who wants to give up hours of their time to listen to albums front to back with me?” You bit your lip to hold back the wide grin which threatened to break out, settling in on your carpet next to him.

The album was just under an hour long, and you two sat in mostly silence for the entire duration, with the exception of the occasional “Nice!” or “Love that riff.” The summer was sweltering around you, but on the floor it didn’t feel as unbearable.

In the middle of the titular song, you’d thrown your hands up to emphasise your point and how much you loved a note the singer hit. When your point was finished you let your arms drop, going rigid when your fingers brushed Mike’s on the floor. You didn’t dare look at him for fear of his reaction, but you didn’t want to move and draw attention to it.

To your surprise, Mike didn’t pull away. When the song changed and a new beat started, his fingers twitched, interlocking with yours as if you wouldn’t notice. Of course you did, you’d been tuned into Mike Wheeler’s personal radio station since the day you gained consciousness, logging his movements to feed your crush. Holding hands with him was something you had only dreamed about, seeming so far away until it was actually happening.

Neither of you moved for the last half of the album, like if you did the illusion would shatter. You were honestly scared it would. The final song of the record, I’ll Be There, started playing, slow and gentle. It was different from much of the album, more of a heartfelt ballad, despite the continued use of synth and electric guitar.

As Mickey Thomas gave it his all on “I’ll be there for you,” Mike turned to look at you. You felt it, gaze heavy on you as your mind ran through every possibility. You couldn’t find any eventuality bad enough to stop you from tilting your head right to look at him.

Softly, slowly, Mike said your name. Your heart skipped three beats in a row.

“Mike?”

By the end of the first chorus, Mike was kissing you, propped up on one elbow so he was hovering above half your body. You didn’t hesitate to return it, back arching off the plush carpet to help him out.

Mike’s lips were softer than you expected, slotting against yours like they were made for each other. He tasted of slurpee and kissed like he was trying to devour you, huge hand cupping your cheek. It was messy and intense and everything you’d dreamt of since you were old enough to find kissing appealing. In a fit of bravery, you pulled him all the way on top of you, knotting your fingers in his hair and tangling your legs with his.

For the remaining four minutes of the five-minute ballad you kissed him, giving everything you had like some bid to convince him you were good enough. If you were judging by the hardness pressing against your thigh, you’d say you were doing a pretty good job.

When the tape clicked characteristically and the room fell silent, Mike pulled away. In the span of a single second, a thousand emotions ran over his face. Dazed pleasure morphed into realisation into horror, and Mike jumped off you, landing three feet away on his ass.

“Mike?” You pushed yourself up onto your forearms, admittedly dazed and confused.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” He muttered, standing and pacing before you could process it. “Fuck, they’re gonna be so mad at me.” Them being the party, of course. Your brow furrowed.

“Mike,” You said again, clearer this time. Mike paid you little attention, lost in his own spiral.

“I can’t believe I just did that, that’s completely against the rules.”

“Mike!”

“They’re gonna kick me out of the party, not to mention your brother will never talk to me again, and —”

“Mike!” You yelled, standing to face him. Mike’s mouth fell shut, looking at you like he’d almost forgotten you were even in the room with him. “Don’t I get any say in this? Or does it not matter what I feel?”

Mike didn’t say anything. You rolled your eyes, taking a step toward him.

“Mike, you kissed me. Big deal. I liked it, isn’t that a little more important?”

“But I shouldn’t have! You’re a sibling of a party member, you’re sixteen—”

“And you’re only just eighteen! It’s not like you’re a pedophile.” Mike winced.

“Look, it was all a mistake. You’re too young, you’re my best friend’s little sister, I’m about to go off to college! It shouldn’t have happened.” He wouldn’t look at you, and that hurt more than anything he could have said.

“You really mean that?” You asked after a long pause, long enough to blink back the tears that burned hot at your lashes. Mike nodded once. “Fine. I think you should go, Mike.”

Mike deflated, like he could hardly believe what had just happened, but picked up his bag to leave anyway. You followed him to the door only to be a good host, because your mother had raised you right. He took a few steps out onto the path then looked back, and for one blissful moment you could pretend he was going to take it all back, that everything could go back to that dream come true.

“I hate to ask it… Can you please not tell your brother?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Mike gave you a pained smile, as if anything he could do right now could come off as remotely polite, and took off down the street on his bike.

You slammed the door as hard as you could, unbothered if Mike heard it, and slid down it, tears falling freely once you were completely alone. Your childhood crush, the love of your life thus far, had ripped out your heart and stomped it into the ground over some petty childhood rules. Why did he kiss you, then, if he wouldn’t even savour the bliss for a minute? Why play with your feelings? Everything you’d ever known about Mike Wheeler was called into question.

When your brother got home he found you on your bed, eyes still wet and rimmed with red as you clutched the tape player close to your chest, Songs of Leonard Cohen playing from start to end, the most melancholy album you had on hand.

“You good?” He asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” You croaked, eyes trained on the ceiling so he wouldn’t see the truth, “Absolutely nothing.”

Mike felt so stupid. He was stupid. He just couldn’t tell which was more stupid, kissing you in the first place or letting you go. If he were a braver man, Mike would have followed his heart. He would have kissed you to Starship then held you close, telling you exactly how glad he was that you’d chosen him to pay attention to all those years ago, that your albums were the highlight of his year. If he were braver, Mike would have told your brother, begging him for a chance to do things right by you.

But Mike wasn’t brave, wasn’t a man of action. So he ran, and worse, begged you to keep his secret like a little boy who’d eaten candy past his bedtime. He knew he’d fucked up, but he couldn’t go back on it now. Besides, if your brother ever learned what he’d done, Mike would never be allowed near you again.

You didn’t talk to Mike before he went off for college. You only went to his going-away party because it was a joint one for all of his friends, but you shrugged off his attempt at small talk. If Mike didn’t want you in the way he’d pursued, he wasn’t getting you at all.

You only stepped into his space when Karen begged for a photo of you both, you could never say no to her. She must have sensed the tension because she’d faltered, but ultimately bossed you into an adequate pose. Mike was pressed right up against you, hand firmly around your waist.

Your body was in complete confusion. After so many years of pining, you were practically programmed to crave physical affection from Mike, and feeling his body against yours was so comforting it made you want to cry. The other part of you was fighting tears for the opposite reason, being so close to him brought every negative feeling of the last week to the forefront of your mind.

Click.

“Michael, honey, you’re supposed to look at the camera,” Mrs Wheeler teased. Mike was looking at you. Why was Mike looking at you? What reason could he possibly have for looking at you? He’d made his feelings abundantly clear. You both settled, smiling pleasantly — if completely fake — at the camera.

Click.

You moved to leave, untangling yourself from his arms when Karen stopped you.

“Please, just one more! Honey, can you kiss her cheek?” Both yours and Mike’s heads snapped back toward Mrs Wheeler and the camera, panic clear on your faces.

“Mom!” Mike snapped, putting distance between you two. Your heart dropped into your toes, feeling him smash it into the ground all over again.

“Michael,” She scolded, tone stern, “Nobody is looking at you. You’ve known her your whole life, you guys used to swim naked in the pool together when you were babies!” You were sure you looked as distraught as Mike did, and he muttered something that sounded like ‘fine’, if only to get his mom to stop talking.

Carefully, hesitantly, you fell back into each other. Mike’s hand wrapped around your body, resting on your hip where your jeans hugged the skin, his body warm against your own. Painfully slow, he leant down to oblige his mother. Because he was so tall, the kiss landed closer to your cheekbone than the actual cheek, but the sensation still took your breath away. His lips were still soft like the day he kissed you, a painful reminder of what you’d lost. In the last second, you remembered to plaster on a smile for Mrs Wheeler, dropping it after the click.

Mrs Wheeler beamed, wiggling the camera before running off to capture more memories. You tried to follow her lead, wriggling out of Mike’s hold, but he captured your wrist before you could make a break for it.

“Listen,” He said, “I’m really sorry about how everything went down. I was a dick. Can I… Can I still send you albums, when I’m at college?” You thought for a moment. What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?

“No one’s stopping you,” You said, the bitterness definitely seeping through, “Enjoy college, Mike.” You didn’t stay to get his response, walking off through the crowd.

Later, when you and your family were finally leaving the party, Mrs Wheeler approached you.

“I’m sorry about Michael,” She said, soft enough that none of your relatives could eavesdrop, “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I know it’ll work out and you’ll find your way back to each other. One day he’ll wake up and realise what was always right in front of him.”

“Thanks, Mrs Wheeler,” You replied, reciprocating her tight squeeze, “I hope so.”

You didn’t speak to Mike Wheeler for an entire year. He mailed a few tapes in the first months, never with notes, and you never replied. You wished you could say you didn’t listen to them, threw them straight in the trash, but of course you didn’t. Just like when you were thirteen years old, you’d pop them into your player, slide your headphones on, and listen to the whole thing in one sitting with your eyes closed.

They were different from the tapes he’d recommended throughout your adolescence. Clearly, he’d made new friends in college, expanded his horizons. Instead of the rock or pop-rock records from his high school days, Mike sent grungier, indie records that reflected the start of the nineties.

First it was Heaven or Las Vegas by the Cocteau Twins. You admittedly felt really cool to have already owned it. Then The La’s self-titled album. After that, Hold Me Up by the Goo Goo Dolls. The final album to be sent was The Screaming Trees’ Change Has Come.

You listened to every one, though you would never tell him. You didn’t write back, which probably explained why they stopped coming. What would you say? You couldn’t just ignore everything that happened and go back to naively reviewing records, so you didn’t. It made you angry, fuming that Mike could just go on like everything was fine, like he didn’t shatter your heart into a thousand pieces in the span of a single minute.

Mike didn’t come home for his winter break, citing too much work before finals. That was fine, you thought. Better, even, because you could still be angry without feeling silly about it. If Mike had come home totally blasé about your history whilst you were still grieving, it would have been completely humiliating.

When he didn’t come home for spring break either, you were well and truly over him. Mike Wheeler didn’t occupy any room in your head. You filled your schedule with school commitments, parties, and boys who were nothing like Mike. You snuck out on the weekends, killing brain cells in warehouses or fields or anywhere else there was abundant alcohol and sweaty bodies, waking up next to people who weren’t afraid to kiss you more than once. None of them stayed till the end of an album.

You missed him again in the summer. You had an older cousin up in New York who gave you an internship the summer before your senior year, and you spent three months away from your tape collection and the memories they held. It helped. While Mike was back in Hawkins, you were running around the greatest city in the world, forgetting he ever held space in your heart.

When you got home, you were actually over him. In the real way, not in the fake-it-till-you-make-it kind of way. Men much older than him, who took you to clubs you shouldn’t have been allowed into and loved you in penthouses more expensive than the Hawkins mall, imparted wisdom on you, that Mike was an immature boy. His rejection wasn’t mean-spirited; it was just a representation of him being torn between child and adulthood, between friends and romances. Something like that, anyway. Enough for you to forgive Mike Wheeler for breaking your heart when you were sixteen.

By the time you were eighteen, halfway through your senior year, you felt like an entirely new person. You still loved your albums, but less obsessively. They weren’t a coping mechanism anymore, it was just something you loved. If Mike Wheeler walked through your door, you were sure you wouldn’t feel anything.

Your theory was tested in January, a few days after the new year. The party had gone on a trip together, but were spending the very final days of winter break with their respective families.

You were in your bedroom, getting ready to go out with some friends. You’d adapted well to the nineties in a slinky slip dress with sheer stockings for the cold, perfecting a dark smokey eye in your vanity mirror. Alanis Morissette’s debut album played at a low volume.

“Hi,” A voice said behind you. You stood on instinct, face morphing into surprise when you realised it was none other than Mike Wheeler himself.

For a long moment, it seemed like you were both frozen in time. Mike had no idea how you were going to react to seeing him after all this time, and he was scared of all of it.

And then you smiled. Not pained, not forced, not fake. You really smiled at him. You were coming closer. Oh God, why were you coming closer? When you wrapped your arms around his neck, Mike simply could not believe it, waiting just a second too long before wrapping his own tentatively around your middle.

The hug wasn’t long by any shot, just friendly. Like two people who had known each other for almost two decades and hadn’t seen each other in a long time. Mike couldn’t help but catalogue every sensation. The silk beneath his fingers, the warmth of your skin, the sweet smell of your perfume. Different than he remembered.

When you pulled away you were still smiling, and Mike felt like he was in a parallel universe where nothing had ever gone wrong between you. Your hands lingered, trailing softly down his shoulders to his chest, there were still only inches between you.

“It’s so nice to see you,” You said, and Mike really believed you meant it. “Do you have a few? Come in, tell me all about college!”

He settled on the edge of your mattress, nervous like the first few times you’d talked about music.

“It’s cool, I guess…” He told you about his roommate, his classes, the DND campaign he’d joined on campus. It was light, easy, almost like nothing had ever happened between you. You remained in the plush seat at your vanity, blending out the excessive amount of black eyeshadow you’d packed onto your lids, occasionally making eye contact through the mirror. He faltered every time, the feeling strangely domestic. Fuck.

Mike wanted to apologise, but he had no idea where to start or what he could say. It was so long ago, but being back here made it feel like only a matter of days or weeks. His eyes caught on your pile of tapes, Heaven or Las Vegas sitting on the top.

“You kept them?” You knew at once what he was talking about and let out a small sigh. You’d been hoping it would go unspoken, at least today. Give you and Mike some time to reconnect innocently at first. You stayed in your seat, hoping he didn’t notice the way your shoulders tensed.

“Of course I did, Mike.”

“You never said anything. Never wrote back.”

“What was I supposed to say?” You stood, taking a few steps toward him so you wouldn’t raise your voice. Nothing good would come if your brother walked in now. “I was angry, Mike. Heartbroken. I’ve had a crush on you my entire life, and then you finally kiss me and call it a mistake not even thirty seconds later. I was crushed. I couldn’t just pretend that I was okay while you were off in college sending me albums you got from older, prettier girls.”

Though you were only inches apart, you could have mistaken the distance for miles. Hurt flashed across Mike’s face, but you didn’t feel particularly bad. Everything you said was true.

When Mike looked at you, you felt truly seen. He’d always had a talent for that, ever since that day when he learned you listened to The Beatles. That skill had evidently never left, and you shied away from his gaze in case he could truly read every thought and feeling racing through your body. Gently, he took your bicep in his hand, thumb rubbing the exposed skin there.

“I was so immature — stupid. I was so worried about what everyone else would think, what your brother would think, that I wasn’t thinking about how I was treating you and making you feel. I’m so, so sorry I ever hurt you, and I wish I could take it back.”

Hearing it out loud from Mike healed something in you that you didn’t know was broken. You had truly forgiven him, but hearing how sorry he actually sounded, it restored some of the fondness you’d always had for him.

“What would you take back?” You asked, barely above a murmur. Mike cocked his head, confused. “What would you take back? Kissing me or breaking my heart?” You needed him to say it.

Mike’s smile was tight, pained, but not like his feelings were hurt. More bittersweet, like he was indulging in nostalgia. You couldn’t read it, but Mike was running through a lifetime of memories. Of you pushing back against his opinions, challenging him as an equal. Of you tagging along when his friends would let you, teasing the party members with a sharp tongue despite being younger. Of you kissing him back without hesitation, tasting like ice pops and lip gloss. His answer was clear.

“Breaking your heart,” He whispered, “Always.” The hand on your bicep trailed down to interlock your fingers loosely, giving you the opportunity to pull away. You didn’t, taking a tiny step toward him. The album had stopped by now, and you were bathed in silence.

“Mike…” His neck was already bent, breath fanning your face. It smelled of mint, no doubt from the bowl kept on your kitchen counter. Mike echoed your own name, barely audible as he looked down at your lips through lidded eyes, the glossy red wine colour on your lips glinting invitingly.

You were just pushing yourself up on your tiptoes to kiss him when a horn blasted outside your window, both of you jumping apart as if getting caught doing something bad. Sally was picking you up for the party. Looking at Mike, you dreaded finding what you did when you were sixteen; regret, panic, despair. Instead, he just laughed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. The relief was incomparable. Together, you dissolved into embarrassed giggles, but the air in your room was light.

“I have to go,” You said finally, picking up your small beaded purse and throwing in a few touch-up makeup products. Mike nodded, stumbling out something about your brother being home soon, anyway.

As you parted ways in the corridor with a stiff hug and embarrassed goodbyes, you looked back at where Mike was entering your brother’s bedroom.

“Hey,” You said and Mike turned without hesitation. “Maybe you can lend me more tapes, while you’re at college?”

He nodded, face breaking into a wide grin, something you’d always loved about him. When it was genuine, his smile took up most of his face like a beacon of joy.

The first tape came three days after Mike returned to college, meaning he probably sent it as soon as he got back. The thought made you smile. It was Smashing Pumpkins’ Gish. You really liked it, and not only because Mike sent it to you.

For the first time since he’d been to college, you wrote Mike back. A long letter filled with thoughts about the album and your favourite parts. When you ran out of that, you started talking about your own life, about senior year and how much you were looking forward to graduating, and about how you were considering applying to his school. Not because Mike went there, because it had the best course for you. Anything else was just a bonus. At the bottom of the envelope, you included Teenage Fanclub’s Bandwagonesque.

The correspondence only increased over the semester, letters coming every few days. Your mother certainly noticed but never said anything, the unopened envelopes always somehow ending up in your bedroom when you came home from school.

Each time, the letters became a little less album-focused and a little more personal. Secrets were spilled and confessions shared in the pages of letters you’d trade every week, a tape added to each one. You were really, really fucked.

Mike couldn’t make it home for your graduation. You’d been brave and specifically invited him in a letter, hoping you hadn’t misread any of his signs or what you thought was flirting via the written word. He’d written back extremely apologetic, but he had an exam the same day and couldn’t miss it. Of course you understood, but a part of you still ached that he wouldn’t be there for such an important day.

The morning of the event, you were busy getting ready at your vanity, Mike’s latest tape — Radiohead’s debut Drill, playing. Obviously it was a third listen, the first being in your ritualistic method.

You called for whoever was knocking at your door to come in, smiling at your mom. Wordlessly, she held up a plain envelope, the handwriting on which you’d memorised over the last four months. It was frankly embarrassing, how fast you were up and out of your seat. grabbing the letter with both hands. Your mom didn’t say anything, just shooting you a far-too-knowing smile as she left you to read it in peace.

You tipped the contents out on your vanity amongst the makeup you’d just been using. Usually, you’d read the letter first, but the tape caught your eye. It didn’t look like the usual album Mike sent.

On one side, it just read your name in familiar scrawl, accompanied by a single heart. Shaky, unsure. On the other, a track list was stuck to it. Mike had never made you a mixtape before, you’d never had one made for you.

Flipping it over to see the tracks on the tape, you had to blink back tears to save the mascara you’d just applied.

Across the Universe - The Beatles

I Want To Know What Love Is - Foreigner

She’s The Boss - Mick Jagger

I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That) - Meatloaf

I’ll Be There - Starship

Crush - The Smashing Pumpkins

It was short, only the length of an EP, but the message was clear. Mike liked you. Mike Wheeler liked you! As if your day couldn’t get any better. You couldn’t stop smiling, not even when you had to sit through hours of your peers walking across a shitty stage at the town hall in the sweltering early summer heat.

You couldn’t believe he remembered it all. That all those tiny moments you thought you were exaggerating or reading too much into meant the same to Mike, too. All those years you thought had been wasted… they were all worth it.

You didn’t bother writing back that evening when you returned from the senior party, a little bit tipsy and emotional. Nothing you could say would be good enough.

Four days later, Mike was due to arrive home with the rest of the party. You couldn’t wait, the pounding in your chest had only gotten louder as the hours counted down. All of the families had gathered at the Wheelers' to greet the boys, a summer feast awaiting in the backyard.

You couldn’t wait with everyone else, pretending you were completely fine when every one of your limbs was shaking in anticipation. So you moved to the front yard, sitting atop the hood of the Wheelers’ family car.

The boys all pulled up in the same car, so they must have done an overly convoluted route that was typical for the friend group. You were beaming the second they came around the corner, waiting impatiently for the brown Ford to come to a complete stop.

All four doors opened at once, but you only had one interest. Skipping past your brother’s open arms, you launched yourself into Mike’s embrace, ready and waiting as he kissed you hard.

Years, lifetimes, of built-up longing and tension were expressed in the one kiss, your lips moving against each other like it was their only purpose. Mike tasted of soda and candy, poorly masked by mint gum. His arms wrapped completely around you, pulling you flush to him. You had both hands on his jaw, foot popping of its own accord.

Finally, after multiple awkward throat clears from the party, you pulled away, beaming brighter than the sun.

“Congrats on graduating,” Mike said, voice breathy and dazed as he held you.

“Thanks for the mixtape,” You replied, running your fingers through his hair gently. “Hi, guys.” You turned to greet the others, hugging your brother even when his arms didn’t work, too shocked to function.

Mike found his way to your side as soon as you finished saying hello, intertwining his fingers with yours.

You turned to head out to the back, eyes widening when Mrs Wheeler stood in the front doorway, leaning against the frame. She just smiled, greeting the boys like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Later, when the Wheeler’s garden was alive with chaos and moving parts, countless family members bustling about, Mrs Wheeler approached you.

Refilling your lemonade, she squeezed your shoulder maternally.

“I knew he’d wake up one of these days and realise what was right in front of him.” She just winked and walked away, no doubt to tell your mom about what she’d seen.

An hour later, once the excitement of the arrival had died down, Mike approached you again, arms settling over your collarbones as he stood behind you. You looked away from your conversation with Erica and up at him, unable to keep your smile from forming.

“Do you wanna go listen to an album?” He asked, pressing a kiss to your hair. You nodded without thought, letting him lead you into the house.

“Is that a code for something?” Erica yelled, disgusted and unimpressed as always.

“Nope!” You grinned, skipping along behind Mike.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

And then there are two figures hovering over him, silhouettes at first. One of them lets out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Holy shit—he’s awake. Oh my god, Harrington, you scared the living—”

“Robin,” another voice cuts in quickly, firm but gentle. “Would you quiet down your voice? He’s probably still processing the situation.”

Steve would love to process the situation. He just… doesn’t know what the situation is.

His vision sharpens bit by bit, the haze clearing enough for faces to come into focus. On one side of the bed is a girl with short hair and an expression that’s equal parts relief and barely-contained excitement. She’s smiling way too hard, like she’s waiting for him to say something

On the other side—

Oh, what a beautiful sight he’s greeted with.

Steve’s breath stutters, completely against his will.

She’s closer, standing just within his line of sight, her hands clasped together like she’s been holding herself back from touching him. 

Her eyes are glassy, rimmed with exhaustion and something else he can’t name yet, and she’s looking at him with so much worry and love. Like he scared her. Like she’s been here a while.

Steve isn’t one to discriminate. He appreciates beauty in all forms. But holy shit—his chest tightens in a way that feels familiar and frightening all at once.

He doesn’t know you. He’s almost sure of that, and yet the pull is immediate, instinctive, like his body recognizes you before his mind can catch up.

“Uh,” he croaks, except pain shoots through his body as he tries to speak.

“Easy, easy.” you say right away. Your voice is calm, but your eyes are worried, scanning his face like you are checking for cracks. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re in the hospital.”

Steve frowns, trying to piece things together. “Why am I in a hospital,” he asks, then winces when the movement makes his head pound harder. “And who are you people?”

Robin lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “We, buddy, are your friends.”

"And how did I end up here?"

“You got hurt on a crawl,” you say gently, keeping your voice calm as your thumb traces small circles on the back of his hand. “You crashed your car into a pole on the way back. The doctors said it’s a concussion, and your memory might be temporarily affected.”

“I… don’t remember any of that,” he admits slowly, panic threading through his voice.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, keeping your tone steady even though worry is slipping through. “Temporary memory loss is part of the recovery.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, though he’s not sure why. “I just—”

And then, because apparently whatever they’ve got pumping into his veins has removed his filter entirely, he blurts, “You’re just really pretty.”

Heat creeps up your neck and into your cheeks, as you huff out a disbelieving laugh and shake your head at his bluntness. “Awww, you think I’m pretty?”

Robin snorts loud enough to break the moment. “Okay, wow. Guess the concussion knocked his filter clean out.

She steps back toward the door, already reaching for the handle. “I’m gonna go tell the others he’s awake before Dustin gets more worried.” She pauses, smirks at Steve. “Don’t flirt yourself into another head injury.”

And then she’s gone, leaving the room quieter than before.

The room settles into the sound of machines humming as Steve shifts slightly, then freezes when he realizes how close you still are.

Your hand is on his.

He blinks at you, then grins slowly, a little mischievous despite the wires attached. “Soooo… are you gonna tell me who you are so I can figure out a way to take you out on a proper date once I’m out of this bed?” His eyes flicker with a mix of earnestness and teasing, and you can’t help but grin at how genuinely sweet he sounds.

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “A proper date, huh? You’re already in a hospital bed and thinking about that?”

Steve leans back slightly, still staring at you with a goofy, love-struck grin. “Hey, priorities, okay? First I survive this concussion, then I take you out somewhere nice. Gotta make it worth your while.”

Your chest warms at the sincerity, and you reach out, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Well, Mr. Harrington, you better survive then, or you’re never getting that date.”

“Oh, I’m determined, baby. It’s not every day a man wakes up in a hospital bed and finds a pretty girl like you at his bedside. Can’t let that chance slip away.”

You laugh loudly, shaking your head. “You’re gonna have to stop saying stuff like that or I’ll start thinking you’re hitting on me.”

He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “And what if I am?”

Your brows lift, amused. “Is that so?”

“Well,” he says, warming to it now, “would that be such a bad thing?”

You laugh again, cheeks pink. “No, I guess not.”

He opens his mouth, clearly about to say more—then cuts himself off. “—Unless you don’t think I’m awesome. Which, not to brag, but I am. I mean, I’m just… not at my best right now. My hair’s usually fixed and I'd be in way better shape.”

“I know that, Steve,” you say, fond and familiar in a way that makes his stomach flip.

“Then what’s the problem?” he asks, squinting at you like he’s solving a puzzle. “You got a boyfriend or something?”

You hesitate for half a second. Then nod. “I do."

“Oh.”

Oh.

The warmth in his chest caves in on itself, replaced by1 something hollow and sharp. His head throbs suddenly, a spike of pain behind his eyes, and images he doesn’t understand flash through his mind; your laugh, your hands laced with someone else’s, your mouth pressed to another person’s lip.

Someone who isn’t him.

He swallows, forcing a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. Figured so.” A quiet breath out. “Guess it would’ve been kinda crazy if a girl like you didn’t already have someone.”

You reach up without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair, smoothing it back. The touch resets something in him instantly. Whatever ache was there dulls under your hand.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I’m really flattered.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then nods. “Well,” he says, trying to sound casual and failing just a little, “your boyfriend’s a lucky guy.”

You hum, noncommittal, then sigh and slump forward, burying your face into the sheets.

Steve watches you, heart doing something stupid again. You look… comfortable and so, so soft. Like a cat curling up somewhere it feels safe.

“As I said, you’re really pretty,” he murmurs, voice rough and nasal from the concussion. “But… you must hear that all the time, don’t you?”

You shrug, brushing a strand of hair from your face, lips barely parting. “Not really,” you admit quietly, almost inaudible.

Steve blinks, then slowly pushes himself up in the hospital bed, propping on one elbow. “Really? Your boyfriend doesn’t… call you that?”

You place a hand lightly on your chin, lips pouting just slightly, hair falling across your face.

The soft tilt makes your eyes shine in the bright hospital light, and Steve swallows, heart thudding in a way that’s equal parts awe and helplessness.

He wants to lean forward, brush his thumb across that pout, kiss it gently, but he doesn’t.

You shake your head slightly, still face-down. “Not really.”

“God,” he murmurs, sincerity slipping through before he can stop it, “your boyfriend sucks.”

You glance up at him, surprised.

“If I were him,” Steve continues, voice quiet but sure, “I’d tell you you’re pretty every single day.”

And while Steve wants to tell you to dump that clueless idiot of a boyfriend already, he bites his tongue. He’s not here to be a homewrecker, he just wants you to realize your worth before that poor sap completely wastes it. Besides, it’s painful watching someone else fumble what should be his.

You groan. “My boyfriend’s a total jerk sometimes. He doesn’t notice half the things I do, and he spends all his time driving around with a bunch of kids and getting into trouble”

Steve’s grin is lazy but affectionate, eyes crinkling despite the fever. “That bastard’s missing out! How can he hang out with kids when he’s got a pretty girl like you waiting for him? What a schmuck.”

You snort. “That’s exactly what I keep telling him.”

He smiles lazily, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite how tired he clearly is. “Yeah,” he says, words starting to blur together now. 

“Y’know what I think.” He pauses, fighting sleep. “I think you should tell that boyfriend of yours he’s gotta do better.”

“And if he doesn’t?” you ask, amused.

Steve’s eyes flutter, but he manages a crooked smirk. “Then,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna come  m and sweep you from right under his nose.”

You laugh, warm and fond, and reach out to tuck the blanket more securely around him. “Big talk for someone who can barely keep his eyes open.”

He hums softly, already drifting to sleep. “M’just sayin’,” he mumbles. “Pretty girl like you deserves better.”

****

Two weeks later, Steve is supposed to still be taking it easy.

Keyword: supposed to.

He’s on the edge of the bed, wrestling with his shoes, one hand rubbing at his temple like that might fix the very real concussion he’s ignoring. You’re in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with the look that says your patience ran out five minutes ago.

“Steve! You’re being unbelievable,” you say. “The doctor said to rest and not to stupid shit.”

Steve scoffs. “I wasn’t trying to be stupid.”

“You went into a tunnel full of demobat slime!”

“—to save you and Dustin,” he shoots back, turning to look at you. “Which, by the way, I did. So maybe a thank-you instead of whatever this is?”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re so annoying lately.”

He laughs once, sharp. “Oh, I’m annoying? Sorry my brain injury is inconvenient for you.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You’re such a shitty, horrible boyfriend.”

Steve blinks. “Wow. Okay. And you’re an inconsiderate girlfriend who apparently doesn’t care that I almost cracked my skull because you and Dustin are absolute idiots.”

You huff, turn on your heel, and start pulling the blanket off the bed. “Fine. I’m not sharing a bed with you tonight.”

He frowns immediately. “—Wait, what? Where the hell are you going?”

“Anywhere that’s not next to an ass,” you snap, grabbing a pillow.

Steve watches you for half a second, then stands. A little wobbly, but determined. “Okay, yeah, no. I’m following you.”

You glare. “If you don’t quit it, I’m gonna find someone else who treats me right.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” you say, annoyed and dramatic on purpose now. “At least they won’t be reckless and stupid.”

Steve steps closer, incredulous. “Is that so? And where exactly are you gonna find someone who can tolerate your annoying ass? Because I bet there isn’t a single soul in Hawkins who can handle—”

You whip the pillow at his chest.

“I actually know someone,” you say smugly, pointing a sharp finger at him. “Who said he’d sweep me from right under your nose, Steve Harrington!”

The color drains from Steve’s face.

 “—Wait, what?” he blurts, eyes wide. “Who?”

What a dumbass, you think, smirking as you turn away.

based on this request: right here!!

a/n: this was so lovely to write! i hope it meats your expectations nonnie, and thank you for all the detailed ideas <33 much love xx

A ripple of whispers spreads through your fifth-grade classroom.  

You blink, already pushing your chair back. “Did he say what kind of emergency?”

Eli shakes his head, serious as anything. “No. He just said we need to hurry.”

Your stomach gives a small, uneasy flip.

Eli isn’t the type to exaggerate. He’s sweet, careful. Reminds everyone when it’s time to line up after recess and always volunteers to erase the board without being asked. He's the sort of kid teachers trust without thinking twice.

If he’s the messenger, it’s because of something important.

“Alright, everyone,” you call to the class. “Keep reading quietly. I’ll be right back.”

A chorus of shuffling follows as you reach for your cardigan.

“Hurry, hurry,” Eli bounces on his heels, voice small but insistent.

Before you can answer, he reaches for your hand. His grip is tiny, warm, a little sticky—surprisingly strong. You find yourself getting dragged by his bouncy, determined steps, weaving past rows of lockers, dodging a cluster of kids heading to recess. He zigzags through the main hallway, past the water fountain, the art room, taking the shortcut through the library until you arrive at the wide, double doors leading into the gym.

The moment you push them open, chaos erupts.

Bright rubber dodgeballs zing through the air. Sneakers squeak across the glossy, lacquered floor. Laughter and triumphant shrieks ricochet off the walls, punctuated by the occasional, “Yes! Got you!” from victorious first graders.  

Coach Steve's leaned casually against the far wall, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose around his neck. He’s sipping from a blue ceramic mug that reads World’s Best Teacher in chipped white lettering.

Only five months into the job, yet he’s already something of a legend here at Hawkins Elementary. The younger kids adore him—dodgeball days and ridiculous warm-up games where he pretends to be a shark, stalking the gym with dramatic dun-dun noises until they’re all shrieking with laughter. Older kids trust him in quieter ways, lingering after sex ed to ask questions they’re not brave enough to bring home. 

Despite the nerves you remember from his first day, Steve has settled into teaching like it’s been waiting for him all along.

Right now, though, he’s fully in coach mode. Brow furrowed, stance wide, eyes tracking the game like it’s a championship match instead of a bunch of kids still learning how to throw straight.

“Out of bounds! That one doesn’t count.”

“Woah—no head shots, Jacob! C’mon, we talked about that.”

“You okay, Alex? I got you. Here, try it like this. Yeah, there ya go bud!”

Eli, who had been clutching your hand the entire walk across school, suddenly lets go and races toward his favorite teacher.

“Coach Steve! I did it! I got her!”

Steve looks up. Sees you.

And the grin that breaks across his face is so immediate, so fond, it'd be enough to give you both away if anyone was paying the tiniest bit of attention.

“Hey!” he laughs, stepping forward. “Nice work, buddy. Thanks for the help.”

You watch, eyes narrowed in confusion as he ruffles Eli’s curls and slaps a high five against his tiny palm.

Eli puffs up with pride and pivots to sprint back to the game.

“Whoa—hang on, pal.”

Steve drops to his knees, setting the clipboard aside as he reaches for the loose strap on Eli’s shoe. He fastens it with careful, practiced fingers, giving it a quick tug to make sure it’ll hold.

Your stomach melts a little at the sight of him crouched like that: focused, patient, so gentle with this kid who’s staring at him like he hung the moon.

“There we go, champ,” he grins, giving Eli's sneaker a little pat. “Good as new. Now go have fun, alright? Your team missed you.”

Eli nods hard, then rockets back into the game without another word.

Steve straightens and finally turns to you, eyes warm, smile soft—and just a touch guilty.

“Mr. Harrington,” you say, crossing your arms carefully, “what exactly is the emergency you pulled me out of class for?”

His mouth quirks sheepishly, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, I just…” He steps closer, dropping his voice. “Haven’t seen you all morning. I missed you.”

You blink.

“You—” A breathy laugh slips out before you can stop it. “You sent poor Eli to fetch me because you missed me?”

He nods like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Yeah. He's my fastest kid.”  

“No, that's not the...” you trail off, turning your head, failing completely to hide your smile.

Steve steps closer, angling the clipboard between you so that, to anyone looking in, it would look like you’re addressing some very concerning issues with the class roster.

Well, except for the part where his eyes are glued to your face.

There’s this soft intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch, just by holding it. You find yourself staring back, unable to look away, appreciating the faint creases around his temples, how they deepen with his smile, the plush curve of his bottom lip and the rounded apples of his cheeks as they get pushed upward.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, voice all deep and honey-warm. “Just needed to look at you for a second.”

You shake your head, cheeks warming despite yourself.

There’s a reason you’ve been keeping this thing with Steve a secret.

You both realized, pretty early on, that acting normal in a building full of nosy children and nosier adults was a losing battle. You had to learn to bend with it, catching tiny, fleeting moments in the spaces between, holding onto each one as tightly as you can.

It wasn’t perfect. Mrs. Kline, the school secretary, has definitely noticed the two of you laughing a little too freely by the copier. One of your students will occasionally squint at you during silent reading time, wondering why a tiny scrap of paper left on your table at lunch leaves you grinning for the rest of the day.

Still, you make it work.

A shared coffee in the teachers’ lounge before the morning bell. Standing side-by-side near the parking lot fence as the buses roll in. A granola bar tucked under your desk with a note folded impossibly small.

you look beautiful today ◡̈

He repeats the message to you now, even as you roll your eyes and try to look away.

“Seriously, I mean it," he murmurs, tracing your face with his eyes—the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek—before lingering, unmistakably, on your mouth. “Want to kiss you so bad right now.”

You snort, nudging the sleeve of his sweatshirt with a finger. It’s soft, heather-gray, the Hawkins Elementary mascot faint and cracked across the chest.

“That’s deeply unprofessional of you, Mr. Harrington.”  

He groans under his breath, brow creasing as he tips his head back. “God, I love it when you say it like that. Say it one more time?”  

“Jesus—Steve!” you hiss, half-laughing, eyes darting toward the gym floor like the kids might suddenly develop super-hearing over the screech of sneakers and flying dodgeballs.   

Instead of stepping back, he leans in closer, lips parted in that familiar half-pout, eyes full of mock agony. “Can’t help it, honey. You’re fucking killing me over here.”

“Language,” you warn him, simply out of pure habit.

He smirks, lips twitching.

From the far end of the gym, a group of kids cheer triumphantly, “Yes! Coach Steve! We won!”

You both jump back like you’ve been caught doing something much worse than grinning at each other like idiots.

“Uh—great! Great job, gang!” Steve calls, clapping his hands. “Let's get all the balls in the cart and then grab some water, yeah? Five-minute break.”

Then he leans back in, brows raised. “See? Total professional. I’m telling you.”

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re still smiling when he pivots, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one’s paying attention. Satisfied, he turns back to you, brows drawn into a hopeful, pleading slant.

"C'mon," he murmurs, lifting the clipboard up like a partition. "I’ll get another game going. The kids won’t even notice. Just you... me...” He gestures between you, then toward the double doors leading outside. “Five minutes?”

You press your lips together, schooling your expression back into something stern. “Steve Harrington. I am not fucking you behind the school gym.”

"Language!" He gasps, mimicking your tone. “And jeez, who said anything about that? I was just gonna, you know, have a very professional conversation with you… about teaching.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, c’mon, bab—"

“Coach Steve?”

Both of your heads snap down at the same time.

Eli stands there, chin tipped up, hands clasped neatly behind his back like he’s been waiting for his turn to speak. He’s rocking gently on his heels, eyes bright with curiosity as he looks between the two of you.

“Heyyy, buddy!” Steve laughs nervously, voice jumping up an octave. “What’s up? You okay?”

Eli nods.

Then, completely matter-of-fact, he asks:

“Coach Steve, when you marry her, can I come?”

Steve chokes on absolutely nothing.

“When—what?”

“When you get married,” Eli repeats patiently, like Steve’s just being a little slow today. “I wanna come.”

Steve squats down so fast he almost drops the clipboard.

“Eli,” he says carefully, “why do you think we’re getting married?”

Eli shrugs, unfazed. “’Cause you’re prac-tis married.”

“Practice… practice married?”

“Yeah. Like my Auntie Jen and her friend Mark at Thanksgiving.”

Steve blinks. “Okay, and what's... why do you think we’re practice married?”

Eli doesn’t hesitate. He points toward the front of the gym, in the general direction of your classroom. “’Cause you always wait for her outside her door.”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it.

“And you bring her coffee. But you don’t bring us coffee.”

“Well,” Steve murmurs faintly, “that’s ‘cause you’re six.”

Eli shrugs again. “And you talk to her really soft. Like this,” he cups his hand around his mouth to demonstrate, whispering loudly. “Also, you always save her a chair at ass-em-blee.”

Steve rubs a hand down his face, glancing up at you before looking back at Eli. “That’s, uh… very observant of you, buddy.”

Eli isn’t done.

“And you make funny faces at her in the hallway. Oh! And you fixed her pencil sharpener. And, and, there was one time you looked at her, and you didn’t look away for one... two... three...” He glances down at his fingers and starts counting under his breath. “five... six... seven... eigh—”

“Okay!” Steve laughs loudly, holding up his hands. “Okay, buddy, I get it. That’s... that’s a long time.”

Eli nods, clearly pleased with himself. “Auntie Jen and Mark, they used to go everywhere together. And Mark fixed all the stuff around her house. Then later they got married for real.”

He looks between the two of you, satisfied.

“So. I think you’re practice married.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and crouch beside Steve. “Well... I think that’s a pretty solid theory, Eli.”

“Mm-hm, thanks,” he nods confidently. Then he spins back to Steve. “So, when you do the real one, can I come? I’m really good at sitting still. And my mom says when people get married they always eat cake. I love cake.” He spreads his arms wide. “Auntie Jen’s was this big!”

Steve presses his lips together, letting out a short, incredulous snort. “You know what, pal? Sure. Whe—if we get married, you’re more than welcome to come. And we’ll get the biggest cake we can find, okay?”

Eli beams. “Okay!”

He starts to run back to the group, then skids to a stop and turns around.

“Hey, Coach Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You should ask her nicely,” Eli says, serious as anything. “With flowers. Mark did that.”

And then he’s gone.

Steve stays crouched, staring after him, jaw slack.

“…Did a six-year-old just give me relationship advice?”

“Mm, seems like it.”

He stands slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes still following Eli as he rejoins the others.

“You think he spotted it before we did?” he asks quietly. “Back when... you know, we were still trying to figure out what we were doing?”

You smile. “Probably way before then.”

Steve's still distracted when you put your hand on his shoulder, quickly checking to see that no one’s watching before pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.

He blinks, stunned. “Wha—no, wait, shit—”

He reaches for you a full second too late; you’re already headed for the door.

“Language. Have a good rest of your class, Mr. Harrington.”

Steve watches you go, hand frozen at his cheek.

Across the gym, Eli spots you and waves enthusiastically, completely unaware of just how accurate his little theory was.

The proof?

“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!” 

Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad. 

“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones. 

“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.” 

“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey. 

You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit. 

“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.” 

“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.” 

“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.” 

You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.” 

“But I’m wearing you down, right?” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.” 

“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.” 

There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go. 

Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist. 

You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering. 

When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame. 

You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?” 

He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.” 

“That so?” 

He nods. 

You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?” 

His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.” 

You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head. 

Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could. 

It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one. 

“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.” 

“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.” 

Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?” 

“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug. 

Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him. 

The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason. 

You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad? 

“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?” 

He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?” 

You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.” 

A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do. 

He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared. 

“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.” 

“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.” 

He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.” 

“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door. 

You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name. 

Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower. 

Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock— 

“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.” 

You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker. 

“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?” 

She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?” 

- 

Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it. 

Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block. 

You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs. 

You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn. 

You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.” 

He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water. 

He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?” 

You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush. 

“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?” 

He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.” 

You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.” 

His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?” 

Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself? 

The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name. 

You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard. 

The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas. 

The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house. 

You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on. 

“You alright?” 

Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.” 

He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.” 

“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?” 

He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.” 

Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes. 

Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house. 

There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck. 

It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday. 

“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.” 

“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back. 

“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says. 

“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word. 

You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh. 

“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.” 

Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul. 

“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.” 

You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?” 

“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.” 

Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.” 

“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?” 

Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.” 

Jake’s eyes go wide. 

“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening. 

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.” 

Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?” 

Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.” 

Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck. 

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing. 

“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?” 

“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing. 

Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.” 

You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley. 

You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.” 

Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?” 

You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said. 

You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink. 

Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk. 

“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?” 

You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think. 

“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask. 

Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.” 

“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.” 

Bradley tips his head. “Fair.” 

He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms. 

Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive. 

“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?” 

Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.” 

You nod. “That’s true.” 

“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?” 

You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.” 

He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat. 

“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder. 

“Yes, please,” she replies. 

You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid. 

You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?” 

His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?” 

He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.” 

You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours. 

“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?” 

You choke on absolutely nothing. 

Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it. 

“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?” 

He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently. 

You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?” 

His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods. 

“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.” 

His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue. 

Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head. 

The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done. 

Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture. 

You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost. 

You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash. 

“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?” 

There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table. 

“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak. 

Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.” 

Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?” 

Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?” 

“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage. 

“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.” 

Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink. 

Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?” 

You nod. 

He smirks. “Got a date?” 

You nearly drop your fork. “A date?” 

“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?” 

You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.” 

“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate. 

Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches. 

You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better. 

“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.” 

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation. 

Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.” 

Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you. 

Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought. 

You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him. 

You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused. 

You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary. 

You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing. 

Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away. 

After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-” 

“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate. 

He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” 

You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.” 

His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show. 

After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?” 

“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.” 

He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.” 

You arch a brow but keep quiet. 

“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard. 

“Would you prefer I blame you?” 

“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?” 

“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?” 

He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.” 

Jake gasps. “For free?” 

Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.” 

“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin. 

“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.” 

Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-” 

“Make me two,” Jake cuts in. 

“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.” 

Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?” 

You roll your eyes. Duh. 

“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.” 

“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly. 

“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.” 

Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?” 

Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.” 

You frown. “What? How would that help?” 

“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.” 

Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?” 

You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.” 

“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.” 

Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love. 

“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.” 

Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.” 

“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.” 

He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?” 

You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-” 

“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?” 

Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.” 

Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?” 

You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.” 

He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out. 

Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all. 

Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.” 

Neither you nor Maverick respond. 

Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.” 

Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind. 

You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat. 

Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment. 

The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler. 

Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this. 

You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car. 

You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars. 

“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?” 

You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful. 

He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?” 

You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.” 

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place. 

The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been. 

“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?” 

The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts. 

“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.” 

He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is. 

With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light. 

“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road. 

You shake your head. “No, you’re just…” 

He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?” 

“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen. 

You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy. 

Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do. 

It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you. 

How the fuck did he move that fast? 

“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close. 

“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.” 

You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit. 

You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.” 

He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you. 

“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud. 

“You know what it means.” 

You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name. 

“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—” 

Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static. 

“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady. 

Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell. 

You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away. 

His gaze drops to your mouth. 

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips. 

Is this it? 

But then—he stops. 

His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath. 

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.” 

The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them. 

And just like that, the moment shatters. 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut. 

Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning. 

Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops. 

You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart. 

- 

You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open. 

“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open. 

You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.” 

He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?” 

“I don’t grovel.” 

He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?” 

You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry. 

“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips. 

Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?” 

“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.” 

He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?” 

You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?” 

“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.” 

His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?” 

“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast. 

He just arches a brow and waits. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.” 

Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.” 

You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.” 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.” 

“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?” 

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.” 

“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.” 

You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head. 

“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.” 

You tip your head, brow furrowed. 

Jake sighs. “You.” 

“Oh.” 

He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer. 

“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says. 

Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?” 

His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.” 

“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering. 

He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.” 

“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.” 

Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?” 

You shake your head. “No.” 

“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.” 

You pull back slightly, grimacing. 

“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.” 

You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope. 

“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?” 

- 

Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical. 

You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far. 

Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background. 

Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him. 

That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question. 

Still, the seed had been planted. 

On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat. 

Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly. 

So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top. 

You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene. 

The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over. 

You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun. 

And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident. 

He’d taken the bait. 

“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning. 

You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice. 

Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long. 

Now? You get to pull the strings. 

You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit. 

Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time. 

Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned. 

You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley. 

“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.” 

He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.” 

When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror. 

Except Bradley. 

He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing. 

Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-” 

“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.” 

You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension. 

“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?” 

The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks. 

Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer. 

Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else. 

By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool. 

“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell. 

You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-” 

“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you. 

It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours. 

“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.” 

You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle. 

He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time. 

“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.” 

“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig. 

Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.” 

You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.” 

Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?” 

You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.” 

His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?” 

You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.” 

“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.” 

“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.” 

His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation. 

You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight. 

Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed. 

Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie. 

Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips. 

You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and— 

The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot. 

“Shit,” you mutter. 

You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe. 

You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground. 

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.” 

You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.” 

Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?” 

“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.” 

“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel. 

“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.” 

She frowns. 

“Get Hangman.” 

Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?” 

You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.” 

She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck. 

A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil. 

“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. 

You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.” 

He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.” 

He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.” 

With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms. 

When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting. 

Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms. 

“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.” 

She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later. 

You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand. 

“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake. 

“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.” 

Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist. 

“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?” 

You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.” 

Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting. 

“Jake?” he echoes. 

“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.” 

Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line. 

His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.” 

Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides. 

He doesn’t even glance back. 

Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out. 

- 

One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone. 

“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.” 

“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.” 

You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.” 

“And what if you accidentally drown?” 

You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.” 

“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.” 

You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?” 

She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.” 

Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine. 

“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.” 

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.” 

You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.” 

“So what if there is?” 

The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-” 

“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.” 

There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.” 

“Good.” 

“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?” 

“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?” 

She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?” 

“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.” 

There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches. 

“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides. 

“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.” 

“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.” 

“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.” 

“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk. 

She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up. 

You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic. 

Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good. 

You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you. 

The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded. 

You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect. 

The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach. 

You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then— 

“Hello?” 

Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater. 

“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through. 

You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags. 

“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?” 

“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door. 

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?” 

You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help. 

“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?” 

You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding. 

“You want me... to come in there?” 

You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.” 

“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain. 

Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free. 

And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale. 

It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying. 

He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad. 

“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.” 

He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.” 

He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained. 

You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline. 

“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.” 

He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room. 

“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh. 

His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer. 

“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.” 

Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen. 

He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself. 

“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you. 

“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red. 

He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears. 

You don’t dare turn around. 

Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second. 

You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together. 

And then he touches you. 

His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely. 

Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus. 

Your eyes flutter shut. 

His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch. 

You feel exposed. 

And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide. 

He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest. 

“Bradley…” you whisper. 

You don’t even know what you’re about to say. 

But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?” 

Your whole body tenses. 

You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things. 

Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?” 

He hesitates. 

“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.” 

You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder. 

“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous. 

And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.” 

Bradley goes still. 

You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged. 

He doesn’t speak. 

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move. 

Come on, Bradshaw. 

“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.” 

The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs. 

Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you. 

But no. 

Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to. 

The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say. 

You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz. 

He doesn’t speak. 

And neither do you. 

But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene. 

Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck. 

It’s methodical. Careful. 

But it still feels like worship. 

And he still hasn’t said a word. 

When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.” 

You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing. 

He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip. 

And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread. 

“You good?” he asks, voice tight. 

You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.” 

He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—” 

He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.” 

And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it. 

When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers. 

You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’ 

- 

“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-” 

You shake your head. 

“Not so much as a-” 

“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.” 

“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-” 

“He’s not a priest, Hangman.” 

He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.” 

You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee. 

“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.” 

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.” 

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?” 

You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?” 

“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.” 

You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself. 

When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week. 

That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home. 

The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him. 

Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot. 

Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body. 

“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.” 

Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.” 

“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.” 

You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.” 

The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin. 

Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps. 

Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…” 

Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell. 

And then there’s Bradley. 

He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch. 

His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic. 

You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo. 

Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare. 

“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.” 

Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.” 

She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips. 

“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth. 

You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.” 

“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.” 

Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room. 

“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.” 

You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.” 

He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.” 

Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows. 

Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all. 

You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore. 

This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work. 

So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen. 

How does any of this make sense? 

“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne. 

You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth. 

“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.” 

“I don’t blame him,” you mutter. 

“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.” 

You frown. “What’s it?” 

His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.” 

“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone. 

You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning. 

After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here. 

Almost. 

Until— 

“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?” 

You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar. 

“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies. 

You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face. 

“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?” 

Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?” 

“Too late.” 

“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.” 

Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-” 

“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.” 

Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry. 

No. They look hurt. 

“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady. 

Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?” 

“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.” 

Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.” 

Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall. 

Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.” 

Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack. 

“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal. 

Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.” 

Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears. 

“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.” 

“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-” 

“Just shut up, Seresin,” Bradley growls. “She said-” 

“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.” 

Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-” 

“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?” 

Your voice cracks—just a little. 

“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.” 

You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put. 

You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’ 

Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak. 

Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days. 

By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers. 

The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks. 

At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much. 

You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously. 

You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door. 

You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling. 

You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door. 

You open it—and there he is. 

Bradley. 

His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear. 

“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.” 

You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them. 

“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.” 

Your throat tightens. 

“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.” 

He takes a shaky breath and steps closer. 

“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.” 

A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.  

“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.” 

He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?” 

You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.” 

His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?” 

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.” 

His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?” 

You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.” 

“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling. 

You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.” 

You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux. 

“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.” 

You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave. 

His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. 

You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies. 

And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens. 

“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late. 

He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever. 

You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.” 

You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?” 

His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.” 

You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.” 

He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.” 

A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly. 

His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on. 

You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.” 

He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.” 

“You’re not wrong,” you hum. 

With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric. 

Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for. 

His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.” 

You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands. 

He doesn’t hesitate. 

His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated. 

And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well. 

Over. And over. And over again. 

"I know what you meant," the bartender you'd come to know as Aaron sighs across the bar from you, crossing his arms over the bartop to be eye-level with you, "but I don't think it would be wise to give you anything else tonight, L/N."

Your eyebrows knit together in drunken confusion.

"I'm cutting you off for the night." Aaron enunciates his words over the loud chatter in the bustling bar. "I'm just starting to grow concerned for you. I can't keep serving you like this."

"Like what? I'm fine," you scoff in annoyance, mostly to yourself. When he just stares at you, you repeat, "I'm fine."

"I know you're not," he pauses, touching his index finger to the middle of your forehead, "trust me, no amount of alcohol is going to solve whatever's going on up there."

Your mind is hazy, your body growing warmer by the second, the bar filling to its almost full capacity. You push out of your seat at the bartop, stumbling toward the bathroom as the amount of people seems to suffocate you.

The bathroom is as stuffy as the bar room, with linoleum tile yellowed from years of wear, and incandescent lights flickering slightly overhead. You lean against the cold tiled wall, resting your cheek against it in an attempt to cool your face.

The reflection ahead of you above the sink catches your attention. Your hair, which was once pulled into a bun at the crown of your head, now hangs slightly lower, pieces in the front and back coming out. Your beige jacket had been discarded on a barstool god-knows-where and when. Your red armband is wrapped around your arm, a reminder of who you are, and where you belong. A warrior.

You think back to the time you spent on the island, as you often do while you're like this: drunken, alone, and full of regret. You think of the people you met, cared for, loved. You think of their faces when you had no other choice but to reveal who you were. Their faces seem to be a blur in your memory, but never his.

Your gaze is locked on your reflection, eyes blank and your face flushed red on your cheeks. You slide down the wall slowly and land on your backside to sit against it, hands planted on the cool, dirty floor beneath you.

You think of his face once more. The look in his eyes when you had no other choice but to fall back with your comrades, the way his mouth parted and he shook his head in disbelief. You remember the way he froze as you gripped your hand around your blade, drawing blood as your spine erupted with yellow-hot electricity.

Closing your eyes, you can picture the day you saw him for the last time. The scout regiment had traveled to the Shiganshina District to plug the initial hole in the wall. You and your comrades had been waiting. So much blood was shed, and you had no choice but to watch atop the Cart's back cargo.

As the battle progressed, defeat seemed evident. Reiner had been captured out of his titan, Bertholdt was nowhere to be seen, and Zeke, on the verge of death, had to be retrieved by you and Pieck. You held onto the Cart's hair in an attempt to stay on her back as she barrelled through the city in ruins.

Titan marks resembling exposed muscle adorned your face from your recent transformation. You squinted, the wind whipping your hair around your face as Pieck raced between buildings, jumping over and through them. Zeke sat atop the cargo on her back, limbs severed and steaming.

You attempted to wrap his wounds, but the constant thudding of Pieck practically galloping through the streets made it hard to keep anything still. A red smoke signal fired in the sky tore your gaze away from his steaming limbs and to the horizon. Fuck, that can't be good.

// now playing: lover, you should've come over by jeff buckley

As you brought your gaze forward, that's when you saw him. Though Pieck was barrelling forward at immense speeds, time seemed to slow for a moment as you locked eyes.

"Jean." you breathed out, your chest twisted in knots of guilt. You watched as he hesitated where he was standing for a moment, exposed under your gaze before pushing Hange and himself to the side to avoid getting trampled.

Pieck came to a quick halt, snapping her jaw open, then shut around something. You hadn't noticed anybody else was there other than Jean. You couldn't seem to pull your gaze away from his slender face.

You were utterly ashamed, having to face him once more after betraying him. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you watched his expression display only that of disappointment; angry tears and heartbreak painting his face. He parted his lips to speak, but no words came.

Within seconds, you were on the move again. You scrambled over the cargo on Pieck's back so you were facing him as she barrelled away from the scene. You held out your hand in desperation as if you were trying to grasp at something--anything that could keep you with him. But you were merely grasping at the air, the feelings once tangible now fading away as he faded into a mere silhouette in the distance.

You felt selfish for still wanting him after all that you’d done. To Paradis, Marco, his whole life. He’d imagined a future with you and you fed into it knowing what you’d come to that island to do. You’d betrayed the man you loved—the man that loved you. There was no greater sin, no greater shameful act you’d ever committed.

You curse at yourself, running your hands over your face as you hoist yourself up from the bathroom floor, taking one last look at your reflection to smooth your hair. You're okay.

The muffled music coming from the bar room becomes louder as you ease the bathroom door open, stumbling out into the (now slightly more dense) crowd of people. You unbutton your uniform twice in an attempt to cool off, pulling it away from your frame to fan yourself as you weave your way through the sweaty, drunken bodies standing around.

Unbeknownst to you, a group had walked into the bar a couple of minutes before you left the bathroom. They were gathered around the crowded area at the bar near the door, making conversation over drinks. They'd come over from Paradis to live amongst Marleyans to understand the way they live.

One spots you. They panic.

"Hey, we need to leave," one of them with a buzzcut says to another, tilting his head in your direction but not staring directly, "There could be more of them here." Half of the group had already hastily made it out of the door, leaving cash on the table to cover the tab.

"What, why?" Another one of them asks, ash-brown mullet sticking out from under his hat. He searches the room for the culprit of their concern.

"No, don't look," the brown-haired girl waves her hands in front of his face, blocking his view. You notice the commotion. The rest of them are out of the building now, the one with the hat lingering by the door, eyes on you. There's somebody outside, frantically pulling on his arm.

You tilt your head slightly, trying to make sense of who these people are, and why this stranger in particular has stopped dead in his tracks staring at you from the doorway. His lips are parted, fists clenched at his sides. Half of his face is concealed by the hat, but he lifts his head slightly. Your breath gets caught in your throat.

"Jean?"

He sees you. He knows you see him. He knows you know who he is. You look into his eyes, and you see him the same as the day you first met him. The same lovestruck boy, gawking at you from across the mess hall.

If you didn’t know any better you’d think tears had started to brim at the corners of his glassy hazel eyes. He didn’t move a muscle. Neither did you.

"Jean, we need to go now!" the hand finally pulls him through the doorway, the door slamming behind him. You stand for a moment, taking notice in your arm outstretched toward him, attempting to grasp at something that was no longer tangible.

You’re snapped out of your daze, body pushing through the crowd between you and the door. The more you weave between sweaty, drunk bodies, the farther the door seems to be. Just out of reach; just at arms length but not quite close enough to even graze with your fingertips. You swore you’ve had this feeling before.

You stumble out the door into the cold empty street. You look left, look right. Nothing, only a few passersby. You start pacing down the street, stumbling from a brisk walk to a drunken sprint.

Your heart lurches out of your chest, ears pounding from the blood rushing to them, your legs pumping as fast as possible under your maxi skirt. You’ve caught a glimpse of the very thing every fiber of your being has been longing for the moment you’d left that island, the very missing piece of your soul you’d been forcefully ripped away from. You couldn’t allow him to be ripped away from you again.

You peer into every alleyway, every intersection, anywhere somebody could go from the bar. Everywhere.

Had you imagined him? No, no way. He was real. He had been there, right in front of you.

Your legs grow tired as you continue to wander the area, hot tears beginning to roll down your flushed cheeks. The streets grow emptier by the minute as the city dies down.

“Jean?” You call out once more, peering into an empty alleyway.

No response.

The concrete is cold beneath you as you take a seat at the mouth of the alleyway, eyes still searching the street subconsciously. A broken sob escapes your throat, your arms coming to wrap around your torso just like his used to. Your head falls to rest atop your knees pulled to your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into yourself, “so fucking sorry.”

JEAN’S POV

Connie had pulled Jean out of the bar quick enough to duck into a back alleyway. Though he isn’t in that bar anymore, he can still see you in his mind’s eye like you’re right in front of him. He sees your disheveled appearance; your sad, low eyes, face flushed from the excessive alcohol consumption, uniform unbuttoned twice.

He also sees you as he did in Paradis: beautiful as ever. Seeing you in such a state at the bar made his heart ache. You seemed to have aged, not just physically like he did, but mentally. It looked as if you’d fought through wars—not just the great Marleyan wars but the battles inside of your head. He knows that.

He knows the ins and outs of your very being. He knows you know him exactly as he does you. Your souls were intertwined, hearts beating at the same rhythm, minds on the same wavelength—until they weren’t.

Connie shushes him as you stumble out of the bar, spinning your head in all directions like a lost puppy looking for its owner. They watch as you pace down the street opposite of them.

Over here, Jean wants to call out, I’m right here, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He can’t have you anymore. You’re on the opposite sides of the war.

No matter how much it hurts. How much it fucking pains him. No matter how much your honey voice keeps him up at night, your face plaguing his dreams.

So he watches. That’s all he can do.

“Jean?” You call out into the empty street. He wants to show himself to you. He wants to go up to you and hold you and breathe in your scent and have everything be alright.

But you’re on opposite sides now.

Connie tries to cover Jean’s eyes, ears—anything. He swats him away silently. His heart wrenches, but he can’t not let you go. Even if it’s only watching from afar, just for a few moments. To feel close to you in any way.

You lean against an alley wall across the street from him, slowly sliding down it until you’re sat on the concrete, knees pulled to your chest. He watches as you wrap your arms around yourself, squeeze. Just like he used to.

It feels like he’s been punched in the gut. 10 times over.

Then you let out a broken sob, head falling to your knees, fingertips clawing at your sides in frustration.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter between sobs, almost too quiet to hear if he hadn’t been listening, “so fucking sorry.”

He doesn’t notice he’s crying silently at first, perhaps too preoccupied imagining how he’d comfort you in that moment if the circumstances had been different; how he’d hold you and tell you everything was going to be alright.

“Come on, man,” Connie whispers, standing slowly, “we gotta go.”

Jean nods slowly, backs of his hands coming to his face to wipe his tears. He remembers how you’d cup his face while he cried, your soft hands wiping his tears away.

His eyes don’t leave your shaking frame until you’re out of view. It felt familiar, as if he’s watched you until you were merely a speck on the horizon before.

He must be dreaming. 

His eyes went wide, fingers twitching at his sides as he swallowed hard. Countless of memories replayed in his mind, all of them plagued with you. Your pretty face, soft smile and sweet voice. All directed to him.

What kind of sick play does Gwi-Ma have in store for him now?

You furrow your eyebrows at his panicked gaze to you. 

Jinu blinks awkwardly, hand scratching the back of his neck, suddenly feeling shy under your gaze, “Hi.” he softly said.

Rumi stares at him weirdly, he hasn’t known him for long, but this is far from how he usually acts. Where did the ego go?

You smiled politely, not really sure how to react to the way he is acting, “Hello, Jinu,”

He bodily shuddered at how you said his name. It was familiar. His stomach flips at your soft voice. “You know my name.”

You chuckled. His hair stood up. “Of course, half of Korea knows who you are by now.” crossing your arms in defense, “What business do you have with Rumi?”

Rumi softly touches the top of your arm, “Don’t worry about me.”

You turn to give her a pointed look before smirking, “Do you guys meet up often?” gesturing to the pair.

“No!”

“Absolutely not!”

You raised your hands in surrender at their little outburst, “I'm joking.” you chuckled, “I won’t tell, promise.” winking at Rumi, making her roll her eyes. 

“Sorry, I didn't get your name.” Jinu asked, wanting your attention back on him again.

You were shocked that he even wanted to know who you were, “Y/N. Huntrix’s assistant.” looking up to meet his eyes, unconsciously backing your head away when you notice how fondly he was looking at you. 

“Pretty.” he absentmindedly said, before replicating your actions when he realised how creepy he sounded, “I mean- pretty name!” 

You chuckled at his awkward behaviour that was weirdly charming to you. 

The interaction weirded Rumi out, eyes shifting between you both. Jinu to you, you to Jinu, Jinu to you-

Oh, shit.

Before any more flirting can happen from the demon she jumped in, “You should probably go back. I heard Bobby wanted to have a little meeting to talk about the tour, hiatus and such.” she rambles.

You nodded, not buying her excuse but accepted either way, “Alright, then. Call me if you need anything, okay?” 

She nodded. But before you leave you lean into Jinu’s personal space, “Anything happens to her, and I will make your life hell. Do you understand me?”

The corner of his lips turned up at your threat, feeling awestruck instead of scared, “Yes, ma’am.”

You leave the two, walking towards the apartment. Feeling a pair of eyes burning on the backside of your head but not daring to turn around.

Rumi gasped when you were out of range, “You like her!” 

Jinu shrugged, “Shut up. She just reminds me of someone.” he mumbles, still staring at your retreating figure.

Someone he used to love.  

“Mark, I promise you,” you say. The pillar fan tilts toward you, providing the barest breeze to kiss the sweat coating your forehead. “It is not that deep.” 

“You’re telling me that Violet making a point that she wants to sit in the back of the theater is ‘not that deep?’” Mark rolls his eyes, exasperated. He stumbles up, steps sluggishly to his bed and flops down without ceremony. 

You follow him. Sit on the edge of the mattress, the bottom of Mark’s (Séance Dog) socked foot pressing into the side of your thigh. “You always make me sit in the back with you. How is that not different?” 

It is completely and totally different, though. Here’s the thing: you and Mark are friends—besties, even, when you don’t roll your eyes or want grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. You most definitely don’t make out in the back of a movie theater like a pair of freaks. 

Case in point: you’re in his room, door shut all the way, and his parents are out on a date. Debbie doesn’t even have to give you the shovel talk any time she leaves you two alone. That’s how much integrity your friendship with Mark has. 

And Violet? You don’t really have much of an opinion to say something about her. Well, not if you want to sound like a real bitch. 

But just to put it out there in an unbiased manner, you know she’s been plotting on him since the middle of sophomore year, and you did not appreciate her joining Yearbook. You were even less appreciative watching her save random candids of Mark to her personal drive. 

(Alright, you did the same thing, but only for the ugly ones where his face is warped, blurry, or could star in a horror movie. And you do that for William too—with full consent from both, obviously, and totally not for the purpose of exchanging blackmail material.) 

You can’t blame her for liking Mark. He’s funny, kind, cute at the most inconvenient of times. Even though his grades are average and he looks like he would be an e-dater, you and the rest of the school know that Mark Grayson is one of sweetest, most genuine boys out there. 

You also can’t blame him for freaking out either. Violet is pretty; shiny hair and clear skin and natural makeup. Heart lips and doe eyes. His type, probably. It’s the first time a girl has given him her number, and this will be his first kiss or more. The realization hardens into a pit in your stomach. 

But back to what’s important—you just don’t think they’re good for each other. She’s in love with an idea of Mark found through candids and hallway talk, and you know who he really is. Not that it makes you a prime candidate to be his girlfriend or whatever. 

He sputters and kicks his foot. You grab him by the ankle, hot skin on hot skin. That makes something flip in your stomach; you swear it’s the pint of ice cream you polished off from the Grayson’s fridge. 

“Look,” you start. Mark lifts his head, glares at you with a heat-addled blush. You want to push him off the bed. And you also, maybe, want to your profess affection. “Violet’s liked you for—I dunno, probably a while. Asking out a guy isn’t easy, so if you’re just gonna go to get some, don’t go at all.” 

She’d better thank you for this. Here you are, playing seesaw with your judgement and sticking your neck out for the girl you try to sit very, very far away from in the yearbook room. 

Pure denial, saucepan eyes and hands waving in a distraught flurry, “I’m not. She’s pretty, and nice, and I do want to go out with her. I just…” 

Mark rolls over onto his stomach with a long groan, squirms with discomfort. Pinching his calf, you raise your brows at him when he looks over his shoulder, whole face and neck splashed with pink. Spit it out, already.  

“I don’t know how to kiss,” he finally admits. Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes—barely five seconds since you told him not to go if he only wanted something out of it. Mark rushes to defend himself. You’d think he was sunburnt with how much pinker he gets. “Jesus Christ, just in case! And it’s not like you know how to do it, either. Books—or whatever you read—don’t count.” 

“At least I have a tutorial,” you mutter, giving him a once-over from your peripheral and scooting away. You know what your sneer must look like; some mix between judgy and terribly disappointed, and you’re probably right, because Mark lunges for your hand and pulls you right back. 

“Okay, Ms. Tutorial, you haven’t had any real-world experience,” he reminds you. He pokes your cheek with a lopsided smile. 

Singsonging right back at him, “Your tissue-lotion combo doesn’t count as experience either.” 

You know you’re evil, but it’s not like William doesn’t bring it up either. If they get to tease you for reading sometimes spicy romance stories, then you’re allowed to serve the ball right back into their court. 

If he wasn’t pink before, Mark lets your hand fall and turns scarlet. Mouth dropping and slow head turn and all, like he’s the butt of a sitcom joke. You can almost hear the laughing track playing in the background while he struggles to fish for his words. 

Just barely above the drone of the fan, nothing below a mortified, high-pitched squeak, “You wouldn’t.” 

You laugh and dig your hand into his hair, mussing it up. “You know I’m kidding.” 

And you’re telling the truth this time around. That makes him frown (fussy as always), but he still settles down with his head resting atop your thigh, eyes pinched shut. He’s so cute, whispers a voice at the back of your head, he pouts like an overdramatic baby. 

You trace a line between the two moles on his cheek and wish that your heart would stop trying to break open your ribs. 

Mark reopens his eyes slowly, a revelation dawning. Oh, you don’t like that look on his face. It’s the kind that landed both of you in detention before finals week for the parking lot incident. Curse Mr. Porter—forever remembered as the worst US history teacher, by the way—for insisting that you get your first transcript strike, all for a little eggshell on his car. 

“Don’t give me that look,” you sigh, exasperation creeping up your spine. You just started to forgive him for his AC grievances. Mark smiles at you innocently, brown eyes going soft like he’s the male lead of a romcom. “Why are you giving me that look?” 

“Since you read so much, you should know what girls like, right?” he asks, goading. He’s got that angle to his mouth that tells you he’s trying to fight back a fit of giggles. 

Is he still hung up on this? You speak with hesitance, hands fisted at your sides just in case you can’t hold back the urge to strangle him, “Right...” 

“So.” He draws out the ‘o’ all the way, until he runs out of breath. A quick inhale, and then, “You said it yourself. It’s basically a tutorial.” 

“So?” you can’t help but lead him on, even though you don’t like where this is going. Don’t say it. Don’t ruin it. Fingers finally uncurling, you press your palms into his duvet to fight how clammy they’ve become. “I’ve never actually kissed someone.” 

“So,” Mark says again, a hopeful smile gracing his mouth. Faint dimples and constellation freckles—compared to his reaction when you brought up the tissues, he’s practically stone-cold serious. “We could practice on each other.” 

He says it like it’s the simplest thing, kissing your best friend. 

You hold your breath, count to three. A high-pitched guitar riff from his CD player. It matches the ringing in your ears. 

You’re supposed to say no. 

On the Immortal’s soul, Mark is still your best friend, no matter how infuriating and impulsive and stupid he may be, or how many times you want to smother the lights out of him with his own pillow for being those exact three words. And fuck, how does he get his pupils dialed up to dinner plate diameters? 

But all that falls out of your unsteady mouth instead is a dumb, “I guess,” and Mark looks so happy that he could kiss you. Well, you just signed your soul away to let him do exactly that, but not before— “You gotta brush your teeth first.” 

—

You glare at Mark’s reflection in the mirror. 

He gives you a look with raised brows, toothpaste foam clouding around his mouth—what’cha looking at? You shake your head, expression blank—none of your business. 

Speaking only in shrugs and eyebrow wiggles gives you the opportunity to think about your actions without accidentally saying the wrong thing again. God, you’re so stupid for being weak to Mark’s I’m a beagle puppy and I just got kicked look. When you get home, you will be pulling up a picture of them and training yourself to fight back. 

The sink rushing snaps you out of your thoughts. Mark emerges from the basin with cold rivulets running down his face, dripping from his hair, racing down his...forearms. You’ve never paid attention to the faint veins and casual lean muscle your best friend carried, but now you’re struggling to tear your eyes away. 

That’s enough—you imagine slapping yourself across the face and your head snapping to the side from the sheer force—don’t be a fucking freak, you are not like those kids at school who sneak behind the dumpster to get freaky. 

The word repeats in your head: freak, freak, freak. 

Mark grazes his fingers along the small of your back, making a shiver rip its way up your spine. “You good?” 

“Uh-uh,” is all you can manage without choking on the toothpaste in your mouth. You’re getting dizzy with anticipation, chest and stomach organs staging a mutiny and going buck-wild inside your body. 

Telling yourself that this is just practice, you rinse off and drop your toothbrush in the holder beside Mark’s. You keep your face in the sink basin for a little longer than usual; cold, wet hands pressed to your burning cheeks, stars spiraling behind closed eyes. 

It’s just the heat, you tell yourself, disregarding the way your thoughts scramble upon the realization that Mark’s still standing by counter, waiting for you. 

Just the heat. 

—

Knees knock when you and Mark settle with your backs pressed to the headboard, side by side. 

You ball your hands in the yellow duvet that lays over his mattress, and Mark’s own fists are white-knuckling the hem of his basketball shorts. His hair is still drying, face beginning to bloom with that pretty shade of pink again. 

Heat digs its claws into your neck. 

“So,” you start, just as Mark asks: “Ready?” 

He swallows, drawing your attention to the way his Adam’s apple bobs. Strained; an awkward smile, “You go first.” 

He’s all tense, ramrod straight like a cardboard cutout. 

As earnestly as you can manage, you reach for his hands; they’re cool to the touch, veins rising to the smooth surface of his skin. His fingers twitch as you guide them up to your face. The tremors are infecting you too. When his palms finally cup your warm cheeks, your relieved exhale shivers. 

You might explode at the sight of Mark’s eyelashes fluttering. 

“’Kay.” You aren’t sure if he can hear you over the grumble of his fan. You get a little stuck on your words when Mark’s tongue darts out to wet his lip. 

“I think I should’ve turned on the AC,” he blurts, just as quiet. A stillness slips over the room. He sighs, wistful, “Too late, I guess.” 

You burrow your socks into the duvet for some kind of grounding and huff lightly. “Changing your mind?” 

Mark tugs you in to place a small kiss to the corner of your mouth. You swear you erupt into a pile of ash as he pulls away and gives you a sweet smile, eyes still lingering on where he’s just been. “Does that answer your question?” 

You nod a little too fast.  

Holding steady, mouth starting to go dry, “So, there’s this triangle thing that apparently makes girls go crazy—” Mark follows exactly, gaze darting from your eyes, to lips, and back up again, leaning forward slowly. You forget what you’re about to say for a long moment “—yea, that.” 

He’s close enough that if you moved just a hair width forward, you’d be— 

“Can I kiss you for real?” 

The question feels like getting shot in the back. He’s too sweet for your own good. You might be walking away with cavities in your teeth and your heart after this. 

“Wow, you can read my mental instruction manual?” you tease. 

You keep your eyes open when Mark ducks his head to kiss you. You almost snicker—he's got the half-closed eyes and Kermit mouth, the epitome of a boy kissing and the stuff of nightmares for your girlfriends. 

It’s weirdly endearing and calming at the same time. He’s just a guy who happens to be one of your best friends; he can be gross and stupid and a total loser, but you still love him. 

Love. 

That isn’t something you’ve ever consciously thought about with him in the way couples get comfy in the halls. Dreamt about, maybe.  

You love him in the way you burn CDs for him on the school computers and save up to buy compendiums when his birthday comes around. And Mark loves you enough to let crash in his bed and wear his sweaters when it gets cold. But those are best friend things just as much as they are romantic things. 

You push it to the back of your mind at the first press of Mark’s lips. It’s chaste, stilted, two seconds long, and still makes your heart leap into your throat. 

He’s your first, you remember belatedly. And you’re his. 

Tastes like mint toothpaste, and victory. 

Take that, Violet! jeers a voice in your head. 

Mark doesn’t pull away for long, but you chase him immediately. He surges back, a little looser, tilting his head to slot his mouth against yours. You blink, and then you can’t open your eyes again, too lost in the slide of your mouths. Fuck, is he sure that this is his first time? 

Parting his plush lips wider, noses bumping into each other, soft sighs drowned in the white noise of the fan and still-running CD. He holds you with a sweet reverence, like you’ve been bruised all over, one hand skating down your arm to settle on your waist. 

You gasp when he nips at your bottom lip, startling him. 

Your teeth clack together as he draws back, pulling a light giggle out of your throat. Mark blinks expectantly, a slim ring of brown around his huge pupils. 

Right. You’re supposed to be coaching him on how to kiss with your romance book knowledge. 

“Was that okay?” he asks, hoarse. His throat keeps bobbing, mouth still parted like he’s tasting the air. You think: fuck it. 

You kiss him back, hands tangling into his hair, the rough spikes of his undercut scraping your palms. He’s going to need a haircut soon; you can feel it, the tacky way the longer strands cling to your skin. Mark murmurs your name in a groan, a sound that makes your cheeks go numb with how hot they grow. 

Dizzy, breathless. A string of butterflies unspools in your belly. Everything not Mark fades out—forget the heat, the fan, the heavy bass line of the current song. All you know is that one of your hands is sliding down to rest on his sternum, feeling how his heart furiously tries to meet your touch. 

The thoughts catch up to you, in fragments. He kisses like you’re water and he’s a parched man. Like he loves you, and this isn’t just practice. 

Mark threads his fingers into your hair, hungry, pushing you to teeter on the knife’s edge between sanity and the beyond. You feel weightless, fuzzy in the way shadows are when a smudgy sun peers out from the horizon. You don’t want to stop. You can’t stop, and neither can he. 

In a flash, Mark is moving your leg to the side, settling in the space he’s made for himself. His mattress is forced to dip under his weight—a voice screams about general relativity before you smush it down—pulling you into the supermassive black hole of his gravity. 

You almost pass out when he pulls you closer, knee nudging the inside of your thigh, accidentally finding a strip of bare skin under your shirt. It must have ridden up. A shudder tears down your neck at the hummingbird flutter of his eyelashes on the apple your cheek. 

Moving again, Mark blazes a line of kisses along your jaw and neck. Playing connect-the-dots, or something. Ear lobe, larynx—oh god, collarbone. It comes like second nature to turn your head and bare your neck to him. 

Your cheek meets the cool, polished wood of his headboard. You can’t think straight. This is going to be burned into your memory like how you burn his CDs. 

Faintly, you register the player on his desk shutting off, the mixtape reaching its end. Something, somewhere far-off, sputters to a stop, plunging the room into a silence broken only by the sound of Mark chasing your lips again. 

“‘S just me,” you manage between kisses—Mark hums into your mouth, the tip of his tongue lazily tracing your bottom lip in a heart-stopping move, “or is it getting really hot?” 

You almost try to follow his mouth when he turns his head to check. Separation provides a little bit of relief; you hadn’t noticed just how warm it was with his body crushed against yours. You crack your eyes open, vision coming back to focus just as Mark groans. 

Voice rough with disuse, “Fan’s broken.” 

Your gaze rolls along to meet his—you should have kept your eyes closed. You can only process the sight in fragments; Mark kneeling above you; chest rising at a million shallow beats per minute; eyes glassy, starstruck; lips swollen; skin flushed pink down to his collar; hairline damp with perspiration, the top messed up by your fingers. 

Another wave of sticky warmth crashes over you. 

He looks shit-faced drunk. You probably look the same way. 

“Shit,” you whisper, melting against the headboard. You’re gonna die of heatstroke, all because you kissed your best friend. 

Mark clears his throat, hurriedly fixing his hair. “Do you—do you wanna get fries?” 

“Huh?” 

“Fries,” he repeats. He dives for a shy peck at the corner of your mouth, back to his old chaste self. You don’t know how he keeps his composure. “New place a couple blocks down—free AC, you know.” 

“I guess.” You’ve been guessing a lot lately. Somehow, it’s landed you here. 

He stands up, somehow steady on his feet. “I think we could walk there.” 

“Isn’t it too hot?” 

“I mean,” Mark puts a sheepish hand behind his head, smoothing down the hair you dug your fingers into. Your eyes are drawn to the way his tricep stretches, magnetically attractive. “We just kissed. Can’t get any hotter than that.” 

“You’re gross.” 

—

Mark takes his bottom lip between his teeth, fingers dusted with garlic parm seasoning. 

“Spit it out,” you say, sticking your hand into the bucket perched between the two of you. 

The fry joint is small and reminiscent of a 50’s diner. Harlequin tile, vinyl cushions. You’re squished side by side in a booth, not unlike the way you were sitting against his headboard thirty minutes ago. Just infinitely less tense and sweaty and…intimate. Plus the fry bucket acting as an invisible wall. 

“Did I do okay?” he asks, lifting his thumb to his mouth. Mark licks the salt off his fingerprint—gross. If you didn’t get over your thing against (specifically) his germs a long time ago, you would’ve told him to get his own fries. 

Things are back to normal…not really. Now that you know what hides beneath his innocent exterior, you can’t help but watch his tongue darting out and think back to how it was just in your mouth. 

“I mean,” you pause, rolling back your mental tape, “I liked it, even if it was your first.” 

“And yours too.” 

That’s—what, the third reminder? Your brain activity is brought to a screeching halt. It doesn’t count, right? It can’t possibly. 

Mark looks at you sweetly, all innocent. You can hardly form a thought about his stupid face without having flashbacks to the way his eyes went foggy kissing you. 

Punctuating the long silence that follows, “We were just doing it for practice.” 

He nods right away, eager to agree. With you or his own rationale, you can’t tell. “Yeah. Like doing it with the back of your hand, right?” 

“Right.” 

“Except you’re a real person.” 

“Yeah.” 

You’re on the same wavelength, as always. 

Assured, Mark smiles. You’re strangely comforted by the confirmation that no, this doesn’t mean anything. Your relationship is still holding strong, minus the fact that you made out till you were almost tipsy. But Mark doesn’t have to know that you’re still thinking about it. 

“So when’s your date?” you ask, keeping your voice level. It still breaks off at the end. 

“Friday,” Mark responds, paying no mind to how you grip the edge of the bucket a little tighter. That’s closer than you thought it was. “We’re gonna see Descender.” 

Ouch. Everything he says just drives another nail home into your heart. You wanted to see Descender with him. Hell, it’s the first comic he ever got you into, so it’s special. 

You can’t believe just how stupid he is. 

“What if,” you swallow, inspecting the fry you just picked up, “it doesn’t work out, between you and Violet?” 

“I mean, I hope it does. But if not,” he grins at you with a glimmer in his eyes, dimples taunting you to pull him in, “I have my best friend.” 

“Is that asking for Round Two?” 

“Just saying,” Mark says. He puts his hands up, garlic salt and parmesan still dusting his fingertips. “Now that we’ve got it out of the way, just call me if you wanna practice again. Back of your hand, right?” 

“Except with a real person,” you repeat. A shadow passes over his face, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. “Real feedback in real time.” 

Mark gives you dazzling smile worth a thousand watts; it’s the one he always pulls out when the matching halves of your braincells click together, all dimples and smug joy. Your heart flips. 

“Read my mind, there.”