Emily

One

It's freshman year and you are terrible at keeping your liquor down. It's a true party foul that has cockblocked Dean on more than one occasion (because he fucks anyone anywhere, the shared bathroom included), but Garrett made your family a promise that he would keep an eye on you if you two wound up at the same college together.

It's harder to keep than he thought - not because he doesn't want to, but because you keep physically disappearing on him.

His heart is in his throat after ten minutes of searching for you. The wind in the backyard doesn't carry your laugh with it. He walks in on Dean with his tongue shoved down the throat of another instead of finding you with your head in the toilet bowl. You aren't in the kitchen with Tucker, you're definitely not lounging on the couch next to Logan while he starts another game of NHL, and no one who attempts to stop him with congratulations has seen you.

It shouldn't be this hard to find you; you're yay tall and wear only the most egregiously yellow soft sweaters or his last name on the back of his jersey you wear to the games. You make a point to say hi to everyone at these parties, even those who sneer at you behind your back and beam at Garrett instead, and there's always a trail of your perfume wherever you go. If you were retching into a bush and wanted his hand firmly planted on your neck for support or needed a degree of separation between you and the guy from your English Lit class again, he would have known and he would have been there.

Which is why he fumbles with the handle on his bedroom door, because he knows his phone is charging in there, and maybe you would have texted him -

He flicks the lights on and sees a lump of you at the edge of the bed, awkwardly tangled in his sheets with your jeans still on.

"Sunshine," he hisses, already pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation as he foots the door closed behind him. "Have you seriously been in here this whole time?"

Your responding low moan is enough proof of life for him, so he carefully turns the lights back off and moves towards you, because he always gravitates to you like you are the sun no matter how much he tries to drag his feet.

"Hey." Garrett's voice is softer when he crouches down next to you, careful to keep his body off the mattress as his hand hovers over the crown of your head. "Talk to me. What are you doing in here?"

"Sleepy," you mumble, something citrusy and warm on your breath. He hears the rustle of the covers as you flop your arms to either side of your head. "Wanted you, couldn't find you, bed."

Garrett would snicker at your lack of full sentences if his blood wasn't thrumming in the side of his neck, his eyes adapting to the dark and taking stock of every inch of you like he's looking for one hair to be out of place.

Against his better judgement, he lets his palm sweep over your forehead and brush some tendrils back. "Don't do that without telling someone where you're going," he murmurs. "I couldn't find you, and I..."

"I know." You nod against his hand, nuzzling into it like a cat that has found warmth. "You always find me."

He swallows against the lump in his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do."

You blearily peek one eye open at him, everything about you twinkling even in the dark. A small pout plays at your lips. "Because they asked you to, right? I'm a liability?"

"No," he breathes out easily. "I just - I've been here for two years now and they expect me to watch after you, be a good influence." He pauses. "Not supply you cheap alcohol and just let you wander until Jackson, or Jake, or whatever his name is - "

You groan again. "Ugh, I hate that guy - "

" - asks you for more than your notes when I'm not there to do anything about it."

You both fall still, him now on his knees on the floor and you curling your hands under your chin as you turn to face him better. His fingers fall from your temple; he braces his hands against his thighs to stop himself from reaching out again.

"Just to be clear," you add, voice quiet and raspy with sleep, "he didn't tonight. I just came up here because I wanted somewhere to be comfortable."

Hearing that does something very dangerous to Garrett's psyche.

He nods once, twice, maybe a third time. "Good," he hears himself say after a moment. "You can always stay in here."

Your body seems to relax at that, sinking further into his mattress. He starts to roll back onto his heels, ready to stand and maybe guard the door the whole night like a fucking dog while you slumber peacefully in his bed, when your smaller fingers wrap gently around his forearm.

"Will you stay, too?"

Garrett can't hear anything else - not the sound of his ceiling fan, not the stumbling and giggling in the hallway. The only thing his traitorous ears pick up on is the quiver in your voice, like maybe you're just as unsure as him and yet you can't do anything about the gravitational pull, when you very quietly, so sweetly whisper only to him, "Please."

Garrett thinks back to all of the times in your childhood that you would have never, under any circumstances, shared a bed: camping trips, summer movie nights, when Phil's voice could be heard booming from next door and your parents prepared the guest room for Garrett as he fought back the tears in his eyes. You were always there to squeeze his hand goodnight, but then you were gone, and he would toss and turn all night.

He doesn't know why this time is different, but it takes him very little convincing to find you both a change of clothes and settle in beside you. There is no pillow divider, no separate sleeping bags, no children afraid of the dark; only a man fighting every instinct to pull you closer to him.

Many hours later, when he finally starts to fall asleep and you start migrating to his side of the bed, your hand scrunching at the waistband of his sweatpants, he tells himself it's because he made a promise.

He tells himself he's just watching the door.

He tells himself he's just taking precaution in case you need to throw up in the middle of the night.

He tells himself anyone would do this for a friend.

He falls asleep repeating that one word, and he wakes up to your head nestled underneath his chin with his body wrapped fully around you, and finally, silently, claims you to him.

-

Two

Garrett has a mildly bruised ribcage and an increasingly annoying throbbing in his head that won't go away.

Tucker has been fretting over him all night, adhering to the team doctor's orders without missing a beat. Garrett has barely had time to close his eyes and adjust in his own bed without the shrill reminder to take his meds when warm knuckles tickle the stubble at his jaw.

"It's just me," you shush him when he jerks back into his pillows. Your fingers trail up into his hair and scratch lightly at his scalp the way you've learned he likes; only then does he relax again.

He can barely hold the volume in his voice when he murmurs your name. "What are you doing here?" he rasps.

Your lips thin into an unamused line. "If you thought your best friend wasn't going to show up after watching you get obliterated on the line, you're more concussed than I thought."

Tucker, who took it upon himself to rearrange Garrett's pillows and fluff the covers over him despite everything already being in fine condition, scoffs. "I'm the best friend here."

Garrett almost smiles, but winces when he tries. "Didn't think people would be fighting over me with my concussion. Wonder how the other guy is doing."

"Stop talking," you toss back, but your voice doesn't harbor any heat in it. There's a waver of panic there, and Garrett's face drops into a frown despite the pain that he knows will come with it.

Before you can say anything else, Tuck backs off and dims the lights on his way out. "Don't forget to wake him up every few hours," he quietly adds before shutting the door behind him.

"You're staying?" Garrett hates that he perks up and can't blame it entirely on the pain pills.

You don't respond, rubbing at a spot on your sternum that hurts all of a sudden. Garrett tracks every movement of yours despite his loopiness, hating even more when he catches the moisture pooling in your eyes even though you think you're avoiding his gaze.

"Hey, hey," he starts, nearly forgetting his injuries to push himself up to grab you. You stop him with a gentle hand on his chest, feeling every pulse of his heat through his henley and into your bloodstream.

You wipe underneath your eyes and shake your head at him. "We really should be whispering," you warble weakly, "or not talking at all. Rest. You're hurt. I'm here to take care of you, not - "

"Sunshine."

"No, listen - "

"I'm okay," he soothes, and your shoulders drop, because - damn it - that's the tone you should be using with him instead. "Everything is okay."

A sigh shudders past your lips when his hand comes up to swallow yours where it rests over his heart. Before you know what you're doing, your thumb is moving back and forth along the fabric of his shirt and his is curling around yours.

Garrett finally settles back after you take a few calming breaths. He keeps your hand trapped beneath his grip, but closes his eyes and hums in contentment when you continue smoothing your fingers over the hard planes of his chest. It was only today when you realized that he is not as invincible as he looks.

"You scared me," you admit in a whisper. "Of course I was going to be here to make sure you were okay."

Garrett is numb enough that he can sort of raise his shoulder on the side of his body that isn't bruised in a shrug. "Jus' never had anyone take care of me after a game before, s'all."

Your sternum feels that burning sensation again. You ground yourself against the steady beat of him beneath your hand. You watch as his long eyelashes flutter open and closed, open and closed again - like he's fighting sleep just to get one more good look at you.

That decides everything for you then. "Lift your good arm up for me, Graham."

"Hmm?" is his sluggish response, but it's you asking, so of course he does it without much thought anyway.

You've already toed off your sneakers, leaving you in those fluffy socks he bought you so many years ago all because you had mentioned being cold once. You pull the covers up, careful not to jostle him where he lies perfectly in the middle, keeping both of your sides warm. You slide carefully into him, running your palm along his abdomen to press him closer to you as your toes dance along his shins. Your cheek finds his good shoulder. His arm slots perfectly around you. You both release a heavy breath that neither of you knew you were holding in.

The headache suddenly goes away. Garrett isn't sure if there were ever actually bruises marring his skin before.

"I got you," you murmur when his whole body falls lax into yours. You gingerly reach up and brush your lips against his cheek, and it ticks beneath your touch.

"Gonna be the longest four weeks of my life," he slurs. He nudges his nose into the top of your head and might press a kiss there, too. "But not if..." A huge yawn overtakes his face.

You stroke his shirt again, peering up at him. There's a soft smile gracing his features, and you know sleep is imminent.

"Not if what?" you whisper.

Garrett falls into a dream about you while mumbling, "Not if you're here."

-

Three

Allie and Dean are god-damn shit stirrers. They are no better than front desk hotel employees.

"...so, yeah," Allie is saying, ears gone a bit pink like she's been caught in an act that she typically performs without being betrayed by her poker face. "Or, um, the girls could room together..."

"Baby doll," Dean chides, slinging his arm around her shoulders. "They don't want to split up the other couples here. I'm sure they'll be just fine in this big bed. I mean, look at the view of the rolling hills, and the ocean! Oh, the ocean, Allie Cat. Isn't it just wonderful? I hear this part of California even has love birds, can you believe it?"

Allie momentarily gets caught up rolling her eyes at what Garrett can only assume is Dean's dramatic improvisation.

Garrett's jaw clenches. "I think I'll just take the living room, thanks."

You try - and fail - not to flinch at that. He pretends he doesn't notice it.

Dean is nodding like he was waiting for the counter. "Up to you, G, but we may keep you up pretty late."

A low, rumbly sound rolls off of him. Dean presses his lips together to stop from laughing at him.

"It's fine," you jump in, already setting your bags on the floor. "The bed is big enough."

"Your boyfriend would be okay with that?" is Garrett's sharp retort. He can't even look at you when he asks.

Two other pairs of eyes volley between you and Garrett in the deafening silence that follows.

"Ha!" You jab a finger into his chest accusatorially and scowl when it meets hard muscle. "I knew it. You were acting weird the whole drive over here."

Allie squeezes Dean's forearm in warning. Garrett glares down at you, shuffling his feet until they go head-to-head with yours, defiant and itching with frustration, suddenly forgetting you have an audience.

"I'm sorry I'm not comfortable with you dating the fourth line bench warming prick who makes a point to antagonize the entire team every time we play him."

"We went on one date, Garrett. A single date. We are not dating."

"Who gives a fuck! It's the principle!"

"Well, I do, because you've been acting like a petulant child for the past two weeks, and you're supposed to be my best friend, and I miss you, but you can't even look at me anymore, and all I wanted was a nice night, to be wined and dined, and he did that, and he was a gentleman and respectful to me, but that's not enough for you, and nothing I do anymore is enough for you, and - "

Both of your gazes swing to the door Allie and Dean retreat through. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each angry intake and exhale. Garrett clenches and unclenches his fists by his side.

"Fuckin' assholes," he grumbles, only half-serious. The fight leaves him immediately, his shoulders dropping.

With the rest of your run-on sentence stuck in your throat, you deposit your bags onto the bed and angrily open and close drawers to put your clothes away. With your back now turned to him, Garrett is safe to watch you, and so he does, shamelessly; the rigidness of your shoulder blades, the flush on your neck, the hoodie he's been missing for two or three months now finding its way into the dresser. Even mad at him, yourself, Allie and Dean, that fucking guy who has no business knowing you, whoever, or maybe life itself, and he still thinks you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen.

He doesn't say anything to you the rest of the afternoon. You don't ask him to.

Allie at least has the decency to look chagrined when you come out to the backyard hours later. Dean offers you an awkward smile with a glass of sangria, like that'll fix everything - and maybe it will, after a few. Logan and Grace unceremoniously shove themselves into one wicker chair around the bonfire, sharing kisses and giggles and fruit-coated breaths that you can no longer look at. Tucker is leaning in close to Garrett, showing him something on his phone, and Garrett is...

There, across from you through the flames. Broad and huge, his powerful thighs spread wide. He's already sun-kissed without needing to bake all day. The beer bottle is loose in his hand between a few long fingers, and he's slouching and laughing like nothing is wrong.

But everything is wrong, and you're losing your best friend. He doesn't seem to care.

Which is why not too long later, you're shoving the blanket off you and saying your goodnights. Sabrina frowns subtly at you like she knows everything the others do not, catching your arm in her soft hand. You shake her off with a weak smile, and Garrett notices, because Garrett always notices, and yet he still does not say anything when you walk away from him once more.

It's much later after that, two or three in the morning, when the bed creaks beneath you. Your eyes fly open, your body pulling taut at the familiar scent of his cologne and the natural awareness you always have when he's around. You're in your tiniest sleep shorts and the softest of his hoodies, but you're still so mad, betrayal creeping in whenever you breathe too deep or think of him too long.

"I'm sorry," Garrett murmurs softly, mouth almost on the bare skin where your neck meets your shoulder. You fight back the shiver. "I have been mean, and unfair, and childish, and whatever else you were going to call me earlier."

You don't respond for a moment, calculating. Then, "I was going to call you a fourth line bench warming prick, actually."

You hear the pin drop. You feel his chest rise and fall steadily behind you. Then, without notice, his arm brandishes itself against your chest and hauls you back towards him.

"Hey - "

His palm seals over your mouth, forceful enough to take your next words but not tight enough that you couldn't wrench yourself free if you needed to - if you wanted to. Both of you think maybe you don't.

You make an unintelligible protest underneath him, fingers curling around his wrist at where his massive hand paws your jaw.

"I deserved that," is his quiet admission, "but you drive me insane."

If his arm were any lower, he would feel the unmistakable hardening of your nipples against his punishing hold. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the waves crash onto the shore. It might be your heart in your eardrums.

His fingers start to slacken against your cheek. "If I move my hand, do you promise to let me finish my apology?"

I've been waiting for you to talk all day, is what you so desperately want to retort, but your body is traitorous, even against you, always when it comes to him. You nod slowly instead.

With your mouth free, Garrett rearranges you so that you slot perfectly into him. You don't dare say anything, letting him fix your legs inbetween his and budging down when he beckons your head to be lower on his chest. He tightens around you almost protectively, like he's shielding you from himself.

You should be so, so, so mad. You're something entirely different.

"I'm sorry," he says again, tucking his head against yours. "I was wrong to be jealous." You feel his mouth open and close, maybe considering his next words. "I am jealous. You're my best friend."

You only exhale.

"I asked Dean if he thinks it's because you're my best friend and I don't want to share your time with someone else. He said yes."

"You talked to Dean?" you whisper in the dark.

Garrett chuckles with no humor. "Desperate times call for desperate measures." He pauses. "I don't think Dean is right."

"Oh."

"I think he said that to make me feel better for not knowing."

You relax further into his chest, warm and fuzzy all of a sudden. "What do you not know?"

Garrett's thumb has started doing that thing above your belly button. Your hips may push back into his involuntarily, the movement infinitely small. He feels it everywhere anyway.

"Why I'm jealous," he manages, the other hand braced against your waist to stop the next motion. The flex of his fingers, strong and sure against you, causes you to let out a quiet and bewildered moan, nearly heady.

It dissipates into the night.

"Go to sleep, sunshine," Garrett whispers. His arm tightens around you as imperceptibly as your hip movement. "Let me figure it out."

You want to tell him that you already have, that he doesn't need to worry anymore; but you have never felt so small, so securely tucked against someone else, safe and cozy, that your eyelids droop on their own accord. He presses the softest of kisses into your hair.

You sleep. He does not.

-

Four

Garrett does not have it all figured out. In fact, he's even more confused than two months ago in that bed with you, because you've gone on three more first dates since then. They have not been with him. He practically begs for the recaps from the girls and only gets them through osmosis from the guys, which is somehow worse because they have all the details wrong and can't even describe what you were wearing for someone who wasn't him, or if you kissed them.

How do they not know if you kissed them? Was no one else bothered by this?

Now he's desperate and he still doesn't know why. You've decided you can no longer wait around in agony to be wanted while he trapezes through an investigative journalism major.

The breakups hit harder for that reason.

None of them really landed as actual breakups, per se, and certainly not the kind that made you have to pack up your belongings through your heartbreak and leave the shared room or town - but they were enough. One texted you saying you were sweet, but not quite compatible enough to make the conversations worthwhile. Another fully admitted to still being in love with his ex.

The most recent date did not call you back last week. You didn't know why until his friends started snickering every time they saw you in the cafeteria. Today was the last straw. You took one look at him sitting there, welcoming the laughs at your expense, and slammed your tray back down so hard it rattled more than your bones.

Garrett hears about it, because Garrett always hears about it, and doesn't hesitate to drive to your apartment in lieu of finishing out his next two classes.

Unfortunately and understandably, your roommate has the same protective streak as him, blocking the entrance politely. "I don't think it's a good day for company," she tries.

"Please," he all but growls. She might be scared of him if she didn't already know how soft he gets around you, hearing so often how he would never raise his voice at anyone after his childhood.

"Fine," she concedes, "but you're doing my sociology homework for the rest of the semester."

He doesn't even blink. "Done."

She's taken aback by that. "I was just joking. Aren't you busy with hockey?"

"I'm not busy for this one thing."

"Oh... oh," is all she can choke out before he's gently shouldering past her and into your orbit.

Maybe the violence is still embedded beneath his skin, because he takes one look at you crumpled up on your bed and almost turns back to campus to find the asshole responsible.

"I'm going to kill him," Garrett seethes.

Your head jolts off the pillow. "What the hell, Garrett?"

He thinks you're referring to his murder plot, not the fact that he's standing in the middle of your room while your mascara tracks down your cheeks without any other announcement. He continues pacing.

"I'm going to need Tucker for this. Logan, too. Dean can't keep his mouth shut to save his life."

"Garrett, what the hell are you doing in my room?"

Garrett stops and takes one more look at you, awareness prickling at his skin. He can barely stand the sight of your red-rimmed eyes and puffy lips. He thinks he might be dying.

"I..." He shakes his head, incredulous. "What do you mean? Of course I'm here. You need me."

Your lip wobbles then. Hurt fills your eyes, followed by a fresh set of tears. He's definitely dying. "Need you?"

Garrett is still trying to figure out what was wrong with that sentence by the time you've blindly grasped the pillow next to you and soared it through the air at him. For a man who is planning to go professional in reaction time, he does not react fast enough; it hits him squarely where his heart might be if it wasn't already constricting at your crying. His breath whooshes out of him. They just keep coming after that.

"Needing you is the reason I'm in this predicament!" A pillow. "You" - a chuck - "are such" - another launched - "a selfish" - harder this time - "ass!"

"How many fuckin' pillows do you have?" he snaps.

The second to last throw narrowly misses the corner of his eye. You're gearing up to assault him with the final one - the one you were holding tightly to your chest like a lifeline - when he suddenly has enough of your nonsense and charges you. He rips the fabric free from your hands, and in one motion, pulls you back to the headboard, the place he sits up against while cradling the back of your head in one hand, the other placing you securely in his lap.

You hesitate against him so quickly he almost misses it, but then he murmurs something low and soft into your ear, and you melt into him. You sob harder.

"I just want," you gasp through the tears, clutching the front of his shirt tightly enough that your knuckles pale. "Want someone to want me. I want to be wanted, I want..."

"Shhh," Garrett soothes roughly, not to cut you off, but because your breath is hitching so much it's starting to worry him. "I know. I know, baby. Take a breath."

Somewhere through the fog, it is not fully lost on you that it's the first time he's ever called you that. You're not Sunshine right now, and maybe it's because the cloud of rain is so heavy and dark in your room, but you wonder if you could become that - baby - instead.

In the middle of holding you, Garrett decides you already are that to him.

"I know," he tuts again, but perhaps it's said to finally agree with himself on something rather than speaking it aloud to you.

Both of his hands swoop along the length of your back, moving your hair from your shoulders, up and down again in the loveliest rhythm. You rub your nose against his collarbone and take a calming breath of him, all smoky woods and soft lavender.

It takes another minute for your hiccups to subside. Once they're gone and Garrett doesn't quite feel like he's dying anymore, you peer up at him with the widest eyes you've ever made at him.

"You called me baby." You swallow. "Or did the emotional regulation make that up?"

Garrett hums nonchalantly, rubbing your cheek carefully like you might crack beneath his ministrations. He chooses his words carefully, too, and ultimately banks on - "Yeah, guess I did."

"Why?"

Garrett feels the most honest he has in a long time, maybe forever, like he accidentally leaned on a rusty switch that hasn't been turned on in years. "Felt right."

Your lips open in a purse at that. You blink down to where you're straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, fallen open at some point when he was clutching you to him while your salty tears gave away all of your secrets.

"Hey, Graham?" you whisper. Garrett is too busy memorizing the shape of your lips and the crinkles at your eyes when you start to smile at him that he misses your words completely.

"Hmm?"

"Are you ever going to kiss me?"

His eyes flicker back up to yours then. There's need written all over him, but something else, too. You wonder how long that's been there; if both of you might have been blind to it.

He shifts underneath you slightly, dragging his hands down to your waist. "Not after you've been crying," he murmurs. "Breaks my heart to hear you cry."

Your lips twitch. His eyes go there one more time. "Making excuses again?"

"What if I did?"

"What, kiss me?"

"Yeah."

"I think I'd like that."

Garrett's eyes flare. "That wouldn't ruin anything? We'd still be best friends?"

"Is that what we've been afraid of this whole time?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

You shake your head at him and he tracks the movement. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Your breath is warm against him. You shift further down onto your knees and press your weight fully into him, pelvises aligning. He lets out the groan he's been holding in for years and squeezes your lower back, throwing his head back against the headboard and chanting something about crying and best friends and waiting underneath his breath.

"Kiss me," you whisper, gently fisting dark tufts of his hair at the nape of his neck. You angle his chin up to yours. He prays to a god he doesn't fully believe in. "Want me."

That's the problem, he realizes; Garrett has wanted you for so long that a part of him turned on him and made him believe he didn't deserve it, didn't deserve you. That part of him is so quiet now that he thinks he might've killed it.

You're warm and pliant, coaxable beneath his touch when he lifts up and meets you in the middle. He kisses you like he plays hockey: hurried but controlled, with something to prove, tender but intense, worth every bruise to his mouth. He learns the playing field of your mouth first - how to drive you wild with a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth and the peak of your cupid's bow - before his tongue, heavy and competitive, meets yours.

You moan something into his mouth, and he nods as if he's both heard and understood what you've said when neither is true. He holds you tighter at the base of your spine and then at your thighs and then at your face and jaw because he can't get enough of you and there's too much time to catch up on to touch you in only one place.

"This does not mean I forgive you for waiting so long," you mumble against his mouth as he lays you against your back, the pillows long gone to the floor.

"Baby, I won't forgive myself for that either."

-

Four & A Half

You realize it's a date before he says anything.

The boys aren't home.

There's a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen island.

Garrett is wearing an apron, probably Tuck's, both too small and too big on him, and a nervous grin.

He pushes the brownie sundae towards you, because he's Garrett, and Garrett knows everything about his best friends, and right now all you want is dessert before dinner.

The cherry stem on top of the ice cream gets tied by his tongue at some point. The dinner moves to the couch in the living room, where you two laugh during storytelling and pretend to watch a movie, when really you are so intently focused on the other person that the picture-perfect couple in the movie is digitally offended.

You get sleepy at some point; Garrett offers to carry you up to his room.

"Carry me?" You rub at your eyes sleepily. He has already dimmed the lights because anything that hurts you hurts him. "You're promoting me to being carried to bed?"

Garrett tries not to smile and fails so terribly it's sickening. "It's not too much of a raise. We still have to share one bed."

Garrett gives you the shirt off his back and lets you pick whichever side you want. It feels semipermanent, being able to choose and potentially having it forever.

When you fall asleep that night, curled safely into his ribs on your side of the bed, you realize the dilemma comes from choosing him, potentially for forever.

-

Five

Your husband muffles a curse into the mattress. Little feet and hands continue balancing precariously on his lower back, which is still sore from last night's rivalry game against the Canadiens. He thinks he may be getting old.

"Daddy," your mini me scolds once and only once, no room for argument in her tone. "That's a bad word."

Garrett turns his head slowly towards you, sleep lines marring his skin, hair poking up in every direction. He should be getting at least another hour of sleep before he slips out of bed to make you your coffee, but duty calls, and he takes being a father very seriously.

The sleep leaves his voice immediately. "When did my little monkey get so big?"

A squeal of delight sounds from above you two when he twists to his back and catches her in the air. He tucks her back underneath his arm and turns to you, placing her in the middle of the bed between you two. You both lean in at the same time to cover her face in kisses.

Garrett's free hand finds you and strokes up and down your arm while you get an earful about waffles with chocolate chips. He closes his eyes briefly, soaking it all in.

You share a bed now. Your little girl climbs into it every morning he's home, sometimes too early to function properly. Garrett couldn't imagine life any other way.

You did not want to be there. Hockey was a violent sport and you didn't like it. However, Hannah's boyfriend just so happened to be the captain, so you were sucked into far too many games for your liking.

"Listen, if I can get over it, so can you," Hannah told you, smiling.

She had a point, you supposed. Her reason was much more valid than yours, and yet, you found yourself upset anyway. Not irrationally or anything, just mildly. Still, you sat with her in the crowd, eyes latching onto the game.

If you were here, you might as well watch. You knew the players, Hannah was around them all the time so that meant you'd come to know their faces, even if you never personally interacted. You tended to stay clear of men like them.

The game was brutal and violent and by the end you felt a little nauseous. Not because you couldn't watch violence, but because you hated the unnecessary kind. And this seemed the most unnecessary there was.

Still, you stayed silent. You cheered with Hannah when Briar U won and you found yourself even a little happy. No, you didn't like hockey, but if someone had to win, it might as well be your team.

Hannah dragged you with her to wait down the hall of the locker rooms. "This is stupid," you grumbled, crossing your arms.

Hannah laughed. "It's not stupid! I want you to meet my friends!"

You sighed, giving in easily. You had a soft spot for Hannah, and you were glad she had found some more people to be comfortable with. Allie was supposed to be here, but she got way too caught up in the upcoming play and ended up passed out in her room.

You two left her be.

Soon enough, men were piling out of the locker room and you felt a little uncomfortable. Not because you felt unsafe, but because they were all staring at you. You weren't shy or anything, not even really that insecure, but it was reasonable that a group full of men staring at you made you uncomfortable.

Hannah introduced you to the guys, and you gave a small wave, an even smaller smile on your face. Not out of rudeness, but out of comfort for yourself. None of them seemed to mind. "You coming to the party, Wellsy?" Dean asked, tossing his arm around her shoulders.

"Depends. Are you coming to the party?" Hannah's eyes were on you.

You widened your eyes, pointing to yourself. "Me? Um...no?"

Dean boo'd, and Logan smacked him upside the head. "Be nice, dickwad."

That earned a little giggle from you. "Come. It'll be fun, and I'll personally bodyguard you if need be," Garrett said, his eyes soft and warm as they reached you.

You sucked in a breath, looking at Hannah who had a little pout on her face. You gave in again. "Okay, I'll come."

Dean and Hannah cheered, slapping palms together. You chuckled, shaking your head. You turned around, heading toward the building doors.

This was a bad idea.

Still, you found yourself walking into the hockey house a few hours later with Hannah at your hip, your eyes darting around the place. You'd never actually been in it, and it was smaller than you expected.

People were packed everywhere, girls all over the guys and they were eating it up like Christmas dinner. Especially Dean. Hannah waved at Garrett, who smiled, walking over to you two.

It was nice for all of two seconds before you decided that being suffocated by the love of those two was not something you wanted to be subjected to all evening. You pulled away from Hannah, a polite smile on your face.

"I'm going to get a drink."

Hannah tilted her head, but nodded. She knew you enough to know that, while you loved love, sometimes it was too much. You hated it, really. It made you feel guilty. There was no reason for you to feel so...envious of Hannah.

She deserved all she had, and you wanted that for her.

Still, something inside you ached a little every time she was with Garrett. Some little voice in your head that told you that could never be you. You ignored it. You had to. You couldn't let that stupid voice consume your life.

Even if, sometimes, it felt like it would.

You sighed, walking over to the kitchen and making yourself a drink. You heavily inspected the cup before deciding it was safe. It took two sips for you to realize you hated whatever it was. Well, it took one sip. But you took another one just to be sure.

You were definitely sure, making a sour face and pouring the liquid down the drain of the sink.

"You know, that's perfectly good alcohol right there." Dean's voice invaded your ears. You looked beside you, seeing him leaning against the fridge, a small smirk on his face.

"Good is a stretch," you replied, shaking your head in an attempt to get the sour taste out.

He chuckled. "Nice freckles." The comment was an odd one, but it ignited some sort of feeling in you. "Never got to see you close enough to notice before."

You managed a smile, a breathy chuckle accompanying it. "That happened to be the goal."

He tilted his head. "How come?"

You swallowed. "Don't you have some girl to make out with?"

A smile from him. "Depends. Are you that girl?"

You crossed your arms. "No."

"Then no."

You narrowed your eyes at him, studying him. His demeanor was calm, collected, cool. Like he belonged right where he was, talking to you in his kitchen as a party happened around the two of you. You weren't quite as collected.

"You didn't answer my other question," he pointed out.

You bit the inside of your cheek. "Well, it was a stupid question."

"Humor me."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "You're impossible."

"Oh, you have no idea, sweetheart."

The pet name usually made you feel sick. But Dean didn't say it like a catcall. He said it like it was natural. Like it was a name meant for you. You were positively confused. A little concerned. Mostly focused on making your exit.

Dean noticed. "Some place to be?" He stepped closer. One tiny little step. It made you feel hot.

You swallowed. "Lots of places to be. None of them are here."

"How come?"

The repeated question caused a fire to spread up your neck until you felt the blush across your cheeks. Dean smiled. Not smirked. Smiled. "You're cute when you blush."

You had never felt more of an urge to push a man than you did right then. Not out of anger, but out of embarrassment. No way were you blushing in front of Dean Di Laurentis. "Shut up," you mumbled, tightening your arms around yourself to feel a little more protected.

Dean's eyes scanned over you, his gaze making you squirm slightly. You didn't enjoy being inspected, especially by some manwhore hockey man. Still, you stayed silent. His eyes met yours, something in them you weren't too familiar with.

You could still place it, though. You'd seen it a couple times. It was hunger.

Your chest felt a little tight, and you refused to fall at the feet of him. Your eyes scanned the room. "I make you nervous, don't I?" he asked softly. Not judging or teasing, just a genuine question.

"A little, yes," you replied, eyes staring next to him at the fridge instead of at him.

"How come?"

"Can you stop asking me that?"

"Can you start answering me?"

You bit back a smile. "Fine. You get one question, make it good."

Dean thought for a second. "Why don't you come around?"

You sucked in a breath. "Why would I? A house full of men isn't exactly my idea of a good time."

Dean tilted his head. "So what is?"

You shook yours. "You don't really care about that."

"Hm?"

"I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You're not interested in knowing what I do for fun. You're interested in how much fun I can give you."

Something passed Dean's eyes, something that made you regret what you said, but he easily recovered. "True. Partly."

"Partly?"

"I'm not blind, sweetheart. You're a gorgeous woman in my kitchen, I'd be stupid not to flirt. Still, I am actually interested in what you have to say. I don't only think with my dick, you know?"

You tilted your head. "Hm, that's not what I've heard." Dean chuckled, you smiled. "Okay, fine. You get another question."

This one came with no hesitation. "Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

"Not entirely," you answered honestly. Dean tilted his chin up.

"You wanna go home?"

"Can't. Allie dropped us off."

"Not what I asked."

You sighed. "Yes."

"Then let's go."

You furrowed your brows. "Dean-"

He shook his head. "The party will live without me. I'd be cruel to make you suffer through it." He peeled himself off the fridge, holding out a hand.

You chuckled softly, slipping your hand into his. His fingers wrapped around your hand easily, and the warmth of his skin caused goosebumps to erupt. You ignored them. You found Hannah quickly, she was drunk.

You were glad she felt comfortable enough to be that way now.

You said goodbye to both Hannah and Garrett, and then followed Dean out of the house. He led you to his car, opening the passenger door for you. You got in silently, and once Dean got in, you gave him your address.

The ride was silent, but comfortable. Music hummed lowly through the car and Dean's eyes flickered to you every once in a while. You never looked back. You were smarter than that. You knew better. You had to know better.

You weren't going to one-night stand yourself into some complicated feelings over Dean fucking Di Laurentis. No, you were more aware of your faults than that. More aware of your inability to be casual about anything.

He pulled up to your house, a small one bedroom in a quiet neighborhood. You sighed softly. You regretted the words before you even got them out. "Do you want to come in?"

There was a pause, before Dean nodded. "Yeah."

You ignored the feeling in your chest as you got out, digging your keys out of your pocket and walking up to the front door, Dean following behind you silently. The door creaked open, and you flicked on the light, kicking your shoes off at the door.

Dean followed your example, trailing you as you walked into your cozy living room. It was full of books and plants and, honestly, it was everything Dean thought it would be. Maybe more.

"Cute," he said softly, almost too softly. His fingers grazed the chipping wallpaper on the wall, and you sucked in a small breath, sitting down in your hanging chair.

Dean followed, sitting down on the couch.

"Why'd you come in?" you asked suddenly, but quietly.

Dean smiled. "Why not?"

"Not an actual answer, by the way."

He chuckled. "Honestly? I wanted to see what kind of place you lived in."

You tilted your head. "And?"

"It's everything I expected from you."

You chuckled. "You can go back to your party, you know?"

"I know."

"Yet, you're still sitting on my couch."

"That I am."

Silence. You sucked in a small breath, turning your head away from him. You felt his stare. You ignored it. "Why do you do that?"

Dean's question was soft and quiet, but full of a weight he didn't know it carried. "Do what?" you asked. Your eyes still weren't on his.

"We get somewhere, and you shut down."

"We don't get anywhere."

"Yes, we do."

You closed your eyes, sucking in a breath through your nose. Your hands tightened at the edges of your chair. You slowly looked at him. "Honestly? It scares me."

Dean tilted his head at your answer, his eyes soft and searching. "What does?"

"You. This. All of it. I don't..." You shook your head. "I don't flirt. I'm smarter than that. I don't get my hopes up. I'm better than that. And I certainly, certainly don't invite a hockey man into my house."

Dean ignored the last part for now, more focused on what you said before. "Hopes up about what?" he asked curiously.

You laughed. A self-deprecating one that made you cringe internally. "You're not dumb, Dean. You know who you are, and so do I. And I know who I am. It's just..." You shook your head once more. It wasn't like you didn't know your worth.

You did.

You just also knew when you were in over your head. Sometimes it got the better of you. You hated that it did, but you couldn't help it. Dean moved then, slowly and soft like you were going to run away if he moved too quickly.

Maybe you were.

He found his place in front of you on his knees, eyes looking up at you. You sucked in a breath. "So who are you, then?" he asked quietly.

Your eyes searched his. "I'm the girl who's smart enough to know that this isn't happening. Not really." He tilted his head. You continued. "You'll flirt and maybe you'll get what you want, or maybe you won't. Either way, you'll go home and it'll be over for you. You're a casual man, Dean."

He swallowed. You didn't stop. "Casual's cool. It's nice, I guess. But it's not me. I'm not that type of person. I can't be. It's not realistic, and it's certainly not something I'm capable of."

Dean sucked in a breath. "It doesn't have to be casual."

The words hung heavy in the air. You furrowed your brows. "What?"

Dean shrugged. "It doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be. It doesn't have to be sex." He leaned in, just slightly, his hands resting on either side of your legs. "What do you want?"

You scoffed, soft and really with no insult behind it, shaking your head. "I-" You swallowed. "What?" You couldn't fathom what he was saying right now. Dean Di Laurentis of all people.

"What do you want?" he repeated, softer this time.

The question was heavy. It crushed your throat and filled your chest with cement. It was the type of question you never answered honestly. Tonight, it felt like you had to. "I want to be wanted. Really wanted."

Dean nodded, eyes searching yours. He stood up slowly, holding out his hand. For some reason, you just took it. No questions asked. He pulled you up with ease, and you gasped softly as his arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest.

"Why don't we start slow?" he asked quietly. "See where it goes."

"I'm not having sex with you."

He smiled. "Not what I meant, sweetheart."

You tilted your head, genuinely curious. "What did you mean?"

He brought a hand up, thumb brushing over your cheek that was still burning with a blush. "I take you on a date, we get to know each other. Something...un-casual."

You sucked in a small breath, eyes searching his. "You're serious?"

"Deadly."

You bit your lip, slowly nodding. "Okay."

He smiled, soft and warm and it filled you with something you weren't sure you wanted to place. You were fucking terrified. Still, your veins pumped with excitement. "Does it count as un-casual if I kiss you?"

You giggled at his question. "Only if you don't immediately leave after."  

He shook his head, tucking some hair behind your ear. "Not happening."

You nodded, giving him the green light. His lips met yours softly, full of warmth and passion and you felt dizzy from it. He pulled you closer, hands roaming your body in a way you've never felt. You moaned softly into the kiss as his tongue slipped into your mouth.

Dean pressed against you harder, but not insistent. Like he just wanted to be close. What usually made you feel uncomfortable made you feel warm now. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, deepening the kiss slightly.

Dean's hands slipped under your ass, picking you up in one swift motion. You gasped, grabbing onto his shoulders. He carried you over to the couch like you weighed nothing, sitting you on his lap as you two made out.

His lips traveled to your jaw, sucking softly on the skin as you let out a shaky breath, hand running through his hair. He pulled back slowly, licking his lips as he looked at you. You could feel him growing harder under you, and it was hard to ignore.

He noticed. "Don't worry about it," he whispered, caressing your hair. "No sex, remember?"

You giggled, leaning in and kissing him softly. He groaned into it. "You are so not how I thought you'd be."

"Good thing or bad thing?"

"Good," you replied. "Definitely good."

...

A/N : at last

…

The absolute worst part about having your heart broken into a million pieces was not the crying. It was the fact that the rest of the world completely refused to stop moving. You felt like the universe should at least have the decency to give you a gloomy thunderstorm or a dramatic power outage. But no. The sun outside your bedroom window was blindingly bright and your phone kept buzzing with annoying notifications.

Right on your kitchen counter sat two very expensive, completely non-refundable vacation tickets. They were supposed to be for a romantic road trip. Now, they were just tiny paper slips mocking your sudden single status.

You lay completely flat on your stomach, your face buried so deep into your pillow that you were pretty sure you were breathing in dust bunnies. You were wrapped in three different blankets, wearing a giant, faded t-shirt that had a stain from last week's takeout. Your eyes were raw and puffy from a solid twelve hours of weeping, and a highly depressing acoustic song was looping softly from your phone. You had fully committed to this bed. This was your life now. You were going to become one with the mattress.

Suddenly, a loud, violent metallic scrape echoed from the front door.

You didn't even blink. Only one person on the entire planet possessed your spare house key and the absolute lack of basic human manners to use it without texting first.

A few seconds later, your bedroom door didn't just open—it swung back so hard it hit the drywall with a dull thud. The immediate, comforting scent of clean laundry, mint gum, and sweet banana milk rushed into the dark, stuffy room.

"Jesus, sweets," a loud, entirely too cheerful voice boomed. "It looks like a vampire cave in here. Seriously, did something die under the bed?"

You didn't look up. Instead, you reached out blindly, grabbed the edge of your heavy comforter, and yanked it completely over your head until you were a dark, shapeless lump. "Go away, Jungkook. I am dead. Call the police."

"Can't do that. I don't look good in police station lighting," Jungkook said. You heard his heavy footsteps cross your hardwood floor. He didn't say anything sweet or sad. He didn't ask how your feelings were. Instead, a massive, crinkling plastic convenience store bag was dropped directly onto your lower back with a heavy thump. "I brought snacks. And more importantly, I brought myself. You can thank me now."

"I don't want snacks. I want to turn into a rock," your muffled voice grumbled from beneath the layers of fabric.

Jungkook let out a long, highly dramatic sigh. "A rock? Really? That's so uncreative."

Before you could even figure out what he was doing, you felt his large, strong hands grab the loose edges of your comforter. With one quick, incredibly smooth yank, he rolled you sideways across the bed. You let out a squeak as the blanket wrapped tighter and tighter around you, pinning your arms firmly to your sides. By the time he stopped pulling, you were rolled up like a massive, helpless cylinder.

"Jungkook! Let me out right now!" you yelled, wiggling your legs furiously, but you couldn't move an inch.

"Nope. You are officially a human burrito," he declared. He sat down heavily right on the edge of your mattress, looking down at you with a massive, goofy, bunny-toothed grin. He was wearing a giant, oversized bright yellow hoodie that made him look like a giant lemon, a black beanie pushed back on his dark hair, and baggy sweatpants. He looked completely cozy and entirely too full of chaotic energy. "And according to the rules of fast food, burritos are not allowed to stay in bed all day."

He casually reached into the plastic bag, pulled out a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips, and popped it open with a loud pop. He crunched on one right next to your ear, making as much noise as humanly possible.

"You need to eat. And you need to start throwing things into a bag," he said, talking around a chip.

"I’m not going on the trip, Jungkook," you whispered. The silly mood suddenly dipped, and that familiar, heavy ache pressed down on your chest again. Your throat felt tight. "The tickets were for... you know. I’m not going to drive across the country by myself like some pathetic loser in a movie. It’s supposed to be a couple's road trip."

Jungkook stopped chewing. His dark, round eyes softened for a fraction of a second, looking at you with total warmth. But he quickly blinked it away, replaced it with a look of pure, exaggerated offense, and let out a loud gasp.

"By yourself? A pathetic loser?" He slapped a hand over his chest. "Excuse me? Are you blind? Look at me. Look at these shoulders." He puffed his chest out dramatically. "I am the literal definition of the ultimate travel partner. I can drive for ten hours straight without getting sleepy. I can lift your heavy bags without complaining. And, most importantly, unlike your trash ex-boyfriend, I actually know how to wash my own hair without being reminded."

A tiny, involuntary laugh snorted out of your nose before you could stop it. "Jungkook, be serious for once."

"I am being 100% serious!" He grabbed his phone from his pocket, flipping it around to show you a photo of his large black duffel bag sitting by his front door. "I’ve been completely packed since you called me crying at two in the morning. I even packed my good cologne. We are absolutely not letting that absolute clown ruin your summer vacation. Honestly, the guy dressed like a wet cardboard box anyway. You basically downgraded your stress level by losing him."

"He did not dress like cardboard," you mumbled, though a small part of your brain completely agreed.

"Sweets, he literally wore white socks with leather sandals to a nice seafood restaurant. We’ve discussed this. It was a crime against humanity," Jungkook joked, rolling his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck.

He stood up, stretched his arms above his head, and walked straight over to your closet. He dragged your large, dusty suitcase out from the corner, threw it onto the floor, and opened it with a long, aggressive zipppp. Without asking for permission, he grabbed a handful of random t-shirts from your hangers and tossed them into the empty bag.

"Hey! Stop! What are you doing? Don't just throw things in there!" you shrieked, trying to break your arms free from the blanket trap.

"Then get your lazy self out of the burrito and do it properly," he countered, flashing a cheeky, challenging smile. He reached deep into your drawer and held up a bright, neon green t-shirt that you hadn't touched since a middle school spirit day. "Are we taking this? It looks like a giant highlighter. Perfect for when you get lost in the woods and I have to hunt you down."

"Give me that, you idiot!" You finally managed to kick your legs loose, scrambling out of the blanket pile like a chaotic animal to snatch the ugly shirt from his hands.

Jungkook hopped back, laughing a rich, loud sound that echoed through your quiet apartment. He stood by the window, watching with a satisfied little smirk as you finally began neatly folding your clothes and placing them into the suitcase. The suffocating, heavy weight that had been sitting on your lungs all morning suddenly felt a little bit lighter. He was loud, he was annoying, and he completely ignored your personal space, but he was exactly the distraction you needed to keep from losing your mind.

For the next thirty minutes, you both fought over what to pack. Jungkook tried to convince you that bringing five pairs of shoes was unnecessary, while he simultaneously tried to pack three different gaming controllers "just in case the hotels have a good TV." He kept grabbing random things around your room—like a giant stuffed bear and a pack of old sticky notes—and trying to drop them into the suitcase just to see your annoyed reaction.

"We are not taking the stuffed bear, Jungkook! It takes up the entire suitcase!" you yelled, throwing a pair of rolled-up socks directly at his forehead.

He caught the socks perfectly with one hand, laughing loudly. "But what if you get scared of the dark? Who is going to protect you? Me? I'm terrified of ghosts. The bear is our only line of defense."

"I'll take my chances with the ghosts," you laughed, snatching the bear back and tossing it onto your bed.

Once the suitcase was finally zipped shut, Jungkook grabbed the handle and lifted it effortlessly, checking his imaginary watch. "Alright, let's move out. The Jeon Express is leaving the station."

You walked into the bathroom to quickly wash your face and brush your teeth. Your reflection looked a bit tired, with faint dark circles under your eyes, but the tears had completely stopped. You tied your hair up into a messy, casual bun and walked out to the parking lot.

The bright summer sun hit your face, making you squint. Jungkook was already leaning against the hood of his clean black car, holding two large iced coffees from the café down the street. He didn't say anything heavy or emotional as you approached. He just handed you the plastic cup, his warm, thick fingers brushing against yours for a brief second.

Before you could pull the passenger door open, Jungkook stepped directly into your path, blocking you. He was much taller than you, shadowing you completely from the bright light.

He reached out, his large thumb pressing gently against your cheek. He carefully wiped away a tiny, dried tear track that you had missed near your ear. His touch was incredibly soft, completely different from his usual clumsy, rough-and-tumble energy.

He looked straight down into your eyes, his voice dropping into a quiet, remarkably gentle tone. "Hey. No more crying about that guy on this trip. From this moment on, you only laugh with me. Deal?"

You stared up at his dark, clear eyes, completely caught off guard by how serious he looked for that single second. You nodded slowly, a genuine smile pulling at your lips. "Deal."

"Awesome!" Jungkook yelled instantly, completely shattering the quiet, sweet moment as he slammed his hand down onto the roof of the car and hopped into the driver's seat. "Get in, loser! We have snacks to buy and miles to burn!"

You climbed into the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt as Jungkook cranked up the engine. The car filled with the cool blast of the air conditioner, and as you pulled out of the parking lot, you looked over at him. He was already tapping his fingers happily against the steering wheel, completely ready for the road. The sadness was still there, lurking in the back of your mind, but looking at his bright, energetic smile, you knew this road trip was going to be exactly what you needed.

…

The first two hours of the road trip were an absolute, unmitigated war zone. Specifically, a war over who controlled the car's Bluetooth settings, and neither of you was willing to sign a peace treaty.

The highway stretched out infinitely ahead of you, a long ribbon of gray asphalt surrounded by massive, rolling green hills and a perfectly clear blue sky. It was a textbook summer day. The windows were rolled down halfway, filling the car with a loud, roaring rush of wind that blew your hair completely wildly across your face and brought in the fresh scent of cut grass.

You were slouched deeply in the passenger seat, your knees propped against the dashboard, staring out at the passing green trees. For a brief minute, the noise of the wind faded into the background of your mind, and your brain tried to slide back into thinking about your ex. You felt that familiar, annoying little sting in your throat, a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. Automatically, wanting to drown out the silence, your hand reached toward the glowing dashboard screen to connect your phone.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jungkook asked suddenly. He didn't take his eyes off the highway, but his upper body instantly leaned toward the center console like a guard dog protecting a bone.

"I’m just trying to play a song," you said, pulling up a playlist of very quiet, very sad indie acoustic ballads. "Just background music for the drive."

"Absolutely not," Jungkook said, pressing his foot down on the gas pedal to pass a slow-moving semi-truck. "I know that exact tone of voice. You’re about to play one of those depressing songs where the singer sounds like they’re whispering while crying in a dark closet. This car is a designated heartbreak-free zone. No sad guitars allowed on my watch."

"Jungkook, it’s a beautiful song! Just let me play one!" you argued, reaching your fingers closer to the touchscreen. "It sets a peaceful mood!"

"Peaceful? Sweets, that song makes people want to stare out a rainy window and question their entire existence," he countered.

In one lightning-fast move, Jungkook snatched the charging cable, plugged it into his own phone, and slapped his device firmly into the cup holder. "Too bad. The captain has taken total control of the vessel. Prepare your ears for actual quality."

A ridiculously loud, incredibly upbeat pop song from 2012 blasted through the car speakers. The beat was incredibly fast, and entirely impossible to take seriously. It was a song you hadn't heard since high school, filled with cheesy dramatic bass drops.

You let out a massive groan, covering your face with both hands as the speakers rattled. "Oh my god, please no. Not this song. Turn it off right now! I will actually jump out of the moving vehicle, I swear to god."

Jungkook completely ignored your suffering. His face lit up with pure, unadulterated mischief. He snatched his half-empty plastic water bottle from the holder, gripping it tightly like a professional microphone. He started belting out the lyrics at the absolute top of his lungs, intentionally hitting every single high note completely out of tune. He bounced his shoulders to the rhythm, his head bobbing wildly as he kept his eyes safely glued to the road.

"Come on! I know you know the chorus! Don't lie to me!" he shouted over the blaring music, shoving the top of the water bottle toward your face like an aggressive reporter.

"I am absolutely not participating in this," you laughed, trying your hardest to maintain a stern, annoyed expression, but failing completely. You tried to swat the water bottle away, but he just leaned closer, his voice getting even louder and more ridiculous.

When the main chorus hit, Jungkook did a dramatic, slow-motion hair shake, turning his head just enough to give you a ridiculous, cheesy wink through his dark sunglasses. He looked so absurd—this highly muscular, broad-shouldered guy who spent five days a week lifting heavy weights at the gym, singing a sugary girl-pop anthem with the passion of a stadium performer.

The ridiculousness of the sight was too much. You burst into a loud, hysterical laugh that completely filled the space of the car, your ribs aching. Hearing you laugh only made Jungkook grow more confident. He started doing little seated dance moves, tapping his fingers wildly against the steering wheel and wiggling his eyebrows at you.

By the time the fourth song came on, you completely threw away your dignity. You grabbed an empty plastic coffee cup to use as your own microphone, rolled your window down all the way, and joined him. You both screamed the ridiculous lyrics out into the open air as the highway blurred past, your voices cracking on the high notes. For the first time in what felt like centuries, the heavy, suffocating cloud in your head was totally gone. You weren't a dumped ex-girlfriend wallowing in self-pity. You were just you, acting like a complete idiot with your best friend.

"We need a strategy," Jungkook said solemnly as you walked through the sliding glass doors of the convenience store. The air conditioning hit you like an icy wall, smelling faintly of stale coffee and hot dogs. "We can't just pick random snacks. We need a perfect balance of salty, sweet, sour, and a wild card."

"A wild card?" you asked, eyebrow raised as you grabbed a small plastic shopping basket.

"Yes. Something we have never tried before, or something that looks mildly dangerous to eat," he explained, completely serious. He marched straight over to the chip aisle, his eyes scanning the shelves like a scientist. "For salty, we are obviously going with the giant bag of sour cream and onion. It's a classic. No debate."

"Fine, but I get to choose the sweet snack," you argued, stepping past him to grab a pack of chocolate-covered pretzels. "These are mandatory."

Jungkook looked at the bag, then down at you, nodding slowly in approval. "Excellent choice. The salt-to-chocolate ratio is highly efficient. I respect it." He then wandered over to the candy section, holding up a box of extremely sour gummy worms. "For sour, we go with these. They look like they will strip the enamel right off our teeth. Perfect."

"And what’s the wild card?" you asked, following him as he walked over to a weird display near the cash register.

He pointed a finger at a dusty jar containing massive, bright pink pickled sausages floating in cloudy liquid. "Those. They look like an alien life form."

"Absolutely not, Jungkook! I am not letting you eat a radioactive sausage in your car. The smell will never leave the fabric," you shrieked, grabbing his arm to pull him away from the counter.

Jungkook laughed, a rich, bouncy sound that made his chest shake against your hand. He let you drag him toward the drink cooler, where he immediately grabbed three bottles of sweet banana milk and an iced coffee for you. "Fine, no alien sausages. But if we run out of fuel for our brains, I’m blaming you."

By the time you reached the register, your basket was completely overflowing with junk food. Jungkook pulled out his wallet before you could even reach for yours, tossing his card to the cashier with a confident smirk.

"I told you, I’m funding the snack department on this trip," he said, bumping his shoulder against yours playfully. "Your money is no good here, sweets."

"You're just trying to buy my affection so I don't roast your music taste anymore," you teased, grabbing the heavy plastic bag as the cashier handed it over.

"Is it working?" he asked, flashing a quick, bunny-toothed grin as he pushed the exit door open for you.

"Slightly," you admitted, popping a chocolate pretzel into your mouth as you walked back out into the bright, baking afternoon heat. "The banana milk definitely helped your case."

Back on the road, the smooth, flat highway slowly began to change. The scenery grew more crowded with large patches of trees, and the road began to tilt upward as you approached the lower hills of the mountain range.

It was around this time that Jungkook’s "perfect internal navigation system," which he had spent the last thirty miles bragging about, proved to be an absolute, unmitigated disaster.

"Jungkook," you said, leaning forward in your seat and squinting through the windshield as the smooth asphalt slowly transitioned into a bumpy, unpaved road. "The giant yellow sign we passed back there definitely said 'Road Closed Ahead.' Like, in giant, flashing bold letters."

"Don't worry about it, it’s fine. The main highway has a massive traffic backup according to my radar. I’m taking a highly calculated shortcut," he said smoothly, spinning the leather steering wheel to the right with total, unearned confidence. "Trust the process. I have an internal compass. It's an instinct, really. My ancestors were probably navigators."

"Your ancestors probably didn't have to deal with dead ends, Jungkook," you muttered, holding onto the door handle as the car jolted over a particularly deep pothole.

The road grew narrower and narrower, the thick trees closing in on either side until branches were lightly brushing against the side mirrors. The GPS screen on the dashboard had completely lost its mind, showing your little car icon spinning in circles in the middle of a massive green void.

Ten minutes later, the road completely ended. It didn't just narrow down—it stopped dead at a rotten wooden farm fence. On the other side of the fence stood three very large, very brown, and very confused-looking cows. They stopped chewing their grass to stare directly through the windshield at your car.

The car went completely silent except for the low, quiet idling hum of the engine.

You turned your head very slowly on the headrest to look at him. Jungkook was still gripping the steering wheel with both hands, staring blankly through the glass at the cows. His mouth was slightly open, his brain actively processing the absolute defeat.

The silence stretched on for a solid thirty seconds.

"Wow," you whispered softly, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Incredible shortcut, captain. Truly magnificent. Should I roll down the passenger window and ask the middle cow for the fastest route back to civilization, or do you want to handle the negotiations?"

Jungkook’s ears instantly turned a bright, burning shade of pink, the color creeping up from his collar. He cleared his throat loudly, stubbornly refusing to look at you at first. He squeezed the steering wheel tightly, then let out a tiny, embarrassed, high-pitched giggle that he tried to disguise as a cough.

"Hey... honestly, sweets, they look like they know the area," he mumbled, finally glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "They look like locals. They probably have a lot of wisdom."

"Admission of total defeat, Jeon. Say the words," you teased, unbuckling your seatbelt so you could lean your upper body completely across the center console, getting directly into his line of sight. "I want to hear you say it."

"Fine! I whined," he groaned, throwing his arms up in the air dramatically and letting his head fall back against the seat. "We are completely, utterly lost. My internal compass is broken. The ancestors lied to me. You win the navigation trophy. Happy now?"

"Incredibly happy," you laughed loudly, reaching your hand completely across his lap to grab his phone from the plastic dashboard mount so you could check the real map. "Now give me the device so we don't end up living in a barn with your new friends."

Because you had lunged over so quickly without thinking, your shoulder bumped hard against his broad chest. Your hand froze right on the screen of his phone.

Jungkook froze instantly beneath you. He didn't pull back. You froze too, your breath hitching as you suddenly realized exactly how close your faces were.

From this distance, the loud wind from outside felt completely quiet. The playful, chaotic energy that had filled the car for hours vanished in a single fraction of a second. You were leaning completely over his lap, your face mere inches from his. You could smell the sharp, clean, woodsy scent of his cologne mixed with the faint sweetness of the mint gum he was chewing.

His dark, round eyes were incredibly wide, staring straight down into your face. In the dimming afternoon light inside the car, his jawline looked remarkably sharp. For a tiny, terrifyingly unexpected second, his gaze dropped from your eyes down to your lips, lingering there for a heavy beat before snapping back up.

Your brain suddenly realized, with terrifying clarity, that Jungkook was very large, very solid, and entirely a grown man.

The silence lasted a second too long, the tension stretching tight like a rubber band.

Jungkook quickly cleared his throat, the sound a bit rougher than usual. He broke the weird spell by gently wrapping his large fingers around your wrist to help guide the phone into your hand, his skin burning hot against yours. He flashed a slightly forced, goofy grin to shatter the moment. "Here. Take it, captain. Save us from the cows."

"Thanks," you whispered, your voice a little breathless as you scrambled back into your own seat as fast as possible. Your heart was thumping a little too fast, a deep, hot blush rapidly spreading across your cheeks as you quickly stared down at the phone screen, praying he wouldn't notice.

"Alright," you said after a minute, desperately trying to keep your voice level and normal as you tapped the map screen. "If you put the car in reverse and back up about fifty yards, there’s a small tractor path that loops back to the main county road."

"On it," Jungkook said, clearly glad for the distraction. He threw the car into reverse, throwing his right arm over the back of your headrest so he could look out the rear window as he backed up.

Having his large arm stretched out right behind your neck made you feel incredibly small, his biceps flexing just inches from your face. You kept your eyes glued to the phone screen, pretending to study the map with intense interest, though the lines were completely blurring together.

"See? I told you I'd get us off the beaten path," Jungkook joked as the car successfully bounced back onto the main paved road a few minutes later. The playful, easygoing banter was returning, but the air in the car felt slightly different now—warmer, charged with a tiny, lingering spark that neither of you knew how to acknowledge.

"You got us into a staring contest with livestock, Jungkook," you retorted, rolling your eyes but letting out a soft laugh. "Let's just stick to the actual road from now on."

"Fines," he chuckled, tapping his fingers against the wheel as the highway finally began to wind upward into the beautiful, dark green mountains. "But if we see a cool waterfall on a dirt path, I'm not making any promises."

…

By the time you finally reached the higher mountain region, the bright summer sky had completely vanished. It was replaced by heavy, bruised-looking purple clouds. A sudden, massive downpour began to slam against the windshield, the rain coming down so thick that the wipers struggled to keep up with the sheets of water.

The GPS led you down a narrow, winding road that cut through massive forests covered in thick gray mist. It felt like you were driving straight into a movie scene. Finally, the car pulled up to a small, rustic wooden cabin nestled tightly between the trees. The yellow porch light cast a warm, blurry glow through the dark storm.

"We made it alive," Jungkook said, turning off the ignition. The sudden silence inside the car, save for the loud drumming of rain on the metal roof, felt incredibly heavy.

He looked over at you, noticing that you were shivering slightly from the sudden drop in the mountain temperature. Without saying a single word, he reached into the back seat, grabbed his spare, giant black hoodie, and dumped it right into your lap.

"Put that on before you turn into an ice cube," he said smoothly. "You're shaking."

The hoodie was completely massive on you. When you pulled it over your head, it smelled entirely like his clean laundry detergent and faint mint gum. The sleeves completely swallowed your hands, extending way past your fingers, but it was incredibly warm. You buried your nose into the high collar, instantly feeling a sense of absolute safety.

Getting the luggage inside, however, turned into a complete comedy. Jungkook, determined to show off his weekly gym progress, insisted on carrying both your giant suitcase and his heavy duffel bag at the exact same time. He grabbed both handles, took three highly confident, heavy steps toward the wooden porch, and suddenly, the cheap zipper on his overstuffed duffel bag completely popped open.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Jungkook muttered, freezing in place.

Before he could drop the bags, half of his packed clothes—including five pairs of bright neon socks and his favorite oversized gaming t-shirts—spilled out onto the wet, rainy wooden steps.

You stood safely under the porch roof, burying your face in your hands as you tried to suffocate your laughter. Jungkook scrambled around in the pouring rain, frantically scooping up his wet laundry with a deeply panicked, embarrassed expression.

"Don't look at me!" he yelled dramatically, clutching a bundle of wet gray sweatpants to his chest like a shield. "This is completely destroying my cool image!"

"You don't have a cool image!" you shouted back, laughing until your stomach hurt as you helped him grab the last few stray shirts and pulled him inside the warm cabin.

The interior of the place was beautiful—all dark wood walls, a stone fireplace, and a massive glass window looking out at the rainy woods. But the second you both walked into the bedroom area, you stopped dead in your tracks.

There was only one bed. It was a massive, king-sized bed with fluffy white comforters and a mountain of pillows, sitting right in the center of the room.

"Wait a minute," you said, quickly pulling up the email confirmation on your phone. "I definitely selected the option for two twin beds. I checked the box."

Jungkook walked back out to the small main office by the lobby, returning a few minutes later while scratching the back of his neck nervously. "Uh, so... turns out there was a massive booking glitch because of the storm. A bunch of travelers got stranded on the highway, so the place is completely full. This is the only room left in the entire place."

You looked at the single, giant bed, and then you looked at Jungkook.

In the past, sharing a sleeping space wouldn't have made you blink. You had known this guy forever. You had fallen asleep on his bedroom floor while playing video games a million times. It was always safe, always platonic, always totally effortless. But right now, standing in the dim, warm light of the cabin, the atmosphere felt completely different.

He wasn't the scrawny kid from next door anymore. He was a grown man with heavy shoulders and a presence that suddenly made the bedroom feel very, very small.

"Hey," Jungkook said softly, noticing your sudden silence. He stepped closer, clearly misinterpreting your expression. He thought you were getting sad about your ruined romantic plans again. "Look, if you’re uncomfortable, I can easily sleep on the floor. Or I can just crash in the back seat of the car. It’s seriously no big deal, sweets. Don't worry about it."

You looked at his damp hair, a few wet strands sticking to his forehead from the rain, and his wide, genuinely concerned eyes. You felt a wave of guilt for making him feel like an intruder.

"No, don't be ridiculous," you said, forcing a loud, casual laugh to clear the weird, awkward tension in the air. "It's a massive bed. We can just put a line of pillows down the middle. Like we did when we were kids. If your foot crosses over to my territory, I’m kicking you out."

Jungkook’s entire face instantly brightened, his familiar bunny smile returning in full force. "Oh, it's on. If you steal the blankets, I'm charging you a late fee."

After a highly sophisticated dinner of instant spicy ramen that you bought from the lobby store, the night grew late. The heavy rain outside continued to beat a loud, steady rhythm against the glass window. The cabin was incredibly warm, heated by the small electric fireplace in the corner.

You had changed into comfortable sweatpants but kept his giant hoodie on, the fabric keeping you completely cozy. Jungkook had changed into low-slung gray sweatpants and a simple, tight black t-shirt that showed off the lines of his arms.

You both climbed into the massive bed, keeping an intentional, wide gap of white sheet between your bodies, with a long fortress of pillows stacked neatly down the center. You lay flat on your back, staring up at the dark wooden beams of the ceiling, listening to the storm.

"Hey," Jungkook’s voice was surprisingly quiet, cutting through the dark room. He was lying on his side, facing your direction, his head propped up by his hand.

"Yeah?" you asked, turning your head toward him.

Jungkook looked at you through the gap in the pillows. The playful, goofy expression was gone. He looked serious, his dark eyes analyzing you carefully. "Can I ask you something? And you have to promise not to get mad or throw a pillow at my face."

"Depends on the question," you muttered, shifting slightly under the heavy blanket.

"Why are you actually crying so much over this guy?" he asked bluntly, his voice grounded and steady.

You blinked, caught completely off guard. "What do you mean? He broke up with me right before a vacation. It's normal to be sad."

Jungkook let out a low, quiet huff that sounded like a laugh, but it wasn't mean. He rested his chin on his forearm, staring directly into your eyes. "Sweets, let’s be entirely real for a second. That guy was a total time pass. For both of you."

"He was not!" you protested, though your voice lacked real conviction.

"He absolutely was," Jungkook countered smoothly, his tone incredibly calm. "You guys dated for what, eight months? And half the time, you forgot to even text him back because you were too busy baking or watching a show. You never talked about a future with him. You never even looked excited when he called. When he was around, it was just... convenient. It was a habit."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words completely died in your throat. You stared up at the ceiling, your heart thumping against your ribs as his words sank in.

"I stayed back and didn't say anything because it wasn't my place," Jungkook continued softly, his voice dropping into a lower, gentler register. "I honestly thought you weren't even serious about him. I thought if you broke up, you’d just say 'oh well' and move on. So seeing you completely turn into a blanket burrito and weep for twelve hours straight... it doesn't make sense. You didn't love him, sweets."

"Then why does it hurt so much?" you whispered, your voice suddenly feeling very small, very raw in the dark cabin. A tiny, hot tear slipped down the side of your face, soaking into the pillow. "Why am I so miserable?"

Jungkook didn't answer with words right away. Instead, you felt the mattress shift heavily. He didn't cross the pillow barrier completely, but he reached his large, warm hand over the top of the cushions. His long fingers gently found yours under the edge of the blanket.

He didn't squeeze your hand hard, but his grip was incredibly steady, anchor-like. His skin was burning hot against your cold fingers.

"Because your pride is hurt," Jungkook said softly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your face in the dim orange glow of the fireplace. "He rejected you, and nobody likes being rejected. It makes you feel lonely. It makes you feel like you failed at something. But you're missing the habit, not the person. You deserve someone who isn't just a 'time pass,'. You deserve someone who actually makes you feel alive."

You stared at him through the darkness, your breath completely catching in your throat.

His large thumb began to slowly, casually stroke the back of your hand, a tiny, repetitive movement that sent a strange, electric shiver straight up your arm. You were acutely, terrifyingly aware of how large he was, how close he was sitting on the other side of those pillows.

Your brain completely short-circuited. You had spent months telling yourself that your ex was the partner you were supposed to have, but standing next to Jungkook's sudden, intense emotional maturity, that entire relationship felt like a joke. The deep, unconditional comfort you felt with Jungkook right now—the way he read your mind, the way he knew exactly what you needed without you asking—it felt dangerously close to what real love was supposed to look like.

No, you told yourself fiercely, your heart slamming wildly against your ribs. You are just lonely. You are just emotional because of the breakup, so you are projecting onto your best friend. It’s just the cozy cabin setting making things weird.

"Jungkook," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to pull yourself back to reality.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his eyes dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to meet your gaze.

"You're being entirely too smart for a guy who got lost because of three cows," you teased weakly, trying to bring back the safe, funny dynamic before the physical tension completely swallowed you whole.

Jungkook froze for a second, then let out a rich, quiet chuckle, the heavy, romantic spell breaking just enough for both of you to breathe. He didn't let go of your hand, though. He kept his fingers loosely intertwined with yours over the pillows, his warmth keeping you grounded.

"Just admit I’m right. It’ll save us a lot of time." he grumbled playfully, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You're mildly right," you admitted, a genuine, soft smile finally pulling at your lips as you closed your eyes. "Just a little bit."

"I'll take it," he whispered.

…

The following morning, the mountain storm had completely vanished, leaving behind a crisp, beautifully blue sky. The air smelled of fresh pine and wet earth. After a quick breakfast of slightly burnt toast that Jungkook managed to overcook while trying to do a celebratory dance in the kitchen, you both loaded up the car and drove further south, descending the winding mountain roads toward a historic coastal town known for its gorgeous beaches.

The three-hour drive was filled with more loud music and Jungkook trying to explain the entire deep history of a sci-fi video game with intense hand gestures that almost made him miss an exit, but it kept you laughing the entire way. The heavy, emotional conversation from the night before wasn't mentioned again, but something had fundamentally shifted. Every time his hand brushed yours near the gear shift, or every time he called you sweets with that low, casual roll of his voice, your stomach did a tiny, nervous flip.

It's just the post-breakup rebound brain, you told yourself firmly, staring out at the passing blue ocean. He's just my best friend being a good guy. And you were confident about that feeling.

By the time the afternoon sun was high and baking, you finally arrived at your next stop: a stunning, incredibly luxurious boutique hotel built right on the edge of a massive cliff overlooking the sparkling sea. It looked like a place where millionaires vacationed, complete with a grand marble lobby, high ceilings, and giant floor-to-ceiling glass walls showing off the crashing waves below.

"Wow," Jungkook muttered under his breath, adjusting the strap of his heavy duffel bag as you both walked across the polished floors. "You really went all out on this booking. I feel like I need to apologize to the floor for stepping on it with my sneakers."

"I saved up for six months for this specific stop," you said, pulling out your ID as you walked up to the grand marble front desk. "It was supposed to be the highlight of the trip."

The receptionist, an older woman with a very neat bun and a sharp, elegant uniform, typed into her computer. Her polite smile quickly faltered into a worried frown as she tapped the keyboard a few more times. "Oh, dear. It looks like we have a bit of a major system glitch today. Your reservation for a standard queen room was accidentally cancelled during our server update this morning."

Your stomach instantly dropped. "What? But I already received the confirmation email weeks ago. Is there another standard room?"

"I see that, and I am deeply sorry," the woman explained nicely, looking genuinely apologetic. "The issue is that we are completely booked tonight due to the local seafood festival. The absolute only room we have left available in the entire building is our top-tier Honeymoon Luxury Suite."

You winced, already anticipating the terrible answer. "How much extra is the upgrade fee?"

The receptionist checked her screen. "Normally, it is double the standard price. However, since it was our technical error, our policy allows me to give it to you for a very small, flat fee... if you are actually celebrating an anniversary or a honeymoon. It’s a strict rule for that specific luxury suite because of the promotional packages."

You opened your mouth, completely prepared to tell the truth, admit you were just friends, and accept the depressing fact that you’d probably have to spend the night sleeping in the passenger seat of Jungkook’s car down the street.

But before a single word could leave your lips, Jungkook smoothly stepped forward. Without warning, he slid a heavy, confident arm completely around your waist, yanking you firmly against his side. His grip was incredibly strong, remarkably warm, and shockingly casual, pressing your hip right against his thigh.

"Actually," Jungkook said, his voice dropping into a smooth, deeply charming register that you had never heard him use in his entire life. He looked down at you with an incredibly sweet, star-struck smile that looked terrifyingly real. "It’s our honeymoon. We literally just got married three days ago. Right, sweets?"

Your entire brain completely shutting down. Your eyes went wide with absolute shock, your body freezing under the intense heat of his arm wrapped around you. Jungkook gave your waist a subtle, firm little warning squeeze, his dark eyes pleading with you to just play along with the lie.

"Uh... yes! Absolutely!" you stammered out, forcing a high-pitched, awkward laugh that sounded completely insane to your own ears. "Yes! We are... newlyweds! Just so deeply in love. So much love between us."

The receptionist’s professional face instantly melted into a warm, excited grin. "Oh, congratulations! How absolutely wonderful. In that case, the Honeymoon Suite is officially yours, and I will waive the upgrade fee entirely as a wedding gift from the hotel management."

"Thank you so much, we really appreciate it," Jungkook said, flashing his perfect, white teeth as he took the gold room key card.

The exact millisecond the elevator doors slid shut and you were completely alone, you turned around and slapped his muscular arm hard. "Are you completely out of your mind? What was that?"

Jungkook let out a massive, booming laugh, rubbing his arm where you hit him even though it didn't hurt him at all. His arm dropped away from your waist, and you were deeply annoyed by how suddenly cold your side felt without his hand there.

"Hey! I just saved us a thousand dollars and got us a literal celebrity suite," he said proudly, jiggling the gold key card in front of your nose. "You should be thanking your highly attractive new husband."

"Don't say weird jokes like that," you mumbled, your face burning intensely hot as the elevator shot upward. "We have to keep pretending now. What if the staff sees us in the lobby later? We can't break character."

"Then we just act all lovey-dovey," Jungkook teased, leaning his face down closer to yours with a dramatic, exaggerated pout. "Do you want to practice holding hands right now? I can kiss your cheek if you want to make it look believable for the security cameras."

"Shut up, Jungkook," you laughed, shoving his broad chest away, but your stomach was doing wild, terrifying acrobatics. Touching his chest felt different now—less like a joke and more like an dangerous reminder of how solid he was.

The Honeymoon Suite was completely ridiculous. It was massive, featuring a private outdoor balcony built directly over the crashing waves, a private hot tub, and a giant king bed covered entirely in fresh, bright red rose petals shaped into a giant heart.

"Oh, man," Jungkook laughed, walking over to the bed, scooping up a handful of rose petals, and blowing them into the air like confetti. "They really went full romance mode. Look at this. It's like a movie set."

You walked past him out onto the sunlit balcony, leaning your hands against the stone railing to escape the enclosed space of the room. The view was breathtaking. The endless blue ocean stretched out to the horizon, the waves crashing loudly against the rocks far below. The salty, warm sea breeze blew through your hair, cooling your hot cheeks.

Jungkook walked out a second later, standing right next to you. He rested his muscular forearms on the railing, looking out at the water. In the bright afternoon sunlight, his profile looked incredibly sharp. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and his jawline looked striking.

"It’s really beautiful here," he said softly, turning his head to look at you.

You looked up, meeting his eyes. For a long, quiet moment, his expression wasn't playful or teasing at all. His dark eyes looked deep, intense, and incredibly serious. He stared down at you with a heavy look that made your breath completely catch in your throat.

"Yeah," you whispered, your heart thudding violently against your ribs. You were completely unsure if your brain was talking about the ocean view or the boy standing right next to you. "It really is."

Jungkook quickly cleared his throat, turning his head back to the water, a faint pink color dusting the tips of his ears.

With several hours to kill before dinner, Jungkook decided the beach was calling. He changed into a pair of simple black swim shorts and a loose white t-shirt, while you threw on a casual beach dress over your swimsuit.

The hotel's private beach was a secluded cove of soft, white sand trapped between towering cliffs. The sun was starting its slow descent, painting the sky in warm shades of gold.

"Race you to the water!" Jungkook yelled the second your feet hit the sand, completely shattering the lingering awkwardness from the balcony.

"Hey! No fair, you have longer legs!" you shrieked, running after him as he kicked off his sandals, laughing wildly.

He didn't actually dive into the water; instead, he stopped right at the shoreline, letting the cool, foamy waves lap at his ankles. When you caught up to him, out of breath and laughing, he suddenly scooped up a handful of ocean water and splashed it directly at your legs.

"Jungkook! It’s freezing!" you screamed, instantly splashing him back.

What followed was a full-scale water war. Jungkook took the brunt of your splashes, dramatically throwing his arms up and pretending to be defeated by your attacks, his loud, rich laughter echoing against the cliffs. He was careful not to splash you too hard, always making sure you were having fun.

Eventually, soaked and completely exhausted from laughing, you both collapsed onto a large beach towel you had spread out on the dry sand, just out of reach of the tide. You lay flat on your back, staring up at the golden clouds, your chest rising and falling.

Jungkook propped himself up on his elbow next to you, shaking his wet hair like a puppy, sending a few stray drops of water onto your arm.

"Hey! Watch it!" you complained, giggling as you swatted at him.

"Sorry, sweets," he chuckled, his voice soft. He didn't look away this time. He stayed propped up, his dark eyes tracing the lines of your face as you smiled. The casual use of the nickname didn't feel like a joke anymore. It felt heavy.

"You know," you said quietly, trying to keep the mood light as you stared at the sky. "My ex never wanted to go to the beach. He said sand was too messy and annoying to clean out of the car."

Jungkook let out a small, flat sound from his throat. "Like I said, the guy was a time pass. A real partner doesn't care about a little sand if it means making you laugh."

You turned your head to look at him. He was looking down at you with such an intense, steady warmth that your breath completely caught. He wasn't moving closer, he wasn't overstepping, but the emotional security he was offering you was terrifying.

Your mind instantly went into overdrive. You are just comparing him to your ex because you're hurt, you lectured yourself frantically. Don't read into it. Don't ruin the best friendship you have.

"Well," you whispered, forcing a playful smirk onto your face despite the frantic thumping of your heart. "You're definitely messy, Jeon. Look at your hair."

Jungkook blinked, the intense look dissolving into a goofy crinkle of his eyes as he rubbed his messy, wet locks. "Hey, this is beach style. People pay a lot of money for this look."

You laughed, rolling your eyes, but as you both lay there watching the sun slowly dip toward the horizon, the silence between you felt completely charged. The lines were blurring faster than you could count, and you were running out of excuses to tell your own heart.

…

The golden hue of the sunset had completely melted into a deep, velvety indigo by the time you both made it back upstairs to the Honeymoon Suite. The ocean outside was a dark, roaring shadow beneath the balcony, its rhythm steady and heavy. Inside, the room felt incredibly warm, the scent of the fresh rose petals still hanging thick and sweet in the air.

You were both completely exhausted, your skin radiating that pleasant, slightly tight heat that only comes from a full day under the summer sun and salt water.

"I am so hungry I could actually eat that wooden door frame," Jungkook groaned, throwing himself flat across the giant king bed, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was crushing the neatly arranged heart of rose petals. He splayed his arms and legs out, letting out a long, dramatic sigh into the pillows. "We need food. Immediately. If I don't get protein in the next ten minutes, I am going to wither away into a shadow."

"You're not going to wither away, you dramatic infant," you laughed, walking over to the small desk to pick up the leather-bound room service menu. "Let’s see what they have."

As you flipped through the glossy pages, your eyes widened slightly at the menu options. Because it was a dedicated luxury honeymoon suite, the room service wasn't just standard burgers and fries. Everything was explicitly organized for couples.

"Uh, Jungkook?" you called out, biting your lower lip nervously. "They have a 'Lovers' Seafood Platter' for two, a 'Sweetheart Fondue Share-Box,' and... a complimentary bottle of champagne that comes automatically with any evening dinner order for newlyweds."

Jungkook popped his head up from the pillows, his dark eyes instantly lighting up like a little kid on Christmas morning. "Complimentary champagne? And a giant platter of seafood? Sweets, call them right now. Give them the fake wedding details. Tell them we are absolutely famished from all our deep, eternal newlywed love."

"Jungkook, we are going to get caught," you warned, but a small, bubbly laugh escaped you anyway.

"We won't get caught! We are committed to the bit," he insisted, scrambling off the bed and marching over to you. He leaned his shoulder against yours, looking down at the menu over your arm. He was so close you could feel the physical heat radiating off his chest, still smelling faintly of ocean salt and his clean deodorant. "Look, just put on your best 'happily married' voice. You can do it."

With a deep breath, you picked up the vintage-style room phone and dialed the kitchen. The second the staff answered, Jungkook leaned his head right next to yours, his cheek almost brushing your ear so he could overhear the call, his quiet, bouncy giggles vibrating against your shoulder.

"Hi, yes, we’d like to order the Lovers' Seafood Platter, please," you said, trying desperately to sound mature and sophisticated while Jungkook actively made ridiculous, kissy-faces at you to try and make you crack. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block him out. "Yes, room 402. And... yes, we are the newlyweds from this afternoon. Thank you."

The second you hung up the receiver, you turned around and shoved his chest hard. "You are the absolute worst! I almost choked on my own spit because you were making those stupid faces!"

Jungkook stumbled back a step, laughing that rich, loud, bunny-toothed laugh that always made your chest feel tight. "But you didn't crack! You handled it like a professional liar. I'm proud of you, wifey."

"Stop calling me that," you mumbled, your face instantly flushing a violent, brilliant shade of pink. You quickly turned your back to him, pretending to look out the dark window so he wouldn't see the massive effect his stupid, casual jokes were having on your heart rate.

Thirty minutes later, a loud, polite knock echoed at the heavy wooden door.

"I've got it," Jungkook called out, eagerly jogging over to the entrance.

You sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, smoothing down the edges of your oversized t-shirt. The door opened, and a young hotel waiter rolled in a massive, silver room service cart covered in a white linen tablecloth. On top was an absolute mountain of fresh crab legs, grilled shrimp, oysters, and two glowing candles in glass holders. Resting in a silver bucket of crushed ice was a sweat-beaded bottle of expensive champagne.

"Complimentary champagne for the beautiful newlyweds," the waiter said with a warm, respectful bow, lifting the bottle to pop the cork with a smooth, professional pop. He poured the sparkling liquid into two elegant crystal flutes. "The hotel management hopes your marriage is as beautiful and endless as the ocean view tonight."

"Thank you, man. I appreciate it," Jungkook said smoothly.

Before the waiter could turn to leave, he glanced at the large king bed, noticing the scattered rose petals, and then he looked back at the table. He picked up a small, elegant white box from the lower shelf of the cart—something that hadn't been on the menu.

"And a special, complimentary dessert from our pastry chef," the waiter added, a knowing, slightly playful smile on his face as he placed it right between the candles. "Our signature 'Aphrodite Chocolate Molten Cake.' It is designed to be shared... with only one spoon."

You almost choked on thin air. Your eyes darted to the single, shiny silver spoon resting on top of the box.

"Perfect. My favorite," Jungkook said without skipping a single beat. He reached into his pocket, handed the waiter a very generous cash tip, and bid him a good night.

The second the door clicked shut, the room fell into a heavy, quiet stillness. The two tiny candle flames flickered gently in the draft from the balcony, casting long, dancing shadows across the dark wood walls.

Jungkook walked back over to the cart, looking down at the single spoon, then up at you. The easy, confident swagger he had used with the waiter seemed to evaporate, replaced by a sudden, slightly nervous clear of his throat.

"Well," he said, his voice dropping into a lower, quieter register as he pulled out a chair for you. "The guy said it’s a gift. It would be a crime against the pastry industry to let a chocolate cake go to waste."

"Right," you whispered, standing up on slightly shaky legs and sitting down across from him.

For the first twenty minutes, the food was the perfect distraction. You both cracked open crab legs, argued over who got the biggest grilled shrimp, and drank the bubbly champagne. Jungkook, completely true to form, ended up getting a drop of seafood sauce right on the front of his clean t-shirt, which led to a five-minute bickering match about how he was incapable of eating like a civilized human being.

It was safe. It was loud. It was exactly how you two had always been.

But then, the main platter was cleared away, leaving only the small white box in the center of the table. Jungkook reached out, his large fingers untying the silk ribbon and opening the cardboard flaps.

The dessert was beautiful—a dark, rich chocolate cake dusting with powdered sugar, its center visibly soft and oozing warm, dark chocolate fudge. And there, sitting right next to it, was the single silver spoon.

"Alright," Jungkook said, picking up the utensil. He scooped up a perfectly neat, warm bite of the cake, the rich chocolate dripping slightly. He didn't hand the spoon to you. Instead, he leaned across the small table, his dark, intense eyes locking onto yours as he held the spoon out toward your mouth. "Open up, sweets. Let's see if the chef is actually a professional."

You stared at him, your eyes wide. His large hand was incredibly steady, but you could see a tiny, barely noticeable muscle twitching in his sharp jawline. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't making a goofy face. He was looking at you with a heavy, unblinking intensity that made your entire soul feel exposed.

He’s just playing into the honeymoon joke, you tried to tell your screaming brain. It's just part of the bit.

But as you slowly leaned forward and let him slide the warm, sweet bite into your mouth, the flavor of the rich chocolate was completely overwhelmed by the sheer, terrifying proximity of his body. Your lips brushed lightly against the cold silver of the spoon, and you swore you saw Jungkook’s eyes darken for a fraction of a second, his gaze dropping straight to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes.

"Is it good?" he asked, his voice noticeably rougher, dropping into a quiet, raspy whisper that sent a sharp, electric shiver straight down your spine.

"Yeah," you breathed out, your voice barely audible over the sound of the ocean waves outside. "It’s... really good."

Jungkook didn't pull back immediately. He stayed leaning across the table, his face just inches from yours in the dim, flickering candlelight. The silence stretched between you, heavy and magnetic, pulling you both in like an undertow.

In that single, agonizingly slow second, you didn't think about your ex-boyfriend once. The memory of that eight-month relationship felt like a faint, insignificant shadow from a completely different lifetime. It hadn't been real. It hadn't been deep. It had been a time pass. But this? The wild, chaotic, terrifyingly intense heat roaring through your veins right now as you stared into Jungkook's eyes?

This was real. This was the exact feeling you had been running away from because you were too scared to admit that your best friend had the power to completely destroy your entire world with a single look.

Jungkook slowly pulled the spoon back, his thumb casually wiping away a tiny speck of chocolate from his own knuckle. He didn't take a bite for himself. He just sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving your face, watching the deep, burning blush completely cover your cheeks.

"Good," he murmured, a small, knowing, and dangerously handsome smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Because we have a lot of cake left to finish."

…

The rich, sweet taste of the chocolate cake stayed in the air long after the silver room service cart had been pushed into the far corner of the suite. The two small candles on the table had burned down a lot. Their tiny, dying flames threw long, moving shadows across the white blanket of the giant king-sized bed.

Inside the room, the air felt completely heavy. The silence was no longer the comfortable, easy quiet of two people who had known each other since they were kids. It was thick, messy, and full of confusion. Every single sound—even the rustle of the curtains—felt entirely too loud.

You felt like you could not breathe. Your chest felt tight, and your brain was spinning out of control. Needing to escape the small room before you completely lost your mind, you stepped out onto the private balcony.

The cold air hit you like a physical shock. The big storm from the night before was completely gone, but the ocean breeze here was much stronger. It carried a sharp, icy chill. The wind blew the dark fabric of Jungkook’s massive black hoodie wildly around your legs. That heavy cotton shirt was the only warm thing you had. Far below the balcony, the dark, ink-like water of the sea slammed violently against the sharp rocks, throwing white sprays of water high into the moonlight.

You gripped the cold stone railing with both hands. Your knuckles turned completely white because you were holding on so tight. You leaned your weight forward, letting the freezing mist hit your face. You desperately wanted the cold air to fix your messy thoughts.

What are you doing? you asked yourself angrily, closing your eyes tight while your heart beat fast and hard against your ribs. He is your best friend. He is Jungkook. He is the guy who has seen you look like a total mess, the guy who used to help you with your high school homework. He is just being extra nice because your ex rejected you. Do not make this weird. If you mess this up, you will lose the only safe person you have left in your life.

But the excuse did not work anymore. It felt like a total lie. The way his dark eyes had looked at you when he fed you that single spoon of chocolate, the sudden, deep roughness in his voice—that was not just friendship. It was not a joke for the hotel staff. It was something heavy, something real, and it terrified you to your core. You were not ready for this. You were still hurting, still confused, and everything was moving way too fast.

The heavy glass sliding door behind you moved with a soft, smooth click.

You did not turn around. You did not need to. The roaring sound of the wind was incredibly loud, but your body knew exactly where he was. The familiar, comforting smell of his clean laundry and the woodsy scent of his cologne cut through the salty air instantly. It wrapped around you before he even said a word.

Jungkook walked up to the stone railing. He did not stand far away from you with a safe gap between your shoulders. Instead, he leaned his large, solid body right next to your elbow. He shifted so he was facing you completely, with his back to the dark ocean.

He had changed out of his wet beach clothes into a clean, soft white tank top and loose gray sweatpants. In the bright, clear light of the full moon, he looked completely different. The cool light showed the sharp lines of his broad shoulders, his heavy chest, and the dark tattoos wrapping all the way down his right arm. He looked so big, so real, and so grown-up.

He did not speak right away. He just stood there, his dark, heavy eyes locked onto the side of your face, watching the wind pull your hair across your cheeks. The silence stretched between you for a long, painful minute. It was full of a sad, heavy ache.

"You're hiding out here," he said quietly. His voice was not loud, and he was not smiling. The playful, goofy tone he always used was completely gone. It was low, deep, and steady.

"I am not hiding," you lied immediately. Your voice sounded small and shaky. You stubbornly kept your eyes fixed on a distant white wave out in the dark sea, completely refusing to look up at him. "I'm just looking at the water. It’s a nice view. I just wanted some fresh air."

"Sweets."

The low roll of the nickname made your stomach do a painful, panicked flip. Before you could step back or run away, Jungkook reached out. His large, warm hand gently cupped the side of your neck. His long fingers wrapped slightly around the back of your neck, and his thumb rested firmly against your jawline. The heat of his palm felt like fire against your cold skin. It sent a sharp, electric shiver straight up your spine.

Gently, but with a firm strength that you could not fight, he tilted your face up. He forced you to look away from the ocean until you had no choice but to look straight into his dark eyes.

"You've been avoiding my eyes since we ate," he said softly, his gaze searching your face with a sad, deep intensity. "Your hands are shaking. And it's not because of the cold wind."

Your breath completely caught in your throat. Up close, you could see the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. You could see a tiny, serious twitch in his jaw. He was looking at you with so much raw emotion that it made you feel completely naked.

"Jungkook, don't," you whispered. Tears of pure stress and confusion started to fill your eyes. Your hands came up instinctively, pressing against his solid chest to try and push him away, but your fingers just ended up gripping his tight tank top. "Please don't do this. We need to stop. We are just playing a game for the hotel room. We need to stop making these jokes. It’s getting way too complicated. I can't handle it."

"Do you really think I’m joking?" he asked.

The question was so quiet, and so deeply sad, that it felt like the entire world stopped moving. The loud sound of the crashing waves below seemed to disappear.

Jungkook stepped even closer, his large, broad body completely blocking the freezing sea wind from hitting you. He trapped you between his big frame and the stone railing. He let his hand drop from your jawline, but he did not move away. Instead, he slid both of his large hands down to grip your waist. His fingers dug firmly into the thick fabric of his own oversized hoodie that you were wearing.

He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, heavy breath.

"I haven't been joking once on this entire trip," Jungkook confessed, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. "I wasn't joking when I rolled you into a blanket burrito just to see you smile. I wasn't joking when I told that woman at the desk you were my wife. And I definitely wasn't joking when we were inside that room just now."

"Jungkook, please stop," you sobbed out, a sudden wave of heavy panic and grief hitting your chest. A single, hot tear ran down your cold cheek. "You don't understand. I just broke up with someone two days ago! My brain is completely broken right now. I am a total mess. I am lonely, and my pride hurts, and everything hurts. I am just projecting these weird feelings onto you because you are here, because you are safe—"

"I don't care about him," Jungkook cut you off. His voice was not angry, but it had a fierce, heavy certainty that made your words completely drop to the floor. He squeezed your waist slightly, his thumb moving gently against your hip. "I told you, sweets. That guy was a time pass. You didn't love him. You never looked at him the way a person looks at someone they actually want to keep. You are crying because you hate being rejected, not because you miss him."

You stared at him, your lips parted, your mind completely stunned by how well he knew you.

"The only reason I stayed back and let you date him for months without saying a single word was because I was a coward," Jungkook whispered, his dark eyes dropping to your mouth for a second before snapping back up to yours. "I was terrified that if I told you the truth, if I told you that I love you, you’d get scared. I thought you would run away from me, and the thought of losing you completely was something I could not survive."

He took another deep, shaky breath. His big shoulders dropped as if he was finally letting go of a massive secret he had carried for years.

"But then I had to sit in my apartment and listen to you sob at two in the morning over a guy who didn't even care about you," he murmured, his voice cracking with real pain. "I had to watch you ruin your own happiness over a relationship that was just a boring habit. It almost drove me crazy, sweets. I can't do it anymore. I can't keep standing here pretending that you're just my buddy. I haven't looked at you like a friend in three years."

The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest.

Three years.

While you were just living your life, going on boring dates, and staying in a relationship out of pure habit, Jungkook had been standing right next to you, holding his breath, guarding his heart, and waiting for you to see him. Every single memory you had with him over the last few years—the late-night drives, the way he always brought you your favorite snacks, the way he would drop everything to come fix things in your apartment—suddenly felt completely different.

It was never just "best friend" behavior. It was real, deep, and unconditional love.

But instead of feeling happy, a massive wave of anxiety washed over you. You felt sick to your stomach. It felt too heavy. You were raw from a breakup, your life was upside down, and now your best friend—the only anchor you had left—was changing all the rules.

"Jungkook, I can't," you whispered, more tears blurring your eyes. You felt so small beneath his steady gaze. You shook your head, pulling your hands back to your own chest. "It’s too much. I'm too messed up right now. I don't know what I feel. I don't know if I'm just lonely or if I'm losing my mind. I can't give you an answer. I can't promise you anything. If I ruin this, if I ruin us, I will have nobody left."

You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders shaking as you let out a real, heavy sob. The fear in your chest was completely crushing you. You were so terrified of losing his friendship that the thought of romance felt like a dangerous trap.

Seeing your complete panic and distress, the intense look in Jungkook's eyes instantly melted away. The large, muscular guy who looked so intimidating a second ago suddenly looked incredibly soft and gentle. He realized he was pushing you too hard when you were already broken.

He immediately let go of your waist. He did not pull away completely, but he took away the pressure. He raised his large hands and gently, carefully pulled your wrists away from your face. His touch was so light, like he was handling fragile glass.

"Hey, hey. Look at me, sweets. Breathe," he murmured softly, his voice full of total warmth and comfort. He shifted closer, leaning his head down until his forehead was resting gently against yours again. He closed his eyes, letting you feel the steady, warm rhythm of his breath. "Look at me. I'm sorry. I pushed too hard."

You stayed frozen, your forehead pressed against his, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"I know your head is spinning," Jungkook whispered into the tiny space between your faces. He took one of his large hands and gently rubbed the back of your head, soothing you. "I know you just went through a breakup and you are scared. I know you're worried about ruining what we have. Hear me clearly, okay? You don't have to give me an answer tonight. You don't have to figure anything out."

He opened his eyes, staring directly into yours from inches away. His gaze was completely patient, with zero pressure.

"I don't need you to be perfect, and I don't need you to magically fall into my arms right now," he said softly, his voice ringing with absolute honesty. "I just need you to be yourself. Take all the time you need. If you need to cry about that idiot for another week, cry. If you need to just be confused, be confused. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve waited three years, sweets. I can wait a little longer."

You let out a long, shaky breath, the heavy panic in your chest slowly starting to ease. You let your head slide down from his forehead until it rested against his broad, warm shoulder. The tight, painful knot of anxiety and loneliness that had been sitting in your chest finally started to relax.

He was not forcing you to choose. He was not giving you an ultimatum. Even when he confessed his deepest feelings, his main priority was still making sure you were okay.

Jungkook let out a massive, long sigh of pure relief when he felt you relax against him. His large arms moved securely around your back, pulling your body completely against his chest. He did not hold you tight enough to scare you, but he held you close enough to let you know he was there. He rested his chin gently on top of your messy hair while the waves crashed loudly against the cliffs below.

You still did not know what the future held. You were still confused, still a bit sad, and still terrified of the new feelings blooming in your chest. But looking out into the dark, moonlit night, completely wrapped in his safe warmth, you realized you did not have to have it all figured out today. Jungkook was going to hold you until you did.

.,.

The blinding golden light of the morning sun cut straight through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors of the balcony, hitting your face and waking you up. You winced, shifting your face deeper into the pillow to escape the bright glare. Your eyes felt incredibly heavy, a bit dry and swollen from the heavy crying session on the balcony the night before.

For a few peaceful seconds, your brain was completely blank. You just felt the incredible softness of the hotel sheets and the heavy, comforting warmth of the massive king bed.

But then, the memories of the previous night came rushing back like a tidal wave, slamming straight into your chest.

Jungkook's hands on your waist. The rough, low whisper of his voice. The confession. Three years.

Your eyes snapped wide open. Your heart gave a violent, sudden thud against your ribs. You turned your head so fast your neck cracked, looking at the space right next to you on the mattress.

It was empty.

The white comforter on his side of the bed was messy and tossed aside, the spot long since cooled down. The fortress of pillows you had neatly stacked down the center of the mattress was completely destroyed, scattered across the floor like the remains of a battlefield.

A sudden, sharp wave of anxiety hit your stomach. Did he leave? Was it too awkward? Did he regret saying all of those things? You scrambled out of the bed, your legs tangling in the sheets for a second as you stood up. You were still wearing his massive black hoodie, the fabric smelling entirely like him.

"Jungkook?" you called out, your voice sounding rough and raspy from sleep.

The heavy bathroom door swung open instantly.

Jungkook stepped out into the bright bedroom, a cloud of warm, minty steam billowing out behind him. He had clearly just brushed his teeth and washed his face. He was wearing his gray sweatpants and a fresh, plain black t-shirt. His dark hair was slightly damp, sticking to his forehead in messy, boyish curls.

The second his dark eyes locked onto you, he froze right by the door frame.

The air in the room instantly grew thick and quiet. The easy, brainless routine of your old friendship felt like it was hanging by a thread. You stood by the edge of the bed, your fingers nervously pulling at the long sleeves of his hoodie, your mind racing a million miles an hour. You didn't know how to look at him. You didn't know if you should mention the balcony, or if you should pretend it was all a dream.

Jungkook analyzed your tense, rigid posture, his eyes scanning your wide, anxious eyes. A tiny, incredibly gentle look softened his sharp features. He didn't look awkward, and he didn't look regretful. He just looked patient.

He took three slow, heavy steps toward you, stopping just a few feet away so he wouldn't crowd you. He raised a hand, scratching the back of his neck, and let out a small, familiar high-pitched giggle to break the heavy silence.

"Morning, sweets," he said softly. His voice had that rough, sleepy gravel to it. "You look like you just saw a ghost. Or worse, you look like you think I’m about to force you to eat more radioactive sausages."

A tiny, involuntary laugh snorted out of your nose before you could stop it. The thick, suffocating tension in your chest cracked just a little bit, letting you breathe.

"I'm just... I'm a bit tired," you mumbled, looking down at your bare feet on the carpet. "I didn't think you'd be up so early."

"Couldn't sleep much," Jungkook admitted honestly. He didn't lie to make it easy. He stepped a tiny bit closer, his large shadow falling over you. He reached out, his warm fingers gently tapping the top of your head. "Hey. Look at me."

You slowly raised your eyes, meeting his clear, steady gaze.

"Remember what I told you last night before we went to sleep?" he asked, his tone incredibly grounded. "No pressure. Nothing changes unless you want it to. I'm still just Jungkook. I'm still the guy who is going to eat all your snacks and drive you across the country. You don't need to be weird around me."

You looked at his familiar, comforting face, and the lingering panic in your stomach finally dissolved into dust. He was giving you exactly what he promised: space to just breathe and be yourself.

"Okay," you whispered, a genuine, small smile touching your lips. "Okay."

"Good," Jungkook beamed, his massive bunny-toothed grin returning in full force, completely changing the energy of the room back to bright sunshine. "Because I ordered breakfast, and if you don't hurry up and wash your face, I am going to eat every single strip of bacon on that cart. I mean it. I’m already eyeing the plate."

An hour later, you were both back in the car, leaving the luxury hotel behind and hitting the coastal highway once again. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the ocean sparkled like diamonds to your right.

The dynamic inside the car felt different now. The thick, heavy angst of the night before had settled into a quiet, warm hum. It wasn't the old platonic friendship, but it wasn't a rushed romance either. It was a comfortable middle ground.

Jungkook was driving with one hand on the wheel, his left arm resting on the open window frame, letting the warm summer breeze ruffle his hair. He had a playlist of soft, classic rock music playing at a reasonable volume—a compromise he made so you wouldn't complain about his 2012 girl-pop anthems.

You sat in the passenger seat, your legs curled up under you, staring at his profile. Your mind was wandering, processing everything he had said.

Three years.

You thought back to last summer, when you had first started talking to your ex. You remembered telling Jungkook about the first date. You remembered how Jungkook had gone strangely quiet for a few days, throwing himself into his gym workouts until his knuckles were raw. At the time, you thought he was just busy with work. Now, the memory made your heart ache with a deep, bittersweet pain. He had been suffering in silence, watching you walk into a relationship that wasn't even deep or real, just to keep you in his life.

"If you stare at me any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my cheek," Jungkook said suddenly, not taking his eyes off the road but a smug, handsome smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

You jumped slightly, your cheeks instantly turning a light shade of pink. "I wasn't staring at you. Don't flatter yourself, Jeon."

"You were totally staring," he chuckled, his voice rich and happy. "It's fine. I don't blame you. The lighting today really highlights my jawline. I look like a model in this rearview mirror."

"You look like a giant dork," you rolled your eyes, grabbing a handful of sour gummy worms from the convenience store bag and tossing one directly at his shoulder.

He caught the candy with his right hand, tossing it into his mouth with a laugh. "Hey, watch the cargo! This is fuel for the captain."

As the hours passed, you noticed that while Jungkook was keeping his promise of not pushing you for answers, his behavior had subtly changed. He wasn't hiding his feelings anymore. The small boundaries he used to maintain were completely gone.

When you stopped at a scenic overlook to see the massive cliffs cutting into the ocean, the path was steep and covered in loose gravel. In the past, he would have just walked ahead, teasing you for being slow. But today, the second your sneaker slipped slightly on a rock, Jungkook’s large, warm hand was there.

He didn't just stabilize you; he locked his long fingers securely with yours, his grip firm and burning hot against your skin.

"The ground is messy here. Hold on," he said casually, his voice steady as he guided you down the path.

Your heart gave a massive, violent thud against your ribs. Your fingers felt incredibly small tangled up in his large, calloused hand. You looked down at your joined hands, your breath catching. You waited for him to let go once you reached the flat wooden viewing deck, but he didn't. He kept his fingers loosely, comfortably intertwined with yours as you both stood by the wooden railing, looking out at the endless blue horizon.

It felt entirely natural, yet completely terrifying. It felt like a glimpse into a reality where you were completely taken care of, completely valued.

You glanced up at him. Jungkook was looking out at the water, the bright sun highlighting the strong bridge of his nose and his sharp jaw. He wasn't looking at you to see your reaction. He was just holding your hand because he wanted to, because he finally could.

"My ex hated stops like this," you whispered quietly, the thought slipping out of your mouth before you could stop it. The sorrow of the past relationship was still lingering like a faint shadow, a habit you were trying to break. "He always said if we stop every thirty miles, we'll never make it to the destination on time. He hated wasting minutes."

Jungkook’s grip on your hand tightened just a fraction, a reassuring, heavy squeeze. He didn't turn his head, but his voice dropped into that low, serious register that made your soul quiet down.

"The destination doesn't matter if you're rushing through the whole journey, sweets," he said softly. "The whole point of a road trip is to look at the views. If a guy is too busy looking at his watch to enjoy standing next to you at a place like this... he’s missing the entire point of living."

You stared at his profile, your eyes widening slightly as his words cut straight through your lingering self-doubt. The realization hit you with a massive, undeniable weight. Your ex hadn't just been a "time pass"—he had been a completely wrong fit. You had been trying to force your vibrant, messy life into a tiny, rigid box for eight months. And right next to you, the entire time, was a boy who was willing to stop at every single scenic overlook just to hold your hand and watch the wind blow through your hair.

The fear of ruining the friendship was still there, a tiny, nervous flutter in your stomach. But looking at your joined hands, the warmth spreading up your arm, you felt a new, quiet feeling starting to bloom. It was a small spark of hope.

By the time the afternoon began to fade into a soft, hazy orange sunset, you arrived at the final destination of the road trip: a sleepy, beautiful beach town famous for its outdoor night markets and boardwalks.

The hotel this time was a small, cozy motel right on the beach front. And thankfully, the booking system worked perfectly. You had a room with two separate queen-sized beds, separated by a wide, safe nightstand.

"See? No single-bed drama tonight," you joked, throwing your small backpack onto the bed closest to the window. "You're safe from my blanket-stealing crimes."

Jungkook dropped his heavy black duffel bag onto the opposite bed, leaning his hips against the mattress as he looked over at you. The golden light of the sunset filtered through the window blinds, casting long amber stripes across his face.

"Honestly? I'm kind of disappointed," he teased, a playful, wicked glint in his dark eyes. "The pillow fortress from last night had character. It was an excellent defensive structure."

"You are ridiculous," you laughed, grabbing a fresh change of clothes from your suitcase. "I'm going to change, and then we are going to that boardwalk market. I want fried food and I want it now."

"Your wish is my command, sweets," he chuckled, bowing dramatically as you walked into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, you emerged wearing a simple white sundress and denim jacket, your hair tied up into a loose, messy bun. Jungkook had changed into a clean, oversized vintage t-shirt and dark shorts. He looked completely relaxed, entirely handsome, and totally ready to cause chaos at the night market.

The boardwalk was alive with energy. Bright neon lights from the game booths reflected off the dark ocean water, and the air was thick with the delicious, mouth-watering smell of fried funnel cakes, hot churros, and grilled skewers. Music from the old carousel echoed through the crowd, mixed with the loud laughter of families and couples walking along the wooden planks.

"Alright, first stop," Jungkook declared, grabbing your wrist and dragging you straight toward a stall with a giant sign that read Fried Everything. "We are getting the giant funnel cake with extra powdered sugar. No arguments."

"I would never argue against sugar, Jeon," you said, matching his fast pace.

You spent the next hour walking through the crowds, completely stuffing your faces with junk food. Jungkook ended up getting powdered sugar all over the front of his black t-shirt within two minutes, which led to you standing in the middle of the boardwalk, giggling uncontrollably as you used a wet napkin to wipe his chest down while he whined about his ruined style.

As you wiped the white powder away, your hand brushed against the firm, warm muscle of his chest, right over his beating heart. You froze for a split second, your eyes lifting to meet his. Jungkook was looking down at you, his breathing a little shallow, his dark eyes intensely focused on your hands against his shirt.

The bustling noise of the night market seemed to blur away for that tiny second, leaving just the heavy, magnetic heat between you. You quickly pulled your hand back, clearing your throat nervously as you tossed the napkin into a nearby bin.

"There. You're clean," you whispered, your heart doing that familiar, frantic dance.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice low.

To break the sudden, thick tension, Jungkook quickly pointed a finger at a massive game booth down the boardwalk. The booth was filled with giant, oversized stuffed animals, and a loud announcer was challenging people to hit a target with a baseball.

"Look at that giant purple plush bunny," Jungkook said, his eyes narrowing like a professional athlete entering an arena. "It looks exactly like me. I need to win it for you."

"Jungkook, those games are completely rigged," you laughed, trying to pull him back. "The balls are weighted, and the targets are tiny. You're just going to waste your money."

"Are you doubting my athletic abilities?" He gasped dramatically, slapping a hand over his heart. "Excuse me? I have perfect aim. Watch and learn, sweets."

He marched straight up to the booth, pulling out his wallet and paying the announcer for three throws. A small crowd of teenagers stopped to watch, noticing how big and focused Jungkook looked as he picked up the first wooden baseball.

He balanced his weight, his broad shoulders flexing beneath his t-shirt as he drew his arm back. With a sudden, lightning-fast motion, he threw the ball.

CRASH.

The ball hit the center target perfectly, the loud sound echoing across the boardwalk. The crowd let out a small cheer. Jungkook didn't even smile; he just picked up the second ball, his expression completely serious, his eyes locked onto the prize. He threw it again.

CRASH.

The second target shattered down. The announcer looked genuinely shocked. By the time Jungkook threw the third ball, hitting the final target dead-center, the entire booth area erupted into loud cheers and applause.

Jungkook finally relaxed, turning his head toward you with a massive, arrogant, and entirely endearing smirk. He puffed his chest out dramatically, wiggling his eyebrows. "Rigged? Please. The targets never stood a chance against the Jeon precision."

The announcer grumbled, reaching up to the high ceiling to pull down the massive, giant purple plush bunny. It was almost as big as you were, incredibly soft and completely ridiculous. He dumped it into Jungkook’s arms.

Jungkook carried the giant bunny over to you, struggling to see over the massive plush head. He shoved the giant toy into your arms, wrapping your hands around the soft fabric.

"Here," he said, his voice instantly softening as he looked down at you. The arrogant game-winner energy vanished, replaced by that quiet, deep warmth that always made your knees weak. "A line of defense for your bed tonight. Since we don't have the pillow fortress anymore."

You gripped the massive, soft bunny against your chest, burying your face in the purple faux fur for a second to hide the massive, completely overwhelmed smile pulling at your lips. The fear, the ghost of your ex-boyfriend—everything was completely losing its grip on you. Standing under the bright neon lights of the boardwalk, holding a giant prize won by the boy who had loved you silently for three years, you realized your heart was no longer breaking.

It was healing. And it was healing fast.

"Thank you, Jungkook," you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.

Jungkook reached out, his large, warm hand gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering against your cheek for a single, beautiful second. "Anytime, sweets. Anytime."

…

The giant purple plush bunny was entirely too massive. As you both walked away from the noisy game booth, you had to hold the heavy toy with both arms just to keep it from dragging across the sticky wooden planks of the boardwalk. Jungkook walked right beside you, his hands shoved casually into his shorts pockets, a smug and completely satisfied smile resting on his face. Every time a group of teenagers walked past and stared at the ridiculous size of your prize, he would puff his broad chest out just a little bit more.

"You are going to develop a permanent posture problem if you keep walking like that," you teased, nudging his arm with the side of the giant stuffed ear.

"I am walking with the swagger of a champion," Jungkook corrected smoothly, his voice full of rich, bouncy laughter. "Do you know how hard it is to hit three targets in a row with weighted baseballs? The announcer looked like he wanted to cry when he had to hand that bunny over. I basically pulled off a heist."

"You spent fifteen dollars on a toy that probably cost two dollars to make," you retorted, though you couldn't stop the massive, happy smile from taking over your face.

"Money is temporary, sweets. But the glory of winning a giant purple defense system for your bedroom? That is eternal," he chuckled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at you.

The night market was starting to slow down as the clock moved past eleven. The heavy crowds of families were thinning out, leaving behind mostly young couples walking hand-in-hand beneath the glowing strands of yellow fairy lights. The salty sea breeze was picking up again, bringing the loud, rhythmic sound of the dark waves crashing against the wooden pillars beneath the boardwalk.

At the very end of the pier, towering over the edge of the water, sat the grand finale of the beach town: a massive, old-fashioned Ferris wheel. Its neon lights were a beautiful mix of soft pinks, deep blues, and warm golds, spinning slowly against the dark velvet sky.

Jungkook stopped walking, his eyes tracking the slow rotation of the giant wheel. He turned his head to look at you, his expression softening as the multi-colored lights danced across his sharp jawline.

"We have one more stop before we go back to the motel," he said softly, pointing a finger toward the ticket booth of the ride. "Come on."

"Jungkook, it’s late," you murmured, a sudden, familiar flutter of nervous anxiety hitting your stomach. "And I’m carrying a stuffed animal the size of a refrigerator. We won't even fit in the bucket."

"We will make it fit," he insisted, not taking no for an answer. He reached out, his large, warm hand wrapping firmly around your wrist to gently drag you toward the line.

Five minutes later, you were officially crammed into a small, swinging metal carriage. Jungkook’s prediction had been slightly wrong—the space was incredibly tight. The giant purple bunny had to be stuffed vertically between your knees, its massive plush head completely blocking the view to your left. Because the toy took up more than half the bench, you and Jungkook were forced to sit completely flush against each other on the remaining side.

His muscular thigh was pressed tightly against yours, the heat of his skin burning right through his shorts. His broad shoulder was tucked firmly beneath your own, his large frame completely surrounding you in the small metal car.

A loud, metallic clunk echoed through the air as the ride operator locked the safety bar into place. With a slow, jerky shudder, the Ferris wheel began to lift you up into the night.

As the carriage climbed higher and higher, the noisy sounds of the boardwalk games and the shouting announcers began to fade away into a quiet, distant hum. The view expanded infinitely. To your right, the tiny neon lights of the beach town looked like scattered jewels on black velvet. To your left, the endless, dark ocean stretched out into the horizon, reflecting the bright silver light of the full moon.

You leaned your head slightly against the cold metal mesh of the carriage, letting out a long, quiet breath. The beauty of the view was breathtaking, but your brain was completely unable to focus on it. You were entirely, terrifyingly aware of Jungkook’s breathing right next to you. You could feel the steady, heavy rise and fall of his chest against your shoulder, the faint, comforting scent of his woodsy cologne completely trapped inside the small space.

The carriage suddenly groaned, stopping dead right at the very top of the wheel. You were suspended hundreds of feet in the air, dangling directly over the crashing black waves below.

The silence up here was absolute. The wind blew softly through the open sides of the car, rattling the metal chains above your head.

"Are you scared of heights?" Jungkook’s voice cut through the quiet. It wasn't his loud, teasing voice anymore. It was low, rough, and incredibly gentle, dropping into that serious register that always made your knees feel weak.

You turned your head to look at him. Because of how tightly you were crammed together, his face was only inches from yours. The soft, rotating neon pink light from the wheel lit up his features, catching the dark depth of his eyes and the slight, nervous parted line of his lips. He was staring directly at you, completely ignoring the beautiful ocean view behind your head.

"A little bit," you whispered honestly, your throat feeling suddenly dry. "It feels like we're just dangling in the middle of nowhere."

Jungkook didn't say a word. Instead, he slowly shifted his right hand from his lap. His large, warm fingers slipped down the side of the seat, sliding directly over yours. He didn't just hold your hand loosely this time. He slid his long fingers between yours, locking them together in a tight, heavy grip that felt incredibly secure. His palm was burning hot against your cold skin.

"I’ve got you," he murmured, his dark eyes never leaving your face. "You're not going to fall, sweets. I won't let you."

Your heart gave a violent, massive thud against your ribs. The confusion that had been swirling in your head for the last three days suddenly tightened into a painful, beautiful knot right in the center of your chest.

You looked down at your joined hands resting on top of the purple plush fabric of the toy. His hand was so much larger than yours, his veins showing slightly against the back of his skin, his grip holding you like you were the most precious thing in the entire universe.

"Jungkook," you said softly, your voice trembling a little as the heavy emotion threatened to spill over. "I'm sorry."

Jungkook tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "Sorry for what?"

"For being so messy," you whispered, looking up to meet his eyes through the dim pink light. "For making you drive me across the country while I cried over a guy I didn't even care about. For being so confused and scared right now. You’ve been waiting for three years... and I feel like I'm ruining everything because I don't know how to fix my own head yet."

The heavy silence returned, hanging between you as the wind blew past the carriage.

Jungkook stared at you for a long, unblinking moment. The patience in his eyes was so deep it made your chest ache. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his left hand from the safety bar. He reached across the small space, his large thumb gently pressing against your chin, tilting your face just a fraction closer to his. His touch was incredibly soft, completely devoid of his usual clumsy energy.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

You looked, your eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears.

"You are not ruining anything," Jungkook said, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakable certainty. "I told you last night on the balcony, and I mean it. I don't need you to have a perfect, healed brain right now. I don't need you to give me an anniversary date or a promise. I am here because I want to be here. I am holding your hand because it’s the only place I’ve wanted my hand to be for three years."

He took a deep, heavy breath, his chest brushing slightly against your arm as he leaned in just a millimeter closer.

"The last three days haven't been a burden to me, sweets," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips for a single, torturous second before snapping back to your eyes. "Watching you finally realize that you deserve better than a guy who treats you like a chore? Watching you laugh until your stomach hurts on the highway? That is the best thing that has happened to me in years. You are not a mess to me. You are just you."

A single, hot tear finally slipped out of your eye, running down your cheek. Jungkook didn't hesitate. He used the pad of his thumb to gently wipe the moisture away, his skin lingering against your cheekbone, his touch leaving a trail of absolute fire behind.

"So stop apologizing," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rough, raspy register that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. "Take all the time you need to figure things out. Cry if you need to. Be scared if you need to. But don't you dare think you are ruining us. We are completely fine."

You stared at him, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The lingering memory of your ex-boyfriend, the eight months of that empty, boring relationship out of habit—it completely dissolved into nothingness. It didn't exist anymore. The only reality that mattered was the boy sitting inches from you at the top of the world, holding your hand like a lifeline and offering you a love so deep it completely terrified you.

You didn't know what to say. The fear of ruining the friendship were still humming quietly in the back of your mind, but the sheer emotional safety he was giving you was completely overwhelming the doubt. Slowly, without thinking, you let your head lean sideways, resting your cheek gently against his broad, solid shoulder.

Jungkook stiffened for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard by your sudden movement. Then, a long, heavy sigh of absolute relief escaped his lips. He shifted his arm, wrapping it securely around your shoulders, pulling you completely against his side as the Ferris wheel finally shuddered and began its slow descent back toward the earth.

He didn't press for more. He didn't try to kiss you. He just held you tight against his chest, his large hand still firmly locked with yours on top of the giant purple bunny.

…

The quiet of the motel room felt completely different from the loud, bright chaos of the boardwalk. When Jungkook clicked the heavy lock of the door into place, the sudden silence was deafening. The only sound was the low, steady hum of the old air conditioning unit beneath the window and the distant, muffled crash of the ocean waves against the sand outside.

The room was basic and cozy, illuminated only by the amber glow of a single streetlamp filtering through the plastic window blinds. Two queen-sized beds stood side-by-side, separated by a wide, dark wooden nightstand that felt like a physical boundary between your old life and whatever was happening now.

You walked over to the bed closest to the window, carefully lifting the massive purple plush bunny and sitting it upright against the headboard. It looked completely ridiculous under the dim light, its giant ears flopping forward as if it were guarding the mattress.

"Well," you said, your voice sounding incredibly small in the quiet room. "The fortress is officially in place."

Jungkook chuckled softly, dropping his heavy black duffel bag onto his own mattress with a dull thud. He stood by the edge of his bed, hands resting on his hips as his dark eyes locked onto you. The playful, confident guy from the boardwalk was gone, replaced by the quiet, intensely patient man from the Ferris wheel.

"I'm going to change into something comfortable. Don't eat all the sour worms while I'm gone."

"No promises, sweets," he teased, though his eyes stayed fixed on your face until you closed the bathroom door behind you.

Inside the small, brightly lit bathroom, you leaned against the sink and stared at your reflection in the mirror. Your cheeks were still flushed from the cold sea wind, and your eyes looked bright—no longer heavy with the messy tears of a painful breakup, but wide with a quiet, lingering shock. You touched your fingers to your chin, right where his large, warm thumb had rested just twenty minutes ago at the top of the Ferris wheel.

He loved you. He had loved you for three long years, through every boring date, every casual conversation, and every single time you had complained about your empty relationship. He had stood right next to you, holding his breath, just waiting for you to see him.

You let out a long, shaky breath, quickly changing into a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a loose, oversized t-shirt. By the time you turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into the bedroom, Jungkook had already changed into his favorite soft black sweatpants and was lying flat on his back on his own bed. He had his arms tucked behind his head, his dark eyes staring blankly at the popcorn texture of the ceiling.

The room was completely dark now, saved only by the thin stripes of amber light cutting across the carpet from the window.

You silently crawled under the crisp white sheets of your own bed, pulling the heavy comforter up to your chin. You turned your body onto your side, facing his direction, your eyes adjusting to the shadows.

For a long time, neither of you said a word. The silence stretched out until the ticking of the small digital clock on the nightstand felt like a countdown.

"Sweets?" Jungkook’s voice suddenly broke the quiet. It was barely a whisper, rough and incredibly raw, cutting through the hum of the air conditioner.

"Yeah?" you replied instantly, your heart giving a small, nervous skip.

You saw his silhouette shift in the dark. Jungkook turned his heavy frame onto his side, propping his head up with his right hand, facing you. In the dim light, you could see the dark, serious outline of his features and the glint of the moonlight reflecting in his wide pupils.

"Are you still thinking about him?" he asked quietly. There was no jealousy in his tone, no anger. It was just a question born out of pure, unprotected vulnerability. He sounded entirely human, entirely stripped of his usual confident armor.

You stared at him through the shadows, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of your blanket. You thought about your ex. You tried to find the familiar, sharp ache of rejection that had crushed you just three days ago in your apartment. But when you searched your mind, there was nothing left but an empty, hollow memory. The ghost of that relationship had completely vanished, replaced entirely by the warmth of Jungkook’s large hand holding yours against the dark ocean sky.

"No," you whispered honestly, the truth feeling like a massive weight lifting off your chest. "I'm not thinking about him at all. I haven't thought about him since we got on the highway today."

Jungkook let out a long, slow breath in the dark, his broad shoulders visibly relaxing against the mattress. "Good. Because he didn't deserve a single one of your thoughts anyway."

A small, bittersweet ache filled your chest as you watched him. "Jungkook... how did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Three years," you murmured, your voice cracking slightly with a sudden wave of heavy emotion. "How did you sit across from me at dinner, or watch movies with me on my couch, while I was completely blind? How did you manage to just stay my friend without letting it ruin you?"

Jungkook was quiet for a long, agonizing minute. The only sound was the distant crash of the waves outside. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, rougher, and thick with an honesty that made your throat tighten.

"It was hard," he confessed softly, his eyes never leaving yours through the dark space between the beds. "The first few months were the worst. Every time you talked about a guy you met at a coffee shop, or every time you got dressed up to go on a first date, I used to go back to my apartment and just stare at my phone, hating myself for being too scared to speak up."

He shifted slightly, his long fingers mindlessly tracing a pattern against his own pillowcase.

"But then I realized something," he whispered, his tone dropping into a deeply tender register. "Being just your friend, being the guy who got to hear your voice at two in the morning when you couldn't sleep, or the guy who got to make you laugh when you had a bad day at work... that was still better than anything else in my life. I was terrified that if I pushed you, if I told you that I wanted to hold you and kiss you, you'd get uncomfortable. You'd pull away. And the idea of a world where you don't talk to me? That was a thousand times worse than the pain of keeping it a secret."

The weight of his devotion hit you like a physical wave. Tears of pure, overwhelming emotion welled up in your eyes, blurring the sight of his silhouette in the dark. While you had been settling for a casual, empty relationship out of pure habit, Jungkook had been quietly, fiercely protecting your bond, placing your comfort entirely above his own heart.

"I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner," you choked out, a single tear escaping and dampening your pillow. "I'm sorry I was so stupid."

"Hey," Jungkook murmured instantly, his tone shifting into that urgent, protective warmth. He sat up completely, swinging his long legs over the edge of his bed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring across the wide gap at you. "Don't say that. I didn't tell you all of this to make you feel guilty, sweets. I told you because I wanted you to understand that you are worth the wait. Every single second of it."

You stared up at him from your pillow, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The physical distance between the two queen beds suddenly felt entirely too far. The old rules of your friendship, the safe boundaries you had lived behind for years, felt like paper walls ready to burn down. You didn't want the wide nightstand separating you tonight. You didn't want to be alone with the lingering anxiety of the past. You just wanted his warmth. You wanted his safety.

Slowly, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, you lifted the heavy comforter and sat up.

Jungkook froze, his dark eyes tracking your movements in the shadows as you slid out from beneath your sheets. Your bare feet hit the cold carpet. Without saying a word, you walked across the narrow space separating the two beds, stopping right in front of him.

He looked up at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his sharp jaw tight with a sudden, intense tension. He didn't move, completely holding his breath as if he were terrified that any sudden gesture would scare you away.

"Can I..." your voice trembled, your hand nervously gesturing to the empty space on his mattress. "Can I just stay here tonight? I don't want to be on that side of the room."

Jungkook didn't hesitate for even a millisecond. He instantly shifted his large body backward, pulling his blankets aside to create a wide, welcoming space right next to him. "Come here," he whispered, his voice incredibly rough.

You crawled onto his bed, the sheets smelling intensely of his familiar, woodsy cologne. You lay down on your side, curling your knees up slightly. Jungkook moved carefully, lying down right beside you. He didn't force a heavy embrace, and he didn't try to pull you into a passionate hold. True to his promise, he gave you the space to just be yourself.

Instead, he reached out in the dark, his large, warm hand finding yours beneath the blanket. He slid his long fingers between yours, locking them securely in that same heavy, burning grip from the Ferris wheel. He pulled your joined hands up, resting them right against the center of his chest, right over the steady, rapid thumping of his heart.

He leaned his forehead forward, resting it gently against the top of your head, his warm breath fanning through your messy hair.

"I've got you," he murmured softly into the dark room, his grip on your hand tightening with a reassuring, heavy squeeze. "Just close your eyes, sweets. I'm right here. No pressure, remember? We have all the time in the world."

You closed your eyes, letting out a long, shaky sigh as the very last remnants of your post-breakup loneliness completely dissolved into the mattress. Listening to the heavy, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your fingers, completely surrounded by his protective warmth, the fear of the future finally went quiet. You didn't know what tomorrow would look like, and you didn't know how long it would take to fix your scrambled thoughts, but as you drifted off to sleep in the quiet beach motel, you knew one thing for certain.

The road trip wasn't an escape anymore. It was the moment you finally came home.

…

The soft, rhythmic rumble of the ocean waves outside the window was the first thing that drifted into your consciousness. It was followed closely by a heavy, radiating warmth that completely enveloped your entire body. As your eyes slowly blinked open against the dim morning light filtering through the plastic blinds, you didn't feel the cold, empty space of a lonely hotel bed.

Instead, you were completely anchored.

You were tucked firmly against Jungkook’s broad chest. His left arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his large palm resting flat against your lower back, holding you flush against his solid frame. Your own hand was still resting over his heart, your fingers loosely tangled in the soft cotton of his black t-shirt. He had one of his long legs hooked over yours, completely trapping you in a lazy, heavy embrace that felt entirely unbreakable.

You stayed perfectly still, your breath catching in your throat as the realization of where you were settled in.

Slowly, carefully, you tilted your head back to look at him.

Jungkook was already awake. He was propped up slightly against his pillow, his dark hair a messy, wild halo of bedhead curls sticking up in every direction. The soft, grayish light of the early morning highlighted the relaxed lines of his face, making him look incredibly young and soft. He wasn't looking at the window or his phone. He was just staring down at you, his dark eyes full of a quiet, unblinking adoration that made your stomach do a sudden, violent flip.

The second he noticed you moving, a tiny, incredibly tender smile tugged at the corner of his lips. His voice, when he spoke, was a deep, gravelly morning rasp that vibrated directly against your chest.

"Morning, sweets," he whispered softly, his large hand on your back giving you a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "You sleep okay?"

"Yeah," you murmured, your voice sounding small and sleepy. You looked down at his chest, your cheeks warming up. "How long have you been awake?"

"About an hour," he admitted with a tiny, boyish giggle. He didn't move his arm, keeping you locked against him. "My arm went completely numb twenty minutes ago, but you looked so peaceful I didn't want to move. I was ready to let it fall off for the cause."

A genuine laugh spilled out of your mouth, the lingering angst of waking up in his bed instantly evaporating. "You are such a dork, Jeon. You should have just pushed me off."

"Never," he murmured, his tone suddenly dropping into that low, serious register that made your heart pound. He raised his right hand, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your eyes. His touch was incredibly light, his thumb lingering against your temple. "I could stay right here for a week."

You stared at him, your breath shallow, the sheer emotional weight of his presence completely overwhelming your lingering doubts. For eight months, you had woken up next to a man who felt like a stranger, a relationship that felt like a daily obligation. But here, in a cheap beach motel room with your childhood best friend, you felt entirely seen, entirely valued, and completely safe.

"Jungkook," you said softly, your fingers tightening slightly against his shirt. "Let's go to the beach. Before we have to pack up the car."

His eyes softened, a warm, supportive look taking over his face. "Whatever you want, sweets. Let's go."

…

You walked slowly along the water's edge, your sneakers sinking slightly into the wet sand. You were wearing his massive black hoodie again over your clothes, the long sleeves pulled down past your knuckles to protect your hands from the freezing wind.

Jungkook walked right beside you, his hands shoved deep into his shorts pockets, his broad shoulders hunched slightly against the breeze. He was keeping a respectful foot of space between your shoulders, true to his promise of letting you set the pace.

"It’s beautiful out here," you whispered, watching a white seagull glide low over the water.

"Yeah, it is," Jungkook said. But when you glanced over at him, he wasn't looking at the ocean. He was looking at you, his expression quiet and thoughtful.

A sudden, sharp wave of reality hit your chest, bringing back a faint hint of the familiar angst. The road trip was ending today. The beautiful escape of the highway, the luxury hotel rooms, and the neon lights of the boardwalk were over. By this afternoon, you would be driving back into the city, back to your actual lives, your apartments, and the regular routine.

"Jungkook," you started, your voice dropping as you stopped walking. You turned to face him, the wind pulling strands of hair across your face. "What happens when we go back?"

Jungkook stopped immediately, shifting his large body so he was blocking the harsh wind from hitting you directly. He looked down at you, his brow furrowing slightly in concern. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... when we get back to the city," you mumbled, looking down at your sneakers in the sand. "We have to go back to our normal lives. People are going to ask about the breakup. My ex might try to call me to get his things. And... I don't want us to become weird. I don't want to lose the easy way we used to talk just because everything is shifting."

The silence stretched between you, heavy with the fear of the future. You were terrified that once the magic of the road trip faded, the reality of changing a three-year friendship would become too heavy to handle.

Jungkook didn't answer right away. He slowly stepped closer, closing the distance between you until he was standing just inches away. He reached out, his large, warm hands coming up to gently grab the sides of your hood, pulling the thick black fabric securely around your ears to shield you from the cold breeze.

"Look at me, sweets," he commanded softly, his dark eyes completely locking onto yours with an absolute, unshakable intensity.

You raised your head, your eyes wide and a little glassy.

"Nothing is going to change unless you want it to," Jungkook said, his voice ringing with a deep, grounded certainty. "When we get back, I’m still going to be the guy who comes over at midnight to fix your broken kitchen cabinet. I’m still the guy who is going to text you stupid memes during your lunch break. The city doesn't change who we are."

He squeezed the fabric of your hood gently, his thumbs resting against the sides of your jawline.

"If you need me to just be your best friend for the next month while you sort through your brain, I will be your best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly with a raw, unprotected vulnerability.

"If you need me to take you out on a proper, real date, I will do that too. I've spent three years guarding my heart around you, sweets. I am not going to run away or get weird just because we crossed the city limits. I am entirely yours. In the motel room, on the highway, or back in our apartments. You don't have to carry the pressure of fixing everything today."

The honesty in his words cut straight through the very last layer of your self-doubt. The lingering anxiety of the past relationship, the fear of making a mistake, the ghost of your old life—it all completely collapsed under the weight of his unconditional devotion. He wasn't asking you to be perfect. He was just asking you to let him hold you.

A sudden, fierce wave of clarity washed over you. You didn't want to wait anymore. You didn't want to let the fear of tomorrow ruin the beautiful, undeniable truth of what was standing right in front of you.

Slowly, your hands came out from the long sleeves of his hoodie. Your fingers were trembling slightly, but your movement was entirely deliberate. You reached up, your hands pressing against his broad, solid chest, feeling the rapid, frantic thumping of his heart beneath his t-shirt.

Jungkook completely froze, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes widening in total shock as you stepped even closer, your shoes touching his.

"Jungkook," you whispered, your voice thick with a beautiful, heavy emotion as you looked straight into his dark eyes. "I don't want to wait a month."

Before he could even process your words, you stood up on your tiptoes. You closed the tiny remaining gap between your faces, leaning up until your lips gently, softly pressed against his.

The touch was light, tentative, and full of a deep, lingering angst—a silent question asked after three years of waiting. His lips were incredibly soft, warm against the chilly morning air, smelling faintly of the minty toothpaste from the motel room.

For a split second, Jungkook stayed completely rigid, his mind entirely blown, as if he couldn't believe this was actually happening. But then, a low, ragged groan escaped his throat.

The hesitation vanished instantly.

His large hands dropped from your hood, sliding down to wrap fiercely around your waist. He lifted you slightly off your feet, pulling your body completely against his broad frame with a sudden, desperate strength. He leaned his head down, deepening the kiss with a raw, burning intensity that left you completely breathless. It wasn't a rushed or aggressive touch; it was a deeply passionate, emotional release of three years of unspoken love, poured entirely into the quiet morning air.

Your hands slid up his chest, wrapping securely around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his messy, damp curls as you melted completely into his warmth.

When he finally pulled back, just a fraction of an inch, his forehead rested gently against yours. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his large hands still gripping your waist tightly as if he were terrified you would disappear if he let go. A massive, breathless smile broke across his handsome face, his dark eyes shining with a pure, unadulterated happiness that completely lit up the entire beach.

"Sweets," he whispered against your lips, his voice rough and completely dazed. "If this is a dream, do not wake me up. I mean it. I will sleep forever."

You let out a soft, happy laugh, burying your face into the warm crook of his neck, your arms wrapping securely around his broad shoulders.

You had finally found your destination.

…

The steady, quiet rhythm of a late-night June rain was the only sound left in the apartment. Outside the large window, the city was just a blurry mix of red, yellow, and blue lights reflecting on the wet streets far below. The cars moved slowly through the puddles, their headlights cutting through the dark gray fog. Inside, your living room felt like a completely different world. It was warm, cozy, and quiet, lit only by the soft amber glow of a single ceramic floor lamp standing in the corner.

A full month had passed since the road trip had ended. The sudden, chaotic explosion of your old breakup had finally settled into distant history. The boxes of your ex-boyfriend's things were gone, the keys had been handed back, and the tears had completely dried up. You had both fallen back into your regular city routines. You spent your days focusing on your work, organizing your schedules, and managing your independent business projects. Jungkook went right back to his high-volume photography and graphic design work, his calendar packed with studio shoots and editing sessions.

But absolutely nothing about the space between you two felt regular anymore.

You were sitting flat on the thick, plush rug in the center of the room, your back resting against the bottom base of the couch. Spread out all around your legs was a large, messy binder filled with business papers, menu printouts, and cost spreadsheets. Your fingers traced the edge of a white paper, trying to read the lines of text, but your mind was not processing a single word or number. Every single ounce of your focus was dialed entirely into the heavy, solid presence of the boy sitting right above you on the cushions.

Jungkook was stretched out lazily across the sofa, his long legs taking up almost the entire length of the cushions. He was wearing an old, faded gray tank top that showed off the heavy, defined muscles of his shoulders and the intricate, dark patterns of the tattoo sleeve wrapping all the way down his right arm. His laptop rested heavily on his muscular thighs, and his large fingers clicked the trackpad every now and then, slowly moving through a batch of street photographs he had taken earlier that week.

For twenty long minutes, neither of you had said a single word.

In the past, a long silence like this would have been entirely brainless and comfortable. You would have been scrolling through social media on your phone, he would have been playing a video game on his console, and the air in the room would have felt light and easy. You wouldn't have thought twice about sitting together without talking. But tonight, the silence felt thick. It felt like a physical weight pressing down on the air, heavy with a new, simmering undercurrent of raw, unhurried tension that seemed to grow stronger with every single tick of the wall clock.

You shifted your position on the floor, trying to ease the sudden tightness in your chest. As you moved your legs under the binder, your shoulder accidentally brushed against the hard, warm line of his shin resting right against the edge of the couch cushions.

Jungkook did not move his leg away. In fact, the moment your skin made contact with his, his fingers stopped clicking the mouse completely. The small tapping sound vanished, making the room feel even quieter than before.

Slowly, deliberately, Jungkook lowered his laptop screen by a fraction of an inch. His dark, heavy eyes slid down from the monitor, tracking across the top of your head before locking onto the side of your face. He did not say anything at first. He just watched you through the dim light, his jawline sharp and tight, his breathing deep, slow, and steady.

"You've been rewriting that exact same line on your menu for ten minutes, sweets," he said softly. His voice was a low, sleepy gravel that vibrated right through the couch cushions against your back, sending a sudden, sharp shiver straight down your spine.

"I have not," you muttered quickly, stubbornly keeping your eyes fixed on the paper in front of you, even though your heart rate was already starting to speed up. "I am checking the prices and verifying the math. Some of us actually have to work for a living instead of just playing with photo filters and sliders all day."

A low, deep rumble of a laugh vibrated in his broad chest. "Photo filters? Is that seriously what you think I do all day in the studio?"

"Basically," you teased, finally turning your head slightly to look up at him through your eyelashes. You were trying hard to bring back the safe, funny armor of your old friendly bickering, desperately wanting to break the heavy mood. "You just make the pretty pictures look a little more blue or a little more yellow. A child could do it, Jeon."

Jungkook’s lips parted into a slow, dangerously handsome smirk. He shifted his weight, closing his laptop with a soft click and setting it down on the opposite end of the couch. He leaned his forearms onto his bare knees, bending his large upper body forward until his face was only a foot away from yours, looking down at you from over the edge of the velvet cushions.

"A child, huh?" he murmured, his dark eyes glinting with a playful, wicked challenge in the amber lamplight. "If my job is so easy, why don't you crawl up here and finish editing the next batch for me? I'll even let you wear the captain's hat and sit in the big chair."

"I am entirely too busy managing a real commercial enterprise, Jungkook," you said, tossing your plastic pen onto the binder with a dramatic, loud sigh, though your eyes wandered instinctively to the clean, sharp line of his collarbone. "I don't have time to play around with your little art projects."

"Right. A real enterprise," he teased back, his voice dropping into a lower, softer register as his gaze dropped down to your lips for a brief, fleeting second before snapping right back to your eyes. "Which is exactly why you've been holding that pen upside down for the last five minutes."

Your face instantly flushed a brilliant, hot shade of pink. You quickly looked down at your hand, realizing with absolute horror that he was entirely correct—the plastic cap of the pen was resting firmly against your thumb while the actual ink point was aimed uselessly at the ceiling.

"It's a new memory technique," you stammered out, scrambling to flip the pen around in your fingers while forcing a loud, defensive laugh to cover your embarrassment. "It stimulates the brain cells. You wouldn't know anything about it because your brain is entirely fueled by video games, bad movies, and energy drinks."

Jungkook let out another quiet, rich laugh, the sound incredibly warm and intimate in the quiet apartment. But instead of pushing the joke any further, he slowly slid off the edge of the couch. He did not rush his movements at all. He moved with a slow, agonizingly deliberate grace, his bare feet making zero sound on the soft rug as he dropped down onto his knees right on the floor beside you.

Suddenly, the safe distance between your bodies shrunk down to a matter of inches.

The physical heat radiating off his chest was shocking, cutting straight through the cool draft of the rainy June night. He sat back on his heels, resting one of his large, calloused hands flat on the floor right behind your lower back, effectively blocking you in from behind. He smelled entirely like his clean cedarwood body wash, laundry detergent, and the faint trace of mint gum.

"Alright, show me the memory technique then," he murmured, his dark eyes locked onto yours, completely unblinking. He reached out with his left hand, his long fingers moving slowly across the small space between you until his knuckles lightly, barely brushed against the soft fabric of your gray sleeve. "Explain the numbers to me, sweets. I'm all ears."

Your breath completely caught in your throat. The playful, bickering armor you had built up over three years of friendship felt incredibly thin right now. It was easy to joke around and banter when he was sitting on the other side of the room, but with him kneeling right next to you on the floor, his broad shoulders completely blocking out the rest of your living room, the flirty energy felt heavy. It felt entirely too real.

"The... the classic boxes of four are starting at twelve dollars," you whispered, your voice sounding remarkably breathy and small compared to the steady roar of the rain outside. You looked down at the binder, your heart slamming wildly against your ribs as you pointed a trembling finger at a row of numbers. "And then there’s a three-dollar difference for the specialty collections. Like the Biscoff dream variety or the Nutella dream variety."

"Three dollars," Jungkook repeated softly. He wasn't looking at the paper or the numbers at all. He was tracing the sharp line of your jaw with his eyes, his gaze heavy, dark, and completely focused on you. "Sounds like a solid strategy, sweets."

"It is," you muttered, trying desperately to keep your voice steady and professional. "It keeps the profit margins clean. And it prevents the customers from getting confused by too many random numbers on the ordering sheet."

Jungkook slowly moved his hand from his knee. He did not grab you, and he did not push you into doing anything. Instead, his long, ink-covered fingers slid across the white pages of your binder, his fingertips lightly brushing against the edge of your hand as he reached up to gently touch the corner of the paper you were holding. His skin was burning hot, a massive contrast to your cold, nervous fingers.

"And what about the formatting?" he asked, his voice dropping into a rough, raspy whisper that fanned across the sensitive skin on the side of your neck, causing a violent wave of goosebumps to break out across your arms. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his shoulder tucking right against yours. "The layout looks a little cluttered here. Do you want me to redesign the font and the sheet for you tomorrow before you print it out?"

"I can format a spreadsheet, Jungkook," you whispered back, your eyes darting down to his mouth. His lips were parted slightly, his breathing a little shallow. The sheer, suffocating weight of the unspoken physical tension in the room was becoming completely overwhelming.

"I know you can," he murmured, his thumb slowly, casually stroking the very edge of your notebook page. "But I like helping you. It gives me an easy excuse to sit here like this."

"Like what?" you asked, finally turning your head to face him fully.

The move was a huge mistake. Your faces were so incredibly close now that if either of you leaned forward even an inch, your noses would touch. You could see the tiny mole right beneath his lower lip, the dark, clear depth of his irises, and the intense, serious focus in his expression.

"Like we have absolutely nowhere else to be tonight," Jungkook whispered, his dark eyes dropping down to your mouth, his gaze heavy and completely filled with a quiet, patient hunger that he was no longer trying to hide behind a best-friend smile. "Like I don't have to pretend that I'm looking at the paperwork when I'm actually just looking at you."

The entire apartment went completely, utterly silent. The ticking clock on the wall and the roaring rain outside seemed to completely vanish from your mind, leaving nothing but the thick, magnetic heat stretching between your bodies on the floor.

For the past month, you had both been playing completely nice. You had held hands while walking down the street, he had kissed your cheek when he dropped you off at your door after work, and you had gone on quiet, sweet dinner dates to your favorite local spots. You had both been intentionally moving slow, protecting the delicate transition from friends to something more. You wanted to make sure nothing felt rushed, pressured, or messy after your heavy breakup.

But sitting on the floor of your dark living room, with his large frame completely surrounding you and his scent filling your lungs, the feeling starting to turn into something completely impossible to control.

Your fingers instinctively tightened against the plastic of your pen, your knuckles turning white. "Jungkook... you're... you're doing it again."

"Doing what?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a rough, low rumble that felt entirely too intimate in the dark space. He did not pull back; instead, he tilted his head just a fraction of an inch, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You're crowding me," you breathed out, your heart doing a full-scale acrobatic routine against your ribs. "You're using your giant gym shoulders to take up all the oxygen in my living room. I can barely think."

A slow, beautifully wicked smile pulled at the corner of his lips, his eyes crinkling just a tiny bit at the corners. He slowly raised his hand from the binder, his fingers moving through the air with agonizing slowness before he gently, carefully tucked a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. His warm fingertips lingered against the sensitive skin of your neck, his touch so light it felt like a whisper against your skin.

"There's plenty of oxygen, sweets," he whispered, his thumb slowly tracing a short, burning line down the side of your neck, his palm resting right against your collarbone. The heat of his hand was intoxicating, making your entire body feel heavy, warm, and weak. "You're just nervous. Because you know exactly what I'm thinking right now."

"I don't have a single clue what goes on in that chaotic brain of yours, Jeon," you retorted weakly, your hand coming up instinctively to press against his broad chest, intending to push him back to a safe distance. But the second your palm hit the soft fabric of his tank top, feeling the solid, rapid, and powerful thumping of his heart beneath your fingers, your strength completely evaporated. Your fingers ended up just curling into the cotton shirt, pulling him a millimeter closer instead.

Jungkook let out a short, sharp breath, his dark eyes darkening significantly as he felt the tight grip of your fingers on his shirt.

"Sweets," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly with a sudden, deep wave of real, unprotected emotion. He did not force a heavy grip on you, and he did not rush forward to steal a kiss. He just kept his large hand resting flat against your neck, his thumb gently caressing your jawline, giving you every single opportunity to pull away if it was too much for you to handle. "We've been being so good for four weeks. I've been the most patient guy in the entire city. I've given you all the space you asked for. But sitting this close to you while you look at me like that... it's starting to feel like a literal torture method."

You stared up at him, your lips parted, your mind completely spinning as the sheer emotional depth of his gaze anchored you to the floor. The last lingering remnants of your past life, the anxiety of the old relationship, the fear of changing the rules of your friendship—it all completely dissolved into the warm, amber light of the room.

"I'm not looking at you like anything," you whispered desperately into the tiny space between your mouths, your eyes locked onto his.

"You are," Jungkook whispered back, his face leaning down just another fraction of an inch, his warm lips almost brushing against yours as he spoke. "You're looking at me the exact same way I've been looking at you for three long years. And if you don't tell me to go back to my side of the room right now... I am going to completely ruin our safe little boundary tonight."

You did not say a single word. You did not move away, and you did not pull your hand away from his chest.

Instead, your fingers tightened fiercely against the fabric of his tank top, your eyes closing as you slowly leaned your head forward, completely closing the final, agonizing distance between you.

When his lips finally met yours, it wasn't the tentative, careful question from the beach shoreline a month ago. It was a deep, slow, and completely possessive answer. Jungkook let out a low, ragged sigh against your mouth, his large arms finally moving to wrap securely around your waist. He lifted your body completely off the rug and pulled you directly into his lap, closing every single inch of distance between you.

He held you with a heavy, unhurried strength that felt entirely permanent, his mouth moving against yours with a breathless, deep intensity that completely erased the old lines of your friendship. His lips were warm, soft, and demanding, tasting faintly of mint and sweetness. Your hands slid up his chest, your fingers tangling into the soft, messy curls at the back of his neck, holding onto him as if he were the only solid thing left in the world.

…

The bedroom was completely quiet. There was no more running, no more cold masks, and no more walls between you. The air felt completely thick with a deep, breathless relief.

You were both still on the floor, right by the side of your unmade bed. Jungkook’s broad back was resting firmly against the edge of the mattress, his long legs spread wide to cradle your body completely inside his space. He had pulled you right onto his lap, your knees framing his hips, bringing your bodies so close that there wasn’t a single inch of empty space left between you. His massive, hands were wrapped tightly around your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a steady, grounding pressure as if he was still terrified you might vanish into the dark night.

His mouth found yours again, and the kiss was entirely different from any clash you had ever shared before. It was deep, wet, and completely filled with an aching, desperate hunger that had been building up for a month. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, tasting the salt of your recent tears, while his hot breath fanned across your cheeks.

As the kiss deepened, Jungkook’s hips gave a slow, heavy tilt upward. The friction was instant. Even through the thick, rough denim of his jeans and the fabric of your clothes, the hard, solid length of his erection pressed firmly against your core. A soft, trembling gasp was pulled right from your throat, your fingers instantly digging into the fabric of his t-shirt.

He didn't speed up. He kept the movement slow, heavy, and incredibly deliberate, dry humping you right there on his lap. Every single time his hips rolled against yours, you could feel the throbbing size of his length pushing hard against your thighs. The friction was building a thick, heavy pool of heat between your legs, making your core clench desperately against the rough denim. He groaned deep in his chest, a low, vibrating sound that went straight down your spine. His mouth moved to your jawline, his lips sucking softly at your skin, leaving a wet trail down to your neck.

"You feel so fucking good, sweets," Jungkook panted darkly, his hot breath brushing against your ear. His large hands slid down from your waist, his palms cupping your ass tightly, lifting you slightly just to press your wet heat even harder against his hard jeans. "I’ve been going completely crazy for months. Do you know how hard it was to watch you walk past me every day and not pull you into a room?"

Your face flushed a deep, burning crimson. You were incredibly shy under his direct, raw words, but your body was completely betraying you, melting into his heavy heat. Your fingers slid up his chest, your palms mapping his muscles. You found yourself completely obsessed with the size of his biceps, your fingers squeezing the hard muscle as he lifted you. You stared down at his chest in the dim light, your breath catching at how massive and solid he felt beneath your hands.

Reaching out with a trembling finger, you playfully flicked his nipple through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Jungkook let out a sharp, ragged gasp, his eyes instantly darkening with a wild, teasing intensity. A dominant, beautiful smirk tugged at his lips. "Oh, you want to play dirty now, princess?"

Before you could answer, his large hand slid up under your shirt, his rough, warm palms finding your bare skin. His thick fingers captured your nipple, giving it a firm, teasing pinch that sent a sharp, electric jolt of pure pleasure straight down to your thighs. You arched your back, a loud gasp escaping your lips as his thumb began to make tight, heavy circles over the sensitive peak.

You fired back, your fingers tugging at his shirt until you could reach his chest, your thumb and forefinger finding his nipple again, pinching it right back. You were both teasing each other's nipples, the friction and the light pain driving the mood into something incredibly wild, raw, and completely unaligned with the cold distance of the past.

Jungkook couldn't take the distance on the floor anymore. Without breaking the heavy, wet connection of your lips, his massive arms wrapped completely under your thighs and back. He stood up smoothly, lifting your weight as if you weighed nothing at all, and moved the both of you onto the soft mattress of your bed.

He laid you down gently onto the dark blankets, his heavy, muscular frame immediately hovering right over you. He looked down at your face. His eyes were completely dark, filled with a raw, serious vulnerability. Neither of you had ever seen each other completely naked before—every previous encounter had been sweet, and hidden. Tonight was real.

"Hey," Jungkook whispered, his voice incredibly soft, sexy, and deep as he stared directly into your eyes. He reached down, his thumb gently tracing your lower lip. "Look at me, princess. I want to do this right. I want to see every single inch of you. Can I continue? Tell me you want me inside you."

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a wave of shyness washing over you at his intense focus, but you nodded your head softly, your fingers curling around his wrists. "Yes... Jungkook, please."

A soft, relieved sigh left his lips. He didn't waste another second. With slow, worshipful movements, he reached down and carefully pulled your shirt over your head, completely exposing your breasts to the warm air of the room. Jungkook froze for a long, heavy minute, his breath hitching completely in his throat. He stared at them in the dim light, his eyes completely blown out as he took in the soft, perfect shape of your chest.

"God, you are so beautiful," he growled darkly, his voice rough with an absolute, desperate hunger. He leaned down, his large, scarred hands cupping your breasts roughly, his thick fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He didn't bite brutally; he opened his mouth wide, licking and sucking your nipple deep into his mouth, his tongue making heavy, wet circles around the peak until you were crying out, your fingers twisting into his dark hair.

While he sucked your breast, your hands slid down his broad shoulders, your fingers mapping the thick lines of his back before you reached for the hem of his t-shirt. You pushed the fabric up, your eyes widening as he pulled it off, completely exposing his massive chest, his chiseled abs, and the powerful lines of his biceps. You were completely obsessed with his body, your palms sliding over his warm, tanned skin, feeling the heavy, rapid thumping of his heart beneath his ribs.

Jungkook reached down, his fingers unbuttoning your trousers and sliding them off your legs, leaving you in nothing but your small lace panties. He shifted his body down between your thighs, his knees forcing your legs wide apart. He looked down at your core, his breathing turning ragged.

His large, wrapped hand slid down, his palm resting right over the fabric of your panties. He began to rub his palm in slow, heavy circles over your pussy, flicking his fingers lightly against your hidden clit through the thin lace. He observed your face, watching your eyes flutter shut as you let out a high-pitched, needy whimper.

"Let me see it," Jungkook murmured, his voice a dirty, raw whisper against your thigh. "Can I take these off, sweets? Let me look at you."

You nodded weakly, your hands gripping the bedsheets as he carefully slid the lace panties down your legs, tossing them onto the floor. Jungkook stayed on his knees, his dark eyes locking onto your exposed core. In the dim glow of the room, he observed your beautiful, pink-brownish flesh, his eyes tracing the delicate, wet lines of your pussy. You felt incredibly shy under his intense gaze, instinctively trying to close your thighs to hide yourself from him.

"Don't hide from me," he commanded softly, his large hands gripping your knees and gently pushing them wide open again. "You are so fucking perfect. Look how wet you already are for me."

Using his delicate, thick fingers, he reached down and lightly flicked through the thick, clear cream that you had already released through the intense dry humping. He didn't rush. He moved his fingertips slowly over your clit, spreading your own wet juices over the sensitive flesh, making a soft, wet sound that filled the quiet bedroom. He was being incredibly dirty, moving his finger tips in tight, heavy circulation right over your clit, applying a steady, intense pressure that made your hips violently jerk off the bed.

"Ah! Jungkook... it's too much," you cried out, your face flushing as a wave of intense, pre-climax pleasure shot through your lower body.

"It's not too much yet, sweets," he whispered darkly, leaning down until his lips were just millimeters from your wet flesh. He let out a low growl, his tongue darting out to lick right across your clit, tasting your sweet cream. He started giving you a slow, incredibly nice pussy licks, his tongue licking and sucking your sensitive flesh while his fingers slid deep inside your wet core, moving in and out in a perfect, heavy rhythm.

You were writhing under him, your mind completely shattered by the dirty things he was whispering against your thighs, your body melting into the mattress. The pleasure was so pure, so real, and entirely empty of the past.

You reached down, your trembling hands catching his broad shoulders, pulling him up. "Jungkook... please, I want to touch you. Let me hold it."

Jungkook’s eyes flashed with a wild, dark desire, when you suddenly confessed. He shifted his body up, sitting on his knees right over your face. He unbuttoned his jeans, his hands sliding the heavy denim down his long legs until he was completely undressed. Your breath caught completely in your throat. It was your very first time seeing his length completely bare. He was massive, thick, and completely rock-hard, a heavy bead of precum glistening at the very tip of his shaft.

"Hold it, baby," he panted, his voice dripping with a raw, dirty authority. "Take it."

Your hands were shaking as you reached out, your fingers wrapping around the thick, warm base of his length. He let out a deep groan as your skin touched his, his jaw clenching tightly. You leaned up slightly, your tongue darting out to softly lick the shaft, moving your lips along the thick veins. You took the head into your mouth, giving him a slow, deep blowjob, your lips tight around his size while your hand moved up and down the length.

Jungkook’s breathing went completely wild. He reached down, his large hands gently gripping your hair, and began to softly mouth fuck you, pushing his thick length deep into your throat in a steady, heavy rhythm. The wet sounds of your mouth fucking filling the space between your gasps for air.

He moved with a heavy, intense pace until his entire body went completely rigid. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes looking down at your face, his voice a tight, strained rasp.

"Sweets... I'm close. Do you want me to come inside your mouth? Tell me."

You looked right into his wild, obsessed eyes, your heart completely melting at how real and vulnerable he looked. You nodded your head firmly, letting out a soft hum of agreement.

Jungkook let out a low, animalistic roar, pushing his thick length all the way back into your mouth to the very root. His body trembled violently as he released, pouring his thick, hot, and heavy cum right down your throat. You swallowed every single drop, your hands rubbing his thighs as his release pumped out against your tongue.

The moment he finished, he slowly pulled away, his breathing ragged. He didn't leave you alone for even a single second. Jungkook immediately pulled you back up into his broad chest, his massive arms wrapping around you as he gave you a sweet, tender aftercare for a full minute, kissing your lips, your forehead, and your wet cheeks, whispering how much he loved you into your skin.

But the night was far from over. The raw, unprotected heat between your bodies was still burning completely out of control.

Jungkook shifted your body, positioning you flat on your back once more. He crawled between your thighs, his thick, heavy length already semi-hard again, pressing right against the entrance of your wet pussy. He paused, his hands framing your hips, his eyes locking onto yours with a serious, deep focus.

Suddenly, with a playful, dominant smirk, his large hand came down, giving a loud, sharp slap right against your wet pussy flesh. The loud CLAP echoed through the room, making your eyes widen in pure, shocked arousal.

"You're so fucking wet for me, baby," he whispered darkly, his thumb finding your clit to begin a heavy circulation through the thick juices. He positioned the thick head of his dick right at your opening. "Can I put it back in? Let me slide all the way inside you, sweets."

"Yes... please, Jungkook, put it in," you screamed out, your pride completely gone.

Jungkook gave a deep, slow push, his massive, unprotected dick sliding smoothly and deeply right into your tight, wet core, bottoming out completely to the absolute root. A loud, desperate scream tore from your throat, your fingers digging deep into his biceps as he began to push in and out of you, starting the real, unbroken rhythm of the night.

Every single thrust was slow, heavy, and completely bottoming out inside your tight, swollen core. The unprotected friction between your bodies felt entirely different—it was an overwhelming, melting heat that stripped away the last remaining doubts in your mind.

His large hands were locked firmly around your hips, his calloused thumbs digging into your skin to anchor you against the soft mattress. With every slow, deliberate push, the wet, squelching sound of his thick shaft sliding through your excess juices filled the quiet room. You lay beneath him with your legs spread wide, your head tossing back against the pillows as a high, breathless whimpering tore from your throat.

"Look at me, sweets," Jungkook panted, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that shook your chest. He leaned his heavy upper body down, his broad chest pressing flat against yours, trapping your smaller frame under his massive weight. "Don't close your eyes. Look at how much of my dick you're taking right now."

You forced your eyelids open, your vision slightly blurred by tears of pure, intense pleasure. In the dim amber light of the streetlamps, his dark eyes were completely fixed on yours. There was a raw, beautiful vulnerability in his gaze—an absolute surrender that perfectly mirrored your own. The pride that had kept you apart for months was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, aching dependency that you finally permitted yourself to feel.

"Jungkook... ah! It feels... so deep," you choked out, your fingers sliding up his damp, muscular arms, your palms completely obsessed with the thick, hard curve of his biceps. You squeezed the solid muscle tightly as he delivered a slow, crushing surge that hit your spot perfectly from the front.

"Because it is deep, baby. Fucking deep," he growled softly, a low, vibrating chuckle rumbling against your chest. He stopped moving for a split second, his thick length buried to the absolute root inside you, letting you feel the full, throbbing weight of his erection. His hand slid up from your hip, his long, scarred fingers wrapping roughly around your breast. His thumb flicked over your highly sensitive nipple, applying a firm, teasing pressure that made your internal walls instantly convulse around his shaft. "I want to be so deep inside you that you can't think about anyone or anything else. You're completely filled with me."

He began to move again, but this time, he altered his angle, his hips moving in a tight, heavy circulation. The rolling motion of his pelvis against your clit, combined with the deep, deep strokes of his dick, was completely lethal. A sharp, loud scream escaped your lips, your back arching violently off the mattress as the friction reached a boiling point.

Jungkook let out a ragged gasp, his own head dropping into the crook of your neck. He began to suck and bite at your collarbone, leaving light, wet marks while his lower body kept up the relentless, circulating rhythm. He reached his hand down between your thighs, his thick thumb finding your swollen, dripping clit through the thick white cream that was beginning to coat his groin. He began to make tight, heavy, fast circles against your clit, matching the speed of his thumbs to the deep, grinding thrusts of his hips.

The combination completely shattered your mind. You were drowning in the raw, dirty reality of his touch. You could feel his thick veins pulsing against your internal walls, every single millimeter of his size stretching you open, forcing your body to stay in a constant, crushing state of climax.

"Jungkook! Please... I'm going to come... ah!" you sobbed out, your hands moving to the back of his neck, your fingers twisting desperately into his damp, dark hair to pull him down for a deep, wet kiss.

"Come for me then, love," he muttered against your lips, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth to swallow your high, needy cries. "Clench around my dick. Let me feel how tight you get when you ruin yourself for me."

Your body completely gave in. A massive, violent orgasm tore through your entire lower body, your internal walls clenching around his thick shaft so tightly that Jungkook let out a loud, animalistic roar of pure agony. His thrusts became faster, heavier, and completely unforgiving for a few wild seconds, his chest slamming against yours as he chased his own release through your convulsions. But even in his desperation, his large hands remained gentle around your waist, keeping you grounded, keeping you safe against him.

He didn't pull out when your body finished trembling. He kept his cock buried deep inside you, his heavy breathing filling the quiet room as he waited for your internal pulses to slow down. He leaned down, kissing your forehead, your wet cheeks, and the tip of your nose, his touch filled with an unbelievable, heartbreaking sweetness that made your heart melt completely.

"You're so perfect, baby, So perfect," he whispered, his rough voice completely stripped of its usual dominant edge. He reached down, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of damp hair away from your face. "My beautiful, perfect girl. I'm never letting you go back to that cold past ever."

You leaned up, your lips softly pressing against his chiseled jawline, your heart completely full. "I don't want to go back, Jungkook. I just want to stay right here."

He let out a soft, beautiful laugh, his dark eyes shining with an absolute, devoted warmth. He slowly pulled his semi-hard length out of your core, a soft, wet sound echoing in the quiet room as your shared juices spilled onto his thighs. Jungkook didn't leave your side for a single second.

He immediately pulled you into his broad chest, his massive arms wrapping around your waist, pulling the thick blankets completely over both of your shoulders to shield you. As the quiet night settled over the small apartment, you rested your head against his heart, your fingers intertwined with his scarred hand, finally, completely free. "I love you sweets," he planked a kiss to your lips.

"I love you too."

...

[ Request your fic here🫶🏼]

a/n: fr enjoyed writing this one sm!! nd made me feel so much aww in a way i can’t even explain lol. tbh this is a trope i’ve never actually tried before, so i really wanted to experiment with it in a super detailed way. i def didn't want to rush anything or just jump straight into the plot just to force them to confess love for each other immediately. i really hope u guys love the slow build up & how it turned out! thank you for showing so much love for the teaser !!! layout ur thoughts in the comments pls <3 REBLOGS ARE ALSO APPRECIATED

When you graduated top of your class with a marketing degree and a job already lined up, you weren’t big-headed to assume you would be given a lot in the beginning. No, you knew that you were the new kid on the block and needed to prove yourself first, needed to work your way up from the bottom. But what you definitely didn’t anticipate was working up from thefigurative trenches, almost exclusively doing busywork—constantly making coffee runs, catering business lunches, printing out endless spreadsheets.

Eighty-thousand dollars in debt, and you are a glorified intern.

While you’re positively itching to hit the ground running and get your hands dirty, your job isn’t too bad. The people there are all nice and welcoming, the complimentary coffee in the break room is decent enough for your dwindling bank account, and every quarter the company sponsors an employee barbecue where everyone can fraternize and enjoy free food.

“Apparently it fosters unity and teamwork,” your coworker Joy informs you as you both stand in the food line. “Seokjin—that’s our CEO—is really big on unity and teamwork.”

Joy is also a member of your marketing team. Though friendly, she has zero filter and thus always has a lot to say about everything—which has helped you when it comes to learning the ropes about the company, but has also had you clutching your imaginary pearls in certain situations where you found her topic of choice inappropriate. 

Despite only being a year older than you, her title of Marketing Associate instead of your measly Assistant means that she technically outranks you, though she doesn’t usually enforce that fact (unless there was something that needed to be copied or filed, of course). Still, she immediately took you under her wing when you first started and is the closest person to a friend you have at work (even though her daily coffee order is always so ridiculous, you are convinced that she has to be fucking with you—or at least engaging in some form of mild hazing).

“I think it’s nice,” you reply truthfully. “I’ll never say no to free food, and they let us out early and everything.”

“I mean, pretty sure you can get the hotdogs twelve in a pack at the dollar store,” Joy quips, raising her eyebrows at you pointedly. “But sometimes the boys from Sales take their shirts off and play soccer, so there’s that.”

Your eyes dart to said Sales Boys against your will, gaze drawn to Jung Hoseok as he chats animatedly with his teammates by the tables. You’ve only spoken to him once or twice, but his fiery red hair and even brighter smile caught your attention immediately, your heart rate accelerating at the sight of him in hallways mere days into starting your new position. Who better to have a mild work crush on than a sweet-talking salesman who winks at you sometimes in passing?

An appreciative noise has you turning back around, embarrassed at being caught ogling how shapely Hoseok’s butt looks in his dress pants today, but it’s just Wendy from Accounting, Joy’s best friend and thus a harmless, familiar face. Wendy has cut in front of a few editors to join you and Joy, and the way that she smiles at you lets you know she’s up to no good. “He’s cute, huh?” she asks, leaning towards you conspiratorially. “I would definitely give him the good ol’ suck behind the dumpsters over there, if you catch my drift.”

“Err…yeah, I do,” you reply awkwardly. She had been explicitly clear—keyword explicit—so there definitely isn’t any room for misunderstandings. Is this truly appropriate work function conversation? From the way the editors behind you are politely clearing their throats, you think not.

“Behind the dumpster?” Joy asks curiously. “That sounds unnecessarily smelly. He’s standing right next to some sturdy tables that I, for one, would take great advantage of—”

“I’m gonna go get us some drinks,” you announce loudly, your neck heating up. “Can you grab me a hot dog, Joy?”

“Sure,” she says dismissively, already distracted by her sudden debate with Wendy about the most convenient place to suck off salesman Jung.

The whole conversation is making you uncomfortable. You are not a prude—far from it—but there is a time and place for everything, and your coworkers’ blasé attitude towards inappropriate topics at company functions on company time rattles you a bit. So instead of engaging in the risqué discussion further, you make your way to the cluster of brightly-colored coolers that presumably hold beverages, sidling up to the only other person lingering the area.

“Anything good?” you ask cordially, making your coworker, who had apparently been deep in thought while considering his beverage options, startle a bit.

He’s tall, his large frame covered in the appropriate business casual attire of nice jeans and a powder-blue button-up. When he turns his head to look at you, you’re met with large, dark eyes blinking in surprise from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Said eyes dart around for a moment before determining that you were, in fact, speaking to him.

The man clears his throat. “Just the usual,” he says, voice soft. Timid.

“The usual?” you repeat. There are little hoops dangling from his earlobes, and you brush off your surprise at seeing them, returning your gaze to the coolers. Water, a clear soda, a cola. “The basics, you mean. Well, can’t really complain, right? Seeing as it’s all free. I think it’s really nice of them.”

Your companion seems surprised at your words. “It is,” he agrees softly, eyes meeting yours for a second before dropping back down to the cooler. “Um, are you...are you new?”

“Damn, I guess my cover’s blown.” You shoot him a wry smile. “Yeah, I just started a couple of weeks ago. What gave it away?”

“It’s just—no one else here really cares about these barbecues anymore,” he admits, looking at you, but not quite. More like, in your direction. “Everyone has forgotten to appreciate the little things.”

“Nothing is a given,” you shrug. “So you need to appreciate things when you can. And besides, those lots of little things can really add up without you realizing it.”

He finally seems to look at you properly, and the weight of his large, gentle brown eyes throws you off for a second. “They can,” he agrees, lips slowly drifting up. 

“What do we have over here?” a loud voice interrupts, a hand falling to your shoulder. You look up, and are met with the brightness of salesman Jung.

“Ah,” Hoseok says with a wink, reaching into the cooler. “I love Sprite.”

“Me too,” you reply automatically, and then immediately want to smack yourself. Because you don’t—carbonated beverages make you break out. But your mouth had formed the lie without your permission.

Embarrassed, you reach into the cooler, grabbing three water bottles. “See you later,” you squeak, avoiding eye contact as you make your escape.

Joy and Wendy are already watching you when you return to where they have procured a table, and when you hand them their waters, Joy raises an eyebrow. “I was wondering how long you were going to talk to that IT guy.”

“Yeah, and why did you leave when Hoseok showed up?” Wendy pouted. “_____, the universe is only going to give you so many opportunities. If you don’t want the ball, then pass it to me! Goddamn.”

“IT guy?” you prompt, hoping to slide past that last remark.

“Yeah. His name is Jungkook, I think? Mostly works with the printers, started a couple months ago.” Joy shrugs, obviously disinterested by the topic. She reaches for the ketchup bottle in the center of the table and squirts some on her hot dog. “This is the first time I’ve seen him at a barbecue, though. Honestly, I’m surprised he even came out, because the IT dudes generally keep to themselves. They rarely leave their little tower,” she adds with a dismissive wave.

Wendy scoffs in disinterest. “Who cares about Jeremy! Hurry up and eat, I’m sure Sales is gonna start their soccer game soon.”

“Soccer game?” you ask distractedly. A glance back to the coolers shows Jungkook is gone, and you don’t see him in the immediate vicinity.

“The sales department likes to play soccer during these things,” Joy reminds you. Her expression brightens. “Hey, maybe Hoseok will take his shirt off again! Let us pray.”

To your coworkers’ disappointment, Hoseok did not take his shirt off. But they certainly had a good time watching his athletic display across the grass anyway.

Monday morning—the start of the workweek, but also, rather depressingly, the end of the weekend. Everyone tends to be more tired and grumpy on Mondays (yourself included), and this is why your team considers it essential that you always stop by their preferred coffeeshop and bring in their drinks for a morning pick-me-up. You’re the lowest on the ladder, so you weren’t exactly sure how to refuse when you were asked one day if you would mind picking up some drinks for everyone, and then, after that, people kept sending you their orders like it was expected of you. The café is technically on your way to work and everyone always pays you back, but it’s still pretty irritating to have to forgo those extra precious minutes of sleep just so you can beat the long lines and get to work on time.

Today, you’re lucky enough to get ahead of the morning rush, but that means that you end up trudging into the building much earlier than you anticipated. You hope the coffee’s insulated cups do their job properly, because you really don’t have the energy to listen to Joy huff and puff about having to reheat hers.

Your trek to your cubicle slows when you realize that someone is already there, sitting in your chair and typing away on your keyboard. Their back is to you, swathed in an olive button-up, and it’s not until you get close enough to curiously crane your head to see their face that you recognize him. The guy from the barbecue last week—the one by the coolers.

He startles a bit when he sees you approach in his peripheral vision, eyes darting up at you in surprise.

“Hi.” You raise the tray you’re holding in an awkward greeting. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.”

“That’s okay, _____,” he replies softly, wide eyes blinking a little from behind his round glasses. “I can get kind of spacey when I’m focused on something. I was just doing some updates on your machine and didn’t see you.”

“You…” Your head tilts curiously. “You know my name?” 

A small smile touches his lips as he points to your computer. “I’m updating your machine,” he reminds you.

Not to mention the fact that he’s literally sitting in your cubicle, you name tag clearly posted on the frosted glass that separates your space from Joy’s. An embarrassed chuckle leaves you when you realize your dumbass mistake. “Oh. Duh. Wow, that was a stupid question. Let me just get out of your way.”

“No, no, I’m clearly the one in the way!” His head shakes apologetically. “I couldn’t do this update remotely and I thought you didn’t clock in for another half hour—sorry about that.”

“I don’t,” you confirm. “But I tend to get here a little early so I can sort out everyone’s coffee order.”

A brow raises in surprise. “Do they really have you making coffee runs?” he asks incredulously.

You hmm in confirmation, moving to set the coffee on everyone’s desks. “Rite of passage, I guess,” you call over the divider as you work. Joy’s order today isn’t as over the top as you know she can be, but you were still rather embarrassed to order it (vanilla latte with oatmilk—one and a half pumps cinnamon, one pump hazelnut, an extra espresso shot and extra foam with honey drizzle). The barista had looked at you tiredly but hadn’t voiced her obvious judgement when she rung you up. 

“I guess,” you hear him say, but he doesn’t sound too convinced. 

Coffee distributed and hands finally free, you return to lean against your cubicle, hovering as he continues to quickly type and click. You look at him pointedly, a small smile creeping across your face. “Speaking of grunt work, I hear you’re the printer guy.”

His lips quirk. “I’m also the expert at updating Microsoft Word, just so you know.”

You laugh, and his eyes crinkle in amused response. “Oh, well excuse me, sir.”

“I’ll let it slide this once. Since you’re new.”

“And so are you. That’s why you’re the printer guy.”

He just lets out a puff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. This close, you can now see the tiny holes that are trailing up his earlobe—he clearly has multiple ear piercings, not just the ones you saw at the barbecue. There is no jewelry in them now, though. 

“Jungkook, right?”

It’s his turn to look surprised, and you find yourself satisfied by the flush creeping up the back of his neck when he ducks his head in confirmation. 

“Us newbies gotta stick together,” you stage whisper behind a conspiratorial hand before leaning decidedly away. “Anyway, let me stop bothering you and go make some coffee.”

His eyebrows scrunch in clear confusion. “Didn’t you just bring some?”

“…Yeah, I am only just now recognizing just how bizarre this must seem,” you say sheepishly. “But none of those were for me—fancy specialty drinks aren’t really in my budget, so I tend to just brew a cup here.” 

“Did you say drinks?” a voice croaks, and when you turn your head, there’s Joy, walking towards the two of you. If her body’s sluggish movements weren’t enough to clue you in to the fact that she’s exhausted and possibly hungover, the designer sunglasses she’s wearing to tactfully hide half her face certainly do.

“On your desk,” you chirp as she walks past you without another glance. “Good morning!”

There is no response from the other side of the cubicle wall, and Jungkook frowns a bit, but you just give him a small shrug that translates to what can you do? before pushing off the wall to continue your trek to the kitchen. “You want one?” you offer. “I make a mean cafeteria coffee. Trial and error has taught me the exact temperature of tap water to use to make it taste less like sludge.”

His mouth smoothes back out at your joke, and though you wait for him to call you out on your ridiculous declaration, his gaze is already back on your computer. “No thank you,” comes his soft reply.

With a nod to yourself, you move to complete your task and leave Jungkook to work on his. When you return minutes later, newly-filled mug in hand, he’s already gone.

Today starts out pretty typically. After bringing everyone’s coffee, you settle into monitoring the company’s social media accounts. (When Joy first delegated this task to you, you were a bit confused, as social media is so vital to brands nowadays that handling it is technically a whole other full-time job. But it turns out you don’t have to do much above the intern level anyway—just answer customer questions and escalate issues if need be.)

Your manager has been out traveling for a week, but today she finally comes back to the office, and it makes for a nice change of pace when she hands you all of her scattered, hurriedly-scribbled notes and asks you to please transcribe them into something more cohesive and legible. Well, not nice, exactly (because at the end of the day, this is still busywork), but if you have to reply to one more Facebook comment with instructions that are clearly already on the product packaging, there is a pretty likely possibility you will scream. 

This is at least slightly less mind-numbing. Instead of copy-pasting things from a prewritten script, you get to try to make sense of what your boss had been trying to say when she wrote turkey club in the corner of a page filled with random numbers and dates. Was this important? Was it simply her plans for lunch that day? You and your fancy college degree have the pleasure of trying to figure that out while Joy and Alan, the web manager, get to actually do important things that are in their job descriptions.

Still, like every day, you try to dampen your frustration, try to keep a positive attitude. Because ultimately, this is an opportunity to grow your boss’s confidence in you, and that’s exactly what you want. Though you’re a little disheartened by all the busywork, you remind yourself it will all be worth it in the end. Your hope is that if you put in the time, you’ll eventually be trusted with more of the nitty gritty stuff. 

(You know…the stuff you actually got your degree for.)

But no matter how positive you are, things of course don’t go as smoothly as they should. After you’ve done a pretty fantastic job (if you say so yourself) of organizing and typing everything up, you send your manager the digital version. And, because you know the email may accidentally get buried in her inbox, you decide to print a physical copy for good measure.

You give the printer pretty simple, straightforward directions. One copy, double-sided (to do your part to save Mother Earth), the whole document typed in plain old black and white. But when you walk over, there’s nothing waiting for you in the printing tray. No humming to clue you in to the fact that the printer was working on your job. Nope. Instead, the admittedly ancient machine is quiet and still, and it stays that way for long enough for you to walk back to your computer to press the print button again, just in case you forgot to do so the first time. Still no dice. You frown, opening the paper tray to make sure it was full, then opening every other compartment that can possibly be opened to make sure there isn’t a paper jam somewhere.

Nothing.

Irritated, you stalk back to your desk, your first inclination to check with Joy and see if she has been having any of the same issues, but you find her chair empty. Probably got pulled into a meeting that they don’t find it necessary to loop you in on, even though it will ultimately be you who does all the grunt work for any action items the meeting produces.

Positive, you remind yourself, falling back into your chair and drumming your fingertips against your desk in thought. Maybe it’s not the printer at all. Maybe it’s your computer. You search your desk drawer for the introductory employee contact sheet HR had given you when you first started, and there he is—Jeon, Jungkook.

For a second, you consider sending him an email, but the green dot that displays he’s online has you shooting him a message instead. Much less formal, but likely quicker for the both of you.

You Hey Jungkook! Sorry to bother you, but I can’t print for some reason You The printer over here is ignoring me, and I don’t think I’m set up to print by the art directors

Despite what you originally assumed, he doesn’t answer immediately, obviously focused on something else. Still, you only have to wait a few minutes before you hear the soft ding you were waiting for. 

Jungkook Jeon Hi, _____. You mean the large printer by the marketing department, correct?   You Yes! I tried a couple times, but I don’t think the job even went through You Thought it best to just ask the printer guy 🙂

There’s a pause, one long enough that you worry that he’s forgotten about your lighthearted exchange from this morning. Shit. That was stupid of you. You’ve probably offended him. Fuck.

But if Jungkook is upset with you, he’s professional enough that it doesn’t come across at all in his next message. If anything, he just seems a little preoccupied. 

Jungkook Jeon Hmmm, let me check it out for you. Mabel can be a little uncooperative. You Mabel? 

Silence again, this time for a good five minutes. You answer some emails so you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs. 

Jungkook Jeon Sorry, was running some diagnostics in the background to see if I could find the problem  IT kinda calls that printer Mabel because we’re pretty sure she’s worked for the company for longer than all of us combined. Seems fitting

You can’t help but snort at that. Cute, and likely not inaccurate. Mabel, it is.   

Jungkook Jeon One of these days Mabel’ll finally retire, but it won’t be today—looks like she’s running fine. Do you mind checking for me and seeing if you can access the marketing server? 

A few clicks, and when double clicking on the server icon doesn’t bring up the same list of folders it usually does, it confirms the conclusion the both of you have already come to—your computer is the problem, not Mabel.

You No dice 😕 Jungkook Jeon Got it. I think something went weird with your network connection after I updated your machine this morning. I can fix that for you! You Awesome! I appreciate it! Jungkook Jeon Of course! Can’t have my sparkling reputation as the Printer Guy tarnished so easily 😉 You LOL

You allow him remote access to your computer when a pop-up prompts you to, and he gets you up and running before your manager’s meeting is even over.

Lunch has always been an interesting—albeit potentially exhausting—part of your day. You learned early on that attempting to take the break you were legally entitled to at your desk did not stop anyone from continuing to ask you for things. Unfortunately, there weren’t many solutions to this problem—you didn’t get paid enough to be able to consistently eat your lunches out, and you lived too far away from the office to go home for lunch instead. So, you started taking your lunch break a little earlier than most of your other coworkers did, ensuring that the cafeteria was pretty empty and allowing you the space to decompress and eat your bagged lunch in peace. 

And as things usually went with this company, it didn’t take long for that peace to be interrupted. Once she noticed you disappearing from your desk, curiosity had Joy tagging along one day, and after that, it only took a couple weeks before both she and Wendy joined you. 

(Later, you would have the great idea to simply enjoy your bagged lunch in the park a few blocks away, but the weather wasn’t always great and at that point, the other two started to expect you to eat with them.)

So that’s exactly how you’re spending your lunch now—scarfing down the soup you made a few days ago that you’ll eat until it’s completely gone, while Joy and Wendy giggle and gossip to each other. As much as they apparently want to eat lunch with you, they tend to be pretty nonplussed by how you never contribute much to their inane conversations. 

And you’re fine with that. In the time it’s taken them to get comfortable invading your zen time, you’ve learned how to properly tune their tittering out. You’re good at nodding at the right times, at throwing in perfectly placed hums that indicate you’re listening, even when you’re not.

Today, it’s a sudden, uncharacteristic pause in their chatter that prickles against your diverted attention.   “That’s weird,” you hear Wendy mutter, and that officially throws you out of you mentally making your grocery list. The intrigued way she’s looking behind you makes you reflexively turn, and that’s when your eyes set on Jungkook.

He hadn’t been there when you first sat down for lunch, but he is now, sitting alone a couple tables away. He’s the only other person in the cafeteria, but from the AirPods in his ears and the way his eyes are focused on his phone screen, you doubt he’s even noticed this fact.  

Joy’s lips downturn slightly into a puzzled frown. “Hmm. IT guys never come down voluntarily from their tower.” 

Your head tilts as you mull over that. That isn’t exactly true. You have only seen Jungkook in passing a few times over the last couple weeks, but those few times prove IT aren’t exactly the antisocial specters the two women in front of you keep painting them as. You have even exchanged the short pleasantries with him that are socially expected when crossing paths at the coffeepot.  

“Wonder what he’s doing here?” Wendy says, not nearly quietly enough in your opinion. Embarrassment  flashes hot through you, inwardly chastising yourself for continuing to associate with such casually judgmental people. You’re already mentally preparing to apologize for your lunch mates when a covert glance out of the corner of your eye shows that Jungkook’s still paying your group no attention, taking distracted bites from his sandwich as his head bobs slightly to whatever is playing through his headphones.

“Whatever,” Joy says with a dismissive shrug, and then just that easily, the two are back gossiping about Cindy in HR.

From then on, you notice that Jungkook continues to eat lunch in the cafeteria at the same time as you. Sometimes, he beats you there, already at his designated table and munching on whatever he brought that day. If your eyes meet, he’ll send you a small smile in greeting before immediately dropping his focus back to his phone. If you’re there first and throw him a wave of acknowledgment, he always returns it, as is polite and expected of two coworkers who don’t know each other beyond their forced proximity.

And you think nothing of it, too busy being your department’s errand girl, the person who gets assigned all the tasks no one else wants to do. The amount of interaction you and Jungkook have is only marginally higher than what you have with Namjoon in Finance, who periodically reaches out to you for any missing receipts for charges on the Marketing department’s credit card.

This slowly starts changing as you begin to have more and more technical problems. You being assigned to put together multiple PowerPoints and research whatever market trends tickles your boss’s fancy means you constantly have an ungodly amount of tabs and applications open. This means you’re not really surprised when your computer—an older model that is definitely on its last leg—starts freezing and giving you pop up errors. A force restart seems to fix the problem, but a new one emerges—now, no matter how many times you hit the print button and walk over to your designated printer, nothing awaits for you to pick up. Even scrolling through the printer’s print history shows no record of your jobs being in the queue. It’s bizarre—you even make sure to confirm you’re connected to the servers, and that doesn’t seem to be the issue this time.

Frowning, you make your way back to your desk and scroll down your chat messages until a familiar face appears.

You  Hey Jungkook! I can’t seem to print—think something weird is going on with my computer today

A soft sigh of frustration escapes your lips, fingers drumming irritably against your desk. It isn’t even noon, but the day is already looking to be a long one.

Resigned, you settle in to wait for him to answer you in the chat, but the little bubbles that indicate he’s typing never pop up. Instead, you’re surprised when movement in your peripheral produces Jungkook himself, slowing in approach of your desk, though his focus is still on his phone screen. He must have gotten your message in the midst of doing something else. 

“Oh! Hi,” you greet him eagerly. “Just the person I was looking to see.”

He looks up at you from beneath the curtain of his bangs, a small smile touching his lips as he stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his slacks. “Just the person I was looking for,” he returns. “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Mabel is being a bitch again,” you say with an irritated sigh. “Every time I try to print, nothing is happening.” 

Jungkook snorts, amused, and it’s only then that your brain registers exactly what you just said. Swearing at work is unprofessional so you make it a point not do it, but that one slipped out so casually. “Oh—sorry.”

But if Jungkook is offended, it certainly doesn’t show in the responding chuckle he lets out. “That’s definitely on brand. I can fix that—let me take a look.”

You move to relinquish your seat, but he’s already leaning over you before you can do more than shift your weight. So you just let go of your mouse so he can control it instead, scooting to the side a bit and trying your best not to think too hard about how he’s close enough for your clothes to brush. Christ does he smell good.

Jungkook clicks around a bit, no doubt checking to make sure your computer is up to date and connected to everything it’s supposed to. “Is this what you’ve been trying to print?” he finally asks, brows furrowed in concentration.

You blink at the question, realizing with dawning horror that you were accidentally distracted by his proximity. You clear your throat, shaking your head a little at yourself in an attempt to clear it of all thoughts that aren’t solidly on the task at hand. “Yeah.” 

He clicks the print button, just as you have done for the past ten minutes, then straightens with a shrug. “Let’s give our old girl a visit and see what her deal is.”

You stand, following him around the corner to the copy room, where Mabel has proudly taken residence for who knows how many years. The fact that you can already see she’s humming with activity as the two of you approach has your eyebrows knitting in confusion.

Jungkook seems equally confused, reaching in the tray for the stack of paper that was just spit out and turning it over to confirm both of your suspicions. The report you’ve been trying to print for the last twenty minutes sits in his hand, likely still warm from how quickly and easily Mabel completed Jungkook’s request. He holds it up for you to see, his big doe eyes peering at you quizzically through his glasses. “This printer was the one that wouldn’t work for you?” he asks.

“Yeah, I definitely sent it to this one. Repeatedly,” you insist. Embarrassment prickles across your skin. “I swear it wasn’t working two seconds ago!”

Jungkook smiles when he hands you the papers, and it somehow softens his naturally cherubic face even more. “You just wanted to say hi to me, huh?” 

“Clearly Mabel likes you more than me,” you sniff at his teasing. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“You didn’t,” he says simply. He hovers for a few more moments as you check to make sure all the pages are there. “Let me know if you have any more issues, okay?”

“Will do,” you agree, mind already back on your work as you both turn to part ways. “Thank you so much for your help!”

“Anytime.”

“Didn’t you have a date last night?” Joy asks. 

It’s lunchtime again, early enough that the three of you are still the only ones in the cafeteria. While both Joy and Wendy are munching on some overpriced salads they had delivered from a restaurant a couple blocks away, you’re eating a boring ham and cheese sandwich that you haphazardly slapped together in your rush to get out the door this morning. Vaguely, you do remember Wendy mentioning something about an upcoming hot date, but she was always rambling about a hot date, and frankly, you don’t care enough to keep up with any details. Everything you know about her love life—and her, in all honesty—has been dumped onto you without you having any say in the matter. 

“I did,” Wendy squeals, excited as always to have the opportunity to talk about herself. “His name was Miles. We’ve been talking on Tinder for the past week—he was really sweet and seemed to want to get to know me. Last night he took me to a nice restaurant, really wined and dined me.”

“Wow,” Joy says, eyebrows raised. “That sounds promising. When are you gonna see him again?”

“I’m not,” Wendy scoffed. “He was nice and all, but he’s only 5’7. It’ll never work out.”

“True.”

You’ve been trying your hardest to zone them out, but the longer Wendy prattles on, each sentence more baffling than the last, you can’t help but interject, “Doesn’t the app let you filter out height preferences?”

Wendy pauses, a raise of an eyebrow betraying her surprise at you finally participating in her lunchtime shenanigans. “Not on the free version.”

“So why did you even entertain him if you knew you would never consider him seriously?” 

“..because I wanted to go to dinner?” Wendy replies flatly, the look on her face doing nothing to hide how stupid she thinks your question is. “Besides, he got what he wanted out of the deal. After dinner I took him home and let him fuck.” 

The flippantly casual way she throws out the vulgar word feels like a record scratch, especially since the three of you are, in fact, still very much on company premises. Wendy doesn’t seem to notice just how much she’s scandalized you, continuing to prattle on at full volume about how the sex was pretty good for a Tinder date, even though he refused to eat her out. 

At this point, you’ve long slowed in your chewing, now entirely too incredulous by the absurdity of the situation you’ve found yourself in to eat. 

“You didn’t suck him, did you?” Joy asks.

Wendy scoffs. “Of course not! I’m not giving head to some random anyway, especially if he’s not gonna give me mine first.”

“Can we not talk about this?” you mumble.

They both turn to stare at you, judgement plain on their faces. Wendy snorts. “Wow, _____. I never took you to be a prude.”

“I did,” Joy slides in under her breath.

You let out an agitated huff. This is ridiculous. “I’m not a prude.”

The two of them share a look. After a pause, Wendy finally asks in a way that indicates that it doesn’t really matter what you say because her mind is already made up, “Then what’s the problem?”  

Aside from this conversation being a massive HR violation?

Wendy continues smugly, as if she’s figured you out, “Talking about oral hit a nerve…interesting.”

Yes, Wendy! you think sarcastically, fighting the intense urge to roll your eyes. The whole rest of the convo was good and dandy—oral was definitely the line, though! 

Joy just looks at you, her eyes narrowing the longer she does. Her scrutiny makes your skin prickle in irritation. “You have gotten head before, right?”

“Okay!” you say sharply, stuffing the uneaten half of your sandwich back into the bag. “One, that’s neither of your business, and two, this conversation is completely inappropriate. Let’s change the subject, please.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, both of them visibly surprised by your response. Joy actually looks a tiny bit proud that you stood up for yourself, but Wendy just sniffs and mutters, “That obviously means no.” Ultimately, they both back off, choosing instead to chatter about the newest design of Joy’s nails.

You exhale a tiny sigh of relief. Wendy was hitting the nail too close to the head and you truly didn’t feel like explaining your life story to a nosy coworker who was nothing more than your acquaintance, at best. Now that they’ve finally let you out of the hot seat, you’re fully planning to spend the rest of your lunch hour zoning out in relative peace. 

But before you can properly dissociate, you hear someone cough behind you. 

Your blood runs cold. You already know who it is—no one else tends to eat lunch this early.

“How long has he been sitting there?” you whisper, already dreading the answer.

Joy waves an unbothered hand. “I don’t know, like five minutes?”

Five minutes. Long enough to have heard… 

You’re immediately mortified, and it must show on your face, because Wendy just snorts and says way too loudly for your comfort, “Oh, relax, this is probably the most action he’s gotten in months. I’m doing him a favor.”

What the fuck. WHAT THE FUCK. “Are you serious right now?”

“Calm down,” Joy says, rolling her eyes. “Look, he’s not even listening to us.”

And a slow, discrete turn of your head confirms what she says—Jungkook, in an ugly salmon button-up today, has his earbuds in, eyes downcast to his phone screen, lips soundlessly forming the words to whatever song he’s listening to. You feel a tiny bit of relief, but embarrassment still roils deep in your belly, suddenly making your half-eaten sandwich completely unappetizing.

You stand, grabbing the brown paper bag that contains the remnants of your lunch and hoping against hope that you’ll be able to bolt without him noticing.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Wendy sighs, annoyance bleeding into her tone. “I told you I didn’t realize you were a prude. We can talk about something else.”

You bristle, but tamp down the urge to defend yourself and point out again that you aren’t a prude, you just don’t want to be the office harlot either. “It’s not that,” you lie. The judgmental look in Joy’s eye only softens when you say, “I just remembered I forgot to print the printouts for the meeting this afternoon. I’ll see you guys later?”

“Sure,” Joy says dismissively, and Wendy says nothing at all. They’ve already moved on, no longer interested in your swift escape, attention eagerly back on the details of Wendy’s weekend. That’s works perfectly fine for you—you’ve had enough of being the center of attention for the day.

Blessedly, Jungkook doesn’t even look up when slink past him and out the door.

 It’s hot.

Third quarter is well underway, which means that it’s time again for the quarterly company barbecue. That also means it’s hot as balls. 

You suffer quietly, trying not to add to the stank atmosphere Joy and Wendy are already creating due to the heat. It’s an ambitious goal, especially since you’re already sweltering beneath your blouse—which was reasonable to wear within the chilled walls of the office, but feels rather ridiculous now, under the relentless beat of the sun. Despite being grateful for the free food and break from your maddeningly boring work, you can’t help but mentally yearn for the indoors, where there’s proper shade and air conditioning and decidedly less bitching. 

“I don’t know why they don’t just cater something for us to eat inside,” Joy mopes, dabbing at her brow with what you already know from experience to be a cheap, scratchy napkin. “How is anyone supposed to enjoy themselves if we’re melting?”

“It’s probably a ploy,” Wendy quips. “The more uncomfortable we are, the more likely we are to get back to work.”

“The date’s been on the calendar for months,” you point out wearily. “They had no way of knowing there’d be a heat wave today. Besides, the company’s already paid for the food. I doubt they intended to purposely waste that money.”

Joy scoffs in retort. “The company also knows throwing an outdoor event in July is the same as throwing one in Satan’s asshole.”

Wendy sniggers, but you don’t answer, biting back your response that outdoor barbecues are common during summer, and at least they don’t have you out here in the snow. Because honestly? This is only your second quarter with the company, and who knows what the fourth quarter barbecue looks like. 

All you can do is free some of the buttons on your blouse, undoing as many as you can while still being office-appropriate. As it is, you now have a little cleavage peeking out, but with how hot it is, you figure no one will say anything.

“Look,” Wendy says with an unsubtle tip of her head. “Looks like the soccer game is still on, at least.”

Fluttering the hem of your blouse in an attempt to get some circulation, you reflexively respond to her prompting, eyes following her line of sight. A few tables down, the Sales team has finished their meal and appears to be actively gauging coworker interest in joining their game. From the decently-sized group that’s starting to form by the open field, you think they’re pretty successful, despite the heat. 

Joy groans, lifting her long hair with a hand in an effort to cool off the back of her neck. “I don’t know how they’re doing all that when it feels too hot to breathe.”

Inwardly, you agree with her, but Wendy just gives a lazy shrug and says, “Hey, if we’re gonna roast to death, at least we’ll be properly entertained.”

“True,” Joy muses. “And they’re gonna be sweatier than usual.”

Wendy’s eyes glaze over a bit at the thought. You grimace, amazed that these two always seem to have their heads in the gutter. That’s my cue. “I’ll be right back,” you say, brushing off the back of your slacks as you stand, but they pay you no mind when you walk away.

You’ve already finished your meal, but it can’t hurt to take another look at the coolers. It’s so hot that you’ve already downed your first beverage, so a new one is in order. When you arrive to the area, two people from Customer Service pass, nodding at you in acknowledgment as they make their way back to their table. You’ve only just started to reach for a cooler lid when you hear someone address you again. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice says timidly behind you. “How’s it going?”

You reflexively turn your head, simultaneously surprised and not at all to find Jungkook standing there. He’s got on a long-sleeved button-up despite the heat—grey, checkered with a red and navy plaid—and you can’t help but wonder how he’s not sweltering. Though, the noticeable sheen on his face and the way his damp bangs are starting clump together tells you he just might be. 

“I’ve had better days,” you answer honestly, swiping the back of your hand across your forehead. Before you can catch yourself, that same hand is vaguely gesturing at him, head to toe. “How are you not melting?”

His lips twitch, amused. “I definitely am,” he admits. “I actually hoped no one was over here so I could stuff some of the ice from these coolers down my shirt without being judged.”

You snort. “Hey, who’s judging? Certainly not me. Knock yourself out; just make sure you leave me some.” 

He taps his chin, jokingly in thought, but to be honest, he does mildly look as if he’s actually considering it. “Well, we wouldn’t want the beverages to get cold…”

“Eh, there’s probably not that many in here anyway. They could probably consolidate coolers.” To prove your point, you bend over, cracking open one of the red ones next to you and peering inside. The expected assortment of generic sodas greets you, looking admittedly very refreshing floating in their ice bath. “See, this one isn’t even full.”

You angle your torso a bit so you can meet his eye properly over your shoulder, but as soon as you look up at him, his gaze hurriedly skirts away, color crawling up the back of his neck. You stand with a frown, confused by this, but ultimately brush off his weird behavior when you notice Namjoon from Accounting sidling up to the two of you. 

"Hey guys,"  he greets you, a friendly smile dimpling his cheeks. "We're getting some people together for a soccer game. I know it's really hot, but would either of you want to join?"

You’ve often seen Namjoon chatting with Hoseok in passing, and twice have even seen them leave the building for lunch together, so it doesn’t surprise you that the accountant is helping recruit for the Sales team's traditional barbecue pastime. What does surprise you, however, is that when he casually claps a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, the younger man first responds by blinking owlishly at him behind his glasses, and then, a few seconds later, giving him a nod of assent. 

Obviously you don't know Jungkook very well—not at all, really, outside of your ongoing feud with Mabel. But you didn't take him to be the type to be into playing outdoor sports, particularly in this weather, and you certainly didn't expect him to agree so easily. A smile from Namjoon and suddenly all thoughts of stealing cooler ice are gone. 

Namjoon turns back to you, but you're already shaking your head. "Nope, no thank you! Y'all have fun. I'll just supervise from over there in the shade."

"Fair enough," he chuckles, and then he's leading Jungkook across the open field to meet up with the others.

Mildly more interested in the game now, you take this as your cue to grab the beverage you came for—a can of a Lipton knockoff and a bottle of water for good measure—and return to your table.

Joy and Wendy are still yapping when you approach, though in your absence, Joy has apparently decided to move to Wendy’s side of the table. It only takes you following their line of sight to quickly recognize why—that side of the table has an unobstructed view of the upcoming soccer game. Well, unobstructed, so long as you change your seat too. Awkward about intentionally getting in the way, you pause for only a moment before ultimately reaching for the end seat perpendicular to them instead. 

When you lean over a little to pull your chair out from under the table, Joy finally deigns to acknowledge you, ticking an eyebrow. “I can see down your shirt,” she tells you offhandedly. 

Your head snaps down, and you realize she’s right—undoing those few extra buttons has made the billowy fabric more susceptible to gravity, particularly when you leaned over. You yourself could see your whole chest and the basic bra that supported it, and at this angle, you doubt your blouse covered much of that from Joy’s gaze. A hand immediately snaps up to press the material back in place, but before you can even get properly embarrassed, her attention is ripped from you, eyes wide at something behind you.

“Holy—”

Wendy's jaw drops. Your head reflexively turns in the direction they're gawking at.

And before you can stop it, your jaw drops too.

Your tablemates have been known to be dramatic, and are certainly the type to stretch a fact or two. But it’s only now that you fully understand their fixation on these Sales soccer games, because yes, sometimes they do indeed take their shirts off. Like now.

Other than one girl from Compliance, all of the game’s recruits appear to be men, and as such, the group has chosen to distinguish teams by shirts vs. skins. And while the sudden appearance of skin naturally draws most people’s attention, your attention only gravitates towards one person. Cause what the fuck.

You almost don't recognize him, your brain rapidly shuffling through the information it's collected about him over the past few months and struggling to reconcile with what your eyes are actually seeing. Because the Jungkook you know wears glasses and long sleeves and has an unassuming hairstyle that looks suspiciously like a bowl may have been involved at some point. 

But the person you're looking at now? Glasses have been discarded, apparently no longer needing optical assistance, and he’s ditched the button-up, sweat making the white sleeveless tank he has on underneath spottily transparent and divulging the dusk of his nipples. Now that you can properly see the taper of his slim waist, his shoulders are proportionally more broad than you realized. And, since he clearly has no regard for your rapidly rising blood pressure, Jungkook decides now is the perfect time to reach over said shoulders, grab fistfuls of damp fabric, and pull. The sight of him slipping the shirt over his head—the ink of his hair sinfully mussed, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement—has you reflexively swallowing, mouth dry.

He's absolutely ripped. 

There's no other way to say it. A superior specimen, built and honed in a way that's only possible through years of hard work and discipline. He's still lean enough that you can rationalize how you’ve never picked up on that amount of muscle hiding beneath his unassuming dress shirts, but you're still gobsmacked. 

Your mind spins, struggling to come to terms with the near impossible fact Jungkook actually pulled a Clark Kent on you. Well, pulled a Clark Kent if Clark Kent was also covered in gorgeous ink, pigment swirling up his right arm from wrist to shoulder. From this distance you can’t see the exact designs that make up his intricate sleeve, but you can tell it was composed with a purposeful eye. 

Jungkook is absolutely ripped and tattooed. Jungkook. Printer guy Jungkook.

Flustered and trying not to be, you quickly look away, clanking your jaw shut and trying to focus on the plastic tabletop instead. Dear god, this is embarrassing. You really just gawked at your coworker! He was minding his own business and your jaw just reflexively unhinged like a degenerate. God, you hoped he didn't see that.

But any mortification you have is apparently not shared by the other two at your table.

“Is that Justin?!” Wendy demands rather shrilly, eyes wide, and the volume of her question would embarrass you even more if your brain could process any other reaction right now other than straight static. “Justin from IT?!”

You swallow thickly, your responding correction weak and delayed. “Jungkook.” 

“Finally,” Joy groans, pushing her plate away dramatically. “Some good fucking food!”           

You can’t help it then—your eyes drift back up, lured to the soccer players once more and zeroing in on him immediately. Seemingly unable to stray from his form, the heat already producing a sheen over his golden skin even though the game hasn’t started yet.

Surrounded by a few surprised male coworkers, Jungkook’s slightly hunched into himself, shy at the sudden attention. Even with the distance, you can see how Hoseok claps Jungkook on the back, just as animated over his newly revealed physique as the members of your table. But while everyone else is excited by this revelation…

Across the field, Jungkook innocuously turns his head in your direction. Like magnets, his eyes hone in on yours, your gaze locked for a few seconds until another loud What the fuck?! from Wendy frees you from the spell and you hurriedly look away again, a completely different kind of heat washing over you.

Jesus, you need to get ahold of yourself. There’s no way he was actually looking at you—it’s too sunny, and he’s not even wearing his glasses! He probably can’t even see that far.

But when you brave another peek in that direction and realize you can literally count his abs from here—

What the fuck, indeed.

Mutely, you watch the game unfold, not as self-conscious when it becomes clear that the whole office is doing the same. Though Joy and Wendy have been very salacious in their excitement for it, the soccer game is evidently a company barbecue highlight for others as well. And you’re sure Jungkook joining the fray has only added to the interest, as he’s a completely new addition to the equation.

And to your continued astonishment, Jungkook is good. He’s fast and lithe and brazen. He proves to you, again and again, that he can kick the ball with such ferocious accuracy that the other team’s goalie eventually stops trying to get in his way and simply resorts to trying to protect their vulnerable body parts instead. His intensity only entices reciprocal energy from everyone else, and what has traditionally been a lighthearted game between coworkers has now transformed into a group of competitive men who feel they now have something to prove. 

Joy and Wendy are delighted by this development, squealing and cheering and tittering amongst themselves. You sit quietly, still trying to mentally process this new development, but when you start to feel embarrassed by just how much you’re staring, you decide to call it a day. No one really notices when you stand and gather your trash, and luckily the distraction of the game means you’re able to slip out without any fanfare.

This quarter’s barbecue being on a Friday means you’re blessed with a weekend to decompress and regroup. Unfortunately for you, the office doesn’t just…move on from the event like it has in the past. Instead, this particular barbecue was apparently such a success that you continue to hear chatter about it for the next week, mostly in passing. But while everyone else makes small talk about how much fun they had, Joy and Wendy choose to hone in on the only thing they truly consider worthy of discussion—Jungkook. 

Today, just as they have every day for the past few months, they join your table when you take your early lunch. However, to their increasing irritation, the object of their current fixation isn’t here. In fact, Jungkook hasn’t showed up to the cafeteria during your lunch time since before the barbecue, and you inwardly have to admit it’s a little strange without him. You sat at different tables and the two of you never really said much to each other beyond the expected niceties, but you’ve gotten used to his presence all the same. 

You actually have barely seen him at all, with Mabel on her best behavior this week and Jungkook seemingly busy with something that has kept him mostly out of common areas. Still, with your embarrassingly strong reaction to him at the barbecue, it’s probably for the best. You’re a little wary of what your first proper interaction is going to be like, and you’ve been mentally preparing yourself to be as normal as possible. 

Your female lunchmates don’t seem to have that same mindset.

“Does he just not eat anymore?” Joy huffs. “I literally haven’t seen him all week!”

Wendy picks at her salad, lips twisted in a displeased grimace. “I actually saw him yesterday.”

Joy’s head snaps to her. “What?! You didn’t tell me that. What happened?”

“Since casually running into him doesn’t seem to be working, I figured I’d try getting him to come to me. So I unplugged my keyboard and messaged him, but he didn’t show up for like 40 minutes,” Wendy sighs irritably. “And when he did, he looked at me like I was a moron.”

Your lips twitch in amusement before you can stop them. Joy immediately says exactly what you’re thinking. “Well, you are a moron. You sat there for 40 minutes with your keyboard unplugged!”

Wendy soldiers on like she didn't hear her, undeterred from her gossiping. “So he came over in his ugly button-up and judged me! Plugged the keyboard back in and walked away without even saying anything.”

Despite not properly running into him all week, you actually did see Jungkook’s shirt in passing yesterday as he was turning down a hallway at the far end of the office. Wendy’s right—it had been an ugly puce. You found it endearing.

“He didn’t even roll up his sleeves,” Wendy mourned. “The least Jamal could have done was give me that.”

You pause in the chewing of the tuna sandwich you brought from home, exasperated. “Jamal,” you repeat flatly. “Really?”

Wendy waves her hand at you dismissively. “You know who I mean!”

“I mean, he’ll probably be more willing to talk to you if you treat him like an actual person.” Your quip is reflexive and indignant, and it kind of throws all three of you off guard. Joy raises an eyebrow at you and your sudden vexation, but you still add, though more subdued, “You know. Making an effort to remember his name is a good start.”

“Damn, who pissed in your Cheerios?” Wendy sniffs, though she doesn’t seem very offended by your callout. Over the months you’ve superficially gotten to know her, you’ve come to notice that she doesn’t really take much seriously—a simultaneously admirable and frustrating trait. “If you wanted dibs, you could have just said that.”

You feel heat flush up your neck, denial attempting to sputter from your lips, but true to form, Wendy has already moved on, tittering about how it’s about time the office had some proper excitement that wasn’t just meetings and spreadsheets.

“And speaking of meetings,” Joy pipes up, passing you a nonchalant look, “don’t forget to order those sandwiches for the client meeting tomorrow.”

“Sandwiches?” Your mind blanks. You knew your boss was hosting some clients in the office—had even been working on a lot of grunt work to prepare for it—but no one had mentioned anything to you about any sandwiches. “I thought she was wining and dining them?”

Joy let out a mildly irritated huff. “No, they have to catch an early flight home, so the plan has changed to a working lunch. Weren’t you listening in Monday’s meeting?”

No, you hadn’t been listening, because you weren’t invited to the Monday’s meeting. So it looks like a plan had been made and tasks assigned to you…without anyone bothering to communicate that. Typical.

You close your eyes for a second, jaw working as you attempt to tamp down your ever-brewing frustration. If they intend on you ordering from the usual place, it may be too late to cater for delivery, which means you’ll probably be stuck figuring out how to transport multiple giant platters from a restaurant five blocks away. 

“Do you mind forwarding me the request you sent? I must have missed it,” you respond neutrally, knowing full well the original email had never been sent to you. You stand to leave, the rest of your lunch break instantly soured by the revelation that you apparently have time-sensitive action items that are encroaching dangerous territory. “Just want to make sure I get the order correct.”

Joy nods, attention already back on Wendy and only half-listening. In the meantime, you’ll have to research alternatives, just in case.

While you’re lucky enough to find an acceptable last-minute catering option that will also, blessedly, deliver, that doesn’t mean you’re free to take a breather. 

It’s now the end of the day, and one by one, you see everyone around you log out and head for the elevator. Even Joy, who leaves right on time, despite knowing just how many tasks your small team still needs to complete for the big meeting tomorrow. What’s left is mostly grunt work, and while you are undoubtedly a grunt, it’s been clear for a while now that Joy no longer sees herself to be included in that category. So even though having more hands on deck would speed things along considerably, she still gathers her purse and gives you a cheeky finger wave on her way out.

At some point, the cleaning lady makes her rounds, scooting past you with a murmured apology to empty your trash can, but eventually even she disappears. Hell, even the sun abandons you, the soft glow fading from all the windows and stranding you with the cold fluorescent lighting that only remains on in your part of the office, because the lights have motion detectors. 

And so it’s just you, kneeling on the carpet and surrounded by a gazillion binders. Ensuring relevant reports and Powerpoint presentations are accurate and sending digital copies to your boss for her to have on-hand. Attempting to print physical copies and assemble them into binder portfolios your clients will be able to follow along with during the meeting. 

Attempting, because Mabel is, of course, choosing now to live up to her bitchy reputation. She won’t print on the right-sized paper. She won’t collate. She won’t be cooperative at all, and you’re too exhausted for this shit. Physically and mentally exhausted, trying your hardest to rein in the frustration that’s slowly expanding in your chest, crawling up your throat and triggering a familiar burning behind your eyes. It’s not fair. 

An exasperated noise escapes you without thinking, a loud, guttural thing. None of this is fair.

“_____?”

Your head snaps over your shoulder in surprise, not at all expecting anyone else to still be in the building. It’s Jungkook, because of course it is. Brows knitted in confusion, a black leather jacket thrown over his marigold button-up for some reason. He’s standing near the doors that exit into the lobby, evidently about to begin his trek home before you unwittingly paused his endeavor.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, but before you can even deign to answer, he’s already taken a few steps towards you and followed up with a clearly concerned, “Are you okay?”

You take a breath, struggling to calm the storm within you. None of this is his fault, nor his problem, and you should just force a smile on your face so he can be on his way and leave you to your self-pity. But you’re tired, so tired, and simply don’t have the capacity to pretend anymore. You swallow around the lump in your throat, and when you do speak, the thickness of your voice betrays the tears that you’re fighting to keep at bay. “No.”

This only seems to alarm him more. He’s standing next to you now, as close as he can get with the array of binders and papers you have scattered on the floor around you like a fortress not meant to keep anyone out, but rather, to keep you inside.

“What’s the matter?” he asks gently.

“Oh, nothing,” you snort derisively, blinking rapidly at the ceiling in an effort to try to stop the inevitable. “Nothing. It’s just well past 7pm and I’m still here in this godforsaken building attempting to print out and hole punch and assemble twenty copies of this presentation. I can’t even get the printer to do what I’m asking it to! And there’s no fucking reason I should still be here because the could have been done last week if my boss didn’t keep making nonsensical changes based solely on vibes. And tell me why there are six people on my team but no one thought to help me or take any sort of ownership of this at all—as per usual—or even buy me a fucking coffee for once! I haven’t eaten a proper meal all day but everybody just assumes they can go home because things will magically get done like they always do because they will! I will always make sure that they will! Every day it becomes increasingly clear that nobody in this fucking company gives a flying FUCK about me or my free time or my sanity—”

If he’s put off by your potty mouth, Jungkook certainly doesn’t show it. He just manages to catch your gaze from behind his glasses and simply replies, “I do.” 

Your never-ending rant rapidly dissipates on your tongue, brain struggling to comprehend what he just said. “…What?”

“I care,” he repeats softly. “How can I help?”

The sincerity in his tone renders you mute, too stunned to do anything more than watch as Jungkook drops the backpack he’s had slung over a shoulder onto the floor, tossing his newly removed jacket on top of it without much thought. He’s unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, the reemergence of an ink-covered forearm making your brain stutter even more. Now that there’s much less distance between you, you can more accurately make out the shape of a delicate tiger lily, the languid form of a snake.

Jungkook clears his throat, the noise snapping you out of your stupor and making you realize you were just staring at him in silence, for who knows how long. Dammit. “What do you need?” he tries again. 

“Um, first we can start with Mabel,” you croak, mouth now embarrassingly dry. “No matter what I do, she refuses to collate.”

Jungkook shoots you a smile that softens his whole face. “Lucky for you, I’m the printer expert, remember? Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed and be out of here in no time.”

He holds out a hand and you reflexively grab it, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Together, you make your way to the copy room, where Mabel has stubbornly been giving you hell all night. Jungkook gets right to work pushing buttons while you stand to the side, awkwardly shifting your weight a little from foot to foot.

“So why are you still here?” you ask, curiosity finally forcing you to voice the question that’s been looping in your mind since he first appeared. “It’s late.”

“It is,” he agrees, focus still on the printer. He kneels down, opening the paper tray. “There’s this huge system update that’s set to roll out next week. My whole team has been hunkering down and pulling late nights.”

Oh. That explains why you haven’t seen him around much since the barbecue. “That’s tough.”

“We’re finally almost done,” he shrugs. “And I’m clearly not the only one working overtime.”

You don’t say anything when he looks up at you pointedly, so he turns back to the printer, pulling a stack of paper out of one of the trays.

“I think this may be part of the problem. Someone put the wrong-sized paper in here. Or, at least, Mabel thinks it’s wrong. She’s confused.”

“Well, she can join the club,” you mutter, and he puffs out a laugh, shutting the drawer and pressing some more buttons.

“Come on, let’s try again.”

Something touches your elbow, and though it shocks through you like he electrocuted you, you have the good sense suppress any embarrassing reaction to what you quickly realize is just his hand. Instead, you let him guide you back to your desk, trying not to focus too intently on the heat of his skin on yours. 

Jungkook waits for you to login to your computer, clicking around and changing some settings once you step back and allow him free rein. Then, you can hear a distant hum coming from the copier room, and you know immediately that he’s succeeded. Dutifully, he goes to check anyway, returning to you with a stack of perfectly collated paper.

“Thank god,” you groan. “Now let me just print fifty more of those so I can start organizing these binders.”

With the crisis averted and his job done, you fully expect him to gather his pile of stuff and hustle to the elevator before you can trap him into doing anything else. Instead, Jungkook goes to pick up the additional copies from the printer for you, and he actually gets down on the floor next to you to start putting everything together. He watches you assemble one binder for reference, but then he’s easily doing the same and doubling your completion speed. 

And slowly, gradually, your nervous system calms. The two of you work like a well-oiled machine in what would be comfortable silence, if your brain wasn’t so loud. Now that you’re not actively panicking, a completely different feeling starts to seep into you—embarrassment.  You can’t believe that Jungkook actually caught you on the cusp of a breakdown, during which you looked so pitiful, he felt morally obligated to stop what he was doing and help you.

“I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” you say after a while with a grimace. He’s way too nice and you’re way too pathetic. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night—I promise you don’t have to stay with me. Now that everything’s printed and organized, most of the work’s done. I should be out of here in no time.”

“Well, I promise you didn’t ruin anything. And with two of us, you can be out of here in less time than that.” He looks up with a soft smile from where he’s hole punching a stack of paper, the muffled ka-chunk of the device punctuating his point. “I don’t mind, _____. Really.”

“But I do,” you murmur, looking away. Unable to meet his eyes. “I really appreciate your help, but I feel bad taking up so much of your time.”

“Well, don’t. I didn’t really have plans tonight anyway, and I’ve been working so much that it’s probably better that I get in some socializing time.”

“Not that I’m very good company,” you snort derisively.

There’s a pause, one long enough that you wonder if he heard you. But then he’s moving a little closer to you, tipping slightly sideways to tap his shoulder against yours. Reflexively, you turn back to him, finding his eyes kind.  

“We all have our off days, and that’s okay. But they’ll dull your shine if you let them. Don’t.” He bumps your shoulder again. “Besides, you and I have to stick together, remember? Or did you not really mean it when you told me that?”

You did tell him that, didn’t you? Months and months ago. You're surprised that he even remembers that.

There's an amused quirk to his lip, one that you can't help but feel yourself soften to, even as his focus turns back to the task at hand. And all at once, you feel yourself flooded with gratitude. You've been thankful for his help this whole time, of course, but now you almost sag with it, the relief at knowing someone is finally in your corner, the sudden sense of security and support visceral and a little overwhelming.

Before you fully realize what you're doing, it's you who leans closer, aiming to give a him a grateful kiss on the cheek. But your lips don't quite land on their intended target, because just before you succeed, Jungkook unconsciously senses your increasing proximity and reflexively turns his head back to you.

It's his lips yours coincidentally brush against, the accidental kiss timid due to his surprise and your chaste intentions. But the kiss is also soft, his lips plush and rather easily yielding to yours. 

Quickly realizing your mistake, you pull back, eyes as big as saucers. You stare at him in stunned silence and he stares back, eyes all pupil.

A horrified apology is immediately crowding the back of your throat, but right before you set it free, Jungkook's Adam's apple bobs, an errant tongue absently swiping across his lips. 

Huh. This isn’t exactly the reaction of someone repulsed by an unwanted kiss. He still hasn't said anything, but he hasn't moved away from you either. He's just watching you. Waiting. 

...Waiting?

With caution but with clear intent, you lean back in, and to your surprise, he meets you halfway, noses bumping a little before he tilts his head and your lips slot perfectly together. 

This kiss is immediately different from the last. Jungkook mindlessly drops he binder he's holding, body angling more solidly towards you so he can properly meet the rapidly rising intensity. Well, meet may be the wrong word, because he's the one whose hand quickly reaches up to cradle your chin, gentle pressure a silent request to  for you to tilt your head a bit more. And when you comply with the change in angle, it's him who deepens the kiss, the slow lave of his tongue coaxing your lips to part, open and wet.

You pant hot into his mouth and he breathes you in, offering no resistance when you push even closer, hands wandering across his shoulders, fingers ghosting up the back of his neck before drifting to idly toy with the hair at his nape. He hums contentedly, not unlike a purring cat, and does it again when your tongue joins his in a slow glide. 

You lose yourself in the sensation of it all, unable to notice anything beyond the heat that is rapidly building between you like fireworks ready to explode. Your head spins, swimming with endorphins and high off the smell of him. The taste.

A playful nibble of your lip unexpectedly has a rather desperate keen escaping your throat. You pause, making to pull back in your embarrassment, but the sound only seems to activate Jungkook, who follows you in your attempted retreat, mouth chasing yours in its reluctance to part. It's only when your back finally touches the floor that you realize he's slowly guided you there. You've been in a haze, too swept into the plot of the movie you've somehow found yourself in to do anything but be pulled along.  

As naturally as breathing, your find your knees have parted, and Jungkook easily slips into the space you've created for him, almost trancelike. As if he doesn't even realize he's doing it, too focused on exploring the fever of your mouth. He's leaning most of his weight on the hands he has posted on either side of your head; even still, every single millimeter of you that does touch him is sparking like live wires, euphoric goosebumps rippling across your skin. You let out a shaky breath that fogs his glasses, but even that doesn't stop him, just makes him pull back from you just enough to be able to whip them off and toss them somewhere, wholly unconcerned.

Emboldened by this, you sling a leg over his hip, and he eagerly accepts your invitation, settling on you properly. You're covered in him now, pelvises properly flush, and now that he's caged you in, Jungkook takes the opportunity to glide his lips away from yours and trail across your jawline instead. You shiver, every atom of you buzzing at his touch, and his mouth continues its trek, sucking hot down the column of your throat with just enough pressure that you know color will bloom there later. 

Your hips reflexively jump at his ministrations, your skirt riding further up your thighs, and the hard press of him against your panties has you swallowing down a moan. He freezes for a fraction of a second, but then his hips respond to the lure of yours with a more intentional roll. A contented sound rumbles in the back of his throat, tongue dipping to meander across your collarbone.

This is crazy. This is crazy. But you can't quite find it in yourself to care much as the two of you rut against each other on the office floor, your hand gliding up his back to root in the hair at his nape. 

Your hips undulate restlessly, eager to meet the crest of his wave, and Jungkook matches your intensity, catching your earlobe between his teeth. Your shared grind is measured but deliberate, and even through his pants you can feel the hard shape of him pressing right against your aching core. A particularly pointed roll has Jungkook shuddering hot into the shell of your ear, and that is what finally tamps down the last of your restraint and triggers something much more primal.

Dizzy with want, your hands scrabble between you and aim for the button of his slacks, eager to be properly introduced to what’s underneath. But to your slow horror, Jungkook freezes at the touch, motionless for a few breathless seconds before he actually starts lifting off of you and pulling back. It’s only when he’s completely sat up and is staring at you that the full weight of what you’ve just done hits you like a freight train.

Holy shit. Holy shit. 

You really were just dry humping. A coworker. And you were doing it on the premises of the place that pays your fucking bills! Making out, dry humping, and you were actively aiming to do much more if he hadn't stopped you. 

What the fuck has gotten into you? 

You scrabble upright, dizzy with the mortification rapidly seeping deep into your bones. Stupidly, you blink at him, paralyzed with embarrassment but unable to look away. A deer in headlights.

Jungkook stares right back, eyes dark and all pupil. Dazedly, you wonder if you look as fucked out as he does—there’s a smattering of red across his cheeks, and his hair has been thoroughly mussed by your own hands. A tongue dips out to swipe over kiss-swollen lips, stealing your attention away from the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

And suddenly, you’re able to kickstart into gear.

“I am so sorry,” you burst out, panic nearly choking you. “That was highly inappropriate and I seriously don’t know what came over me—”

It takes you a few moments to register that he’s moved back in, and that it’s the returned press of his lips that interrupts your babbling apology before it can properly catch its stride. You’re almost too afraid to respond in kind, as if you’ll somehow scare him away again, but the insistence in his kiss practically knocks the breath from your lungs. Patiently, he coaxes your rigid lips back pliant. And only when it’s clear you won’t try to run away does he lean back a second time, but only enough to see your eyes properly.

“No,” he murmurs, breath fanning hot over you. “That was very much appropriate.” 

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that, too shell-shocked by this turn of events and actively battling your triggered fight or flight response. “Um. Then…then why did you…”

Jungkook’s eyes flutter closed, as if he’s gathering himself. “I want to,” he mumbles, seemingly to himself, but then he’s looking right at you again, gaze heavy with resolve. “It’s just…do you mind if I try something first?”

That throws you for a loop. Your jaw opens then shuts again while you contemplate his question, as well as your answer. “I mean, I guess? It depends on what it is.”

That you don't instantly reject him visibly unwinds a tension in his body that you only now realize was there. A rather feral look crosses his face, immediately inciting goosebumps to ripple across your skin in anticipation. But then the intensity of his expression dims, edged with something more contemplative. Jungkook gives you a pensive nod then stands, looking around curiously. “Hey, where does that viper sit?”

You blink, bewildered. “…The who?”

“The one who’s always with you at lunch.” He locks eyes with you, tongue poking through his cheek. “You know. The one who’s on your team but still had no second thoughts about leaving you here tonight by yourself.”

Joy. He’s talking about Joy. 

The question makes you pause in suspicion, but you still hook a thumb towards the cubicle next to yours, on the other side of your shared wall. “There. Why?”

“No reason,” he says with a sly grin, holding out a hand to you. You take it without question and he easily helps you to your feet. But then before you can process it, he’s slid both hands around your waist and easily lifted you off the ground, already in route to the exact cubicle you called out. You yelp in surprise, your arms reflexively circling his neck—your legs, his middle—in your body’s scramble for balance. But Jungkook’s hold on you is secure, grip moving down to the back of your thighs instead, and now that your chests are once again flush, you can actually feel his chuckle. His amusement provokes yours, and you can’t help but giggle as he carries you over to Joy’s cube as easily as if you weigh nothing.

Clearly, his exercise routine is working out for him.

After using a hand to sweep some objects out of the way, Jungkook carefully sets you down on Joy’s desk, right next to her monitor. Your mirth only grows at the feeling of whatever printouts she left for later review crinkling under your weight, at the sight of displaced pens rolling off the edge and disappearing to the ether that is the floor.

Jungkook has set you down, but he doesn’t pull away, just leans down and recaptures your eager lips. He’s tall enough that he’s kind of hunching over to kiss you, neck really craned, but he doesn’t seem to care much about that, kissing you with the same ferocity as moments before, when the two of you were entangled on the carpet. And you can’t help but match his fervor, hands reaching to guide his slim hips even closer, into the widening gap you naturally create for him between your legs. 

Time constricts and expands, an endless and meaningless concept. Because all that matters now is the tongue he slips past your lips to slide against yours, slowly, like he’s savoring the taste of you. All that matters is how fucking great he smells—like clean laundry and smoke and warm skin speckled with sweat—something you’ve always caught whiffs of, but now completely surrounds you, invading all your senses and sending your lust into overdrive. 

“Is this what you wanted to try?” you pant hotly when your lips finally separate for a moment in your quest for air. “Defiling Joy’s desk?”

He’s leaning his forehead against yours while he also attempts to catch his breath, and he’s so close that it would be hard for you to miss his amused flash of teeth. “Sort of. I’d like to defile it more thoroughly, though. Starting with this.” 

Jungkook leans in for one last kiss, one that starts at your mouth, moves to your neck, and to your surprise, continues down the line of your body. Over your collarbone, careful hands popping open a few buttons of your blouse so he can nestle more surely into the curve of your breasts, warm lips skating across eager skin. For a few moments, he actually nuzzles his face into your middle, a gesture you find rather sweet before he incites a shiver through your body by licking against your clothed navel. And before you can fully realize what’s happening, he’s slipped to his knees.

You look down at him in surprise, body still slotted between your legs, but this time more eye-level with the secret, needy part of you that has been thrumming excitedly with every beat of your heart. “What are you…”

“You’re always doing everything for everyone else,” comes his murmured reply. “Will you allow me to do something for you?”

Your brain is still so hazy from the spell of his mouth that it takes you a moment to recognize what’s happening. What he’s asking for. But when his large palms are hot against the naked skin of your thighs, gentle pressure urging them to part even more, it all hits you like a truck. Your eyes dart around, paranoid. “Jungkook,” you hiss. “…Here?”

“They’re too cheap to put cameras anywhere other than the lobby.” He turns his head, lips pressing reassurance into the side of your knee. “And no one’s here.” His reminder as gentle as the kisses he continues to adorn you with. “Just you.” Kiss. “And me.”

He’s right, you know. No one else is here to witness the series of bad decisions you’ve just made—to witness the ones you’re still seriously considering. 

Still, you hesitate.

Jungkook’s staring intently at you, doe-eyed and cherry-lipped and deceptively innocent despite what he’s requesting of you. “Please?” he asks again, oh-so-sweetly. Reverently prostrating before your altar, praying for the blessing of an ambivalent goddess. You. “I just…I really want to. Ever since that day, I can’t stop thinking about it and I—please?”

Your brows furrow as you try to make sense of what he’s saying, still scrambling to keep up with this current turn of events. What day? Your mind whirrs, jumping around before finally settling on an embarrassing memory you’ve willed yourself to forget. 

Lunch, where Wendy somehow got you to admit you’ve never gotten head, and Jungkook, purportedly oblivious, too busy on his phone to ever pay your table any attention. 

…Except from what he’s saying right now, he had heard every word. Heard, and filed it away for safekeeping, only revealing to you now, when he can possibly do something about it.

Absently, your tongue dips out to swipe across your lips, and Jungkook’s attention visibly strays towards the action, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your thighs and sending electricity straight to your core. God, do you want to say yes. Even though you’ve never done this before, your inexperience is not at all the reason for your reluctance. It’s the optics. You’re at work.

Your head tilts as you try to accurately take stock of the situation. You’re at work. But technically, you should have clocked out hours ago. Technically, this job has been stealing a lot of time that should have been yours to choose what to do with. Case in point—you’re the only person on your team still within a five-mile radius of this godforsaken building. Because everyone else deserted you without a second thought, designating you to be the one who struggles to print presentations for a meeting that has been on the calendar for literal months.

But. 

While it’s easy to assume they forced this fate upon you, Fate is not one easily compelled to do another’s bidding. And, trapped in the gaze of the sweet man still patiently awaiting permission to ruin you, you can’t help but wonder if this has been Her plan all along. 

For months you’ve been doing everything for everyone else, so unhappy and stressed that each day in this place only wound you tighter and tighter. So…what if you finally just let yourself snap? Did what you wanted for once? Stopped following the rules that nobody else ever seemed to and just let go? 

You exhale. Fuck it.

“Okay.”

Jungkook grins, boyishly innocuous at first, but rapidly morphing into something much more devilish as you watch. He turns to kiss your knee again, and you startle a little at the action, newly on edge. “Don’t be nervous,” he says, still holding your gaze. Making sure you can see his resolve. “I got you.” 

“Okay,” you say again, but that’s easier said than done, especially when he takes the opportunity to gently push your knees even further apart. Naturally, your skirt rides further up, and you can’t help the apprehension that washes over you at your increasing lack of modesty. Still, you hold true to your word, aggressively tamping down the urge to scramble off the desk and pretend this all never happened. But though you brace yourself for what comes next…

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Long moments pass before you can’t help but say something. “Are you just gonna look?” Because that’s all he seems to be doing, laser-focused on the juncture of your thighs.

He visibly stirs at the sound of your voice, but still doesn’t do much more than tsk at you. “Don’t rush me,” comes his light reprimand, eyes still locked on what you’re sure at this point is a growing dark spot on your panties. “I don’t half-ass things and I definitely won’t rush this. No one’s here, so just relax and enjoy the ride.”

Your jittery nerves have you reflexively mouthy, but your retort swiftly dies on your tongue when his hand finally moves further up your skirt—further inward—and two fingers pointedly press right against that dark spot and glide over your clothed lips. You gasp, fighting against the urge to snap your legs shut when he slowly circles your clit and sends sparks dancing down your legs. 

“Better?” he murmurs.

“Much,” you squeak.

“Good,” he says, eyebrows knitted in thought as he circles and circles. Your thighs twitch, and he leans forward like he can’t help himself, nose pressing solidly against you with a long, audible inhale.

A fascinated oh falls from your lips, heartbeat accelerating excitedly in your ears, but Jungkook only responds by nestling further against your pussy, tracing the length of your lips with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue through the fabric. He breathes hot against your clit and you inadvertently buck at the stimulation, only inciting the wicked curl of his lips. He looks up at you darkly through the curtain of his bangs, and something unexpected and primal simmers beneath your skin.

“Can I have these?” he asks huskily, lightly snapping the elastic of your panties against your skin. 

You clear your throat, suddenly wishing you had the foresight to put on something more interesting today than your unassuming cotton undies. “Have as in you won’t give them back?”

He lets out an amused puff of air, tilts his head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

You nod your assent. You’re now impossibly invested in where he plans to take this, and it’s not like you don’t have more pairs at home. “Knock yourself out.”

Immediately, his hands are up your skirt. They’re big, but they’re also gentle, caressing your thighs and even taking a slight detour to the meat of your ass before continuing their mission to the band of your underwear. When he starts to pull, you help him, shifting your weight so he can slip the fabric over your hips and down your legs.

Jungkook’s Adam’s apple dips when his eyes are finally able to feast on you without a barrier. “So fucking hot,” he mutters, almost to himself, and then without further warning, his mouth seals around your sex.

You whimper in surprise, not at all used to the sensation of someone kissing you there. And kiss you he does, carefully at first, judging your reaction. But when you do nothing but grip the edge of the desk, biting your lip in an attempt to stifle the rather desperate sounds crawling up your throat, he swiftly devolves into kissing you with the same passion as he had the lips on your face. His tongue laps at you with sure, even strokes, dragging across the seam of you and then through it, making sure to slide along your clit on every upstroke. 

Your breath quickens, jaw falling slack. You weren’t sure what you imagined oral sex to be like before this, but you never expected how easily your body submits to his ministrations. Almost without you realizing it, your thighs part even more, hips automatically canting down to meet his eager mouth. A hand reaches for him, fingers winding through his hair and rooting there, and Jungkook hums in approval, his own hands wrapping securely around your thighs, your ass. His fingers sinking into the yielding softness of you, gently holding you steady against his face while you start to gyrate and moan.

God, does he look good down there. He’s always looked good, even before you knew what he was hiding behind those shy smiles and nerdy glasses, but something about the sight of him, jaw working as he sucks on you, lashes fluttering in pleasure in his quest to please you—

Without warning, he detaches with an audible pop, and a disgruntled sound reflexively leaves you. Breathless, you start to ask him why he stopped, but the words die on your tongue when you realize he’s staring at you again. That he pulled back for a moment just so he can get a good look at the mess he’s making of you. So he can properly see how your pussy aches and drools for him.

“Good?” he asks, voice deep and thick.

“So fucking good,” you sigh. What you know he wants to hear, but also 1000% the truth. You’re starting to understand what Wendy has been blathering about, but is it always like this? Or is it Jungkook in particular who is making you so unbelievably aroused? Is your rapidly snowballing crush on him that strong, or does pussy eating simply rank high on his skillset?

As if he can hear your thoughts, Jungkook moves to slip a finger into you, and you can’t help but moan when he breaches you, the digit sliding in so easily that he quickly adds another, thumb pressing surely into your clit as he starts a slow drag in and out. 

“Shit,” you shudder, eyes rolling back into your head. Hips sliding further off the desk, reflexively seeking the delicious stimulation. One of your hands scrabbles across the desk, unconsciously trying to root you, and you’re much too preoccupied with how good he’s making you feel to notice when you accidentally knock over a mug full of pens. A stapler clanks to the ground. “Fuck.” 

“Look, baby,” he breathes, moaning along with you when the pet name immediately makes your pussy flutter. “Look.”

At his encouragement, you do. You watch the flex of his tattooed arm as his fingers continue to disappear within you, a lewd squelch coinciding with his movements. You watch as he adds another finger, the additional stretch immediately noticeable but even more delicious. You watch him watch you, eyes all pupil, lips swollen and slick with your desire.

“More,” you whine, frenzied and greedy. And Jungkook immediately heeds your call, leaning back in. He sucks on your clit with three fingers sunk in you, expertly crooked towards your pelvic bone, and you jolt, accidentally knocking something else off the desk. Neither of you pays the resulting clattering any attention, too wrapped up in the way you writhe at his ministrations. He hums in approval, the vibrations only intensifying your ecstasy. He flattens his tongue as your hips desperately circle, letting you control the stimulation. And when it’s clear you still need more, he changes tactics and rapidly laps at you instead, as if you’re a melting ice cream cone, while he beckons, beckons. 

Your blood is volcanic, hot pressure bubbling beneath the prison of your skin, building and building within your core. The higher he takes you, the more the grip you have on his hair unintentionally tightens, but that only seems to urge him on, locking eyes with you as the thrust of his fingers turns harder and more calculated. Giving you no other choice but to finally erupt.    

You cum with a loud groan, gasping through it while your cunt rhythmically clamps down on his digits, hard. Jungkook talks you through it, murmuring encouraging words your buzzing brain has trouble deciphering because his hand still doesn’t stop, pounding right into your g-spot and making your eyes cross and toes curl with the force of it. And when you finally can’t take anymore, jerking with oversensitivity, you grab him by the wrist in a wordless plea for mercy.

And Jungkook grants it. You can tell that he wants to play with you more—wants to guide you over and over to the precipice just see the look on your face when he shoves you off—but ever the gentleman, he reins in his enthusiasm and obediently slips his fingers out of you. He takes a few seconds to admire his handiwork, eyes shining with in reverence as he marvels in the dripping, throbbing, panting aftermath that is you.

“Wow,” you say, still dizzy with endorphins. Never in a million years did you think it would feel like that.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice thick. “Wow.” He lifts his hand, remnants of you visibly slicking his fingers and webbing between the digits, and without a second thought, sticks them in his mouth and sucks. The resulting slurping of his errant tongue is nothing short of obscene, but your cunt flutters again anyway, interest clear despite being thoroughly satisfied only moments before. And when line of your essence starts to drip down your thigh, Jungkook makes sure to lean in and catch it with his tongue.

You shiver with the feeling of him on you again, mouth hot and wet, thighs still trembling. He’s taking his time, tongue dragging a slow path back up to the source, determined to feast upon the rewards of his efforts. But you can’t take it anymore. God, he’s so hot. He’s so fucking hot and you want him so fucking bad.

You need him. Biblically. 

Near delirious, you reach for him, hands scrabbling across his shoulders, fingers trailing the back of his neck and guiding him to stand. Arms circling his waist and pulling him closer to you—close, close—Jungkook easily slotting into spread of your thighs.

He follows your unspoken commands easily and without question, looking down at you with a rather pleased smile that crinkles his eyes in the corners. Determined to steal the breath from his lungs, just as he just did to you, you lean in to lick that smile pliant and open. There’s a curious taste on his tongue that it doesn’t take long to deduce is you, and that’s only even more of an aphrodisiac, revving you up further. 

Your hands continue to roam, sliding down a little to grope his backside, startling a laugh out of him. But when your fingers tease the waistband of his slacks, his delight visibly shutters away into something else entirely.

“You don’t have to do that,” he breathes, even as he reflexively bucks into the hand you’re using to palm him over his pants. “This was about you.”

“Then let it be about me,” you counter, a mischievous smile curling your lips. Even through his pants you can tell he's hard. That he wants this just as badly as you do.  Still, when he gasps out a wait, you obediently stop your ministrations and move to take your hand back. 

He doesn't let you get far, lacing his fingers through yours and visibly considering his next words for a few moments before settling on, “What do you need?” 

It’s a simple enough question, but you can't help but be immediately reminded of him saying these exact words to you, a little over an hour ago. Now, however, they sit heavy on his tongue, heady and syrupy in hushed invitations. 

The revelation hits you all at once, heart pounding excitedly in your ears.

You need only ask. You’ve only ever needed to ask.

And since all caution was thrown to the wind the moment you agreed to let him suck your soul out through your pussy...

“You said you’ve been thinking about me? Well, I’ve been thinking about you too. For a while, even though I’ve been trying not to.” 

You’ve had his attention this whole time, but the way Jungkook's regarding you now, now that you’ve said that? He's hanging onto every word, so hyper-focused that it would unnerve you if this wasn’t exactly what you were looking for. 

“So…” Adrenaline has your fingers restless against his, but you still dive headfirst. “What I need is for you to fuck me and finish what you started.”

A beat. One where he holds your gaze, the space between you so electrified that you’re surprised you don’t see sparks. But then he’s on you again, mouth meeting yours in a frenzied clash of lips and teeth, and this time he doesn’t stop you when your hands scrabble for his fly.

Jungkook wastes no time, smoothing his hands up your legs and pushing your skirt out of the way. He lets out a shuddered breath when you stroke him through his underwear, when you reach down the waistband and grip him properly.

He’s warm and thick in your hand, and the thought of him finally in your guts damn near has you vibrating. Just like you thought before, he’s already nice and hard, but you still pump him a few times just to revel in the proof of what you’ve done to him. Velvet over stone.

And despite having all the time in the world when the foreplay is for you, Jungkook doesn’t seem to have any patience for himself. You’re only able to enjoy the weight of him in your grip for a few passes before he’s surging into action. Strategically, he grabs you by the knees and lifts, maneuvering your legs into the crooks of his elbows. The move opens you up to him further and forces you more horizontal, leaning back on your forearms, nearly pressed against the cubicle wall.  

The way he ate you out moments before ensured you’d be primed for him, your pussy soft and slick and just begging to be filled. When he finally lines himself up and begins the slow press in, your jaw immediately falls open, tongue going lax at the intense pleasure. “Oh my god,” you manage to whine, eyes threatening to roll shut.

The unhurried way he’s sinking into you is likely in effort not to unintentionally hurt you. Because after everything else, why not add another thing to the ever growing list of surprises you’re learning about your unassuming coworker—not only has he been tatted and muscular this whole time, but his dick is also fucking huge. Without even realizing it, you’ve stopped breathing, the pressure of him nudging your walls apart too much stimulation for your body to continue even subconscious functioning. 

As if he can tell your brain is actively short-circuiting, Jungkook’s hands circle your thighs, thumbs kneading the flesh in mild distraction for when he finally bottoms out. It’s only now that you can properly notice the effect you’re having on him—hair starting to stick to his forehead from perspiration, teeth grit as he struggles to stay still for you.  But you don’t want him to be still.

“Fuck me,” you whimper, wiggling in your impatience and making him suck in a breath. “Please. Give it to me.”

The resulting roll of his hips has him swearing and you seeing stars. “Fuck. You can have whatever you want,” he says, already making good on his promise with a slow grid. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

It’s good, so good, especially because Jungkook uses his grip on your thighs as leverage to ramp up his thrusts, easily maneuvering you over his cock in a way that has your toes curling. By the time he’s really fucking you—jaw set, brows furrowed in concentration—you’re crosseyed and mewling incoherently. You should be embarrassed by the sounds he’s pounding out of you, but you’re so focused on the overwhelming pleasure that you can’t find it in yourself to care very much. 

Chasing the high you already feel him leading you towards, you lift one of your legs to change the angle, and he catches on immediately, helping guide your ankle to hook over his shoulder with a distracted kiss against the bone. And it’s deeper this way, the angle ensuring he brushes against your spongy nerves with every stroke, only making you spiral faster. 

He notices, of course. Notices how quickly he’s taking you to your end and revels in it, sliding a hand inward and he thumbing your clit, fast and hard.

You jolt at the extra stimulation, gasping and overwhelmed. “Oh my goddd…”  

“Come on,” he croons, his dulcet tone at odds with the wickedness of his hand. His dick. “Don’t you want to cum for me?”

“I…” you choke out, struggling to form any sort of coherent thought as you feel everything get tighter. “I…”

You see his lips moving as he presumably says something else. But you can’t understand anything other than your own moaning when your pussy finally locks down. This orgasm is somehow more intense than the last one, your thighs rippling with the force of it, your hands desperately scrabbling over the desk in an effort to find something to ground you. 

And Jungkook fucks you through it, still talking, and it’s only when the whooshing in your ears starts to subside that you can finally decipher what he’s saying in between his own moaning. “There you go. Being so good for me. So good.”

Your only reply is your gasping breath as your orgasm slowly fades, replaced with oversensitivity. But you don’t want him to stop. You don’t want this to stop, reveling in the feel of him on you, in you. And Jungkook doesn’t, instead sliding your leg off his shoulder so he can grab you by the waist with both hands and properly yank you forward, moving you over his cock to his liking. 

The desk creaks with your effort, a rhythmic cacophony with the harsh smacking of his balls against your ass. You mewl, needing him closer still, and curl your legs around his hips, locking your ankles. He’s now trapped against you, but he groans like that’s exactly what he wanted, both hands gliding up the length of your body to grasp the back of your neck instead, giving him even better leverage to plunge into you, deep, deep. He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, licks into your panting mouth. 

At this point, his thrusts are turning manic, but you’re meeting every one of them, deliriously following him in his descent into madness. But when he catches your lower lip with his teeth, your breath hollows, and then, quicker than you can register it’s happening, you cum again, spasming around him with a long, high-pitched whine.

Jungkook lets you ride it out, but this time, his thrusts slow while you thrash. And it’s not until your soul finally floats back into your body that you realize he’s already pulled out of you and is bucking into his own fist instead.  

You almost took him over the edge with you, you realize. Though he clearly has incredible stamina, you have finally brought him to his limit, and everything inside you glows at the knowledge that he’s here, roughly pumping himself, moans falling freely from his lips because of you. 

Entranced, you reach for him, delighting in the whimper he lets out when your fingers wrap around his base. His own hand immediately falls to grip the edge of the desk instead, and you glide your fist up, finding his cock sticky with your juices. Jungkook just rests his head in the crook of your neck and lets you jack him off, whining through it when you match his previously punishing pace. And it doesn’t take long before he finally, finally splashes hot over your hand. Against your thigh. 

Your hand slows, twisting your wrist and milking him for every drop. Intent on extending his pleasure, just like he made sure to do for you. And you only stop when he flinches away from your touch, twitchy and shivering as he leans against you. 

Reluctantly, you let go. The two of you share the same balmy breath, struggling to calm your racing hearts. And when Jungkook finally backs away from you, unhurried in the way he gathers himself back into his slacks, there is a wildly satisfied grin on his face.

You’re satisfied too, though you try to have some sense of propriety and use a tissue from the box next to Joy’s monitor to wipe off the sticky evidence of his pleasure. Throwing away the evidence, you hop off the desk, locating your long-discarded panties and slipping them back on, smoothing down your skirt.

“So,” you tease lightly. Your head swims a little with the knowledge of what you just did, but you’re surprised to realize you feel zero guilt about it. “Is your plan to stick it to everyone who’s wronged me? If so, we should do it on Mabel next. That’ll show her.”

Jungkook laughs, a giddy, giggly thing. He’s now doing his best to pick up and replace everything that fell from Joy’s desk during your romp. “Nah, I could never disrespect her like that. That ol’ girl’s been such a great wingman these past few months.”

That’s a rather curious statement to make. You frown a little, shoot him an inquisitive sound.

“You always call me when Mabel’s not working,” he shrugs. “So when I wanted to see you, she was nice enough help.” 

You can’t help it—a smile creeps across your face, equally bashful and flattered. He wanted to see you! For months, by his open admission. “And the printer knew exactly when you wanted to see me?" you joke. “Sounds like dark magic to me.”

Jungkook’s valiantly trying to straighten and smooth out some of the papers the two of you disturbed. “Deleted some print jobs,” he replies offhandedly, clearly distracted by the task at hand. 

Record scratch. 

There’s an extended silence as your brain shuffles through different iterations of his sentence, trying to decipher exactly he meant by that. Because there's no way he just admitted to what you think he just did. “Did…did you just say you've been deleting my print jobs?” you ask incredulously. Because there’s no way.

There’s no way, yet at your words, Jungkook immediately stiffens. His lips part, but he doesn't defend himself. Doesn't say anything at all—just drops the pen he’s holding and stares at you with wide eyes.

Holy shit. Holy shit. He really has been doing it! He obviously hadn't meant to tell you that, but the relaxation of afterglow has clearly removed the filter between his brain and his mouth. 

The weight of his revelation hits you, seemingly happenstance events connecting in your mind and starting to fall into place. All the hassle and irritation that stupid printer has been giving you, and it turns out Mabel has been working just fine?! 

“Please don't be mad,” he pleads, finally finding his voice.  

“Are you seriously saying that all this time—”   

“No! No, I only did it a few times,” he sheepishly rushes to correct you. “And I promise, I haven’t done it in weeks.”

“Seriously?” 

“I just...wanted an excuse to talk to you!”

“Jungkook, you literally talk to me all the time!”

“About work! Not—” he averts his eyes, lets out an irritated breath. “It’s just. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out.”

You blink, gaping slightly as your whirring mind tries to process what he’s just told you. “Ask me…out?” 

“I didn’t mean to do…all this.” He waves a hand over the mess the two of you are still cleaning up, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, at least not before buying you dinner first.”

Moments pass as you stare at him in stunned, disbelieving silence. Then, like a volcano erupting, laughter bursts from you, loud and sudden. Because what the fuck? You can’t believe all of this is actually happening to you. In real life. “You jackass,” you cackle. “Do you have any idea how much grief that printer has been giving me? I’m over here stressed and you’ve been gaslighting me and doing it on purpose?”

“Just a few times,” he repeats, visibly confused by the juxtaposition of the mirth in your voice and the actual words you’re saying. 

“And that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a jackass,” you laugh. “But…” You clear your throat, suddenly somehow shy, despite everything that has occurred and been said. “…I suppose you can still take me out to dinner.”  

“Yeah?” His lips stretch into a slow, hopeful smile.

“Yeah. Now, if you want. I think we’re pretty much done here.” You smile back, quickly taking stock of the binders still scattered across the floor. Most of them are completed, but whatever else you need to do can be done tomorrow morning. “Besides, I seem to have worked up an appetite.” 

Jungkook looks nothing short of smug, but you suppose you can’t fault him that. “Well then,” he practically purrs, “Let’s hurry up and feed you.” 

Moving in comfortable silence, the two of you finish putting everything you’ve disturbed back in their original spots, gathering the last of the binders and stacking them neatly on your desk. You reach for your purse while Jungkook goes to collect his hastily discarded belongings.

“So,” you start. “Where are you taking me? It’s kind of late.” This late on a weeknight, kitchens would be shutting down soon.

He pauses in sliding his leather jacket back on, frowning a little as he realizes you’re right. “Shit,” he mutters. “I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

“You can,” you say with an unbothered wave of your hand. “That can be next time. Let’s just find something quick now.”

“So you’re saying I get a second date?” he grins.

Oh. That is what you just implied, isn’t it? You would be embarrassed by how forward you were being if Jungkook wasn’t visibly delighted by it. Wow, he really does like you. And since the feeling is mutual, you just look away coyly and say, “If you play your cards right.”

Jungkook hoists his backpack over a shoulder, and it’s only then that you see what else he happened to be carrying in his hands when he dropped everything for you. A helmet.

You gesture towards the object with a curious incline of your head. “What’s that for?”

“My bike,” comes his easy answer, but that’s not the kind of helmet that one wears for bicycle rides. No, this one is made for something much faster. 

Now that you think about it, you’ve seen the motorcycle in the parking lot before—you’ve just never really given it a second thought. And now you can’t stop thinking about it, because the unassuming vehicle you’ve often passed on your way into the building has been Jungkook’s the whole time. Your mind is blown. How many more times is he going to surprise you tonight?  

“…Do you always drive a motorcycle?” you ask incredulously.

“Depends on the day,” he shrugs with grin. “Sometimes I take the bus, but I like to ride my bike when the weather’s nice.” His eyes are bright with pride, visibly happy to have impressed you. 

Your mouth opens and closes, thoughts racing so fast your tongue struggles to hold onto any of them. Before you realize you’re doing it, you blurt, “Alright. Are you even real?”

Jungkook blinks owlishly at you, clearly not expecting that question. “What?” 

“I thought I’ve known you for months. But was any of that real?” you repeat. “Hell, do you even need glasses?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say. “It’s all me. I can just be a little shy, is all.” Wow, he actually said shy with a straight face, as if he didn’t just finish ravaging you over multiple surfaces. “And I like to be professional, so this place doesn’t get to have all facets of me. I know you can relate.”

You can. Your constant struggle to not complain? To be professional and work hard and hope you’ll be rewarded for your efforts? Obviously that’s a reason why the two of you ended up in this situation in the first place.

He ducks his head a little, tapping the glasses he picked up off the floor in petition for their validity. “And these really are prescription. I mean, I can mostly see without them, but since I stare at computer screens all day, it’s less strain on my eyes.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, feeling silly to have even asked. But who knew the quiet IT guy who kept mostly to himself was also this? Buff and tatted with a wicked tongue that you’re now intimately acquainted with. 

Shyly, he holds his helmet out to you. He hesitates before speaking again, almost like he’s afraid of spooking you. “Wanna go for a ride?” And from the way color lightly blooms across his cheeks, you get the sense that he’s offering you more than just protective gear.

You take it without second thought.

The next day you and Jungkook get off the elevator together, a respectable distance between you, but arms still brushing too often to be casual. When you come to the hallway that will force you in separate directions, you pause.

“Have a good day,” you say. Jungkook grins, the delighted brightness of it baring too much teeth and crinkling his eyes in the corners.

“You too,” he winks. “Let me know if Mabel gives you any more issues.”

You snort at his brazenness, biting down a smile as you head to your cubicle. Your whole body buzzes, glowing from inside out.

You’re technically right on time, but you’ve definitely arrived later than usual, and that’s obvious when you head over to your department and find Joy already there waiting for you. She frowns as you approach, no doubt clocking your empty hands and wondering how she’s going to make it through the morning without her expected syrupy caffeine fix. 

To her credit, she doesn’t call you out on it, but you don’t really care if she does. You’re done playing errand boy. From now on, everyone else will have to stop before work and get their own shit, if they want it so bad.

Because it’s all so clear to you now. You’re here, and you’re going to do your best, but you’re not going to let this place wear you down to jaded slivers. You’re going to work hard and learn all that you can, but you refuse to be anyone’s lapdog. 

They will respect you. And your value will be recognized and rewarded—or you’ll simply find somewhere else where it will. 

Joy must sense your new resolve, because she simply hovers by your desk and chirps, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” 

“Did you have a good night?”

Your lips quirk. “You could say that. What about you?”

“Eh, it was okay,” she sighs. “Met a guy for dinner, but I don’t think that’s going anywhere.” 

So while you were stuck here last night, having a grade-A meltdown, she was on a date. That tracks.

Joy chatters on while you put your things away, not seeming to notice or care that you’re not particularly interested in what she’s saying. And while this would normally irritate the living shit out of you, today, it doesn’t. 

Today, your eyes can’t help but glaze over as your mind drifts back to how your night went. Today, you just hum agreeably until she gets bored with you and decides to go back to her own cubicle.

And when you hear her ask over the wall if you’ve seen her stapler, you just smile and smile.   

Garrett gets the tattoo the summer after his sophomore year at Briar. 

They had just dominated the frozen four and he just became the highest scorer of the season. He’s been made captain. The name stretched on the back of his jersey felt as insignificant as the DNA running through his veins. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had accomplished something that his father couldn’t touch. Because Phil Graham might be this hockey legend everyone keeps comparing him with. He might pretend to be a father. He might be the man haunting his worst memories. But he wasn’t the one skating suicides every single day. He wasn’t the one training until he bled. He wasn’t the one who won Briar their last game of the season. He’s just a name. Garrett worked hard for what he’d done and not even Phil can take that away from him. 

So he decides to commemorate the occasion. Something permanent, because he needs a little permanence in his life. Something to ground him whenever his dad’s voice gets too loud in his head. To remind him that he earned his place. 

He sees the phrase randomly while looking up designs on his phone during his Lit lecture, thumb bitten raw and foot tapping on the floor. 

Nullum Gratuitum Prandium.

He pauses in his seat, foot hovering the air mid-tap. 

There is no free lunch. 

Fighting back a grin, Garrett saves the phrase on his notes app and switches his phone off, finally paying attention to his professor drone on about Hamlet.

The tattoo shop is just a ten-minute drive from campus. It’s owned by three Briar U Fine Arts alumni, and the artists are mostly students from the same department looking for extra cash. Garrett spends a whole week stalking their Instagram, repeatedly going to the story highlights they have on their page dedicated to each of their artists. He fixates on one in particular; the tattoo artist’s designs are mostly florals and classical figures, intricate fine lines, shadings, and delicate designs that make his eyebrows raise, impressed at the skill level evident through the pieces. 

But there’s one highlight that catches his eye: it’s a back piece with a handwritten script covering the client’s entire back. Underneath the tattoo are scars; some light and faded, some ugly and dark and raised on the skin. The text is a diary entry complete with the date on the upper right portion, a confession of being a victim of domestic abuse and a promise to oneself that they’re going to make it out. 

Reading it makes a lump appear in Garrett’s throat. 

His dad never left scars. Not physical ones, anyways. They’re harder to explain than the bruises, because those can be excused away by hockey. 

His thumb presses on his phone screen, holding down so the image of the tattoo doesn’t go away. He’d never be as brave as the guy who got the back piece. But Garrett books an appointment with that artist, anyway, because sometimes pretending is enough. 

He goes to the shop on a weeknight after practice, freshly showered and wearing his Briar U Hockey hoodie and sweats. The place is so small upon entrance, he could probably spread his arms and touch both ends of the walls. There’s the counter facing the glass door, walls littered with drawings, neon light-up signs, other artworks, and stairs leading to the second floor. 

He gives his name and tries not to show his nerves too much, but the lady at the counter sees right through him. “First time?”

He considers lying for a second, but that would make him feel more pathetic, so instead he mumbles out a “yes,” with the tips of his ears burning.

The lady chuckles. Tattoos cover both her arm sleeves, multicolored and intentional. She’s probably in her late 30s, but the bleached hair and eyebrow piercings make her more youthful. She double checks his booking and hums at what she sees on the computer. “Well, you’re in good hands. You picked one of our best artists.”

“Really?” Garrett asks, trying not to feel too proud of himself yet. 

“Yup,” she confirms, handing him a slip of paper. “You can go on up. She’s ready for you.”

The stairs are concrete and steep, covered in graffiti and stickers. Garrett rarely finds himself in situations where he feels uncool, but inside the shop with all the art and the cool music playing on the speakers, clad in his Briar U get up, he’s aware of how out of place he looks. 

The second floor is more spacious. It’s open-plan, with tattoo beds spread out across the floor organically. Only two clients occupy the space, one getting a piece on his thigh and the other getting one on her rib. They chat among themselves, quiet and familiar, giving him the impression that they’re regulars.

“Garrett?” A voice calls his name, causing him to turn around. What he sees makes his throat dry up. 

She’s tall. Probably only a couple inches shorter than his 6’2 frame. Long black hair, strong jaw, dark glowing skin. She’s wearing a black tank top that shows off an intricate dragon tattoo running from the top of her shoulder down to the back of her upper arm. She’s the most beautiful woman Garrett has ever seen. 

“Uh–what?” He says unintelligently. 

Her lips twitch like she’s trying to hold back a smile. “You’re Garrett, right?”

He has enough sense to nod, swallowing thickly. “Yes.”

“Cool,” she says, lips still doing that twitchy thing that makes it a hundred times difficult for him not to look down at it. “I’m the artist you booked. You wanna pick a bed?”

The words almost short-circuit his brain, but he manages to maintain his cool with a clear of his throat. He points to the one nearest to the both of them. “Here’s fine.” 

She gestures for him to sit down, which he does diligently. She goes over to one side of the room to get a metal cart of what he assumes are her tattoo stuff, pushing it until it’s right in front of the leather stool beside the tattoo bed. “So what do you have in mind for tonight?”

He clears his throat again, only because it still feels dry enough that if he tries to speak, he’s afraid his voice will crack. He takes out his phone from his pocket and opens up his notes app. “I don’t have, like, a final design yet but I have the phrase I want.”

Garrett tilts the phone towards her to let her look. She walks closer until she’s slightly behind him, then crouches over his shoulder to take a look at his phone. In the back of his mind, he registers her scent; something woodsy and floral that sends heat down his stomach. 

“Is that Latin?” She asks, voice quiet now with their proximity. Garrett makes the mistake of looking up at her. Her eyes are slightly narrowed, lips pursed as if she’s already picturing a design in her head that she can’t wait to put on his skin. Her eyes dart towards him. “What does it mean?”

He gulps. “Well, the direct translation is ‘there is no free lunch,’ which to me basically means—you know. Everything in life is earned.” 

Her eyebrows shoot up at that. He doesn’t miss the way she looks down at his hockey shirt, the car keys peeking out from the pocket of his sweats. He’s used to that; the quick write off as a rich, entitled, nepo baby. It’s a look he’s been getting his entire life. So he’s not sure why getting the same perusal from her, a random tattoo artist he didn’t know, bothers him enough that he feels untethered in his skin. 

“I like it,” she finally says, shooting him a small, knowing smile. She straightens up, dusting her hands on her jeans. “So what are we thinking? Bicep? Chest?”

Garrett scratches the back of his neck. “I was thinking my back, actually.”

“Oh?” Her tone is enough to get the tips of his ears red again. “Is this not your first time?”

He rolls his eyes at that, finally feeling somewhat back in his body. “Why does everyone keep asking that?”

She smiles bigger, which does nothing to tame the zoo forming inside his stomach. “Nothing, just—bold choice. I’m liking it even more now.” She pulls up her ipad from the cart and starts messing around with it. “I already have a few ideas if you’re willing to hear me out. Nothing too artsy. Something a little utilitarian, yeah? Since the phrase is essentially a sports mantra. Are you thinking lower back or upper?”

Garrett thinks about it for a second. “I don’t really know. Depends on the design, maybe.”

“Got you,” she tells him with a nod, still busy with her ipad. “So why get a tattoo now, if you don’t mind me being nosy?”

He leans back against the leather tattoo bed, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. Even the light fixtures are funky and ununiform, adding to the overall chaotic yet artistic vibe of the shop. Something about the low buzzing of the tattoo guns, the artwork, and how removed from his normal life the place is makes it easy for the truth to slide from his lips. “As a reward, mostly. I’ve busted my ass off the past two years training and winning games and for the first time, I finally feel like I’m worth more than the name on the back of my jersey.”

The words feel too honest and raw, especially spoken to a stranger. But there’s that feeling of weight being lifted from his chest, too, for being able to say them out loud without being scathed. 

“You just gave me an idea,” she tells him, voice going up in barely contained excitement. She takes a few minutes, and then she’s tapping his shoulder and handing the ipad over to him. 

He sits up straight and takes it from her hands. The design is simple—utilitarian lettering, like she said, curved in a semi arch. 

“I was thinking if we put it right here—“ her fingers reach out to trace over his upper back, making Garrett jolt in place. “—and curved like that, it could be placed right underneath where your name on your jersey usually is. That way, you’d know that behind the name, your mantra’s always going to be there, reminding you that you’ve earned your keep.”

Garrett sits there in silence for a few seconds, lips slightly parted and staring up at her in surprise. This beautiful stranger who weirdly understood him completely. 

“So?” She asks, waiting for him to speak.

He feels another tug at his stomach. “Let’s do it.”

“Cool,” she grins down at him. Her eyes flicker to his shirt again. “You can fold your shirt and place it on the bottom tray of the cart while I get the stencil ready. Surface is clean, I promise.”

Right. A back tattoo meant he had to be shirtless. Which is fine. He’s shirtless more hours of the day than he’s not. Garrett’s never been self-conscious about his body–growing up being forced to work out and go to practice and chug down protein shakes does that to a person. He knows he looks good; better than the average college student who goes to the gym occasionally, anyway. His abs are well-defined, his chest and shoulders broad, his arms even bigger. Muscular in a meaty way, because lean gets you thrown easily to the boards of the rink. Still, when he hoists his shirt up and over his head and hears his tattoo artist suck in a breath at the sight of him, a warm feeling begins to bloom in his chest. Warmth and proud and smug and a little shy, too. 

He looks at her with his eyebrows slightly raised, a smile threatening to tug his lips up. She meets his eyes defiantly, like she doesn’t care that he caught her looking. The stubbornness makes another animal kick inside his belly. 

“On your stomach, please,” she gestures at him with a finger. “I’m going to wash the area with green soap first just to make sure your skin’s clean. I might have to shave it, too, but from the looks of it your hairs are thin on your back, anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Garrett stays quiet, his cheek resting on his folded arms. The second her gloved hands touch the skin of his back, his fists clench tightly. He’s only grateful he had enough self-control not to jump this time. They spend a few minutes like that, her cleaning and shaving his back with careful hands while he tries to pull himself together. 

He’s been around plenty of beautiful women in his twenty years of existence, but something about her gets to him. Maybe it’s the way she holds herself with such sureness; the stubborn tilt to her chin, the dragon tattoo, the casual display of talent. Maybe it’s the way she reads him like a book. Either way, Garrett has to fight to keep his breathing normal around her. 

She applies the stencil thoroughly, eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. After she’s done, she gives his back a tap. “Go ahead and look at it in the mirror for me. See if you like it. We can adjust the font size or the placement, but in my opinion it looks pretty sick already.”

Garrett does as he’s told. The mirror on the wall is huge and slightly rusted at the edges with lots of stickers littered around the surface. He turns to look at his back and feels his throat tighten up. 

She must see something in his face, because she smiles at him softly and says, “Good?”

Garrett looks at the stencil for a second. Not permanent yet, but it’s getting there. 

“Yeah,” he coughs, clenching his jaw. “I love it.”

The first press of the inked needle on his skin makes him jump embarrassingly. She laughs at that, muttering “you good?” but otherwise continuing with her job. Because she’s a professional. This is her job. Garrett repeats the words in his head enough times for them to stick. 

“You have a lot of bruises,” she says after a few silent minutes of just the tattoo gun buzzing in the air. 

The sentence makes him smother a smile. “Yeah. Hockey.”

“I figured,” she counters with a short chuckle. “I heard you guys won your last game. Congratulations.”

Somehow, the fact that he or even just his team had been on her radar enough for her to know that sends a thrill down his spine, something more pressing than the needles. “You like hockey?”

“No,” she says immediately, unashamedly. “But everyone on campus seemingly does. I just hear things.”

So she’s a student. Garrett carefully files this information in his brain, because he’s being totally normal. “What year are you in?”

“About to be a junior,” she hums. The tattoo gun goes over a sensitive spot that has him hissing, and one of her hands squeeze at his shoulder to soothe him. “Shit. Sorry. You okay?”

“Fine,” he manages to grit out, skin stinging more from the squeeze than the needles. “And same. So are you in Fine Arts?”

“Technically,” she answers, wiping at something on his back. “My major’s Art History, but we don’t really get to whip out our sketchbooks that often as much as we do thick dusty books, so.”

Art History. There’s an overlap there that Garrett has to warn his mind not to fixate on. They may very well be in the same classes. Maybe they already were at one point and he just didn’t notice. But that scenario felt unrealistic; he’s sure that if he’d seen her in one of his classes, he would have noticed her. It would be impossible not to. 

“You’re really good,” he finds himself saying instead, voice low and steady. “I saw your designs on Instagram. That’s what made me choose this shop, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Garrett answers honestly. The repeated poking on the skin of his back is more tolerable now; she’s settled on a rhythm that almost lulls him to a state of vulnerability. Like they’ve entered an alternate reality where anything he says won’t have consequences in the real world. “I saw that piece you did. The diary entry.”

He feels her falter for a few seconds. Just a blip, but he senses it all the same. When she speaks, her voice is more careful, a little guarded, and Garrett finds himself hating it. “Did you?”

“It was so vulnerable,” Garrett scrunches his eyebrows together, trying to find the right words. “So–I don’t know. Raw. Brave. I want to be like that.”

He doesn’t say anything compromising, even with the loaded words. He doesn’t reveal anything about himself or his trauma that will come back to get him in trouble. But one of her hands travel to his shoulder again. Not quite squeezing. Just hovering there. The almost-contact brings him a relief he’s not sure he’s ready to decipher yet. “I think this is a great start.”

“Yeah?” It’s his turn to ask, moving his head slightly to try and take a look at her. 

“Don’t move,” she scolds instantly, making a grin form on his face. “But yes. No lunch is free, right? You earned this.”

Garrett feels a pang in his chest. “That’s right. I did.”

It’s over before he can even begin to comprehend whatever it is he’s feeling. One minute he’s lying there on his chest, eyes halfway closed and heart beating stupidly fast, and the next she’s wiping his back with an antiseptic wipe and saying, “all done.”

“Already?” He can’t help but ask, bracing his arms to the tattoo bed to pull himself up. “Can I see?”

She stands from the stool, an almost fond smile on her face. She’s so beautiful Garrett has to pinch himself to stop staring at her. “Go ahead. Hope you don’t hate it.”

The first thing he notices is how red his skin is. Slightly swollen, the tattoo visibly raised from the surface. And then it finally sinks in: he did it. The words are dark in contrast with his tanned complexion, curved neatly and filled with meaning. “Holy shit.”

“That a good holy shit or a bad one?” She teases from behind him, her arms crossed in front of her chest and her hip popped to one side. She’s removed her gloves, long fingers waving on the skin of her arm. She’s still smiling at him like she’s proud of him, and it makes something stupid settle in Garrett’s chest. 

“It’s perfect,” his voice comes out gruff and a little too emotional to not be embarrassing, but that only serves to make her grin wider. 

She goes over all the cleaning and healing process, having him repeat after her just to be sure, which makes him feel a little bit like a kid in class who has a big fat crush on his teacher. She gives him a couple pamphlets, a business card, and a sachet of complimentary aftercare ointment, all of which he takes with careful, ready hands. 

“That’s basically it,” she finishes with a clap of her hands. “Come back or call us if something goes wrong, though hopefully that doesn’t happen.”

Finally seeing an in, he flashes a small grin at her. “And if I just want to come back anyway?”

“For another tattoo?” She asks, though her eyes are shining like she sees exactly where he’s going with this.

Garrett shrugs, all faux innocence. “Maybe.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. Garrett’s a little too proud at getting any reaction from her at all. “Goodbye, Garrett Graham.”

“Wait, you know who I am?” He suddenly asks, taken aback at the mention of his full name which he didn’t remember giving when he booked the appointment. 

She shrugs. “Like I said. A lot of people around here love hockey and I hear things. Captain.”

“You know who I am,” he repeats, a slow smile beginning to form on his face, smug and confident and more reminiscent of the Garrett that he usually is. 

“Oh my god,” she laughs, pointing down the stairs. “Goodbye.”

He’s still chuckling when he goes down, bidding a goodbye to the lady at the counter and ignoring the knowing look she gives him. His smile feels like a permanent fixture on his face, though he doesn’t realize it until he’s arrived at home and met the curious looks of his friends.

“The hell’s got you so happy?” Dean asks, giving him a weird look. 

Garrett pauses by the door in surprise. “Huh?”

“You’re smiling, like, creepily widely, G,” Logan adds before turning back to the TV to the game they’re playing. 

Garrett scoffs. “No, I’m not.”

But even as he says it, he feels his lips split his face open, the traitor. 

He doesn’t tell them about the tattoo. Not yet. Something about it feels intimate, somehow, the idea that only he and the gorgeous tattoo artist know about the piece branded on his back. It makes him want to keep it to himself for a little while. Get used to the permanence first before letting other people take a peek at it. 

He shoves a hand to his pocket and pulls out the aftercare ointment she gave him for free and feels his smile get even bigger. 

‘’Yeah,’’ Miles replied simply. ‘’Do you not want to? Is it too soon? I would understand if—’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’No! I want to,’’ you said, forcing a smile. 

Miles smiled back at you. ‘’Then it’s settled.’’ 

Fuck. What did you get yourself into? 

You leaned back slightly in your chair, suddenly very aware of how tight the restaurant felt around you. The soft piano music, the clinking glasses, the warm lighting — it all felt too much for a night you didn’t even want to be in anymore.

Miles was still smiling, eager that you were going to meet his dad. He had been thinking about showing you off to his family for weeks. A talented, beautiful girl like you. It was a massive upgrade from the last girl he brought home in high school. 

‘’Friday’s gonna be big,’’ he added, cutting into his food. ‘’Coach is already talking about the playoffs. If we win, we pretty much lock in our ranking.’’ 

‘’Right,’’ you said automatically, picking at your food.

Miles noticed the shift in your attention.

‘’You okay?’’ he asked, reaching over the table and stroking your hand. ‘’You’ve been kind of…far away tonight.’’ 

You blinked, removing your hand and hiding it under the table. ‘’Yeah. I’m fine.’’

He didn’t look convinced. ‘’You sure? Because it kinda feels like I’m talking to you, but you’re somewhere else.’’

You gave a small laugh that didn’t land right. ‘’I’m just tired, Miles. I’ve been at the rink all afternoon.’’ 

‘’Sorry. I forgot. How is the new program going?’’ 

Back when you were with Dean, you loved talking about your program and all the different figures you had to learn or perfect for the next showcase. He surprisingly knew the difference between a lutz and a flip. Sometimes, you would skate together after everyone left the arena, showing off figures and having races around the rink. It often ended with heavy kissing against the boards…with a little groping or shower sex, but that was a secret. 

‘’Good.’’ 

The answer came out flat.

Miles waited, like he expected more. 

When nothing followed, he smiled awkwardly and took another bite of his dinner.

You hated yourself a little for it. He was trying. He was always trying. He remembered your competitions. Asked about your classes. Showed up with coffee when you had early practices. Any girl would be lucky to have someone like him.

When you began seeing each other, conversations were easy and you were genuinely looking forward to spending time with him. You weren’t thinking about Dean anymore. Only Miles. 

But that changed when you saw him at the arena a few days ago. He was laughing with Tucker as they headed to the locker room to change into their practice gear. His blue eyes crossed yours and you almost walked into a glass door… You even had a dream about him last night. 

An uncomfortable silence settled between you as you continued to eat quietly. Miles was trying to find something to talk about, but he could feel that you weren’t entirely with him. 

Your phone buzzed against your thigh.

The sound nearly made you jump.

Without thinking, you pulled it out, seeing a notification from The Fifth Line’s Instagram.

The Fifth Line: #66 Di Laurentis taken off ice by medics 🚨🩺 Doubt he’ll be back for the rest of the game!

Your heart sank to your stomach. Medics. That meant Dean was hurt. Small injuries were common in hockey — a nosebleed, a fall that turned into a bruise, etc. —, but if Jules wrote that he won’t be back to finish the game, it must be serious. 

You went to text Hannah about the game, trying to know more, but remembered she was working tonight and not attending. 

Still, your thumb was already opening Instagram. The post had only been up for three minutes. A blurry photo showed Dean being escorted down the tunnel by the team's trainer. Even from a distance, you could see blood smeared along the side of his face.

Your chest tightened.

‘’Everything okay?’’ Miles asked, raising an eyebrow.

You looked up so quickly that you nearly dropped your phone. ‘’Yeah.’’

The lie came automatically.

His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘’Are you sure?’’ 

No. You weren't alright.

Because the possibility of Dean being hurt had completely derailed your evening. Because you had spent the last hour pretending you wanted to be here. Because Miles was talking about introducing you to his father while all you could think about was another guy bleeding in a medic room.

‘’I have to go. I’m sorry,’’ you declared, standing from your chair and grabbing your jacket. 

Miles blinked, clearly caught off guard. ‘’Wait, what?’’

You were being unfair. Horribly unfair. But staying here felt impossible.

‘’I'm sorry,’’ you repeated, already slinging your purse over your shoulder.

His chair scraped against the floor as he stood too, about to follow you, but you ran out of the restaurant before he could, the image of Dean being led off the ice burned into your brain.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

When you made it to the arena, the game was over and people were leaving. Your concern for Dean clouded your judgement as you headed to the locker room. 

Please be okay. Please be okay.

You pulled the door open and slipped in, laughter, music and the smell of sweat and equipment hitting you immediately.

You opened your mouth to call Dean’s name, but stopped in your tracks. The room was full of naked hockey players. Some had a towel wrapped around them, but some had their dick on full display. 

‘’Oh my god.’’ 

A few of them turned, but not many bothered hiding their nudity. 

‘’Bunnies are not allowed in the locker room,’’ one of them said. 

‘’She’s not a bunny, she’s Di Laurentis’s ice princess,’’ another one corrected, recognizing you.

‘’Garrett!’’ you called, catching him come out of the shower with, thankfully, a towel around him. 

His head snapped to you and he walked over. Judging by your dress and heels, you hadn’t been in the stands cheering for the team. He ran a hand through his shower-damp hair. ‘’Hey, what are you doing here?’’  

Before you could say anything, a  voice came from the showers. 

‘’Hey, G, did you steal Birdie’s shampoo? He’s moaning about it.’’ 

And there was the man you were looking for, half-dripping wet with a towel slung low on his hips. Upon seeing you, a cocky smirk curled on his face. 

‘’Well, this is a surprise,’’ Dean pointed out, standing before you with his glistening wet chest. ‘’I haven’t seen you here in a while.’’ 

Your eyes stopped at his face where a steri-strips bandaid was taped on his right cheekbone. The skin around it was red and irritated, a faint trace of dried blood visible along the edges of the cut. Was this what had caused all that blood on the ice? Had you rushed to the arena over a cut that barely seemed serious?

‘’I know. I saw what happened on the ice. I just…wanted to check in on you,’’ you replied, suddenly feeling foolish. 

Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘’You were at the game? In that dress? I don’t think so.’’ 

He caught you there. 

You sighed. ‘’Okay, fine. I wasn’t at the game.’’ 

‘’Where’s Mike?’’ 

‘’Miles,’’ you corrected. ‘’And that’s none of your business.’’ 

‘’I take it Mr. Football doesn’t know you’re here.’’ 

‘’Can we not talk about Miles—’’ 

‘’What are you doing here, princess?’’ Dean asked, stepping closer and lifting your chin. ‘’Because no one runs off from their boyfriend to see their ex without a reason.’’

Fuck. 

How did he even know you ran here? 

‘’Look, I’m not going to call Giles and snitch on you. I just want you to tell me why you’re here —  no bullshit —, because I think we both know what you’re avoiding to say.’’

‘’His name is Miles—’’ 

‘’It doesn’t change anything.’’ 

You held his gaze for a moment, refusing to look away first. The stubborn certainty in his eyes only fueled your frustration, until the words you'd spent months swallowing rose to the surface.

‘’You’re right,’’ you snapped, the confession tearing out of you before you could stop it. ‘’Because no matter what I do or who I see, it always comes back to you. I can’t get you out of my head. Is that what you want to hear, Dean? That I never stopped loving you?’’ 

The locker room fell silent.

Even the guys still half-naked and toweling off froze, eyes darting between you and Dean like they had just walked into a dramatic movie scene.

The corner of Dean's lips twitched, looking pleased like the cat that caught the bird. Then, barefoot on the wet tile and blond hair dripping from the shower, he leaned down and kissed you.

Behind you, the team was forgotten. Miles? Erased from existence right then and there. All noise in the world was drowned out by Dean’s mouth on yours and the familiar scent of his expensive shampoo. You pulled him closer by his shoulders, his chest flush against you as waterdrops were falling on your jacket and dress.

══════════════════

Yet, as he leant against the boards, he realised he had been staring at you for a solid five minutes and you had not even so much as blinked in his direction.

When he had first hit the ice, he expected to be hit with the familiar arena air, smelling more like fresh ice and leftover Zamboni fumes. What he hadn’t expected was for the air to be thick with the heavenly scent of your vanilla body spray and the undercurrent of impending irritation.     

The Hawks had a big game coming up, coach had ordered extra practice, and the Briar Athletic Department, in an attempt to keep everyone happy, hastily agreed to give them the extra slot. That slot, just so happened to be your usual slot.

Dean grinned as he remembered the way your eyes had blazed. You had stood with your blades dug firmly into the ice, arms crossed over your chest as you watched Coach Jensen, quite pathetically, plead with your coach to let the boys have the ice. The answer had been a resounding no.

When the athletic department’s admin assistant hurried out to offer a panicked apology, your face had completely transformed.

“It’s okay, mistakes happen we’ll sort it out,” you had said, your voice gentle as your expression softened.

But then, you had spun slowly to face the waiting Hawks team. Your eyes blazed again as you offered a plastered-on smile. “I’m sure these gentlemen can patiently wait their turn over there.” You pointed over to the player’s benches. “Especially as we were here first.”

You and your coach didn’t wait for the response, you turned to skate to the centre of the ice. To be fair to you, this was your usual training slot.

Dean had been completely captivated.

Which is why, when most of the hockey team immediately turned on their heels and headed to the strength and conditioning room to lift weights instead of waiting around, Dean was one of the few that stayed.

He leant back against the barrier, grateful that this fuck up had meant he got to meet you and that irritated scowl of yours. Your irritation wasn’t even directed it at him, but he knew he wanted to find a way it could be.

He watched you gracefully carve through the ice in a way that contradicted the focused scowl on your face. You were wearing sleek black leggings that made your legs look longer and a fitted Briar U skating jacket that hugged every curve of your torso as you moved.

For 30 minutes, you warmed up and then went straight into an intense skills session, completely unbothered by the handful of hockey players that were watching you in awe from the sidelines.

You took it as a cue to have a, much-needed, break when your coach stepped away from the ice to take a call. Gliding over to the boards, you reached for your water bottle with one hand and propped your tablet on the ledge with the other. You quickly pulled up the clip your coach had taken of your routine, brows furrowing in concentration as you analysed your movements.

Dean took your cue for a break as a cue to disturb you. Pushing off of the barrier, he closed the distance and slid to a loud stop right beside you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping into the register that he reserved for when he wanted girls to forget their own names. “I know you told us to stay out of your way, but I just had to come over and tell you how incredible you look out there.”

You paused, your fingers tightening around your water bottle as you reluctantly looked up from the tablet screen. Dean smiled down at you; you didn’t smile back. Your eyes tracked down from his flawlessly styled hair to the stupidly smug smile resting on his lips.

“Gee, thanks. Your praise means the world to me, Di Laurentis,” you said, voice dripping heavily with sarcasm. You did your best to sound disgusted as you said his name.

Dean’s smug smirk only widened, his blue eyes swimming with amusement. “Oh, so you know who I am? I’m flattered, I didn’t know I had fans in the figure skating world.”

Rolling your eyes as dramatically as possible, you stood up a little taller. Even on your blades, he had to lean down slightly to hold your gaze. “Your name is on the back of your jersey, genius. I do know how to read.”

“So, what you’re saying is, you were checking me out, you saw my back, and you memorised my name? Hot.”

“Literally none of the words I said matched what you just said.”

Dean ignored your protest, his smile turning cheeky as he held out a hand to you. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

“I don’t remember asking.”

“Usually, people respond with ‘Hi, nice to meet you, I’m...’”

“But it’s not nice to meet you.”

You turned your back on him to grab your towel. Dean didn’t hesitate, going around you in a semi-circle until he was standing directly in your line of sight again.

“So,” he continued, “while you were busy checking me out, memorising my name and all that... did you also check out my ass?”

“I’ve seen better,” you said flatly, looking him dead in the eye as a smirk of your own played on your lips. “And, usually, asses don’t talk this much.”

Snapping your water bottle shut with an unnecessarily loud crack, you slammed it down on the ledge and pushed off on the ice with speed.

Dean chuckled, immediately moving to skate backwards, tracking you as you circled the massive rink. “Ouch. You’re mean. I kind of love it.”

You kept your chin up, trying to ignore him as the cold wind hit your face. “Go away, Di Laurentis. You’re ruining my focus.”

“I respect that. Total dedication to your craft. I get it.”

You threw a sceptical glance his way as you came to a stop in the centre of the ice. “What exactly do you get about having total dedication.”

“I’m a deeply passionate guy, what can I say? Maybe one day I’ll get to show you.” Dean winked, the dimple in his left cheek popping into view.

“Well, if you understand then why are you trying to interrupt my focus.”

“You’re on a break.”

“My break’s over now, you can go.”

“You were at the boards for like 60 seconds,” Dean pointed out. “Surely you need more rest than that.”

“I’m good. I have great stamina.”  

“Oh?” Dean’s eyebrows shot up, a wicked grin breaking across his face.

“No! That was not me flirting,” you clarified instantly.

“Maybe not intentionally, but I like where your head’s at,” Dean teased, tilting his upper body just a fraction closer into your personal space. “And, for the record? I also have great stamina. We could test it out sometime. Compare notes over drinks.”

You sighed, heavily. “Di Laurentis–.”

“Dean.”

“Di Laurentis,” you repeated, your tone hardening as you started moving again, going into a series of rapid backwards crossovers. “I’m busy. Go sit on the bench over there and practice looking pretty.”

“So, you do think I’m pretty,” he laughed, the sound echoing.

“Once again, I did not say that.”

“It was heavily implied.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t understand the meaning of words very well,” you said.

“Oh, I understand them perfectly,” Dean shot back. “I just prefer the ones that get me what I want. Like the words you’ll say when you inevitably agree to go out for drinks with me.”

“Isn’t there anybody else around that you can go bother?” You signed, desperately looking around the empty ice.

“Depends. Do you know any other figure skaters that look this beautiful when they’re irritated?”

You opened your mouth, a sharp retort at the tip of your tongue when he suddenly held up a finger, cutting you off.

“Fair warning,” Dean said. “You have to stop being so mean to me otherwise I’ll fall in love with you.”

Your mouth snapped shut. You stared at him. He stared back.

“So, you’re saying I have to be nice to you? That sounds... difficult,” you countered slowly, finding your voice as you glided backwards together.

“No, I’m telling you the consequences if you’re not,” Dean replied smoothly.

“Mhm.”

“I mean, we already make a great team. Fire-.” He gestured proudly to his own chest. “And ice.” He pointed a finger at you. “It’s a classic trope, you know.”

“What makes you think I’m interested in your stupid dimples, your swoopy hair, or your little fire-and-ice routine that I’m sure you’ve used on the hundreds of women you’ve likely slept with?”

Right then, the doors swung open as your coach walked back into the arena. The sound of her whistle echoing through the air.

“Look,” you said quickly. “I have exactly 30 minutes left of ice time before my regional qualifiers. I do not have the time or, quite frankly, the energy to be a conquest you can tick off your checklist. My coach can be a very mean lady, so I highly suggest you stop distracting me, otherwise it might be her you fall for.”

Dean grinned at you, not at all deterred but he did stop following you around the rink. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave you to your routine now. But, what about later? Can I come and find you after you’re done?”

You didn’t answer him; you just threw a parting scowl over your shoulder as you drifted away. But, as you turned your back, you could feel the corners of your mouth lifting. Your own body betraying you.

“Noted,” Dean called out across the empty rink. “I’ll see you later.”

He spun around and skated back to the bench, a thoroughly pleased smile on his face.

Tucker looked up from the bench where he was re-tying his laces, raising an eyebrow at Dean. “Don’t tell me the great Dean Di Laurentis stuck out?”

Dean didn’t even look at him, his eyes glued on your silhouette as you leaped into the air, spinning a few times under the bright stadium lights.

“Not even close,” Dean murmured.

He could not be less like you. Dean Di Laurentis was the popular, charming, wealthy hockey player. A player on and off the ice. Di Laurentis is the womanizer of Briar U, known to have a new woman on his arm at every party, using his position as defenseman on the hockey team and his movie-star looks he has successfully seduced almost every woman that has caught his eye since stepping foot on campus.

Your mother’s words on the phone last night, during your weekly check ins, were still ringing in your ears. Well good just isn’t good enough. You had been ranting to your roommate Maya for most of the morning, so much so you were now running late for class. Though despite your time constraints you had made the decision that coffee was still a requirement, and that decision left you racing across campus, juggling your books and your coffee.

Dean was running across the campus, his hockey bag hitting against his upper thigh as he jogged to catch up to his friends.

“Hey, Cassanova” Dean sniggers, throwing his arm over Tucker’s shoulders. His sports bag slammed into his upper thigh from its place slung over his left shoulder, as he slowed to match pace with the other boys, his cheeks slightly flushed from his short run and the chill of the autumn air.

“Please don’t,” Tucker rolls his eyes, “it was not that bad” he whines.

“It was quite bad” Garrett says quietly, suppressing a chuckle.

Logan lightly elbowed Tuckers ribs, grinning “you crumbled”.

“I did not crumble” Tucker whines, though the corners of his mouth turned up in a half smile.

Dean scoffs, his lips curling into a deeply amused grin, “no you were just stuttering for the fun of it” he says, moving forward and turning around to face his friends, keeping pace them while walking in reverse as he mimics the way that Tucker stumbled over a pick-up line the night before at Malone’s.

“She was pretty” Tucker admitted, a flush creeping up his neck.

Dean scoffs playfully.

“Oh like you’ve never fumbled a girl before.” Tucker says incredulously.

Dean shrugs that annoying arrogant smirk plastered across his face still, “what can I say the ladies find me irresistible.”

Dean was soaking in the faux annoyed looks his friends were throwing him when a high-pitched squeak broke him from his thoughts, someone crashing into him from behind and spilling hot coffee across his back. He spun around ready to scold his attacker when he sees a girl splayed out on the floor holding the back of her head as she stared at the coffee thrown everywhere, soaking through him, her and the plethora of papers strewn across the floor.

The girl only buffered for a moment before jumping into action, picking up her papers and hastily attempting to clear the coffee of them and roughly stack them. Dean crouched down muttering apologies as he grabbed the last of her papers, handing them to her and picking up the now empty to go cup. “It’s okay” she murmured shyly as shed glanced up, her eyes meeting his for the first time. Damn she’s cute.

“Hey” Dean drawls, a seductive glint in his eye as he turns on the charm, a lazy grin stretching across his face.

“Hello” she says softly, averting her gaze and rushing to stand up, gripping her now coffee stained papers in her arms. Dean slowly rises trying to meet her eye again but failing as she shied away from his gaze. His mind started flipping through a mental rolodex of pick-up lines, trying to decipher the right combination of charming and flirtatious while not overdoing it and risking scaring the shy beauty off. However, before he can drop the perfect line she sped away from him, fleeing the scene without so much as a second look in his direction.

Dean stares for a moment at her back for a moment dumbfounded.

“You were saying…” Tucker drawls cockily.

“Who-who is that?” Dean asks, pointlessly pointing in the direction she fled, his eyes still on her retreating figure.

“I think Hannah might know her,” Garett shrugs as he moves to walk around him.

Logan clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder as he and Tucker move to walk past him, “happens to the best of us” he says amused by the lovesick look on Dean’s face. They would stay and see the embarrassing aftereffects of Cupid’s arrow, but they didn’t wish to face the consequences of being late to hockey practice… again, instead they left Dean to pine.

She was gone out of sight now, obscured by the drama building, leaving Dean standing in the quad still holding your empty coffee cup. He looked down at the disposable cup to see her name and coffee order written on the side of it and, as he began following the boys he decided that this was just attempt the first attempt.

The next day Dean strides into room 204, armed with a flat white, confidence emanating off of him, determined to get the girl. He had been rehearsing what he was going to say, running through his lines on the walk over here. But he falters at the front of the lecture hall, as he scans over the rows of unfamiliar faces, not seeing the cute coffee girl he had been thinking about. Maybe Hannah was mistaken? Maybe this was the wrong room? Or the wrong class?

“Um..” Dean clears his throat, causing several confused faces to look at him, “this is American Lit 2 right?” Dean asks hesitantly, only to be met with confused silence and a few small nods. Several girls near the front were obviously eyeing him and he catches them whispering, likely wondering what Dean Di Laurentis was doing standing in their lecture hall.

“Yeah it is” guy with round wire framed glasses says catching Dean’s attention.

Dean moved towards him saying, “I’m looking for someone…” his voice trailing off as he said her name, slowly losing confidence in his mission.

“Oh um… I think she is running late…” the guy offers hesitantly, clearly confused by how you and Dean Di Laurentis are linked. He eyes Dean silently for a moment, seeing how he sighs a little defeated, looking at the coffee cup in his hand before he says, “she usually sits there…” while pointing at a seat just in front of him on the third row, near to a girl with colourful stationary neatly laid out on the desk in front of her.

Dean’s face lights up slightly as he moves over to place the coffee cup on the desk in front of the seat the guy pointed at, Dean turns to the girl sat nearby “hey, excuse me…” Dean says hesitantly hyper aware of the stare he was receiving, “could I borrow a post-it?” he asks pointing softly at one of her stacks of brightly coloured post-it notes. The girl nods enthusiastically, smiling at him mildly amused, handing him a bright pink post-it note and a pen. Dean thanks her relieved before scribbling a message on it and adding his phone number to the end, before sticking the post-it to the coffee cup and thanking the girl again as he hands her pen back and rushes out of the lecture hall, already late to his own class across campus.

It had been two days with not text or call from the coffee girl and it had been weighing on him, he had never found himself this eager to talk to a girl, so when Dean next saw her, across the quad from him, sat under a tree reading he couldn’t help himself.

She looked so peaceful, the sun shining on her hair, she was biting her lip in thought as he approached her, jogging over, ignoring his friends hollering as they tried to pull him into some drinking game they wanted to play in Malones that night.

The thought did briefly occur to him that you may not wish to be bothered by him but, before he could stop and turn around, she looked up and he met your eyes again. Suddenly feeling very flustered by her piercing gaze he stumbles over his words as he asks, “Hey, um did you get the coffee I left for you?” he was certain a deep red blush was creeping up his neck from the way you were looking at him from beneath your eyelashes.

“oh… um yeah I did, thank you, you didn’t need to do that for me” you say awkwardly, flustered by his attention and the way that people were staring at the two of you likely looking for new gossip.

“I owed you” he says quickly, nervously scratching his neck.

“Thanks” you say quietly, looking down, not being able to meet his eye, too intimidated by his Hollywood gaze.

Dean nervously shuffles his feet for a moment before stumbling to say “so … um I was wondering if you would maybe like to get coffee with me or-” he was interrupted by a booming laugh across the quad. He turned around to see his friends, Tucker and Garrett were play wrestling, with Logan and Beau standing on the side trying to control their laughter. Beau turned to see Dean staring at them and called out to him “Dean” Come on man! You’ve got a bet to win.”

But Dean ignored them, brushing them off to turn his attention back to his coffee girl but, when he turned you were gone and he was left standing there in the quad alone again.

The library was quiet, you had gone with Gigi and Hugh to cram in some more studying before your final, having only just shut them up from gossiping about you and Dean Di Laurentis. It had taken the better part of an hour to pull them and Maya away from the note that Dean had left you and they had still not stopped their attempts to get you to call him. But you refused, too embarrassed by the way you ran away after your last conversation.

Initially you saw him out of the corner of your eye, catching a glimpse of his golden blonde hair beneath the fluorescent lights. You look up at him shocked, as he leans awkwardly against one of the bookshelves pretending to read an upside-down book. You looked over at your friends to find Gigi’s jaw hanging loose and Hugh’s eyes twinkling with amusement behind his wire framed glasses.

You look back at the hockey player in time to meet his eyes as he glances over to you. Upon meeting your eye he smiles, “hey” he says quietly.

“Hello” you reply confused, “are you stalking me?”

“What no, no… no” he panics, “I just came to … to study” he says awkwardly, trying to maintain his charming façade.

You look up to the sign above his head trying to supress your laugh, “…in the erotica section?”

“What?” he looks up to the sign above his head reading erotica and a deep red blush starts creeping up his neck. He looks back at you bashfully, laughing awkwardly, all of that playboy charm falling away. “No” he says again softly under his breathe laughing bashfully.

“I just wanted an excuse to talk to you,” he admits shyly, reaching his hand up to rub the back of his neck.

“To talk to me?” you ask taken aback.

“Yeah”

“Why?”

“I just couldn't…” he says getting interrupted by the librarian Mrs. Bryn aggressively shushing him from her place at her desk a couple metres away. “Sorry, sorry” Dean whispers, ducking his head as though that will make him quieter. He takes a seat at your desk opposite you across the table, “I just couldn’t stop thinking about you” he whispers.

Your brow pulled together in confusion, you did not expect this sincerity from him, he seemed so genuine and shy.

“Well… what do we do now?” you chuckle shyly.

He goes back to rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, as he quietly suggested, “well, I don’t want to get in the way of your studying but, …. maybe I could get your number?” he asks hopefully before rushing to add, “for better book recommendations, of course”

“Of course” you reply slyly before pulling his phone towards you.

“Wait really” Dean says too loudly, prompting another round of aggressive shushing while you enter your number in his phone. He sends you a quick message saying hi so you could save his number

“Thank you, …um I’ll leave you to your studying, now” he says quietly, standing up from the table.

“Yeah, you gotta get back to your reading” you smirk, gesturing with your head towards the erotica section, making him laugh and earning him a stern glare from Mrs. Bryn.

“Sorry” Dean whispers while awkwardly dismissing himself and nearly running into a bookshelf as he leaves.

When he is gone you can hear Maya and Hugh struggling to supress their laughter, “what the hell” Maya mouths to you as you turn to her, you don’t even know what just happened really so you just shrug smirking and go back to studying.

That evening when you returned to your dorm and turned your phone back on you were met with a new text from Dean.

Stalker: So um, about that coffee date?

Coffee Girl: Hmmm, depends do you promise not to throw it on me this time?

Stalker: That was one time 😒

Stalker: But I’m not complaining about it because I got to meet you

i think i might make a part two? maybe idk?

masterlist

You’ve been best friends with Garrett for years, he’s one of the first people you met when you were a freshman at Briar U. You clicked, connected, had a lot of the same classes and circles of friends. It’s always been something easy—like wearing your favorite sweater, or falling asleep. Something expected and automatic. Garrett is someone who’s been warm, dependable, loyal and there. He’s the person you turn to when you need advice or a shoulder to cry on, there’s no one better to dance with, to jump around and sing too loud, to join a drinking game with because you know you’re going to win with him by your side. You’d choose him time and time again; a whispered promise, a hand in the dark. 

Every single time. 

And yet—

“Not my business?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, “It became my business when we sat in there with that dumbfuck,” He points to the large windows of Malone’s, “and he didn’t know when your birthday was.” 

You swallow, wrapping your arms around yourself. You try to convince yourself that it’s cold, that there’s a breeze scraping by and getting through the thin layer of the puffy sweater you have on, but you know better. Unease skitters through your bloodstream like spiders. You hate that Garrett is bringing this up again. 

And you hate that he’s right. 

Tonight was supposed to be a chill night, hanging out with some of Garrett’s teammates who are your friends too, their girlfriends, your other friends and the guy you’ve been seeing for a month, Mark. Mark, who Garrett can’t stand and has been very clear on this fact ever since he met him. Which you just…you don’t understand. Yeah, Mark has his moments, but he’s…he’s a decent guy? 

One of the topics that had been brought up at dinner was your birthday. You had a huge party last year and Dean was wondering if it was business as usual for the weekend. Mark had asked if it was this upcoming weekend and Garrett had looked like he was ready to throw a napkin dispenser at his head. 

“Okay so—what, you’re the only person who hasn’t forgotten anything?” 

Garrett sighs impatiently from his nose, “Don’t,” He says after a moment, “C’mon, sunshine, Mark didn’t forget, he never knew when your birthday was. I bet you he still doesn’t know.” 

Sunshine. A nickname you’re so used to hearing coming from Garrett’s mouth. Something he’s called you for years now, ever since he teased you about always having a sunny disposition—it, for whatever reason, is making the bridge of your nose sting. 

“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, taking a step forward. His voice is strained; a frustrated hand winding through his curls, “Why are you wasting your time with this guy?” 

That same heat you felt before prickles underneath your skin. You know that Garrett is asking from a place of concern, even though his stance is unyielding and his voice is sharp. He cares about you and he’s frustrated because of it. But you hate the feeling of existing underneath a microscope, like you’re the only person in the history of ever to be in a relationship with someone where there was a hint of imbalance. As if everyone Garrett’s ever been with, which aren’t many if we’re being honest, were somehow perfect. 

“Okay,” You shake your head, a wet laugh falling from your lips. You can’t look at him, a thin vibration of an emotion you can’t name causing a slight tremble in your voice, “Just because Mark isn’t some sort of Briar U hockey legend doesn’t mean I’m wasting my time.” 

The argument lacks evidence and purpose and you know it. Garrett knows it. You know that Garrett knows it. You can feel him walk closer to you even though you’re not looking at him. Your bodies are like magnets, you can sense him even when far away. 

He reaches out and touches the pink fluffiness of your sweater, playing with the fabric between his fingers. You close your eyes when his fingers brush along your chin, knowing he wants you to look at him. You steel yourself, biting down so hard you swear you hear your molars crack. 

But your eyes find his hazel ones. A port in the storm, even now. 

“You know I don’t give a shit if he plays hockey,” Garrett replies quietly, voice and gaze softer than before. “I give a shit about you.” 

A breath skitters out of your lungs, your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage. And despite the fact that you know this, that it’s no different than things he’s said to you before, it feels too real, too sharp against your body. His words are like a knife sliding into all of your soft parts. 

“Well don’t,” You snap, pulling back from him. You wrap your sweater further around your body, turning on your heel, “I can take care of myself.” You walk away, keeping your gaze forward and your feet moving so that you don’t do something stupid—like allowing Garrett to hug you, like changing your mind. 

—

There’s radio silence from Garrett for the next two days. Which is…which is fine. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you asked for? When you put your phone down for the third time, it lands with a noisy clatter. You’re annoyed with yourself that you can’t just be the bigger person and reach out to him. Soft shame licks against your nerve endings —I can take care of myself. 

Fuck. 

“Where’s your head at?” Mark asks, turning your attention towards him. 

You’re at a bar, supposed to be on a date, but you’re definitely not the best company right now. And he can sense it. You swallow and turn your body to face him on the stool, a tight smile spreading across your face. 

“Sorry I’m here. Just some stuff on my mind.” 

“For your birthday?” He has another onion ring, wiping his mouth with a napkin. For some reason the act of him eating food, his attention wholeheartedly on the appetizer instead of you digs under your skin. You clear your throat, tapping your fingers against the bar. 

“Yeah, sort of.” 

He smiles, his hand coming down on your thigh. You try not to flinch. “I was thinking babe, forget some sort of big thing. You know? We could have a romantic getaway. Just the two of us.” 

You blink at him, your mouth opening but no words spilling out. Then, “I can’t do that to my friends.” 

He has another onion ring, raising his eyebrows, “I mean, it’s your birthday. It’s your decision—you don’t have to throw a ridiculous party just for them.” 

A pain pings in your chest at the word ridiculous. The thing is, it’s not like your friends just want another excuse to party (though you’re not going to pretend that some of them definitely enjoy the prospect), at the end of the day, they want to celebrate you. 

Emotion clogs the back of your throat and you struggle to speak for a moment, licking your lips. Your thoughts wander back to last year, the party you had, the cake Garrett went out of his way to make sure he got for you from that bakery a town over. 

You can’t imagine having your birthday without him. 

The audacity of Mark who— “Mhm,” You hum, pausing, then— “And when’s my birthday?” 

Mark crumples the napkin in his hand, “What do you mean?” You stare at him. Oh my god. “It’s this weekend.” 

No, it’s not. It’s Friday. As in tomorrow. You’re just planning the bulk of the celebration for the weekend. 

Something akin to disappointment swirls in your chest, though you’re not sure why. Why would Mark remember your birthday when you just brought it up at Malone’s? The thought that all of this caused a stupid fight between you and Garrett swirls like acid behind your chest, dipping into your stomach, making you nauseous. 

You shake your head, pulling back from the bar, “I have to go.” You slide off the stool. 

Mark frowns, “Wait, what?” 

You draw in a breath, trying to keep yourself from shaking, “I’m breaking up with you. I should have done it sooner.” 

Before you can slip away from the bar, Mark’s hand comes down on your forearm, yanking you back into place. You wince, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp. You open your mouth to say something but he talks over you, gaze suddenly blazing—apparently he did not see this coming, “Don’t be a fucking brat.” 

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” You snap. 

“Let her go.” The bartender’s voice sounds, causing Mark to immediately drop your arm. He continues to ask if you need a ride called but you don’t stick around long enough to reply. 

Mark can pick up the tab; it’ll keep him inside a little longer as you begin walking down the street, just wanting to put distance in-between you and your ex. You debate calling a ride to head back to your place but…distantly, you know there’s only one place you want to be. Only one person you want to see. 

Tugging out your phone, you tap on Garrett’s message thread, 

y/n: are you home? 

—

It’s late by the time you’re walking up the steps of the off-campus house that Garrett and a few other of his teammates live in, but he’s already opening the door. In a pair of black sweatpants and t-shirt to match, he doesn’t ask questions as you walk over the threshold. The fact that he doesn’t say a word, that he just guides you into the kitchen with a gentle hand on your back, has to be chipping away at his well-practiced control. 

Garrett sits you at the island counter, moving towards the fridge. There’s a pint of ice cream in his hands a second later and two spoons, setting them down in front of you. His movements are calm and gentle, the only thing giving away the storm brewing inside is the occasional flexing of the muscle in his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils. 

But still he doesn’t ask. He just pulls a stool up beside you. And waits. 

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him up at a ridiculous hour when he was probably sleeping, giving you ice cream and caring about you after the last thing you said to him. Tears sting the back of your eyelids and with trembling fingers, you reach for the ice cream container. 

“Just have this on hand, do you?” You ask, voice cracking. 

Garrett lets out a slow breath, peeling it open when your hands keep fumbling. “I think we both know emergency ice cream is a must.” He picks up a spoon, scraping it over the chocolate to spoonful a bite into his mouth, “Pretty sure it was in the bylaws of the friendship contract we signed.” 

Your lips twitch, “I must have missed that page.” 

He scoffs, “It was on the same page that mentioned you being unable to sleep without an extra pillow against your back and that you consider chocolate ice cream to be the only acceptable dessert…otherwise you’d rather have mozz sticks from Malone’s. You didn’t miss it.” 

A sudden swell of emotion crashes into you like a physical wave, your hand coming up to cover your face. Fuck. Fuck. Garrett knows you well, he knows you so well and—and the fact that you’d been so angry at him for calling out something you should have been brave enough to say to Mark yourself…

You hate that your anger was so misplaced. You lashed out at Garrett not because he knew you, but because he knew you better than someone you were dating. 

How fucking embarrasing. 

“Hey no,” Garrett says gently, putting the spoon down, “Don’t do that.” His stool skids along the floor as he stands, moving to shift right beside you. When he pulls your hand away from your face, a shuddered sob slips out of your mouth. 

“Come here.” He whispers, tugging you against his chest. Because of the height difference, your head tucks itself underneath his collarbone, his firm arms wrapping around your back. He keeps you close, an open palm up and down your spine while the other tucks itself against your hair. 

You can feel his nose and lips press into your temple, his breath hot as he lets out a long sigh from his nose. Your fingers dig into his t-shirt, grounding yourself in his presence, the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett reaching into the branches of your lungs. 

This is not the first time you’ve cried so openly in front of Garrett and you know it won’t be the last, either, but some part of you hates knowing that this never would have happened in the first place if you just would have listened to what your friend was trying to tell you. 

Garrett only pulls back when he senses you’re ready, tipping his chin down to try and catch your gaze. 

You shake your head, his thumb dragging across your cheek to catch a tear track, “I’m sorry.” 

His eyebrows draw together and he reaches for a napkin on the counter to hand you, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

A small laugh escapes, the back of your neck heating along with your cheeks because really? “I kinda do.” 

His voice is firm, fingers on your chin again so your gaze meets his, “You really don’t.” 

Garrett pulls your stool closer to his own with his foot before he sits down again, handing you the extra spoon on the counter. His body is angled to face yours, his knee bumping into your leg. He does a playful cheers motion by tapping his spoon into the one you have, making a small smile pull into your face. 

“You gonna tell me what happened? Cause using my imagination isn’t helping.” 

You use the napkin on your face, tucking it into one of your pockets before spooning some chocolate ice cream into your mouth. Part of you really doesn’t want to tell him. You know that in all aspects of things that could have happened, it could have been worse. But…that same sort of sensation of shame wraps around you like barbed wire as you recall the interaction between you and Mark. Garrett is not the type of person to say I told you so; at least not about this. But you can still feel that ugly sentiment pressing against your throat at having to tell him what happened. 

“You don’t have to,” Garrett adds when you remain silent, “If it’s—” 

“No,” You interrupt, shaking your head. “I’m just…” You let out a long sigh, curling your hair around your ear, “I’m just embarrassed, that’s all. I should have listened to you.” 

“And if this were any other situation, I would ask you to repeat that sentence.” 

You roll your eyes, encouraging a soft laugh to leave his chest. The sound warms you from the inside out. 

“But,” He continues, “That’s not what this is.” He bumps you with his knee, drawing your attention to his face. When your gaze meets his, he offers you a small smile, “You can talk to me, sunshine. You know that.” 

You do know that. So you tell him about being at the bar. About Mark wanting the birthday celebration to just be you and him, how he was insistent on leaving your friends out. And then about how it got worse—about how, even after all of this, he still didn’t know what day your birthday was, and how when you tried to break up with him—

“He was just being a dick, almost wouldn’t let me leave the bar.” Your fingers rub absently at your wrist. 

Garrett clocks the movement, slowly setting his spoon down near the carton, “Do we think he’s still there? At the bar?” 

Your hand comes down on Garrett’s arm before he can stand up, “It doesn’t matter if he is, don’t even think about it.” 

He purses his lips, standing as if his intention was always to put his spoon in the sink, “No idea what you’re talking about.” 

You have one more scoop of ice cream before putting the lid on it, carrying it over to the freezer to put away, “Mark isn’t worth it.” 

Garrett catches your hand, gently smoothing his fingers over the red marks on your forearm. His nostrils flare again as he draws in a breath but his eyes are calm and warm. “No,” He agrees, “He’s not.” 

The air feels filled with static electricity connecting both of your bodies and for a second you…your gaze finds Garrett’s mouth. There’s this moment where you think about how Garrett never liked Mark, about that argument outside of Malone’s, how maybe it had nothing to do with your ex not remembering your birthday and everything to do with something else. Something that’s clearly simmering for you both directly under the surface, that’s been there the whole time and you didn’t see it until now. 

Your stomach flips. It’d be so easy to close the distance, to lean and kiss him.

“Sunshine,” Garrett says gently, his hand falling onto your shoulder to stop you from—

“Oh my god,” You take a step back, your hand covering your mouth, “I’m sorry, I don’t know…” 

“No,” Garrett says quickly, reaching for you before you can do something drastic like…rush out of the house. Heat gathers along the back of your neck and flutters your pulse as Garrett hooks his hand behind your elbow. “We’re very much on the same page,” He promises, “I just don’t want to kiss you while you’re upset over another guy.” 

It’s not the worst let-down you’ve ever heard and besides…Garrett’s right. Tonight might have unlocked something in you but it wouldn’t be fair to take time to decompress, to push everything into these wee hours of the morning.

Garrett leans down and plants a kiss to your cheekbone, “C’mon, I’ll get you settled upstairs.” 

He offers you a hand that you take; one of the easiest things you’ve ever done. 

—

You sleep in Garrett’s bed, which isn’t completely out of the ordinary. What is different, however, is how you’re woken up. 

Sunlight streams in through the curtains and there’s quiet shuffling before a weight sinks in beside your knee. It takes you a moment to fully wake up, to realize what’s going on. You drag a hand over your face, squinting before Garrett slowly comes into focus. 

He’s dressed comfortably, a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp like he recently showered. Drowsiness lingers before you realize he’s holding a chocolate cupcake in his hand, a skinny green candle sticking out of it. 

He smiles, “Morning sunshine.” 

Shifting in bed, you lean back against a small stack of pillows. “What’s this?” You raise your eyebrows. 

“This?” He asks, pursing his lips, “Birthday cupcake.” 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and you touch the tip of the unlit candle, “Tucker?” 

Garrett’s mouth opens in mock offense before he laughs, the sound making your stomach flutter, “Okay, contrary to having a chef in the house, I can make things without burning the kitchen down.” 

A breath catches in your throat, your eyes falling to the chocolate cupcake with white icing and tiny pink sprinkles, “You got up and made these?” There’s a sensation building in your chest like a rolling wave, utterly touched that Garrett would do something like this. Especially when you showed up last night out of the blue, freshly broken up with fucking Mark. 

Garrett remembers things easily—things that matter to you. Things that remind you that you’re not difficult to love. 

“Well…” He trails off, “If you don’t want it…” He pretends he’s going to get up. 

You quickly gather his shirt in your hands, pulling him close. His smile is wide again, eyes warm, “I want it.” You insist, then, “Guess what my wish is.” 

A - Aftercare: Garrett takes aftercare as seriously as his role as hockey captain. It’s never an afterthought but a non-negotiable extension of his dominance and care. After an intense session where he’s had you bent over the edge of his bed in the off-campus hockey house, your thighs still trembling from the rhythmic snap of his hips, he gathers you close against his warm, hard chest. His skin remains slick with sweat as he strokes your back with those big calloused hands. His eyes lose their predatory intensity and soften into something tender and watchful. He often stays buried inside you for long moments, simply breathing together, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your eyelids and the corner of your mouth. Then he fetches a warm cloth he keeps ready, gently cleaning between your thighs while murmuring how perfect you were and how proud he is of you for taking him so well. He wraps you in his oversized Briar hoodie that carries his scent of ice-rink chill mixed with cologne, massages any spots where he gripped your hips and holds you through any emotional drop. 

Open communication flows naturally here as he asks how you feel, what you need and reassures you with a mix of sarcastic affection and genuine vulnerability. He fetches water or a snack he stashed earlier and refuses to let you move until he knows you are fully okay. For Garrett this proves he can be strong yet gentle, the opposite of the violence he grew up with, turning raw physical intensity into profound safety and devotion.

B - Bondage: Light bondage can suit Garrett well because he sometimes craves control without ever letting it feel coercive. He uses silk ties, softened hockey skate laces or even his hockey tape in ways that stay safe and reversible. Post-game adrenaline still surges through his muscular frame when he presses you against the wall of the house and binds your hands behind your back with tape. He drops to his knees, teasing you with his mouth until you beg, his dark hair falling into his intense eyes as he looks up with that cocky smirk. He checks circulation constantly, turning the process into extended foreplay with dirty talk about how gorgeous you look while remaining fully in control like he checks an opponent on the ice. 

The moment you say his name in that needy tone or use your safe word he releases you immediately so you can touch him. Every step involves communication beforehand about limits and during the act with frequent check-ins. The restraint sharpens focus and trust rather than causing pain, aligning with his stubborn protectiveness and desire to be a safe partner.

C - Cum: Garrett has a deep possessive streak that shows in the raw, primal way he finishes. As the virile hockey player with that big-dick reputation energy, he loves coming deep inside you and then watching it slowly drip out so he can push it back in with his fingers while growling that you are his. In an empty locker room after practice he might pull out at the last second to paint your stomach or breasts, then rub it into your skin like a claim while using his sarcastic humor to say something like "Look at you, all messy for your captain." He always ensures you come first, often multiple times, before he lets go. Afterward in the shower, he loves watching the water rinse it away. 

Open communication also surrounds these moments as he asks what feels good for you and reads your reactions closely. The act blends filth with care, turning into tender afterglow cuddles where he holds you close and reaffirms how much you mean to him.

D - Discipline: His stubborn and sarcastic personality lends itself to playful yet firm discipline that stays far away from anything physical or punitive. It’s rooted entirely in obedience, teasing control and light denial rather than pain. After you tease him too much at a team party, he waits until you are back at the house before he takes charge. “Strip for me, slowly and keep your hands off until I say otherwise.”

He makes you hold the position while he watches, occasionally reaching out to trace a finger along your skin or tell you exactly how gorgeous you look obeying your captain. If you squirm or break position he adds delicious “punishment” in the form of extended edging, bringing you close with his fingers or mouth only to pull back and remind you, “This is what happens when you tease me in public, baby. You wait until I decide you’ve earned it.” He constantly checks in with soft questions like “Still good? Color?” and mixes in heavy praise when you follow orders well. The scene always ends with him pulling you into his lap, kissing you deeply and giving you the release you both crave.

There’s always communication and debriefs afterward to keep everything safe and connective. This form of discipline lets Garrett channel his dominant side while reinforcing his role as protector. It never echoes his father’s violence, only trust, control and mutual pleasure.

E - Experience: Garrett had casual hookups before you but nothing emotionally deep or kinky. With you he explores new territory through patient experimentation and constant communication. His discipline makes him an excellent student of your body, he quickly learns the exact pressure of his tongue on your clit that makes your back arch and the rhythm that has you gripping the sheets. He remembers every detail like memorizing a playbook and uses that knowledge to drive you wild. He remains open to trying new things but always discusses boundaries first and checks in during scenes. This shared learning process strengthens your bond and lets him grow into the attentive partner who prioritizes your pleasure and safety above everything else.

F - Foreplay: He never rushes. Extended foreplay is one of his greatest strengths and a way he shows devotion. He kisses down your body with his warm mouth and explores every curve with those skilled hands as if memorizing you. In lazy morning light filtering across his bed he settles between your thighs for what feels like hours, using his tongue and fingers in tandem while humming praises against your skin about how sweet you taste. He builds you up slowly with dirty whispers promising exactly how he will fuck you senseless afterward. His passionate and kind nature makes the foreplay deeply connective, turning it into an act of worship that leaves you dripping and desperate before he finally sinks inside you. Check-ins during these moments keep everything attuned to your responses.

G - Gagging: With his size and natural dominance Garrett enjoys light gagging during oral if you are enthusiastic about it. He guides your head gently but firmly with one hand in your hair during deepthroat sessions, groaning "That's it, take it all" in that rough voice. After a big win a celebratory blowjob in his fogged-up truck has his powerful thighs tensing as he hits the back of your throat. He watches your reactions closely the entire time, pulling back immediately if it becomes too much and praises you constantly for how prettily you take him. Midway kink keeps it worshipful rather than forceful. Communication before and during ensures it stays pleasurable, with frequent eye contact if possible and check-ins reinforcing trust.

H - Hands: Garrett’s hands are a centerpiece of his midway-kinky dynamic and he knows exactly the effect those big, calloused hockey-player palms have on you. Years of gripping sticks, fighting for pucks along the board and training have left them large, strong and slightly rough in all the right ways. He is deeply aware of his own strength and terrified of ever using it like his father did, so every touch comes wrapped in constant communication and care.

Picture a slow, heated evening in his bedroom at the house. The lights are dim and he has you laid out on his bed completely naked while he remains in just his sweatpants. He starts by kneeling between your spread thighs, eyes locked on yours as he asks softly, “Tell me what you need tonight, baby. Hard or soft?” Once he knows your mood, those hands take over. He runs them slowly up your legs, the faint scrape of calluses making you shiver, then presses one large palm flat against your stomach to hold you down with gentle but undeniable weight while his other hand slides between your legs. Two thick fingers ease inside you, curling just right as his thumb circles your clit with precision.

He talks you through it the whole time in that low voice: “Feel that? That’s me taking care of you. Breathe with me…Let me feel how wet you get for these hands.” He watches your face obsessively, adjusting pressure the second he senses anything less than pure pleasure, never pinning you harshly but using his size and strength to make you feel securely held in the safest way possible. When you start to squirm he might drape his upper body over yours, one hand gently but firmly pressing your wrists above your head while the other keeps working between your legs, building you higher and higher.

He loves making you come on his fingers first, drawing it out until your thighs shake around his wrist, then brings those same slick fingers to his mouth so he can taste you before he kisses you deeply. Later he guides your hand to his cock, showing you exactly how he likes to be stroked with long, firm pulls, his own hand covering yours to control the rhythm at first before letting you take over. The contrast between his powerful grip and the tender way he cups your face or strokes your hair afterward is everything.

Because of who he is, there is never any bruising force or sudden movements. Every hold, every press of his palm, every curl of his fingers is discussed beforehand and checked during. 

“Too much?” he’ll murmur against your neck, voice thick with lust but still clear and attentive. “Good? Tell me exactly how it feels.” 

Those hands become instruments of both filthy pleasure and profound reassurance, proving again and again that his strength exists to protect and worship you, never to harm. By the end you are boneless, marked only by the faint redness of thorough attention that fades quickly and he is already reaching for the warm cloth and water, pulling you into his chest so you can feel those same hands now gentle and soothing against your back.

I - Intimacy: Every kinky element Garrett engages in stays soaked in deep intimacy. He needs eye contact, his name on your lips and the feeling of true connection. He fucks you slow and deep with foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air while the bondage, edging or possessiveness heightens the closeness. Intimacy includes conversations about feelings and desires before and after these encounters make the physical acts emotionally fulfilling. For him the kink serves to draw you closer rather than create distance.

J - Jack off: Mutual masturbation ranks high for Garrett. He spreads you out in front of him and strokes his cock while giving you precise instructions on how to touch yourself. He edges himself while watching you come undone, then finally lets go while groaning your name. On road trips the phone sex turns extremely descriptive as he tells you exactly what he wants to do when he gets home. These sessions involve plenty of praise and real-time communication about what feels best.

K - Kink level: He operates at a midway kinky level. He is confidently dominant and possessive with a strong praise kink, light bondage, edging, sensory play and discipline. He avoids anything resembling violence, pain, humiliation, CNC or degradation because of his father's legacy. Everything revolves around enthusiastic consent, frequent check-ins, safewords and a lot of aftercare. Your pleasure, trust and emotional safety turn him on more than any single act.

L - Location: Garrett favors the hockey house when teammates are out, his truck with tinted windows after practice, careful locker-room fantasies and hotel rooms during away games. He also loves lazy mornings in his own bed where time stretches and he can focus entirely on you. 

Each location comes with awareness of privacy and a discussion about comfort levels.

M - Mirror sex: Mirror sex perfectly combines Garrett's need for connection and visual confirmation. Late at night in his bedroom he positions you on all fours facing the large mirror. His muscular body cages you from behind, abdomen flexing as he enters you slowly with that hockey-honed control. One hand rests on your hip while you both watch every expression. He murmurs in that low sarcastic-yet-tender voice, "Look at us. Look how perfectly you take me and how beautiful you are when you fall apart on my cock." He narrates the expressions on your face and the way your body moves while adjusting his pace based on your reactions. No bruising force exists here, only deep rolling thrusts and constant praise. 

He pulls you upright against his chest near the end so you come together while watching in the mirror, his arms wrapped protectively around you. 

N - No and Nipple play: Garrett draws hard lines against anything violent such as slapping, choking, degradation, CNC, blood or heavy pain. On the positive side, nipple play showcases his attentive passion. In a steamy shower after practice he pins you gently to the tiles and latches onto one nipple with his mouth while his calloused fingers work the other or lower. He alternates gentle sucking, light grazing with teeth that never truly hurts and precise pinching while his free hand circles your clit. His endurance lets him spend long minutes building sensation until you tremble. He constantly checks in with kisses and questions about pressure. The play often leads to him dropping to his knees in the cascading water or fucking you slowly against the wall while still teasing your nipples, turning it into pure sensual devotion.

O - Oral: Garrett is an enthusiastic giver. He holds your thighs apart with strong hands and devours you with his talented tongue for ages until you shake and try to close your legs around his head. He loves your taste and gets off on making you come on his face and when you go down on him he offers constant praise and heated eye contact. 

P - Pace: He masters both urgent hard and fast fucking after big wins and deep controlled strokes that let you feel every inch. He prefers grinding against your clit with each thrust to draw out pleasure. He communicates throughout about what pace feels best in the moment and switches seamlessly based on your responses.

Q - Quickie: He EXCELS at quickies. Between classes or before a game he pulls you into a storage closet or his truck, yanks your panties aside and fucks you with deep grinding thrusts while his fingers work your clit. His own mouth muffles your moans as he promises to make you come even in the short time available, the urgency adds excitement while his stamina ensures satisfaction. 

R - Risk: If risk is something you like, it definitely makes Garrett hard and he makes a real effort to make it happen for you. The controlled thrill of semi-public places like an empty locker room after everyone has left or the back of his truck in a dark parking lot heightens his arousal and his body responds instantly to the idea of taking you somewhere he could technically get caught, that adrenaline mixing with lust as his eyes darken and his cock thickens in his pants. 

He stays careful because of his future in hockey and his protective nature, always discussing boundaries and details with you beforehand in honest conversations. “You sure about this spot, baby? Tell me exactly what feels hot and what crosses the line,” he’d say, voice already rough with want. Once you confirm, he puts in the work to set it up safely by scouting the timing, parking in the darkest corner or waiting until the arena is quiet.

Picture this…after a late practice, the locker room echoes with silence except for the two of you. He has you bent over the bench, your hands braced on the cool wood while he stands behind you, thick cock driving into you with deep, controlled strokes. One big hand covers your mouth to muffle your moans, the other gripping your hip as he growls low against your ear, “Quiet for me, baby. Don’t want anyone hearing how well you take your captain’s cock.” The risk makes every thrust feel sharper and every wet sound louder. He checks in constantly with whispered questions and reads your body language, ready to stop and leave at any hint of discomfort. The danger turns him on fiercely because it’s something you want, when you come hard around him, clenching and shaking, he follows right after, burying himself deep while kissing your neck. Afterward he helps you dress, holds you close and does thorough aftercare once you’re in the clear, proving again that his strength and desire exist only to make you feel good and protected.

S - Sensory play: He uses his precision and discipline for sensory play that heightens pleasure without any punitive edge. He blindfolds you, then teases you with ice cubes from his water bottle followed immediately by his warm mouth. He drips heated massage oil over your skin and kneads it in with strong hands before ghosting feathers or fingertips everywhere. Filthy sarcastic commentary accompanies every sensation, once you become a needy mess he removes the blindfold and sinks into you, the heightened sensitivity making everything electric. 

T - Toys: He stays open to toys and likes using them on you. A vibrator against your clit while he fucks you or a plug in your ass while he takes your pussy intensifies everything. He buys high-quality items and makes the experience entirely about your pleasure. He discusses each toy beforehand, checks in during use and incorporates them into longer encounters with plenty of praise.

U - Undress: Garrett savors undressing you slowly, kissing and touching every revealed inch like a gift. He also enjoys the opposite frenzied ripping of clothes when tension breaks. He especially loves fucking you while you wear nothing but his hockey jersey, the fabric bunched around your waist as he drives into you.

V - Volume: Garrett is vocal with deep groans, filthy praise and your name spoken like a prayer. He wants you loud too and loves when you cannot hold back moans. In the hockey house he kisses you through orgasms to muffle the sound while smirking against your lips. He encourages you to tell him exactly how he feels and responds with more dirty talk.

W - Wild card: Edging is Garrett's standout wild card. He brings you right to the edge repeatedly with his mouth, fingers and cock, then backs off until you beg and whine for release. When he finally allows it, the orgasm shatters you. He watches your face the entire time like it’s the best view in the world and communicates constantly about when you are close. The buildup and release become intensely intimate.

X - X-Rated: Everything between you stays explicitly raw. Garrett describes in detail how tight and wet you feel around him and how perfect your pussy looks stretched on his cock. He wants the same descriptive feedback from you. No vagueness exists, dirty talk and narration keep the encounters immersive and connected through an open exchange.

Y - Yearning: Garrett yearns deeply when apart on road games. Texts and calls grow increasingly filthy and needy as he counts down the hours until he can touch you again. When he finally returns the reunion becomes intensely emotional and physical, full of pent-up passion balanced by tender check-ins and reaffirmations of love.

Z - Zzz (Sleep):  After the intensity of a scene, the raw sex, the thorough aftercare and the whispered conversations, Garrett pulls you onto his broad, warm chest and settles into sleep with you wrapped securely in his arms. This is the moment where his protective dominance shifts fully into peaceful devotion. His muscular hockey-player body, still slightly damp from the shower you shared, becomes the safest place in the world as he tucks you against him, one large hand stroking slowly up and down your back while the other rests on your hip. He keeps the oversized Briar hoodie nearby so he can pull it over you if you get cold, the fabric carrying his comforting scent of cologne, ice and home.

In the quiet darkness of his bedroom at the hockey house, with the distant sounds of teammates occasionally filtering through the walls, he talks softly until you both drift off. “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing your forehead. “Tell me how you’re feeling right now. Any sore spots? Anything you want me to do different next time?” These late-night check-ins are sacred to him, they let him make sure the kinky elements never leave emotional residue that could hurt you. Because of his past with his father, falling asleep with you like this brings him a profound sense of peace and redemption. You are the proof that he can be strong, dominant and passionate without ever becoming violent or cruel.

He sleeps deeply and better with you there, your head on his chest rising and falling with his steady breathing. If you wake up in the middle of the night from subspace drop or a random emotion, he’s instantly alert, big arms tightening around you, voice sleepy but caring as he fetches water, offers more cuddles or talks you through it until you feel safe again. 

The words glowed behind a group of models posing beneath them, but Jungkook barely photographed the sign before his eyes moved past it and found you.

You were not the most exposed person in the room. That was what made it worse.

Nothing about your dress begged. It did not have to. The velvet held to you with quiet certainty, revealing only what it wanted to reveal: the clean line of your arms, the softness at your collarbone, the slight opening at your chest where the light touched skin and made it look almost unreal. Your hair fell down your back like rain, dark and smooth against the deep colour of the fabric, and when you turned your head to listen to someone beside you, Jungkook lowered his camera without meaning to.

For one second, he simply looked.

He had photographed beautiful people before. Beauty was not rare in his world. It arrived dressed in couture and desperation, in practiced angles and expensive skin, in eyes trained to seduce the lens before the photographer even asked. He knew how to handle beauty. He knew how to frame it, flatten it, sell it, make it useful.

You did not feel useful.

You felt inevitable.

Someone laughed beside him, and the sound snapped him back into the room. He lifted the camera again, annoyed with himself, and found you through the viewfinder. That was safer. The camera made everything honest. It put glass between wanting and doing. It turned people into shape, colour, shadow, composition.

Then you looked straight into his lens.

Not around him. Not past him. Not toward the crowd.

At him.

Your eyes held his through the camera for a second too long, soft and bright with something that looked almost amused. Then one side of your mouth lifted, barely enough to be called a smile, and Jungkook’s finger pressed the shutter before his thoughts caught up.

Click.

The flash did not disturb you. If anything, it made you look more awake.

By the time he lowered the camera to check the photo, you were gone.

For a moment, he thought he had imagined it. The room shifted around him, bodies moving through red light, assistants whispering into headsets, models turning their faces toward branded walls, and you were nowhere in the frame of reality anymore. He looked down at the screen.

There you were.

Eyes on him. Smile almost there. The entire room blurred into something less important around you.

Jungkook stared until the screen dimmed.

A quiet laugh left him before he could stop it. It was too low to be heard under the music, too private to be polite. Not quite innocent. Not quite sane.

Was that a game?

He looked up again.

You were across the room now, smiling into your drink as if nothing in the world had happened. A man leaned close to say something to you. Too close. Close enough that the side of his jacket brushed your arm, close enough that your head tilted toward him in a way that made Jungkook’s jaw tighten before he knew he was reacting.

He lifted his camera again, but he did not photograph you immediately.

He photographed the room. The signage. A model laughing under the red lights. A table of champagne. A hand adjusting a diamond earring. A stylist fixing the sleeve of a man who looked too pleased with himself. He did the work. He moved professionally. He looked like someone hired to document a luxury event, not someone slowly reorganising the room around the location of one woman.

But his eyes kept finding you.

When you turned your back to him, he took the shot before he could talk himself out of it.

Your neck. Your shoulders. Your posture. The fall of your hair against the velvet. The line of your spine suggested rather than shown. The way the dress seemed to know your body and still feel grateful for being allowed to touch it.

Perfect, he thought.

Then hated himself slightly for the word.

A few minutes later, you moved through the crowd toward him.

His heart did something foolish.

You did not stop. You did not smile. You did not even look directly at him. You passed close enough that your arm brushed his, your wrist catching lightly against the exposed skin beneath his sleeve as if the crowded room had simply pushed you into him.

“Sorry,” you murmured, already moving past.

Your perfume stayed.

It clung to his skin through the next ten minutes, through twelve more photographs, through an entire conversation with a brand assistant whose name he forgot as soon as you said it. Something warm, expensive, soft beneath the sweetness. It made the brush of your wrist feel less accidental in memory than it had been in the moment.

Jungkook checked the photo again. Your eyes were still looking at him. He told himself he was only checking focus. He followed you anyway.

The room beside the main hall had been designed for celebrities and models to take private editorial shots away from the crowd. It was all mirrors and neon, red and violet light bending through narrow spaces, reflections breaking and repeating until it felt less like a room and more like a dream someone rich had paid to make disorienting. Jungkook stepped inside because he had seen the edge of your dress disappear through the doorway, or thought he had. In that room, thought and sight became unreliable.

His reflection met him from three different angles. Camera strap over his shoulder. Black shirt. Dark hair falling slightly over his brow. The face of a man who was supposed to know what he was doing.

Then he saw the writing.

On one mirror, in lipstick, careful and red beneath the neon:

Miss me yet?

A lipstick mark sat beneath the words. Jungkook stood still.

Before he could lift his camera, something moved in the reflection behind the writing. Not enough to hold. Not enough to prove. A flash of crimson. The shape of your eyes. Someone looking through the mirror, not at it. Then gone.

His hand tightened around the camera.

Was it you?

Had you written it?

Was it for him?

No. It could not be. It could have been for anyone. The club was full of people who thought every message belonged to them. The man from earlier, maybe. The one who had leaned too close. The one you had let linger near your shoulder for too long.

Jungkook photographed the mirror.

Click.

The words on the screen looked even more deliberate.

He should have walked away after that. He knew that. A normal man would have laughed at himself, taken the shot for the event folder, and returned to work. A normal man would not have stepped closer. A normal man would not have lifted two fingers toward the lipstick mark as if touching it could answer a question his mind had no right to ask.

The lipstick was dry enough not to smear easily, but a little colour still came away against his fingertips.

Jungkook stared at it.

Then, slowly, with a shameful kind of fascination, he brought his fingers to his mouth.

For one second, he pretended.

Not fully. Not enough to name. Just enough for the thought to land, hot and unreasonable, somewhere under his skin.

Your mouth.

Behind him, in another mirror, you watched.

He did not see you clearly. That was the pleasure of it. You were tucked between angles, half-hidden by the architecture of reflection, your own mouth curved into something wicked before you smoothed it away. A devious smile, small and private, pulled at your lips.

It was working.

Better than you thought.

This was what he got for ignoring you once. For standing across from you at that earlier shoot with his polite voice and his professional eyes and his irritating refusal to stare the way other men did. This was what he got for making you curious. For taking photographs that made you look like a softer version of yourself than you knew how to be.

No.

That was not the whole truth.

You loved this.

The chase had barely started, and he was already under your spell. He had touched the lipstick. He had brought it to his mouth. He had made the first clue physical, intimate, real. You should have found it strange. Maybe any reasonable person would have.

You did not.

You found it thrilling.

You turned away before he could catch your reflection and walked back into the main hall as if you had won something.

Because you had.

When Jungkook returned to the party, he found you easily. He hated that. He hated how quickly his eyes knew where to go. You were near the bar, laughing softly with a few colleagues, your drink held delicately between your fingers, your lipstick still perfect. The man from earlier stood nearby, body too close to yours, face too angled toward you.

Jungkook looked at your mouth.

The same shade.

His fingers curled once around his camera.

A brand assistant touched his arm lightly. “Jungkook? Thank you so much. We have everything we need from you for the public portion.”

He turned to her.

“The rest of the evening is private for the host brand and models,” she continued, smiling the efficient smile of someone who had dismissed many people beautifully. “You are free to leave whenever you are ready.”

Free to leave.

He nodded. Professional. Easy. Untouched.

“Of course,” he said. “Thank you for having me.”

He wanted to look back once more.

He told himself not to.

He looked anyway.

You were already looking at him.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The camera came up because his hands needed somewhere to put the want. He took one last photo of you across the room: red light on your skin, glass at your mouth, eyes on him like you had known exactly when he would turn.

Then he lowered the camera, and the man beside you leaned closer.

Jungkook left with jealousy under his skin and your message saved in his camera.

Before he went, he found your manager.

“If anyone needs portfolio images from tonight,” he said, voice calm, polite, perfectly reasonable, “they can message me directly.”

Your manager smiled, pleased by professionalism.

Jungkook handed over his details. You heard about it fifteen minutes later.

By then, Jungkook had gone. The room still glittered. The music still pressed through the floor. People still complimented your dress, your campaign, your face, your work, your future. You smiled exactly as brightly as you were supposed to.

But the party had emptied itself of purpose.

The person you had wanted to watch you was gone.

So you left too.

For the next few weeks, your life moved in time zones.

Europe first. Then Asia. Then the United States. Hotels with flowers too perfect to be real. Cars waiting outside private entrances. Runways with cold backstage mirrors. Photoshoots in studios where assistants adjusted the hem of your coat and directors told you to look softer, sharper, more expensive, less human. Promotions, festivals, interviews, airport lounges, silk sleep masks, black coffee, late-night fittings, early call times.

You were busy.

You still checked his page every day.

Public posts first. Then tagged photos. Stories. Industry updates. Work he had done for other brands. A coffee cup on a table. A street through a window. A restaurant plate. A black jacket thrown over a chair. You learned his habits the same way he learned light: quietly, carefully, with attention disguised as instinct.

When you posted his photograph from the event, you waited until it would hurt properly.

It was the final shot he had taken of you before leaving. The one across the room. The one where you had been looking at him already.

Your caption was simple.

i knew you would miss me xoxo

Jungkook saw it late.

He had told himself he was not waiting for you to post.

He had been lying.

The photo appeared on his screen, and for a second, something proud and ugly unfolded in his chest. Of all the images taken that night, all the hired photographers, all the guests with phones and filters and desperate little flashes, you had chosen his.

His version of you.

He saved it immediately.

For work, he told himself.

Then he looked at the comments.

Men wrote beneath it like fools. Pretty things, thirsty things, things that made his expression go flat. They thought the caption belonged to them. They thought the miss me was public, available, scattered like perfume across the internet for anyone to breathe in.

They were wrong.

He had found the mirror.

He had touched the lipstick.

He had kissed you through glass.

He had seen you through a sea of people.

Him.

Only him.

He went back to the picture and studied it until the details stopped being details and became a kind of sickness. Your mouth. Your posture. Your neck. The light. Your eyes.

Damn, your eyes.

Soft. Delicate. Pretty. Angelic. Tempting. Sensual. Perfect.

The words came one after another, piling in his mind until he felt almost embarrassed by them. He was not a boy. He was not easily undone. He had made a career of looking at beautiful people and not confusing beauty for intimacy.

But you had chosen his photo.

You had written that caption beneath his work.

His thoughts shifted without permission.

He wanted to photograph you again.

Not in a crowded room. Not through people. Not with strangers leaning near you and assistants interrupting and time running out. He wanted a room. Light he could control. A lens between you until there was not. He wanted to tell you where to sit, how to turn your face, how to follow the camera with those impossible eyes. He wanted to guide your chin with two fingers and watch you listen.

He wanted you to follow him.

That thought made him put the phone down.

Then pick it back up.

He liked the post hours later, late enough to look casual if anyone cared, early enough that you would know he had not been able to ignore it.

Then he sent the message.

Clean. Professional. Safe.

He placed the phone face down on the table afterwards, as if distance from the device meant distance from the desire. It did not. He lasted seven minutes before checking.

Nothing.

He lasted eleven more.

Still nothing.

You had known what you would say before his message ever came through.

Waiting was part of the reply.

When you finally answered, you were in a hotel room in another country, one leg folded beneath you, robe slipping off your shoulder, your face bare except for lip balm and satisfaction.

I was wondering when you would ask. I liked the way you saw me.

Jungkook stared at the message for so long the screen dimmed in his hand.

Then he typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted again.

What response would stand out? What response would sound calm? What response would not reveal that having your full attention made him feel like someone had placed a hand around his throat and called it affection?

He waited because he refused to look eager.

He rewrote the message because he was.

Finally, he sent:

I only photographed what was already there. You made it easy. But if you need a better excuse to work together again, I can offer one.

You smiled when you read it.

There he was.